“I wish you joy of your King!” he called through the window. His voice whistled back on the wind, rich with amusement. “I never really wanted him, anyway.”

Charlotte couldn’t be quite sure, but she thought he winked at them.

“Of all the cheek!” Henrietta exclaimed furiously. “Next time, take the Prince of Wales!” she shouted, but the Frenchman was already out of range, the sound of his horses’ hooves fading.

“Really, Hen,” remonstrated Miles, but his arm was tight around her shoulders as he said it and his voice was muffled from being buried in her hair.

The others all melted into insignificance as Robert approached Charlotte, bearing the King in his arms like Sir Walter Raleigh gifting Queen Elizabeth with foreign treasure.

“I brought you something,” he said, and there was something in his expression that hurt to view. “Not quite a dragon’s head, but . . .”

Charlotte dropped her eyes from the expression in his. It was safer to concentrate on the King, to ignore whatever else it was that Robert was offering along with the bundle in his arms. She was a coward, she knew. But what was cowardice but another term for prudence? What she didn’t acknowledge couldn’t hurt her. At least, not too much.

Evading the question, Charlotte dropped to her knees beside the King. “Your Majesty?” she whispered, reaching out to the wasted figure in Robert’s arms. She could be constant to her King, even if she couldn’t trust Robert to be constant to her. “Your Majesty?”

The rheumy eyes opened, trying pitifully to find a focus. His fingers tightened feebly around hers, like those of a child who hadn’t yet quite learned the use of his limbs. “Emily?” he croaked.

Chapter Thirty

Do come in, Lady Charlotte,” commanded the King. Charlotte stood in the door of the Queen’s crimson drawing room, dazzled by far more than the double branches of candles that created patches of brilliance amid the late afternoon dusk.

It was a far cry from her last sight of the room, that very morning in the dark before dawn, when they had borne the unconscious King through the door. There had been flurry and excitement and torches flaming and the Queen with her gray hair hanging all down her back and a robe flung hastily over her nightdress. Charlotte could still see the flashes of flame behind her eyes, the billowing white nightgowns, the pale, distorted faces of the Princesses as their father was carried before them into the Queen’s chambers.

A mere twelve hours later, it all had the quality of a dream, everything colored in shades of gray, faces blurry, voices muted. Standing behind their parents, the Princesses were exquisitely gowned and coiffed, bearing no resemblance at all to the desperate, disheveled creatures who had flocked about like the chorus of a Greek tragedy the night before.

The King was himself again; clean and shaven, he had traded his straight waistcoat for his scarlet coat with gold facings. The Order of the Garter once more glittered boldly on his breast. Beside him, diamonds glimmered in the Queen’s turban, on her twisted fingers, in the folds of her fichu. Charlotte’s grandmother had ranged herself by the Queen’s side, claiming a prerogative that was not hers by right, and the jewels of Dovedale glared just as fiercely from her wrists and neck, as if in competition with the Queen. But all of them faded into insignificance against the man who stood by her grandmother’s right hand, lace at his wrists and throat, his hair gold as a Viking’s treasure in the glare of the candles.

“Majesty.” Charlotte sank deep into a curtsy, wishing she had worn proper Court dress, feeling plain and drab and painfully aware that her hair hadn’t been washed for two days. There had been no time to bathe when the royal summons came, only a scrabble to drag herself yawning from bed and into a dress, fuzzy-headed and stupid from sleeping in the middle of the day.

“Come in, come in.” The King gestured her imperiously forwards, and if his hand trembled, it was nothing worth being too worried about. “You, as well,” he added, to her companions, as Miles and Henrietta made their obeisance behind her.

Robert must have received a like summons. She belatedly noticed that his friend, Lieutenant Fluellen, stood beside him. His regimentals were brighter than Robert’s plum coat, his hair just as well brushed, his buttons and buckles polished to a royal sheen, but he still faded into insignificance next to his friend. When Robert was there, he tended to blot out other men, like the sun eclipsing the moon. Charlotte did not need an astrologer’s chart to know that it was a planetary conjunction that boded ill for her heart.

Gesturing to Robert and Lieutenant Fluellen, the King had them fall in line with the others so that the five adventurers stood ranged before him, all in a row. Sandwiched between Miles and Lieutenant Fluellen, Charlotte couldn’t see Robert at all. Masculine shoulders blocked her view to either side.

