Princess Elizabeth's Spy

her way toward them in the dim golden glow from the brass sconces with Victorian etched-glass globes. “What would you like?” she asked over the noise of the crowd and a recording of the Andrews Sisters singing “Begin the Beguine.”

Maggie had already glanced at the menu. “Cider, please. And the shepherd’s pie.”

“Two. But I’ll have an ale.” The waitress stared in horror at Gregory’s face for a moment before composing her features. She gave a nervous smile and walked away.

“You know, Clive’s not really so bad,” Gregory said, turning back to Maggie. “Distinguished military career, then private secretary to the Sovereign. Retired just a few years ago to Windsor and only recently been named Governor. He tries to run things with military precision—a bit obsessive about time, but I think he quite misses ordering a bunch of sailors about.”

“Of course.” Maggie was ready to be magnanimous, now that her toes were beginning to warm up. “And what about you? What brings you to Windsor?”

Something closed in Gregory’s face. “I’m here as equerry—an assistant of sorts—to the King. Was a pilot before that, if you couldn’t tell by the jacket. Got a bit singed early on in Norway. Not just my face, either. Scars go down my left side.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. What if it had been John? she thought. What if it is John, burned and somewhere in France or Germany?

“The equerry position goes to some poor wounded soldier every six months or so,” Gregory said, arranging and rearranging the table’s salt and pepper shakers, bottle of vinegar, and HP Sauce. “We get to live in the castle, do a few things for His Majesty, heal up a bit. Not a bad situation, by any means.” His face darkened, eyes looking to the middle distance, seeing things only in his memory. Then he shook his head, as if to clear his nightmares. “All things considered. I’ll have to go back to military duty after the new year. I’m not looking forward to it.”

The waitress brought their drinks and pies.

“Oh, heaven,” Maggie said, eyeing the steaming plate of vegetables and some kind of meat covered with a browned crust of mashed potatoes.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Gregory warned, as he took a sip of his beer. “And probably made with actual shepherd.”

“At this point, I don’t care,” she declared, sticking her fork into the mashed-potato crust. “I’m starving.”

After she’d eaten a bit, and Gregory had pushed his food around on his plate, he said, “So you’re teaching the little princesses maths, then?”

Of course she couldn’t tell him MI-5 had placed her there. “Yes,” she said, through a bite.

“Excellent idea! Crawfie’s a good Scottish lass, but she’s not that well educated, really. Of course, Lilibet’s taking a few classes at Eton, my alma mater, but if she’s going to be queen someday …”

“Exactly,” Maggie agreed, taking a sip of cider. “So, not just pure maths but statistics, economics, even physics, architecture, engineering—”

“And how do you know all that?” Gregory asked, surprised. He’d finished his ale and set down the empty glass. “No offense, of course.”

“Long story.” Maggie laughed. “I majored in mathematics at Wellesley College, back in the States. I was going to go on to do a Ph.D. at M.I.T. when my British grandmother passed. So I came to London in thirty-eight to sell her house, and, well, never left.”

“Well, good for you, then,” he said. “I studied Classics when I was at university—could hardly get past algebra, let alone calculus. How’d you get the position with the Royal Family?”

Maggie had practiced her cover story. “I worked as a typist at Number Ten Downing Street for a while, but I wasn’t that fast. Or accurate, if you must know. When word came the King and Queen were looking for a maths tutor, I was recommended. Seemed like a good fit.”

“Hmmm. Downing Street, you say? Did you know Churchill?”

Oh, if he only knew.…  “Not really,” Maggie shrugged. “Just in passing. I was pretty low in the pecking order.”

Gregory motioned to the waitress to bring another drink, and she nodded her assent.

Maggie noticed his still-full plate. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I had a late lunch.” Then he smiled. “Of course you must have a beau pining for you.”

Maggie stopped, fork hovering in midair.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just assumed, pretty girl like you …” The waitress brought his drink and he took a gulp.

“John Sterling. He’s in the Royal Air Force too,” Maggie told him. “His plane crashed. He is, as they say, ‘missing.’ But I refuse to believe he’s—” The word dead hung in the air between them.

“Then don’t,” Gregory said, his eyes serious. He was about to say more, when the door to the restaurant opened and there was a loud burst of feminine laughter. “Oh, no,” he groaned.

“What?” Maggie said, looking around.

“A gaggle of Ladies-in-Waiting,” he whispered. “I hope you brought cotton for your ears.”

The gaggle in question was three well-dressed and attractive young women. Without preamble, they descended on Maggie and Gregory, who rose to his feet.

“London was absolutely mad,” complained the slender blonde in lilac and black, kissing Gregory on the cheek and taking his seat, while he turned to procure more from another table. She had the profile of a cameo. “Lily,” she said to Maggie by way of an introduction, sticking out her hand. “How do you do?”

Maggie shook the extended hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Barking mad,” amended a ripe raven-haired beauty with glossy scarlet lips and nails.

“That’s Louisa,” Lily said, pointing.

“Hello, there,” said Louisa, already scanning the crowd for the waitress.

“We were bombed out of our hotel,” the short, plump one with pink cheeks said. “Claridge’s! Bombed! Can you believe? It truly is the end of civilization!” Then, to Maggie, “I’m Marion—and you are?” She arched a plucked eyebrow.

“Maggie,” she replied. “Maggie Hope. The princess’s new maths tutor.”

“A governess?” Louisa rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” said Maggie.

“I loathed my governesses,” she said. “Used to torture them mercilessly.”

“What a lovely dress you have on,” said Marion. “Glad to see you’ve taken ‘make do and mend’ to heart.”

Did she really just say that? Maggie thought. She did! What a—

“Play nicely, ladies,” Gregory warned. “Claws in.”

Maggie realized she was working, and needed to get to know these women. She took a deep breath, then remembered the newspaper article she’d seen at David’s apartment. “Claridge’s? I heard there was a suicide there over the weekend, a young girl?”

“Ugh,” said Lily, pushing back a blond wave, blanching. “There were police officers everywhere. We went to London for some semblance of civility, and what did we find? Air raids, bombing, suicide …”

“And not enough clothing rations to buy anything decent,” sighed Louisa, looking down at her black cashmere cardigan, edged in sable. She looked like the wicked queen from Snow White with her white skin, black bobbed hair, and blood-red lipstick. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl.

“So, you’re teaching the Princesses?” Polly asked. She affected the same look as Louisa, but her plump face didn’t have the same angles and planes, her bob was dyed an unflattering black, and the waxy red lipstick she chose only accentuated the sallow color of her skin.

“Oh, the princesses!” Louisa laughed, leaning over to read the menu and exposing impressive cleavage. “Strange little creatures, aren’t they? For years everyone whispered there was something wrong with Margaret, but it turned out Alah just wouldn’t let her out of the pram.”

“Lilibet’s all right,” Lily said. “But all she talks about are dogs and horses. Horses and dogs. All the livelong