“That’s Barbara,” the king said. “She won’t leave until you pet her. Of course, she won’t leave after you pet her either, so there you are.” I scratched Barbara’s neck as Charles turned to Lord Ashcombe and held up the letter. “Guess who wrote to me.”

“The tailor, demanding you pay your bills?” Lord Ashcombe said.

“Odd’s fish, you’ve a cheek this morning,” Charles said, more in amusement than outrage. “It’s from La Grande Mademoiselle.”

Lord Ashcombe looked surprised. “What does she want?”

“How would I know? I’m hardly going to read it.”

“Sire,” Lord Ashcombe said reprovingly.

“Did you boys meet La Grande Mademoiselle in Paris?” When we shook our heads, the king said, “Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, duchesse de Montpensier. Dreadful woman. My mother kept trying to arrange a marriage with her while I was in France. She was annoyingly persistent.”

The king gave me a sidelong glance, a smile playing about his lips. Clearly, he wanted me to ask. “How did you get out of it, Your Majesty?”

He could barely suppress a grin. “Tell him, Richard.”

“Oh, for the love of the holy,” Lord Ashcombe said.

“Tell him, tell him. The boy wants to know.”

Lord Ashcombe sighed. “He pretended he didn’t know French.”

“For two years!” The king burst into laughter, startling the spaniel on his lap. “She would come to me, and I’d just look blankly at her as she tried to make conversation. She thought I was singularly ill bred. Said it right in front of my face! Ha-ha-ha!”

“Didn’t she ever see you talk to anyone else?” I said.

“Of course! I’d be right in the middle of a conversation—then she’d join us and suddenly I’d lose the power of speech. Never figured it out! As dim as a candle in the countryside, that woman. And no conception of humor. Literally couldn’t understand what a joke was.” He shook his head. “Make no mistake, boys: No decision will bring more happiness to your home, or more grief, than whom you choose for a wife. So choose wisely.”

Suddenly he sat up. The dog squirmed from his lap onto the rug, where it gnawed on the king’s shoe instead. “I just had a wonderful idea.” He pointed at me just as I was taking a drink. “You should marry Sally!”

I sprayed wine everywhere.

The dogs seemed to think this was great fun. So did the king. “Wine in the stomach, not the rug, surely,” he said.

Tom slapped both his hands over his mouth. I tried not to look at him.

“S-sire?” I stammered, wiping my lips.

“Why not marry Sally?” he insisted. “She’s brave, loyal, clever—and let’s face it, extremely easy on the eyes.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, as her guardian, it’s my duty to arrange a suitable marriage. I could provide a very reasonable dowry, given the right fellow.”

A sound escaped from Tom, which was either him being strangled, or stifling a laugh.

“I… er… it’s…” I couldn’t seem to find any way out of this. “I’m an apprentice,” I said finally.