“No. It was never mentioned again.”
“Not even when Victoria was taken ill? In the carriage or in her room?”
“No. I think whatever Margaret suggested, Victoria rejected. Victoria did say something later about not being a follower of silly peasant customs.”
“But nothing else?”
“Nothing else. And nothing about flowers.”
That was it, then. There was no evidence to either clear Margaret from suspicion or prove she killed Victoria. I looked at Lady Julia’s eyes through the two sets of eyeholes in our masks. I could see defiance growing in hers.
“Margaret’s my friend. I’m not going to help you hang her.”
I held her gaze. “You think Margaret poisoned Victoria, don’t you?”
“I don’t think it was physically possible. I was with them almost the entire time they were together. What I remember most from that day was that Victoria was wretchedly unhappy.”
“What?” Victoria was unhappy? That was news.
“Victoria didn’t want to marry the duke. She couldn’t stand him. She thought he was stuffy, dull. The duke and her father arranged the match. Her mother was thrilled. Victoria felt like a sacrificial lamb. And she planned to make everyone pay for her misery.”
“She told you this?” We couldn’t be talking about the same Duke of Blackford. He wasn’t stuffy or dull. He was infuriating, helpful, riveting; and he deflected danger and unwanted questions with grace.
“Every time we were alone after the engagement was announced.”
“Thank you for your honesty. And I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.” Would she be honest about this rumor, too?
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know you knew. I’m heartbroken. He has less than a month to live and I don’t know what will happen with Papa and the title then.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded, mouth slightly open, and then watched Lady Julia walk away. If Waxpool’s impending death was the reason Drake was being hunted, then Waxpool’s manservant, Price, would be somewhere in the crowd looking for the blackmailer. Blackford told his fellow victims that Drake would be here tonight, and I suspected our costumes were designed to be beacons for the search.
Now I’d heard both Victoria and Margaret were unhappy women. What role had it played in their deaths? I doubted I’d get an answer to that question, but I still had to ask it, if only to myself.
I pressed through the crowd looking for Emma. I thought I saw her and her shimmering blue mask near the French doors and worked a path in that direction, only to lose her again in the crowd.
Then I spotted her on the dance floor, whirling around in a waltz with a slim, trim Henry VIII with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. They made a handsome couple. I hoped Emma wouldn’t lose her head. A man in a wizard costume watched them closely from the edge of the floor. I suspected he’d be Emma’s next dance partner.
The crowd parted slightly for a tall figure in a black hooded robe, a scythe gleaming in one hand. Who had come to the party dressed as the angel of death? His full mask and his hood hid his face, but his head swiveled between watching Emma and looking at me.
I slipped back to the chaperones’ section with its scattering of chairs and found the Marie Antoinette I wanted carrying a bow-covered green parasol. I recognized the parasol from my visit to Portman Square. “Your Highness,” I began, “or should I say Your Grace?”
“You recognized me?”
“You wear the same costume every year.” I hoped what I’d been told was correct.
She nodded. “Do I know you?”
“Archivist Society.”
“Oh, yes. Your costume is quite unique.”
“Just the effect I was hoping for. What is your daughter wearing?”
“A shepherdess. I wish she weren’t. She looks so lifeless next to Daisy Hancock.”
I glanced in the direction the duchess was staring and saw two shepherdesses standing in conversation. Daisy Hancock’s blondness and animation were hard to overlook, especially next to the demure, dark-haired girl she was talking to. A man came up and took the laughing Daisy away for more dancing. The duchess’s daughter slipped away into the rainbow-hued crowd.
“Your daughter will keep her looks and her warm disposition much longer than Miss Daisy,” I said. I hoped I was right. The duchess’s daughter had my build and pale complexion. “Where is Miss Daisy’s chaperone?”
“Hancock? Who knows who he has minding her this season. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t attend. In fact, I’m certain he’s not here. If he were, he’d be boring the guests with how they should invest in his latest creation. Merville positively runs when he sees the man coming.”