“Good morning,” she said with a husky voice. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Good morning, Felicity. I wish you were here to wake me properly.”

“I’m nearly there, darling,” she replied, chuckling, “just across the river.”

“Then come and have breakfast with me.”

“I’d like to have you for breakfast, but I have to be in London at nine-thirty for an important meeting at the Foreign Office.” Felicity was the director of MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service, which came under the purview of the foreign minister.

“What a pity,” Stone said.

“Not to worry. I’ll be down tomorrow afternoon for the weekend. Why don’t you host a dinner party?”

“Well, I didn’t bring any guests with me, so I guess it will just have to be the two of us.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “I will assemble the guests for a table of, say, eight?”

“What a good idea. You’re better acquainted with the locals than I.”

“Consider it done. I’ll bring the place cards with me, so don’t bother about that. Shall we say seven for eight?” In British parlance, this meant dinner at eight, and show up at seven, if you’d like a drink first.

“Perfect. I’ll get the cook to work on a menu and I’ll unearth some good bottles from the cellar.”

“I will look forward to it,” she said.

“And bring your toothbrush. We’ll make a weekend of it.”

“What a good idea!” She made a kissing noise and hung up.

Stone went back to his crossword, a happier man.

—

The following evening, in his Royal Yacht Squadron mess kit—essentially, a tuxedo with a short, naval-style jacket and the appropriate insignia—Stone inspected the beautifully set table in the small dining room, then went to the library, where drinks would be served. It was about three minutes past seven when he heard the doorbell, and a couple of minutes later, Dame Felicity Devonshire entered the library, followed by three couples. One he recognized as Felicity’s boss, the foreign minister, Sir Oswald Towne, and his wife, Lady Towne; another was a younger man in a proper naval mess kit, sporting quite a lot of braid, and his apparent wife; the third couple looked familiar.

“Stone,” Felicity said, “of course you know Sir Oswald and Lady Towne—Ozzie and Deirdre.” They all shook hands. “And this is Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes, and Lady Barnes, Tim and Kate.” More handshaking. “Tim is the First Sea Lord,” Felicity added. Hands were shaken.

Stone knew that that post was the Royal Navy equivalent of the American chief of naval operations.

“And,” Felicity said, “I don’t know if you’ve met the newly elected commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, Derek Drummond, and his wife, Hildy.” Drummond was also dressed in a Squadron mess kit, which should have been a clue.

“Congratulations on your election,” Stone said, shaking their hands.