The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(57)

“Good afternoon, Miss Hope,” the Queen declared in her silvery, high-pitched voice. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s delightful to see you again.”

Maggie curtsied. “Your Majesty, thank you for inviting me. I’m honored to be here.”

When the Queen extended her delicate gloved hand and gave Maggie’s a gentle squeeze, the younger woman tried not to giggle at a sudden vision of the Queen eating Mrs. Roosevelt’s proffered hot dogs at Hyde Park.

“The Princesses are here at the Palace today,” the Queen told her.

“How are they, ma’am?”

A cloud passed over the Queen’s face. “They’re strong and resilient young women,” she answered firmly. “The King and I are proud of them and all they’re doing for the war effort. Although”—here the Queen leaned in, and Maggie detected the faint scent of lavender water—“between us, Lilibet’s knitting is still rather lumpy.”

Maggie repressed a smile. “It always was a bit, ma’am.”

“However, there is some cheerful news,” the Queen added with a proud smile. “Princess Elizabeth is to be Colonel of the Grenadier Guards!”

“Oh, how perfectly wonderful! Please convey my congratulations to the Princess.”



“And speaking of women doing their all for the war effort, what are you doing these days, Miss Hope? Only what you’re allowed to share, of course.”

“I’ve recently returned from the White House, ma’am, where I worked for the Prime Minister during his trip to see President Roosevelt. And now I’m with SOE here in London, while waiting for the arrival of my sister—half sister.”

The Queen clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! When I see how close Lilibet and Margaret are…Well, I think everyone should have a sister.”

I only hope Elise and I will be that close. Maybe someday.

A line of guests was starting to grow behind Maggie, and the Queen took notice. “We’ll chat more later, Miss Hope,” she told her. “Enjoy the tea.”

Maggie bobbed another curtsy. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The Blue Drawing Room was ornamented in the Georgian style, in crimson and gilt. The walls were covered in cobalt flock wallpaper punctuated by tall columns painted to resemble onyx. Maggie suppressed another smile as she looked at the assorted curly, gold-legged furniture with sculpted backs, knowing David had called similar pieces “Ministry of Works Louis XIV.” The tall windows overlooked private gardens, and Maggie could see the snow falling heavily now, collecting in the tufts of grass on the lawn.

The room was set up for afternoon tea, with silver urns, platters of sandwiches, scones, and cakes on a large plantation table, and armchairs with low side tables provided for informal seating. A harpist plucked arpeggios in a corner.

Upon closer inspection, Maggie saw little ivory cards with calligraphy that proclaimed the sandwiches beetroot and faux mayonnaise, liver paté and celery with mustard, and cucumber and margarine. The scones were potato, with mock cream, and the cakes were eggless, made from carrots with spices. Forced yellow jonquils decorated the tables, and the china service for the austere meal, she was amused to see, was venerable Minton.



As she selected a few sandwiches and a scone, she heard a low voice behind her. “Ah, it’s the infamous Spinster Tartlet!”

Maggie turned. “Mr. Thornton—good afternoon. I believe the last time we met I was throwing you out of my party.”

Max Thornton made a low bow. “Forgive me, Miss Hope. I perhaps had too much to drink that evening.” He used silver tongs with lions and unicorns to place a piece of cake on his plate.

“What brings you to Buckingham Palace, Mr. Thornton?” Maggie asked as they made their way down the table, selecting various tidbits. “I do hope you won’t be turned out of here as well.”

Max smiled. “I’m on the Women’s Advisory Committee for Aviation.”

Maggie tried not to gasp. “You?”

“Yes, I.” He added in a low voice, “It’s a wonderful way to meet pretty young ladies, you know.” As they made their way to the delicate chairs, he asked, “May I sit with you, Miss Hope?”

“Suit yourself.” As she took a bite of a beet sandwich, she was mortified to see red and white cat hair on Paige’s skirt.

Their table was near a taped-up window looking out at the lawn, enormous urns empty and statuary stark and cold against the hazy gray sky. As the snow flew thicker and faster, Max took a sip of tea and looked around. “Rather flash, no?”

“I would call it…theatrical,” Maggie countered, trying to be diplomatic. As they ate, they were surrounded by more guests, ladies of all ages in flowered dresses, hats, and waxy lipstick, and a few older men in well-worn Jermyn Street tweed suits.

When the crowd had finished their tea, the Queen, who’d been making the rounds, stopped in the front of the room, corgis at her feet. She drew the guests’ collective attention and silence without having to say a word.



One of the corgis gave a huge yawn, then settled with his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

“I speak to you, the women—and yes, I see we have a few men here as well!—of the British Empire, who have been forced into war.”