Caspian possessed a highly attuned, deeply unfortunate sixth sense for entering rooms that had recently been the site of royal depravity.
He slipped into the super-suite the next morning, balancing a silver tray of coffee and poached eggs. The room was quiet. The massive charcoal-velvet bed was occupied by the sleeping forms of the King and Queen.
Caspian set the tray down on a side table with practiced silence. He turned to draw the heavy curtains and let the morning light in, but as he approached the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, he stopped.
He blinked. He squinted.
There, perfectly illuminated by the rising sun, was a distinct, highly incriminating set of smudges on the pristine glass. It looked like two handprints, placed roughly at the height of the Queen's shoulders, accompanied by a broader, lower smudge that Caspian, to his eternal horror, immediately identified as the imprint of a bare thigh pressed hard against the pane.
