The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(10)
“Who says?”
“I do. When I came back here, I quit. Smoking was affecting my time. I’m much faster now.”
The man gazed at her through thick eyelashes. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Of course I do, Three. Decent at Morse code, always at the front of the pack in any race—but a terrible shot.”
He laughed. “No, I mean, you don’t recognize me.”
Who is this arrogant twit? “Should I?”
“Most people around here do, or at least think they do. Although I always thought—who better to be a spy than an actor?”
“You’re an actor, then.” Maggie was not impressed. She knew the type—handsome, charming, self-absorbed. Strong jaw—check. Dimples—check. Full red lips—check. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything you’ve done.”
“Really?” His face drooped in child-like disappointment. “Home Away from Home? Dead Men Are Dangerous? The Girl Must Live?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, how about theater, then—played Jack Favell, the first Mrs. De Winter’s lover, in Rebecca. It was the West End, summer of ’40, during the worst of the Blitz. Any number of times we had to finish the production down in the air-raid shelter in the cellar of the Queen’s Theatre.”
“Right,” Maggie said, remembering. Her twin flatmates had been the stage manager and costume assistant for Rebecca, and of course she and the rest of the group had gone to see the production. She remembered him, too, now: handsome with a mustache and slick Brylcreemed hair. Decent rapport with Mrs. Danvers. “Yes, I saw that.”
She realized that, puppy-like, he was waiting for more, so she added, “You were quite good.” She decided against patting his head.
The young man pushed away from the rock and bowed. “At your service, Lady Macbeth.”
Maggie gave a broken smile. “The last group called me Nessie.” He looked blank. “Nessie? You know—the Loch Ness Monster?”
Three did his best to stifle a grin behind a hand. “Ahem, I’m afraid so. But it’s better to be feared than to be loved, isn’t it?”
“If you’re Machiavelli. Or a Prince.” Her smile turned grim. “Or a spy, for that matter.”
“I think being an actor will make me a very good spy.”
“You do, do you?”
“Oh, I’ve been ready for ages. I wish they’d just drop me in France already.”
“Really.” Maggie’s sarcasm was lost on him.
“Oh yes, I might as well just skip the so-called finishing school. Piece of cake.”
I used to say that … Not anymore.
“My actual name is Charles Campbell, by the way. The press calls me Good Time Charlie.”
“Hello, Charles.” She tilted her head. “Where are you from?”
“Glasgow, actually.” Maggie must have looked surprised, for he didn’t have a Glaswegian’s distinctive accent. “Aye, wee lassie—ye pro’ly think we all wear kilts, eat haggis with tatties and neeps, an’ get drunk on whiskey ev’ry day!” He switched back to his upper-crust enunciation. “It’s true—but only on Sundays.”
“How—?”
Charles smiled. “I watched films, imitated the actors. When I started to make some real money, I hired an accent coach, a regular Henry Higgins of a fellow. Trained all my bad habits out of me. Now I can speak with almost any accent—used them in plenty of films, some even in Hollywood.”
“The ability to switch accents—that’s useful, for a spy.”
Charles looked deep into her eyes. Maggie looked back, coolly.
“You’re not in love with me, are you?” he asked, sounding just a touch disappointed.
Despite the razor in her heart, Maggie choked out a laugh. Love? Love was the last thing on her mind these days. “In love with you? I just met you!”
“Most of the girls here are madly in love with me.” He said it factually. “Or at least the image of me they have from my films. It can be annoying.”
My goodness, he reeks of youth. “Well,” Maggie managed, “never fear. Not only have I never seen your films, but I have no interest in romance, whatsoever.”
“What’s your type?”
“Tall, dark, and damaged. Or tall, fair, and damaged. And Charles, you’re not nearly tall enough, nor damaged enough, even to be in the running. Plus, I’ve sworn off men. I’m celibate now. Like the goddess Diana.”
Charles draped an arm over her shoulder and grinned. Maggie could see how he could easily be a matinee idol. “Then we shall get along very well,” he said.