“Well, I was in Helsinki at the time, and I was one of at least two Americans in the audience. I know, because they sold us both the same seat. We compared tickets, and he wandered off somewhere.” He looked up to see a woman passing the piano who appeared distinctly of New York and not Virginia. She was tall, slender, and wore a tight, low-cut black dress with a slit up her leg nearly to the illegal limit. She looked vaguely familiar, but out of context. He thought about it and couldn’t place her. As he watched, she set down her flute and produced, from God knew where, an iPhone, and began snapping pictures of the room, in a manner more befitting a backyard barbecue than a haut monde Albemarle County soiree. She was joined by a lanky young man who reminded Stone of Rutledge, the icy architect, and who, apparently, told her to put away the electronics. She reclaimed her champagne and trailed him from the room, teetering on six-inch heels.

Kelli Keane was having the time of her life. She had been to some good parties, but never anything quite like this. There were men dressed in red hunting jackets, for Christ’s sake, over their black ties, and women in ball gowns! Kelli had a very good memory, and she digested as many names as she could, for matching later with her photos. David was being a prick about the pictures, but she had snapped shots in every room before he stopped her. A change in the music turned her head.

Two members of the string quartet had exchanged a violin and a cello for a guitar and a banjo, and they were executing an enthusiastic reel. They finished to a big round of applause from the guests, then recovered their original instrumentation and began playing “Good-Night, Ladies,” apparently the signal for the gentry to put down their glasses and get the hell out. The butler and three maids appeared, carrying armloads of coats and, miraculously, found their owners. Twenty minutes later, Kelli and David were in their rental car, headed back to the inn.

“You were naughty to take photographs,” David said.

“Then I’ll make it up to you by being naughty when we get to the inn,” she said, stroking the inside of his thigh with her long nails.

Stone said good night to some guests then turned and spotted Arrington, who had been backed into a corner by Tim Rutledge, and Stone did not like the desperate expression on her face. Stone walked over to them, shouldered Rutledge out of his way, and held his arm out to Arrington, who took it and walked away with him. As they passed Somes, Stone said to him, through a clenched smile, “Find Mr. Rutledge his coat, now.”

They walked into the library, now empty of guests. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “Just Tim being Tim.”