Stumbling on limbs gone numb, Charlotte squeezed herself willy nilly out of her corner, catching at the edge of the cabinet to keep from tripping over the hem of her own dress. With her right leg all pins and needles, she lurched towards the door in a lopsided lope until the thready sound of the King’s voice brought her up short.

“Emily?” They had rolled the King onto his back, and his rheumy eyes gazed pleadingly up at Charlotte. Tears leaked helplessly down the withered cheeks. “Do . . . not . . . leave . . . me. . . .”

“I must,” Charlotte whispered. “I will fetch help. I promise.”

As he continued to call piteously for his Emily, Charlotte fled through the connecting door into the library, not slowing her pace until she had achieved the hall beyond. She would go to the Queen; that much of her promise, at least, she could keep. But what help could there be for the King if the Prince himself ordered it otherwise?

Stumbling on her skirts in her haste, Charlotte scrambled back up the great marble stairs to the Queen’s chambers, where she breathlessly poured out her report to the Queen and princesses.

Princess Sophia inveighed heavily against her older brother. “Does he really fancy, because he is the rising sun, anything he says is to be swallowed whole? How dare he treat the dear angel so! And not even to do it in person — but by proxy! It is too beastly.”

“It is beastly, but it may be necessary, Sophie,” said Princess Mary tiredly. “They did the same last time, you remember, with the restraints and the blistering. And it brought him back, didn’t it?”

“Yes, last time,” said Princess Sophia mutinously. “But what do we know of this new doctor? For all we know, he could be an utter charlatan. Much anyone here would care.”

That last was clearly intended for her mama.

“Lady Charlotte,” said the Queen, ignoring her turbulent daughter. “I believe I may have another commission for you.”


“Why exactly do you want me to go to a madhouse with you?” asked Henrietta forty-five minutes later, adjusting the ribbons on her bonnet as the carriage racketed down Clerkenwell Road towards Dr. Simmons and his hospital. “Not that I mind, but it does seem an odd way to spend an afternoon.”

“It’s not a madhouse, exactly,” hedged Charlotte. “More of a mad hospital.” Without thinking, she scrubbed her gloved hands together like Lady Macbeth. Beneath the kid, she fancied she could still smell the reek of the King’s sickroom on her skin, that acrid stench of sweat and despair.

“Isn’t that the same thing by a different name?”

“I just like the sound of it better,” Charlotte confessed. “It sounds less . . .”

“Mad?” Henrietta supplied. From beneath the brim of her bonnet, she peered keenly at Charlotte. “This doesn’t have anything to do with — ”

“No!” With more dignity, she added, “I’m not asking you to check me in, if that’s what you mean. Going mad for love went out of fashion several centuries ago.”

“I’m not implying that you’re going mad,” Henrietta began carefully. “But you have had something of a, well . . .”

“Shock?” With as much conviction as she could muster, Charlotte said, “That’s all done with. It’s over. Finished.”

Fiddling with the buttons on her glove, Henrietta said with false nonchalance, “Stwyth informed me that you had a caller this morning.”

“Stwyth told you?” Charlotte wasn’t sure who she was more irritated with, Robert for calling or Stwyth for tattling. On closer consideration, Robert. Definitely Robert.

“Well, I am technically your chaperone,” pointed out Henrietta. “I need to know these things.”

The notion of Henrietta, dear though she might be, monitoring her meetings made Charlotte’s shoulders tense in automatic negation. After all the years of whispering and giggling in the corners of ballrooms, conducting emergency hair repairs and pinning up hems that had come down, to have one act as an authority over the other just felt wrong. Charlotte was perfectly content to let Henrietta enjoy her new position as a young matron, but not if it meant an alteration in the way that Henrietta treated her. Was this what had sent Penelope storming out onto the balcony with Freddy Staines?

“What about being my friend?” asked Charlotte quietly.

“Even more reason to know!” exclaimed Henrietta expansively. Her voice dropped a little, betraying a deep vein of genuine hurt. “I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me yourself.”

Charlotte took refuge in the scenery, although she couldn’t have said with any honesty what they were passing. “There was nothing to tell. Nothing worth telling, that is. Honestly. If there had been, I would have told you.”

“He didn’t — ” Henrietta began hopefully.

“Apologize?” filled in Charlotte. “No.”

“Oh,” said her best friend, her voice full of disappointment.

