The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(91)

Maggie bit her lip, hard. “All right, no need to gawk,” she said finally, tasting blood. “Let’s get to David’s.”



At David and Freddie’s flat in Knightsbridge, they were able to freshen up and change.

“You’re just in time for the bon voyage party tonight,” David exclaimed, clapping his hands. “At Number Ten. Everyone will be there, oh, you must come!”

Maggie nodded. She had a few things she wanted to say to Mr. Churchill before committing to go to the United States with his entourage. “Will you be joining us at the party, Freddie?”

Freddie shook his head. “Only for staff, I’m afraid.” He sneezed, then pulled out a cambric handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Oh no,” Maggie said, suddenly piecing it together. “Are you allergic to cats?” She’d put K in her old room, for the time being, letting him get used to his new home.

“Afraid so,” Freddie said. “More of a dog person, really.”

David was not one to wait on ceremony. Once John and Freddie went into the library to work, he pounced. “So, are you and John back together?”

“No.” Oh, David … Maggie felt a warm wave of affection wash over her. He might be somewhat tactless when it came to matters of the heart, but he always meant well. “It’s complicated.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” David leaned back in his chair. “Oh, suffering Sukra, I don’t see why you two don’t just tear each other’s clothes off and have at it. I don’t understand all the angst, all the drama. Pansies, I’ll have you know, don’t waste so much time.”

“David!” Maggie exclaimed.

“We pansies are quite efficient, it’s true.” David nodded. “Pocket squares and whatnot. Men and women could take a page, you know. Stop wasting so much time. Carpe diem. Or noctem, as the case may be.”

“Well,” Maggie retorted, “I can assure you that everyone’s clothes are staying on, thank you very much. I had the bullet removed. I quit smoking. I adopted a cat—or I guess he adopted me. Humpty Dumpy has been put back together again—and I’d like to make sure that glue holds before any rending of garments occurs.”

“Fair enough. And, speaking of the king’s horses …”

John entered the room and sat at the table with them. David poured him a cup of tea.

Maggie, eager to change the subject, looked to David. “What am I going to do with K? Obviously, he can’t stay here. Poor Freddie will die sneezing.”

“Well,” he said, pushing up his silver-framed glasses. “You could bring him to Downing Street. He could stay with Nelson and the resident Number Ten cat.”

“K? At Number Ten?” Maggie was surprised. “Would that be tolerated?”

“Please,” David said, “we’re British—we adore animals. It’s children we can’t stand. That’s why we invented boarding schools. More tea?”


The cocktail party at Number 10 was being held in the Blue Drawing Room. There was the hum of conversation and, in the background, the tinkle of a piano.

“May I fetch you a drink?” David asked Maggie once their coats were taken care of. K had been dropped off in the kitchen, and was busy trying to make friends with Mr. Churchill’s cat Nelson, who was not at all interested. The Number 10 cat glared down from a high perch.

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

She looked around, disconcerted by being back. Here she’d once taken dictation and typed while bombs rained down outside and Mr. Churchill had smoked and shouted and kicked the wastebasket. So much time had passed. So many things had changed. But it still looked the same—an enormous and empty room. The grand oil paintings had been taken away for safekeeping, leaving vacant frames. And the huge Persian carpet had also been rolled up and put into storage. The chairs and sofas ringing the walls remained, though, and a cheerful orange-and-blue fire burned behind the fireplace’s grate.

In the crowd, she spotted Miss Stewart, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mrs. Tinsley. Maggie immediately went to the older woman, Mr. Churchill’s longtime typist and her first supervisor at Number 10. “Miss Hope, you look much better than the last time you were here,” the older woman said. “Not so sallow and sickly. Why, I do believe there’s even a touch of pink in your cheeks now. Scotland must have agreed with you.”

And some things never change. “Thank you, Mrs. Tinsley,” Maggie said, putting a hand on the woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I remember your photograph of your son in uniform, by his RAF plane.”