“We owe you a deep debt of gratitude,” began the King, the formality of his words a deep contrast with the relative informality of the setting.

It was a very odd sort of award ceremony, in the room in the Queen’s House with only the royal daughters as witness. It was, Charlotte realized, as much a bribe for their silence as a gift for services rendered. It would be very embarrassing for the King should the truth ever come out. It would be more than embarrassing, in fact. Should the Prince of Wales ever get hold of the truth, he might use it to sow rumors that the King wasn’t the King at all, but an actor, replacing the still kidnapped King. It might be untrue, but doubt could cause its own dangers. Detachedly, she appreciated the cleverness of the King’s choice, rewarding and containing all at the same time.

There might be no fanfare, no public presentation of honors, but royal favor flowed like honey through the King’s lips, as he promised a captain’s commission for Lieutenant Fluellen, honorary posts as gentlemen of the bedchamber for Robert and Miles. He made them gifts of royal miniatures, enamel portraits of himself set into stickpins for the gentlemen, bracelets for the ladies.

Charlotte kept her head modestly lowered and concentrated on the pattern of the floorboards. She could see the tips of Robert’s shoes out of the corner of her eye. The polished black leather moved back and forth like the hooves of a horse at the starting gate, fidgeting with impatience.

“And now,” said the King, when the last stickpin had been fastened, the last honor bestowed, “I understand my Lord of Dovedale craves a special boon.”

A rustle of interest quivered through the room as the King leaned back in his chair, beaming benevolently at Robert. From her position in the middle of the line, Charlotte could only hear the swish of Robert’s coat as he swept into a bow and catch a fleeting glimpse of gold as his head bent in obeisance to the King. That something was about to happen, Charlotte was quite sure — but what? Miles was as confused as she was, staring with frank interest, but the Queen exuded patient kindness and the Dowager burned with a fierce and inexplicable triumph, incandescent as a Roman candle.

Robert’s voice rang out clear and strong. “With Your Majesties’ pleasure, the boon I ask of you is the hand of Lady Charlotte Lansdowne.”

Charlotte’s ears rang as though she had been holding her breath for too long underwater in the bath.

Tactfully — or by prearrangement — the others fell back. Charlotte found herself standing adrift and conspicuous in a sea of empty parquet as Robert smiled a victor’s smile and extended his hand to her.

Behind their mother’s throne, the Princesses were all crying and whispering; the Queen inclined her head at Charlotte in unspoken encouragement; and the King beamed with paternal pleasure as though he personally had arranged the match. As Charlotte stood there, frozen, Henrietta gave Charlotte a light push, propelling her forwards into the line of Robert’s outstretched hand.

“A most economical outcome, eh, what?” chuckled the King. “To reward you both in one gift. What say you, Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte stared at Robert as though she had never seen him before. The delighted cries and whispers of the others clamored at her ears like the caws of jackdaws; the jewels and smiles and candles all blurred together in nightmare shapes like carnival masks, too bright, too gaudy, too much. She watched expectation flicker to confusion on Robert’s face as he held out his hand, more imperiously now.

She should take it, she knew. That was how the story was supposed to end. She was supposed to take his hand and then the bells would ring and the people would cheer and throughout the kingdom the very birds would fly into the air with rejoicing.

“Charlotte?” Robert wriggled his fingers.

Everyone was watching, waiting. Charlotte saw her grandmother’s face harden in unspoken warning. She knew what she was expected to do, she who had always done everything that was expected of her. Until now.

Charlotte took a stumbling step back, bumping right into Henrietta, who let out a startled oof. The homely sound broke the spell, shattering the fairy tale into egg-shell fine slivers.

“No,” Charlotte croaked, never taking her eyes from Robert’s face. “With your pardon, Majesties, I — no.”

Her grandmother stalked forwards like a malevolent fairy, proving she could move swiftly enough when the spirit moved her. At the moment, that spirit was pure rage. “No?” the Dowager growled. “No?”

The King waved the Dowager to silence. “A lady wants some wooing, what?” he said sympathetically, and his words had all the force of a royal command. “Dovedale — ”