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she could not have exercise, she would, by hook or by crook, have fresh air. So a series of pavilions were daily erected in St. James’s singularly plain and symmetrical gardens so that the princess might read, or sew, or argue with the learned gentlemen she frequently invited to visit, all the while imbibing the dubious benefits of the London air.
    Blessedly, our mistress regarded these pavilion mornings as casual affairs. Servants waited with pots of coffee, chocolate, and baskets of the French pastries she favored, lest the breeding princess grow faint. But even better was the fact that more than one chair was placed beneath the green canopies, and we waiting maids and ladies were allowed the luxury of sitting down.
    I was the last of the maids of honor to arrive in the royal presence. The moment I walked into the pavilion, every eye turned toward me, or almost every eye. Molly Lepell, the person I most wanted to see, sat embroidering a handkerchief and studiously not looking about her. Mary Bellenden, on the other hand, actually smothered a giggle, and Sophy Howe showed her sharp smile. I knew at once I was about to receive the finest sallies of wit that the assembled ladies could muster.
    Unfortunately, this appeared to include Her Royal Highness.
    “Ah, here you are at last, Margaret,” she said, marking with one finger her place in the book she was looking over. Princess Caroline spoke entirely without rancor. When you possess royalty and wit, rancor is seldom required. Not to mention the fact that my mistress would have remained a commanding presence even without the help of her royal status. In appearance, she was a clear-complected, sturdy, and well-curved woman whose poise made her stand out even among the proud and sophisticated ladies who surrounded her. Her advanced state of pregnancy only enhanced these attributes. On this morning, she was clad in a pale green and white sacque gown, rather plainer than her usual style. The Mistress of Robes had been tearing her hair out for months trying to acquire suitable clothing for a woman who could not be tightly corseted and yet refused to hide the fact.
    “Tell me, Margaret, do we blame your new maid for your dawdling this morning?”
    I felt my cheeks heating. “No, Your Highness,” I murmured. “I’m afraid she should be blaming me. I was delayed over my correspondence.”
    “Ah. Well, that is good.” For a moment, I dared hope that I would be let off lightly. Unfortunately, this hope was as false as the smile on Sophy Howe’s painted face. “In truth, we were beginning to wonder if you had left us in search of more exciting company.”
    And thus were the floodgates opened. Unfortunately, Mary Bellenden was the first to leap through.
    “Oh, our Peggy’s far too organized for that!” She laughed as she took up a dainty from the pastry table.
    “What makes you say so, Mary?” inquired Sophy Howe before I could get my mouth open. Sophy was a tall, golden beauty. Among her other noteworthy accomplishments, she had elevated the art of the sly smile to an exact science. The one she turned on me now, for example, was a perfect witch’s brew of hollow cheer and sugared poison.
    “Why, when she wants excitement, it’s brought to her, fresh and piping hot!” Mary doubled over in her laughter as far as corsets and stomacher allowed.
    “And does she share?” inquired Sophy.
    “Oh, no indeed, greedy thing.” Mary licked the crumbs off her finger. “She keeps her hot excitement all to herself.”
    “Whereas everyone knows there’s plenty of Mary Bellenden to go around,” I shot back and immediately regretted it. Not only was the princess frowning at me, but Mary’s eyes glittered in a dangerously cheerful fashion. Careless she might be, but Mary was proud of her wit and never willingly let anyone else get the last word.
    “And what, one wonders, is the flavor of this excitement?” said Sophy. “Is it highly spiced, one wonders?”
    “Or exotic?”