Throwing caution to the winds, Charlotte pushed the door the rest of the way open and beheld a sight to stir the hardest heart. In a sodden nest of disordered linens, the King lay curled into a protective ball, knees tucked up to his chest. The poor royal legs were bare beneath his nightshirt, pitted with goose pimples in the merciless cold of the room. Charlotte’s nose wrinkled at the reek of an unemptied chamber pot.

Had the servants never come? The fire was still banked from the night before and the room was dreadfully cold, with the bone-aching January chill that fires could keep at bay but never quite eliminate. With his covers off, the King was all but exposed to the elements, shivering and crying and sweating despite the cold, crooning to himself in a low, continuous monotone. Charlotte stood frozen with pity and horror.

How, oh, how was she ever going to tell the Queen? Surely, such things couldn’t be allowed to happen. Not to a monarch. The servants must be called and scolded, the fire stoked, the linens changed, a soothing draft of some sort prepared. . . .

But all that faded into insignificance next to the most horrifying sight of all. As the King floundered among his sheets, Charlotte at last saw just what it was that made him move so awkwardly and lie so strangely. His arms were twisted and tied around his chest in a hideous contraption of a waistcoat, holding his upper body all but immobile.

Charlotte must have made some noise, of horror or pity, because the King paused in his whimpering and, with an effort that made the veins of his neck stand out, twisted his head in a pitiful effort to try to see.

“Emily?” he called, in piteous echo of the night before. “Oh, Emily, why won’t you save your father? Take off this cursed waistcoat, my Emily! Emily . . .”

Charlotte didn’t know what she might have done. Her automatic instinct was to take the King away, free him from his bonds and spirit him up to the Queen, where his poor shrinking flesh would be covered with warm robes and his anxious daughters would lavish him with every attention that might sooth and heal. But in that instant the sound of another voice was heard through the door that led to the King’s dressing room.

“I say,” someone called. “What was that?”

It was too late to escape back to the library; the door lay clear across the room. Without stopping to think, Charlotte dove for a squat mahogany cabinet in the corner of the room, decorated with an elaborate design of garlands and flowers, all made out of tiny pieces of inlaid wood. The side curved inwards in the rococo style, leaving a space just large enough for Charlotte to crouch. On its squat, ormolu legs, the cabinet was nearly flush with the ground, leaving no telltale gap underneath.

The King thrashed uncomfortably in his bonds, jerking his neck from side to side in an attempt to see her. “Emily?” he called. “Emily?”

“This way, Doctor,” said a voice she didn’t recognize, a smooth, almost too-polished sort of voice. “And you’ll see what we’ve been telling you about.”

Charlotte scooped in the last, betraying fold of her skirt and pressed herself as small as she could make herself between the curve of the cabinet and the wall. She was ridiculously grateful that today wasn’t a Drawing Room day; the spreading hoops of her court dress would have been impossible to hide. There was nothing to be done about the white muslin of her dress, but at least her red spencer blended nicely with the crimson hangings of the wall behind her.

The floor, uncarpeted like most of the palace, vibrated beneath the sudden onslaught of footsteps. Charlotte could feel the floorboards quivering beneath her fingertips.

“Emily?” moaned the King, jerking like a fish on the line. “Emily?”

“As you can see, Dr. Simmons,” said the first voice again. A pair of booted legs strode past Charlotte’s hiding place, polished to a mirror sheen and smelling of leather, champagne, and horse. “The situation is dire.”

“How long has he been like this?” It must be the doctor this time, with snagged and dirty stockings and buckled shoes with the cross bar of one buckle missing. Mad-doctoring was seldom a lucrative calling.

More shoes, this time shiny buckled ones, attached to heavily muscled legs, every step thundering down like a giant trampling on a village. “Since last night.”

Charlotte froze stiff as a board against the side of her cabinet. She knew that voice.

“He grew agitated last night, so we had to restrain him. Upon his Royal Highness’s orders,” Lord Henry added, with the instincts of a born coward. “I found him with one of the Queen’s maids of honor. He appeared to be making, er, indecent conversation.”

The very idea! Charlotte rolled her eyes in the general direction of Lord Henry. It wasn’t a very satisfying response, but it was all she could do without giving herself away. As if the King would do such a thing!

“As he has before,” said the smooth-voiced man with crocodile regret. “I am sure we all recall his fascination with Lady Pembroke the last time this . . . unfortunate situation occurred. Both her Majesty and Lady Pembroke were most embarrassed by it. And then, of course, there was the incident with Mrs. Drax on His Majesty’s yacht at Weymouth.”

“You mean when he told Mrs. Drax she had a pretty ass and demanded that she bring it over so he could pat it?” Lord Henry sounded as though he wished he had thought of that. “It’s good to be the King, hey?”

“There is no need,” said smooth-voice chillingly, “to go into details. But you can see, Doctor, why the Prince thought it necessary that his father be restrained.”

Smooth-voice, Charlotte realized, must be the Prince’s man.

“Well done.” The doctor’s voice vibrated slightly, as though he were nodding. “I approve your reasoning entirely, Colonel McMahon — and that of the Prince, your master, of course.”

Toady, thought Charlotte, glowering at the cabinet wall.

“The only way to tame a madman is by constant use of restraints,” the doctor continued, in a lecturing tone. “I hear you have a chair of correction?”

The mention of the chair had a terrible effect on the King, who began thrashing about with his legs, trying to get off the bed.

“At Kew, I believe,” Colonel McMahon replied smoothly. “That was the last place it was used. It can be sent for, if you so desire.”

