Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Really,” she said, turning her attention to the poached salmon in sauce mousseline, clearly not pleased to be sitting near a glorified governess.

“And Mr. David Greene works with the Prime Minister. Don’t you, David?” Maggie asked, giving him a poke.

“True, true,” he admitted, then led the conversation to the antics of the Churchills’ menagerie of pets, all of whom roamed No. 10 freely. Once he had everyone, including the dowager, laughing, Maggie relaxed. Across the table, Gregory winked at her with his good eye, and she smiled back as the as the meat course was served: filet mignon with mushroom sauce, with beans, broccoli, and potatoes Anna.

“Magster,” David said with a sigh, watching her put down her knife and pass her fork from her left hand to her right, “why must you continue to eat in that revolting American style?”

“Because it’s what I do, David, and I’m not going to change because I’m in Saint George’s Hall.”

“Young man!” called an old Admiral from a few places down, fixing his gaze on David.

“Yes, sir.”

“Say, you work for Churchill, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any idea when the damn Yanks are going to get here?”

“No, sir,” David said. “I’m afraid they haven’t sent in their R.S.V.P. yet.”

Maggie shot him a look.

“Yanks,” the Admiral muttered. “Late to every war!”

“The Prime Minister is in constant contact with President Roosevelt, of course—”

“As much good as that’s done. But as we all know too well from the last war, you can always count on the Americans to do the right thing—after they’ve tried everything else.”

After the meat course came the salad. Maggie noticed Gregory didn’t eat much throughout the dinner but called over the footman to refill his glass more than a few times.

“So, Maggie tells me you rowed for Oxford?” David asked Gregory over the torte au chocolate blanc.

“Yes,” he replied, taking a sip of Champagne. “Eton and then Oxford. Thirty-four was the dead heat. In thirty-five, we won the Boat Race.”

“That’s the annual race between Cambridge and Oxford,” David explained to Maggie. Then, to Gregory, “I was on the team a few years later than you. Coxswain.”

“Brothers in blue,” Gregory said, smiling.

“Magdelen?”

“Christ’s Church.”

“Excellent,” David said, dunking his fingertips into the proffered glass finger bowl and wiping them on the provided linen napkin, then tucking into the fruit course—red Windsor apples served with elderflower-wine-marbled Windsor red cheese, fig jam, and walnuts, served on Queen Victoria’s Royal Minton china, bordered in turquoise with panels of flowers and gilding. The conversation had given Maggie pause, for although she was happy to see David and Gregory discover they’d both attended colleges at Oxford, John had gone to Magdelen with David. Even hearing the name of John’s college brought back a rush of memories and a stab of pain to her heart. Still, it wasn’t quite as bad as before.

The dinner and the conversation went on, the long tapers burning down and voices getting louder and more relaxed with bottle upon bottle being brought from the castle’s vast wine cellar. The dinner ended with petits fours and black coffee. When the guests had eaten and drunk their fill, the King and Queen put their knives and forks down—and, as per royal etiquette, everyone else did the same. Then the King rose to his feet, offered his arm to the Queen, and they left St. George’s Hall for the Grand Reception Room.

The P.M. and Mrs. Churchill followed behind, along with the rest of the high-ranking officers and War Cabinet Ministers. Maggie stood up with the others, waiting for the head of the table to file out first.

“I’d love that dance later, David,” Maggie said.

“Oh, Magster, and I’d love to oblige, but I have some work to do, I’m afraid.”

“Maggie,” Gregory said. “Let’s show your friend to my office and set him up there. If you must do work on a holiday weekend, at least do it in comfort. I have a fantastic bottle of twenty-two-year-old Scotch, by the way.”

David smiled. “I like the way you think. Lead on, MacDuff.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Maggie, David, and Gregory strolled the chilly corridors of the castle, en route to the Equerry’s office. When Maggie saw Hugh in one of the hallways, staring intently at one of the Sleeping Beauty posters, she stopped.

“You boys go ahead,” she told David and Gregory. “I think someone might be lost.”

After the conversation of the two men had receded into the distance, Maggie spoke. “I saw Peter, but I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Frain brought me along.”

“How—how are you?” Maggie asked.

Hugh took a casual tone. “Oh, fine. Trying to explain to my mother why I’ll be away for the holidays again. It’s bad enough I’m not in the armed services, as far as she’s concerned, but to miss Christmas.…”

Maggie heard voices in the distance. “In here,” she said, leading him into a dark room with high ceilings and sheeted furniture. They were alone. She closed the door. They both leaned against the wall, their eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Hugh was silent for a long moment. “Because of the secret nature of their work, there aren’t any memorials or tombs for MI-Five veterans. But there’s a wall at MI-Five, a marble wall with poppies carved in it, on the left- hand side as you enter. And on that wall are names. Names of agents lost in action. No clues as to how or where —or even when. All we know is that they died in service to Britain.”

He took a deep breath. “I was five when my father’s name was chiseled into that wall. And now I pass it every day.”

“Hugh, I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, Hugh looked as though he was going to say something. Then he changed his mind.

“It’s fine, Maggie. I mean—well, it’s not fine. But it’s done, it’s over, and you certainly had nothing to do with any of it. I want you to know that. That it’s nothing you had anything to do with. I don’t blame you.”

He reached into his black dinner jacket pocket and pulled out a small package, wrapped in silver paper and bound with a red satin ribbon. He handed it to Maggie.

“What?” she said, surprised. “Oh, really—you shouldn’t have.”

Hugh colored. “I know. It’s highly irregular. But I was thinking of you … and it is Christmas, after all.” He shifted his weight. “Anyway, I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Maggie promised.

Slowly, she raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

He put his hands on her waist and drew her close. Then he leaned down and they kissed again, longer, this time. It’s different than it was with John, Maggie realized, and finally she stopped thinking.

Finally, they broke apart. “We can’t do this,” Maggie said.

“I think we just did.” Hugh reached out to stroke her cheek.

She put her arms around his neck and leaned against him, smelling his bay rum cologne. “We do work together, after all.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he whispered. “But I do think you’re wonderful.”

Maggie pulled away. “We can’t …”

“Of course,” Hugh said. “You’re right.”

Maggie stepped past him and opened the door.

“Happy Christmas, then,” Hugh said, and turned to walk away.

“Happy Christmas, Hugh,” Maggie called after him.

Back up in her sitting room in Victoria Tower, fire already lit, Maggie sat down, gift in her hands. She pressed