Free Death of a Dowager by Joanna Campbell Slan Page B

11
    Following Lucy’s lead, I spread my fan wide enough to obscure the smile on my face as Mr. Waverly left to collect the King. Mr. Douglas was seized with a fit of coughing, a thin disguise for his own amusement but a genteel response regardless, but Edward’s coiled tension did not subside. I could tell he was still angry. Seething, actually. Lady Grainger filled the time by asking Lucy about Evans and his expected arrival. The Dowager Ingram and her daughters talked among themselves in low tones, but they did not dare leave. I believe they still held hope that I would be mightily embarrassed.
    We stood, waiting, and watching as the bobbing postures of those around us signaled the King’s approach. Although Mr. Waverly usually moved at a fast pace, he slowed his natural stride in order to escort the King to our location. As George IV and his consort arrived, all of us displayed our obeisance, the men with low bows and the women with deep, slow curtsies—although the Dowager had difficulty getting up and down. Lady Conyngham and the Dowager Lady Grainger seemed to have at least a nodding acquaintance with each other, but Mr. Waverly now took charge of the encounter.
    “Your Majesty, and Marchioness Conyngham, may I present to you these dear friends of the Crown? This is Mr. and Mrs. Edward Rochester, Esquire, along with Lance Corporal Bruce Douglas, whom I’m sure you will remember for serving you bravely in Calcutta.”
    One by one, we kissed the hand of our sovereign. Again, I was struck by the way that corpulence had distorted those features of his once acclaimed for their rare beauty. His eyes were rheumy, his complexion marred by blotches, and his false teeth sat poorly in his mouth. As I had observed earlier, the Marchioness was every bit as corpulent as her companion. Peering out from the pillows of flesh on her face, her eyes glittered with an acquisitional nature that caused me to shrink back involuntarily in self-protection. The hairs rose up on the back of my neck.
    One glance past Lady Conyngham told me that the Ingrams were still shocked by this unexpected turn of events. The Dowager’s body trembled with suppressed emotion, and her ostrich feathers danced as a result of her quaking. However, her sister-in-law, Lady Grainger, harbored a secret smile, as though she thought this occurrence quite fitting.
    “What a pleasure to meet one of my own kind,” sighed the King, directing his greeting to Mr. Douglas. “Oh, how I miss my days of soldiering! Such glorious times we had on the battlefield.”
    None of us dared look one another in the eye.
    It was common knowledge that our King had never been in combat. His father had expressly forbade it, but that didn’t stop George IV from claiming that he had served as a warrior. Prinny’s so-called military service was one of his grand illusions, a manufactured résumé he persisted in buffing to a high shine. His fantasies were played out in his affection for designing uniforms and in wearing that curious assortment of medals and awards on his chest. They clanked and clanged, but signified nothing.
    “You also remember Lance Corporal Douglas’s sister, Mrs. Captain Augustus Brayton, of course. Her husband serves you at a posting in Bombay.”
    “Too right. One of my best men! Quite the horseman, isn’t he? Many times we’ve ridden side by side into the fray, swords drawn, steeds charging. Have you heard from the Captain lately?”
    Lucy responded in a manner wholly inconsistent with her usual self, a voice very flat and colorless. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. Thank you for asking. My husband has recovered from yet another attack of the sleeping sickness. His sixth, and each is a little worse than the one before. I shall be sure to write him and say you inquired about his health. It will mean so much to him to know that he’s been remembered by you.”
    “Of course I remember him. How could I forget? Those days in Brighton . . .”
    With a wild