“Indeed,” agreed the doctor. “Have it sent for at once.”

“Emily?” the King called, rolling wildly from side to side on the bed. Desperation threaded his hoarse voice. Despite the chill of the room, the sheets were soaked with his perspiration, emitting a thin, sour smell. “Emily? Don’t let them take me to the chair, Emily . . . Emily?”

“Hallucinating again, I see,” said the doctor. “Well, that was to be expected, given his earlier episodes. I gather last time he thought his Chancellor of the Exchequer was . . . a pigeon?”

“A peacock,” Colonel McMahon corrected briskly. “But I fail to see why the species of bird — ”

“Interesting,” said the doctor, advancing on the King. “Very interesting. You must recognize, Colonel, it helps to understand his mania in order to control it.”

“Control or cure?”

There was a moment of fraught silence reeking with the stench of the King’s fear. Beneath it, Charlotte fancied she could detect the sickly sweet scent of treason. Treason smelled remarkably like the champagne on Colonel McMahon’s boots.

“We’ll just have to see as we go on, shan’t we?” said the doctor coyly.

Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that.

“Get him cleaned up,” ordered the doctor. Two more pairs of legs, previously stationary by the far wall, began moving. These were pedestrian sorts of legs, wearing heavy shoes and wool stockings. “And build up the fire. No need to freeze him to death.”

“But the Willises — ” began Lord Henry, referring to the doctors who had served the King is his two prior illnesses.

“The Willises aren’t in charge any longer. I am.”

“I saved this for you.” Charlotte heard the slosh of liquid as Lord Henry presented the doctor with a brimming chamber pot.

The doctor recoiled, his nostrils flaring. “And to what do I owe this honor?”

“I had thought . . .” Lord Henry made the mistake of gesticulating with the chamber pot and both gentlemen shied back. “Er, I had thought you might need it for your medical analysis.”

The doctor sniffed, remembered the stench, and thought better of it. “That is antiquated stuff,” he said loftily, “poking about at stools and dabbling in urine. I am a man of modern science.”

“So we’ve been told,” drawled McMahon. “You came recommended most highly by Sir Francis Medmenham.”

“Ah, yes,” said the doctor. “Sir Francis. I had the care of his great-aunt. A fascinating case. She stripped naked, painted herself blue, called herself Boadicea, and attempted to invade Hadley-on-Thames.”

McMahon cut him neatly off before he could reminisce further about his brief brush with the Queen of the Britons. “That, I am relieved to say, does not appear to be His Majesty’s problem. How will you proceed with him?”

The soiled stockings prowled along side of the bed. By dint of leaning sideways and cricking her neck, Charlotte was able to get her first look at more than the doctor’s legs. He looked like a Drury Lane caricature of a mad-doctor, in his old-fashioned black frock coat, shiny from wear, and his equally old-fashioned horsehair wig, which came down too low over his forehead, as though he had bought it too big for his head. A rumpled white stock, none too clean, appeared to have eaten his chin. To be fair, most of his patients probably couldn’t care the slightest about his appearance, unless they wanted him to paint himself blue and join in the fight against the invading Roman legions.

The edge of the frock coat moved and Charlotte hastily ducked her head again, attempting to impersonate a very large mouse.

The King whimpered weakly from the bed. Charlotte heard a rustling noise, as though the King were trying to bury himself in the bedclothes, away from the impudence of prying eyes. “We will start with a course of hot vinegar applied to the feet, to draw the humors down through his body,” announced the doctor. “If the King continues restless, we will follow it with an emetic of tartar to purge the humors via the rectal corridor.”

“And then?” asked McMahon.

“Blistering,” said the doctor firmly. “Blistering of the arms, legs, and head, combined with a preparation of musk and quinine to be taken internally.”

McMahon gave it his nod of approval. “All sounds quite sound to me. I will relay your recommendations to His Royal Highness. In the meantime, I see no reason you should not begin treatment.”

“Excellent.” The doctor rubbed his hands together, undoubtedly in glee at having obtained a royal patron. “I must return briefly to St. Luke’s, to leave instructions for my patients there, but my men know what to do. With your leave, gentlemen, I would have them begin with the vinegar at once.”

“I trust you will return as quickly as possible.” From McMahon’s lips, the words had all the force of a direct order from the Prince of Wales. “I must return to His Highness. In the meantime, we leave His Majesty under Lord Henry’s capable supervision.”

Lord Henry didn’t look best pleased at being delegated to stay. Charlotte could see him shift his weight from one shoe to the other as though he were squirming. “I say, doesn’t vinegar have a powerful tang?”

“All part of its healing powers,” said the doctor soothingly. “The forceful aroma rises through the nostrils into the brain, driving down the evil humors, while the application of heat to the soles of the feet allows the humors to puddle in blisters, which then may be safely drained.”

“Modern science is, indeed, a wonderful thing,” said Colonel McMahon sagely.

It was easy for him to be sanguine; he wasn’t going to have to smell it in progress. Charlotte, however, was beginning to fear that she would. The bed was between her and the door. And all attention was very much centered on the bed. Next time, she would have to pick a hiding place nearer the door. Not that she intended there to be a next time for this sort of escapade, but just in case.

With much noisy clumping against the floorboards, Lord Henry ushered McMahon and the doctor out of the room. That would have been all very well and good but for the two attendants who had been left behind to begin the dreaded vinegar treatment. The King sounded even more unhappy about it than Charlotte. From beyond her hiding place, she could hear the sounds of the fire being vigorously stoked. Her corner by the wall began to feel uncomfortably warm.