Henrietta’s disappointment was nothing compared with her own. It would be too tempting to let herself believe that Robert had come because he couldn’t stay away, that the strange note in his voice had been a sign of repressed emotion, that his concern about Medmenham was a sign that he still wanted her for himself.

This, thought Charlotte despairingly, was the problem with the world outside the cover of a book. She couldn’t craft Robert’s dialogue for him, putting the words she wanted to say into his lips. She couldn’t control the direction of his emotions. All she could do was attempt to discipline her own.

Reaching out, Charlotte squeezed Henrietta’s hand. “I’m fine. Really. It’s the King who is in difficulties.”

“The King?” Henrietta’s voice dropped to a whisper and she darted a glance at the panel that separated them from the coachman. “He’s not . . .”

It was every subject’s worst nightmare, that the King should go mad again. Memories of the regency crisis of sixteen years before still ran strong. If the King should go mad, the government would be in disarray, with the Prince fighting the King’s ministers for power, Parliament drawn into warring factions over a Regency bill, and no one to conduct the basic matters of state. It had already happened twice before.

Charlotte nodded. “The King has been secluded by the Prince of Wales’s orders. The Queen is frantic.”

“I should think so! Her poor Majesty.”

“The Prince of Wales even appointed a new physician. Her Majesty wants me to speak with him and see if he can be persuaded to report to her on the King’s condition.”

“Of course he must!”

“Not necessarily,” said Charlotte. “During the King’s first illness, one of his doctors refused to speak either to Her Majesty or her ladies. It might be like that again.”

“It’s monstrous!”

“Welcome to life at Court,” said Charlotte wryly. “Grandmama claims it was the same in her day, with the King and Prince of Wales always feuding — only then, it was a different King and a different Prince of Wales. And no one was going mad. At least, not in the literal sense.”

“It will be madness if the Prince is allowed to filch the throne,” said Henrietta darkly. Henrietta’s family were all stalwart Tories, staunchly opposed to the Prince of Wales and his party. Lord Uppington had been instrumental in blocking the Prince’s last Regency bill, in 1788. As for Lady Uppington, her views about the Prince didn’t bear repeating in polite company, the mildest of them involving the phrase “bloated bunch-backed toad.”

Henrietta’s own feelings towards the Prince were scarcely milder. “Can’t you just see it already? The first thing he’ll do is clamor for an increased income, the selfish toad. And what will become of the war with France?”

“He did ask the King to let him go fight,” Charlotte pointed out in the interest of fairness.

“Merely because he fancies himself in uniform,” Henrietta sniffed. “He’s entirely at the mercy of that dreadful Charles James Fox, and we all know where his sympathies lie. Jacobin to the core!”

“Let’s not borrow trouble yet,” said Charlotte soothingly. “The King has recovered each time before. It was jarring to see it for myself, but by all accounts it was equally awful each other time, and yet His Majesty has always pulled through.”

“Hmm,” said Henrietta. “I hope you’re right.”

“I hope so, too.” Charlotte righted her bonnet as the carriage rolled to the halt in a paved courtyard, set slightly back from the road. “That’s what we’re here to find out. I do hope Dr. Simmons will consent to speak to us.”

“Oh, he’ll speak to us,” said Henrietta, sailing out of the carriage like an entire cavalry charge rolled into one blue muslin dress. “Hello! You! Over there!”

Two men, wearing identical uniforms of dark brown wool, halted at Henrietta’s halloo. One carried a bucket and mop, the other seemed to just be along for a chat. They must, Charlotte assumed, be orderlies of some sort, employed by the hospital.

“Where can we find Dr. Simmons?” Henrietta demanded.

Between her imperious tone and her pearl earbobs, Henrietta was clearly a lady of quality. The orderlies immediately snapped to.

“I’ll just fetch him for you, shall I, miss?” said one, and disappeared around the side of the building, leaving his companion to mind the two ladies.

Charlotte noticed that he made no move to invite them into the building. Because the sights in there wouldn’t be fit for their eyes? She wasn’t sure she wanted to think too deeply about that.

From the outside, all seemed neat and tidy enough — as long as one ignored the bars on all the windows. But there was an unfortunate smell hanging about the place. It wasn’t any one odor one could identify, but a combination of unpleasant scents, not unlike the King’s bedchamber that morning, compounded of sweat and fear and unwashed bodies and strange medicinal compounds. From one of the windows came a series of sharp, shrill cries.