“I also know that your Mr. Smith hated his guts-still does, probably.”
“Well, I’m not sure what you can do with that,” she said. “Would you like to go to a dinner party tonight? Good,” she said without hesitating.
“I guess I’d love to,” Stone replied. “Who’s giving it?”
“The ambassador.”
“He’s back?”
“Got back today. He forgot to invite me before he left. It’s black tie.”
“I own a black tie,” Stone replied.
“We’re not due there until eight,” she said. “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a little nap?”
The little nap came only after half an hour of inventive lovemaking, and it was welcome.
THE ELDERLY ROLLS-ROYCE picked them up at eight and drove them to the Upper East Side residence of Britain’s ambassador to the UN. They were greeted at the door by a uniformed butler, who led them to the residence’s living room and shouted over the conversation of the early arrivers, “Dame Felicity Devonshire and Mr. Stone Barrington.”
The first person Stone saw was Mr. Smith, whom he had met earlier in the day.
“Don’t speak to Smith,” Felicity murmured in his ear.
Stone nodded to the man and received a nod in return.
“He doesn’t look important enough to be dining with the ambassador,” Stone whispered back.
“I expect he’s on call as the odd man,” she replied. “I would have been seated next to him if you hadn’t come.” A succession of introductions ensued, and Stone made an effort to remember at least their surnames. A waiter passed with Champagne flutes, and Stone snagged a pair.
He was surprised when he tasted it. “This is Krug,” he said to Felicity.
“That means there is at least one person here who is very important to the ambassador,” she said.
“I wonder who it is,” Stone replied.
“I’ll figure it out before we’re done. Come meet the ambassador.”
The ambassador, whose name was Sir John Pemberton, was younger than Stone had expected, only fiftyish, and his wife was fifteen years younger and quite beautiful, a redhead in a chic dress with an encouraging expanse of bosom showing.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Barrington,” the ambassador said.
“Yes,” Lady Pemberton echoed. “One meets so few of Dame Felicity’s friends; they’re such a secretive lot. Are you secretive, Mr. Barrington?”
“Sometimes,” Stone replied.
“Oh, good,” she said, deftly separating him from Felicity, like a cowgirl with a calf, and steering him toward a corner. “It will be such fun worming secrets out of you.”
Stone caught a glimpse of Felicity’s face as they moved across the room, and it occurred to him that if her glance were a knife, Lady Pemberton’s throat would already have been cut.
“Tell me,” Lady Pemberton said, once she had secured him in a corner. “What, as you Americans say, do you do?”
“I’m an attorney at law,” Stone replied, “and that is not a secret.”
“Solicitor or barrister?” she asked.
“In the United States attorneys frequently do both.”
“Oh, of course. I knew that.”
“Some attorneys specialize in trial work, while others never see the inside of a courtroom,” he said.
“And are you with a big, grand firm of lawyers?”
“I am of counsel to such a firm,” Stone said, “but I make my offices in my home.”
“How very convenient,” she said, flashing brilliant dental work. “Then you’re often at home in the afternoons?”
“Often,” he replied.
“How nice. I am frequently at loose ends in the afternoons,” she said, taking his arm in such a way that his elbow rubbed against one of her stunning breasts.
“May I have my gentleman back now, please?” Felicity said, stepping up and taking the other arm. “There’s someone I’d like him to meet.”
For a moment, Stone thought a tug-of-war would ensue with him as the rope.
“If you must,” Lady Pemberton said. “We’ll catch up later, Mr. Barrington.”
Felicity towed Stone to the other end of the room.
“Nick of time,” Stone said quietly.
“Yes, you’d have been upstairs with her in another moment,” Felicity said through a fixed smile that she bestowed upon everyone she passed.
They came to a tall, slender man of about sixty who wore a Royal Navy formal uniform with much gold trim and who stood ramrod straight, sipping whiskey neat from a tumbler. “Stone,” Felicity said, “may I present Admiral Sir Ian Weston? Sir Ian, this is my friend Stone Barrington.”
“Howjado,” the admiral said.
“Very well, thank you,” Stone replied.
“Did they fob that fucking awful bubbly off on you?” the admiral asked. Stone nodded. “They’ve got a proper bar over there with a decent single malt.”
“Oh, I’m quite happy with the Champagne,” Stone said. “I’m not often served Krug.”
“He’s pouring the Krug, is he? Must be somebody important here. Wonder who?”
“I was wondering the same thing, Sir Ian,” Felicity said. “Sir Ian is the ambassador’s naval attaché,” she explained to Stone. She looked around the room. “I’ll bet it’s that American couple over there,” she said.
“Could be,” the admiral replied.
Stone followed her gaze until it alighted on Bill Eggers and his wife, Suzanne. He laughed. “That gentleman is the managing partner of the law firm to which I am of counsel,” he said, “and I’m not certain anyone in diplomatic circles would consider him important enough for Krug.”
“Oh,” Felicity said. “And whom do we have here?” she asked, looking toward the door, where the butler was about to announce a portly man and his elegant wife.
“Lord and Lady Wight,” the butler intoned.
“What a coincidence,” Stone said.
“Yesss,” Felicity drawled.
20
Stone had not set eyes on Lord and Lady Wight since he had been a guest in their country home a few years before. Wight had been the subject of an investigation by the House of Lords at the time, and the supposition was that he might be stripped of his peerage and perhaps even go to prison. Stone and one of their daughters, Sarah, a painter and sculptor, had been close then.
The Wights spotted Stone and came over. “Barrington, isn’t it?” Wight asked.
“It is, your lordship,” Stone replied. “Your ladyship, it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “Sarah still speaks of you.”
“That’s kind of her,” Stone replied. “May I present Dame Felicity Devonshire?”
“Howjado,” Wight replied.
“So nice,” echoed his wife. Both of them looked right through her, having no idea who she was.
“How do you do, Lord Wight, Lady Wight,” Felicity said. Then, turning to him, “I believe you knew my father.”
Wight looked at her blankly for a moment, then the penny dropped. “Why of course,” he said. “You remember General Sir Giles Devonshire, my dear.”
“Of course I do,” Lady Wight replied. “Such a dear man. How is he?”
“Deceased,” Felicity replied. “Last year.”
“Saw the obit in the Telegraph,” Wight replied. “So very sorry.”
“Thank you,” Felicity said.
Wight narrowed his eyes in thought. “I believe he had a sort of second career after his retirement from the army, didn’t he? In Whitehall or someplace?”
“A minor post,” Felicity replied, “but it kept him busy.”
Lady Wight tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Must check in with the ambassador,” she said.
“Oh, Lord Wight,” Stone said. “I believe you’re acquainted with a Mr. Stanley Whitestone.”
Wight looked momentarily alarmed, then he lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, decent fellow,” he replied.
“Where is he these days?” Stone asked.
“Oh, dear, I’m not sure I know,” Wight replied. “Believe he was in Cairo for a spell; lost track of him after that. Will you excuse us? Must check in with the ambassador.” He hustled his wife toward the other side of the room.