The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(12)

“Meh,” he meowed in his peculiar way, then bumped her forehead with his and rubbed his cheek on her face. She cuddled him close and stroked him, her nose in his soft fur, inhaling his warm, sweet scent.



“Yes, I missed you, too,” she murmured as he jumped out of her arms to groom his fur on a reupholstered wing chair.

“We’ll take you on a tour of the upstairs later. It’s completely rebuilt. I do hope Elise likes yellow—it’s what we decided on for her room.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it. And she’ll adore you.”

“Well, that goes without saying,” David concurred. When Freddie elbowed him, he protested, “Well, you know it’s true!”

The man who’d appeared carrying the cat was short, but built on muscular lines, with chiseled features and sleek dark hair—with a tense jaw, darting eyes, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He cleared his throat pointedly, and David looked over.

“By the way, Maggie, meet Maximilian Thornton,” David said. “Max, this is Maggie Hope.”

“The infamous Maggie Hope,” Max articulated through his cigarette, crushing her hand as he shook it. “I’ve heard a lot about you at Number Ten.”

Maggie extricated her fingers. “Really?”

“He’s the new John Sterling,” David explained. “While John’s away.”

Maggie saw a flicker of annoyance in Max’s eyes. “I’m my own man,” he corrected, his English public school boy features hardening. “Did you hear about the big explosion?”

“Hear about it? I felt it,” Maggie replied. “We figured it was another buried, undetonated bomb going off.”

“They say it was a gas pipe explosion.” Max’s eyes were more vacant than horrified. “Landlord or someone working for him was trying to siphon off some for himself, it leaked and—boom.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in Pimlico.”

“Oh my goodness—” Maggie looked to David with wide eyes. “Chuck—Chuck and the baby are in Pimlico….”



David patted her hand. “Oh, they’re fine. They’re practically in Westminster, after all.”

“She’s coming tonight, right? Do you think we should telephone now? Just to make sure?”

“Stop worrying, Mags! Shouldn’t you go make the rounds, darling? Say hello to all your guests?”

As Maggie left, Freddie whispered to David, “I still don’t understand why she let this place out and came to live with us for so long.”

“Well, there were some—shall we say—‘issues,’?” David admitted, “with one of the flatmates. A woman named Paige. It’s…complicated.”

“So you’ve said. I mean, I didn’t always get along with my suitemates at Trinity, but…”

David glanced to Sarah, who’d been involved with all of the contretemps that had happened in the house almost two years ago. “No, not simply roommate squabbles,” Sarah clarified. Then realization hit. “Oh, David. You mean—you haven’t told him?”

“Not the full story.” David shrugged. “You tell him.”

“No, you!”

“Tell me what?” Freddie insisted. “In the name of King and Country, spill!”

Sarah rolled her eyes at David, then slipped her arm through Freddie’s. “Take a turn around the room with me, love, and I’ll fill you in on all the gory details.”

—

After meeting and greeting more of the guests, Maggie retreated to the kitchen on the pretext of getting another drink—but really, she needed to collect her thoughts. She glanced around: The room looked unchanged. The floor was tiled with a chessboard of black and white squares, and blackout curtains protected the windows. It had been in this very room that Maggie had first begun to feel at home in London, waiting for her coffee to brew and listening to the wireless or eating and reading a book at the wooden table. Now, as she stood at the counter, adding bitters to another glass of gin, Max Thornton entered.



“Here, let me do it for you.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick wrists covered in dark, matted hair.

“It’s fine, I have it,” Maggie replied, setting the bottle down. She took a swallow of her drink. It’s not helping, she noticed with irritation.

“You may have heard of me,” Max was saying. “I was a war correspondent in Spain, then Berlin. Fought in Norway back in ’forty, but was transferred to Intelligence, then referred to Churchill.” He gave Maggie a significant look as he moved closer, pinning her against the counter. “I can pinch-hit for John Sterling in any number of situations.”

“Good for you.” Maggie moved away. “And also, no thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Quite.”

“Well, well, well—how did you become such an independent young woman?”

Maggie gave a tight smile. “I went to Wellesley College.”

His forehead creased. “What’s that?”

“Like Paradise Island for the Amazons.”

He looked even more confused. Obviously he hasn’t read Wonder Woman. “It’s like St. Hilda’s at Oxford—but in the U.S.,” she explained.