Mrs. Tinsley blinked, hard. “Thank you, Miss Hope.”
The crowd parted, and Mrs. Churchill came forth in a cloud of lavender chiffon and gray pearls. “Miss Hope, so glad to see you back,” said Mrs. Churchill, shaking Maggie’s hand warmly. “Please take good care of Mr. Churchill on this trip, won’t you, dear? America seems a bit … unpredictable. Like the Wild West.”
“I—” Maggie began, not wanting to talk about it with Mrs. Churchill before talking to the Prime Minister himself.
David appeared and handed Maggie a coupe of Champagne. The three of them clinked glasses. “And take care of yourselves over there.”
“We’ll try our best, Ma’am.”
There was the sound of a crash, then a yowl, then the shadow of a cat running from the Prime Minister’s office, tail low.
“No one named Nelson ever runs from a fight!” Mr. Churchill shouted, holding on to a squirming K. He addressed the party. “And who is this rascal? To whom does he belong?”
“He belongs to me, sir,” Maggie said. “His name is K—Mr. K, on more formal occasions.”
“K, hmmm? Is he in espionage? You know, some of my best top-secret agents have just one-letter code names.”
“He’s extremely good about sneaking about, sir, and gathering intelligence—about food sources especially.”
David interposed. “Sir, it’s all my fault—I told Miss Hope that the cat could stay here, just during our trip to Washington.”
Mr. Churchill walked over to the group, scratching K under the chin. “Found him in Scotland, did you?” he asked Maggie.
“He, well, he sort of found me, sir.”
“Well, he can’t come to America with us. Not even my beloved brood can.”
“No, sir.”
“But he’s welcome to stay at Number Ten for the duration.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”
“Come with me to my office, Miss Hope,” Mr. Churchill said, still cradling K in his arms. “We must talk.”
Inside, with the thick door of his study closed, the P.M. dropped down into a leather chair and motioned for her to take the one opposite. “Sit! Sit!” he admonished, reaching for a cigar from his breast pocket. He looked older now, stouter but at the same time weaker than when he dictated the Battle of Britain speech to her. His blue eyes were weary. Maggie did as she was bid and sat.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. But I can’t go with you. To Washington.” It was a lie. She knew that the best way to get what she wanted, Elise’s rescue, was to be coy.
Churchill regarded her with dark-blue eyes and chewed on his cigar. “But I must have Hope!” Then, “Are you afraid?” he asked. “The ocean voyage alone, with all those Nazi ships and submarines, would put most men off. And according to the Geneva Conventions we’re not technically supposed to bring women—there’s a loophole, though, because you’ll be going as the Prime Minister’s agent. Plus, I don’t want to hire a new typist over there. Some Yank who’ll probably spell all of our noble British words wrong.”
“I’m not afraid, sir,” Maggie said, twisting her hands in her lap. “After being sent blind to Berlin. After learning about the anthrax that you’re developing …”
“Ah,” the P.M. said, leaning back in his chair. Having mutilated his cigar long enough, he took out a monogrammed gold lighter and touched the flame to its end, sucking in. The tip turned crimson. “Not going with me, eh? Your sense of morality has been punctured?”
Maggie didn’t know where to rest her eyes, but they kept returning to the unwavering blue ones on her. “I don’t question the necessity of the war, sir. I don’t question that it’s a just war. But I do have reservations about how we’re going about fighting it.”
“What are your specific issues, Miss Hope?”
“First, I was hired to work as your secretary under false pretenses. You used me for my family connections—connections I wasn’t even aware of—without informing me.
“Next, I was trained as a spy and sent to Berlin. Again, I was used for my family connections and sent under false pretenses.
“And then there’s the anthrax. One of my dearest friends—a patriot, who risked her life to capture Claire Kelly—nearly died as ‘collateral damage’ to your anthrax experiment.”
Maggie took a deep breath. “You must understand that—with all due respect, sir—I do not trust you.”
Churchill smoked impassively, a wreath of blue smoke drifting above his head. The fire crackled in the hearth.