He forced his words out.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
The King seemed to allow himself to smile.
"Don't worry. I know," he said, "I may be daft but I'm not stupid."
Beau tried to hide the concern in his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sire."
"All lies, my boy," the King closed his eyes. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I've seen you, when you think no one is looking."
"Oh."
"All that sneaking away from state dinners and not showing up to meetings with ambassadors," he smiled again, "You're like children."
Beau looked down at his feet again. He'd never given these shoes much thought before, but today they were really very fascinating.
"It's just that..." the King's voice cracked, and his cleared his throat. "It's just that I know that George will be King soon. Very soon."
"...Sire?"
The King's voice deepened, and became more stern. "We both know that I am not very well, Beau."
Beau looked up and saw the melancholy in the King's face. Suddenly, the wrinkles etched into his skin were not furrowed by age, or madness, as his George claimed, but by deep sadness.
The death of Princess Amelia.
The illness.
The exhaustion.
"No man can run a country like this," the King frowned. "Crippled, blind, mad..."
"No, Sire, you're not mad..."
"I am mad," the King turned his head to face Beau for the first time. "And don't think that I don't realise."
"Bit, sir..."
"And the worst part is that I don't know how long I have to go until I don't really remember..." the King said softly "...until I can't remember my wife's name, or her favourite flower. How long until my..."
The King struggled to find the words.
"My episodes... become my life? Become who I am? Some mad man trapped in a straitjacket in Windsor Castle?"
Beau swallowed and stared into the fire. He was glad of the crackling to fill the gap between the King's words. Beau closed his eyes to feel the heat on his face and he understood that the silence spoke every word that the King had failed to say.
"Just..." George sighed.
Beau looked up. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
The King seemed sad, and frail, hunched over in his big armchair. And suddenly his vulnerability was clear.
"Please take care of Georgie for me. When I go."
"But sir..."
"Just." The King interrupted. "Do it. And don't argue. Make sure he makes good decisions. Make sure he's happy. You make him happy."
Beau nodded slowly.
"I don't suppose we'll see each other again." The King said.
"No, Your Majesty." Beau stood up, and bowed his head. "It was a privilege to meet you, Sire."
"And you, Mr Brummel," George said. "And you."