“Is that all he’s qualified for? He looks old enough to have some job experience at something.”

“Oh, Butch has knocked around for years, since college. I think he’s finally decided to settle down and start a career.”

“Good for him.”

“The apartment is gorgeous. Didn’t I see a piece about it in the Times recently?”

“You did, as did I. I fell in love with it immediately, and again at first sight. I’ve bought some new pieces of furniture and some pictures, which will be delivered this afternoon.”

“I noticed you were missing a dining table.”

“Among other things. The place was furnished, but I didn’t like everything. Ralph Lauren is well represented, though, and I didn’t send back any of his pieces.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

The doorbell rang, and Laurence admitted a waiter with a cart and pointed him to the study. He served lunch, poured the wine, and left them.

“Thank you for arranging my dressing room,” he said.

“I was happy to fill it for you. I noticed that you didn’t glance at a menu when you ordered.”

“If they couldn’t make a lobster salad and come up with a good Puligny-Montrachet, I’d move out.”

“I’ve also noticed that your accent has become very British.”

“I have dual citizenship, but I’ve spent most of my life in Blighty. Somehow, the accent is more natural to me.”

“What are your plans for the afternoon?”

“After ravishing you? I have to see my lawyer, interview a woman for a job as my secretary, and sign my new will.”

“Your first one?”

“Yes. I never felt I needed one before, but since my father’s death . . .”

“I see. And by the way, you’re not ravishing me this afternoon. I still have a job.”

“We can talk about that at dinner,” he said. “Name a restaurant.”

“I like the Monkey Bar,” she said. “It’s not far from here, in the Hotel Elysée.”

“Done. I’ll call for you at seven.”

“Sounds good.”

They spent a pleasant hour together, then she left.

—

LAURENCE ARRIVED at the offices of Woodman & Weld on time, and was taken in to see Herb Fisher.

“How’s it going?” Herb asked.

“Very well, thanks.”

Herb placed a thick sheaf of papers on his desk. “Here’s your will and a trust document, which you may take as long as you like to read.”

“Tell me the short version.”

“All right. Fifty million each to Eton and Magdalen College, Oxford, a hundred million to your mother, and the rest to a charitable trust, with Stone Barrington and I as administrators.”

“Perfect,” Laurence said. “Have you a pen?”

Herb handed him a silver Montblanc, and he signed the will and the trust document. “Beautiful pen,” he said.

“The pen is a gift,” Herb said, “from the firm.”

“Thank you, I’m grateful to the firm.”