“Stone, this is Mr. Pickles, one of my security detail. He or one of his colleagues will be required to be in the house when I am here. Don’t worry—he will be quite invisible.”

“As you wish,” Stone said. He showed the man how the security system operated and where the kitchen was. “There’s an entrance to the common garden from the kitchen,” he said.

“I know,” the man replied. They were the only words he spoke.

Stone put Felicity’s cases in the dressing room opposite his, then went to his own. There was a note from his secretary, Joan Robert-son, on his dresser.

Stone, you really must put your hands on some money if you are going to preserve your credit rating. The bills are piled high.

Stone hated getting notes from Joan, but he knew she was right. He wondered how long it would take him to pry Felicity’s hundred thousand pounds from Her Majesty’s grasp.

The bedroom was dark when he emerged from his dressing room, with only a shaft of moonlight through a window to light his way. Felicity was already in bed and, as he discovered, already naked.

She drew him to her. “I want to sleep until noon,” she said. “Make me even more tired than I am.”

Stone did his very best.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone awoke early, snuck out of bed and left a message on Joan’s phone not to buzz him during the morning. Then he returned to bed to be there when Felicity awoke. He was sound asleep when he felt a hand run down his belly.

Stone opened an eye. “Did you sleep well?”

“Extremely well,” she replied, rolling on top of him and giving him a wet kiss.

“It’s not noon yet,” he said.

“Then let’s use our remaining time well,” she said, straddling him and helping him inside her.

AT NOON, STONE’S housekeeper, a Greek woman named Helene, sent up breakfast for two in the dumbwaiter. She must have had a conversation with Mr. Pickles, he thought.

They sat up in bed and ate the large English breakfast off trays.

“Now,” Stone said, when they were on coffee, “just what is it you want done?”

Felicity took a dainty sip of her coffee and set the cup down. “There is a person called Stanley Whitestone,” she said, “or at least that’s what he used to be called back when he worked for us.”

“What is he called now?” Stone asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.

“Do you have a photograph of him?”

Felicity reached for her briefcase on the bedside table, opened it, produced an envelope and handed it to Stone.

Stone opened the envelope and extracted a photograph—two photographs, actually, a head-on shot and a profile—of a man, apparently in his thirties, with short, dark hair and an aquiline nose. “He’s pretty nondescript, isn’t he?”

“My service has always preferred nondescript types,” Felicity replied. “Perhaps that is why I haven’t married.”