The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(10)
“Let me take your coat and hat,” someone was saying, and Maggie relinquished them. She realized in her office clothes she was underdressed and rubbed at the ink spot on her blouse. “I do wish you’d warned me, David. I would have at least put on lipstick.” The room was warm from the press of people, and so she peeled off her cardigan and took two yellow pencils out of her coppery bun so it tumbled down her shoulders and swung free.
“You look lovely as always, my dear,” David reassured her as the conversations around them swirled and crescendoed. “Let me give you a tour,” he said, as someone pressed a pink gin in her hand. She took a sip, hoping it would help ease her sense of shock.
“It’s all structurally sound,” David was saying. “Safe as houses, as they say. Safe as houses—ha!
“Had both an architect and an engineer give their approval after the bombing—the top floor took quite a hit, but luckily the bomb fell on a diagonal, not straight down,” he prattled on. “Garden’s still a mess, I’m afraid. Did a little redecorating as well—hope you don’t mind. A few of my parents’ pieces from the country house—tried to bring a breath of modernity to all the moldy Victoriana—no offense to your sainted grandmother, of course. And we moved all your things and set you up in the master bedroom.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Mags, it looks completely different now. You won’t even recognize it.”
“I—I can’t believe it,” Maggie managed finally. “Thank you—thank you so much.” Then, realizing, “How can I ever repay you?”
“Your insurance money took care of everything, actually—you’d already started the paperwork for government compensation before we left for Washington. You’ll have to wait until after the war’s over for the full amount, but I was able to claim enough of an advance on your behalf for structural repairs.” He waved a hand. “The rest is cosmetic.”
“Well, gorblimey and God save the King!” Maggie managed, taking another sip of her gin. Someone was passing a plate of cheap sausage rolls, and she snagged one. “And the Queen and the Princesses, while we’re at it.” She and David exchanged a knowing look, remembering their perilous time at Windsor Castle with the Royals.
David puffed out his chest. “I set everything up while you were in Scotland, and then the overhaul was done while we were all in Washington….”
Maggie was half-listening as they wandered through the house and David pointed out changes. Walking through the parlor and library felt like returning to a half-remembered dream. It was the same, but different. Or was she what was different now?
She tried to look objectively at the library, lit by silk-shaded lamps. The gloomy wallpaper had been stripped. The walls were freshly painted. Some of the heavy Victorian furniture had been removed and replaced with sleek deco pieces, upholstered in bright blue moiré. The murky oil paintings had been replaced in their gilt frames with colorful reproductions of works by Matisse, Dalí, and Magritte.
“A modern space for today’s modern woman,” David enthused. “We kept all the books we could salvage, of course—as well as all your back issues of American Journal of Mathematics and your grandmother’s back issues of Minotaure—there’s a lovely Picasso cover of a bullfight you might think of framing. Did you know you have some first editions of Sherlock Holmes here? Although, I must say your dear old granny had fairly gothic taste”—he gestured to the tall shelves—“translations of Dante, Dracula, The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon, The Complete History of Jack the Ripper…even a few old penny dreadfuls.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever realized Dante was the first to think of hell as a planned space in an urban environment? Ha! Must have visited London.”
That made Maggie smile again. “I never had time to read much beyond math journals, but perhaps I should revisit Dante.”
“Careful not to read too much—you’ll never get married,” cautioned a man with a shiny, bald head in passing.
Then David’s “roommate,” Freddie Wright, approached, tumbler in hand. He was a handsome man, tall, with dark hair and eyes. A handful who were extremely close to them knew David and Freddie were a couple, but kept it quiet, for obvious reasons: arrest, imprisonment, chemical castration would be their fate if their relationship were revealed.
“Thank you, David,” Maggie murmured, blinking back tears of gratitude. “And you, too, Freddie. You must have had a hand in all this, while David and I were in Washington.”
Freddie beamed. “I rather enjoyed having a project to work on while His Nibs was away.” He looked to David. “You know, we might think about a country house when this blasted war is over.”
“The country?” David looked appalled. “Why would anyone want to leave London?”
“Nature? Trees? Fresh air?”
“Spiders.”
“Flowers?”
“Snakes.”
“Hunting? Fishing? Riding?”
“Dirt, dirt, and more dirt, plus mud. I prefer theater, the ballet, and galleries. My idea of a trip into nature is a suite at the Ritz and a book of Audubon prints, thank you very much, old thing.”
Freddie raised his hands in mock surrender. Maggie laughed.