They drove southwest, past Southampton and through the village of Beaulieu.

“I know this town,” she said. “My father brought me here to the motorcar museum when I was a little girl.”

“The museum is still there, if you’d like to pay another visit.”

An hour and a half after their departure they drove through the gates of Windward Hall.

“My word!” Rose said, looking at the house. “I wasn’t expecting anything so grand.”

“In the world of country houses, this is called cozy,” Stone replied. “If you want grand, there’s an Arrington Hotel next door.”

“How many are there?”

“Also Paris, Rome, and Los Angeles.” He stopped the car and a couple of staff materialized and took their luggage away.

Before they could get inside, the white Range Rover pulled into the drive and two men got out.

“See anything?” Stone asked.

“Yes, we did,” the driver replied. “A black van with a souped-up engine, but we crowded him a little, and he left the motorway an hour back. I expect he was surprised he got rumbled.”

“Keep surprising those people,” Stone said.

He led Rose into the house and gave her the tour. A table was set for lunch in the library, and they each had a glass of sherry first.

“So, what did our guards say?”

“There was someone behind us, but not anymore. Don’t worry, I didn’t order them shot. As soon as they knew they were being observed, they broke off the chase.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you had ordered them shot,” Rose said.

9

After lunch, Stone got a phone call.

“Would you like a couple to join you for dinner this evening?”

“If one of them is you, Felicity.”

“One of us is. You know the other, too. See you at six-thirty for drinks?”

“Fine.”

“How are we dressing?” she asked.

“Lounge suits for the gentlemen.”

“Done.”

He hung up and turned to Rose. “Have you ever met Dame Felicity Devonshire?”

“Am I about to?”

“At dinner,” Stone said. “She has a house just across the river, and she’ll arrive via her motor launch with another guest, whose name has not been vouchsafed to me.”

“Fine with me. I saw horses in the meadow. Can they be ridden?”

“They can, if you can.” Stone picked up the phone, called the stables, and ordered up mounts.

“Did you bring clothes?” Stone asked.

“I’m ready for anything,” she said. “Give me ten minutes.”

Stone went to his dressing room and changed, exchanging his invalid’s boot for an Ace bandage and a riding boot. Rose returned, togged out in riding trousers, boots, and a Barbour jacket over a turtleneck. “Voilà,” she said, curtseying.

They walked out to the stable and found a groom holding the horses. “Yours is the mare,” Stone said, “and I usually ride the gelding. Or there’s a stallion, if you’d like a few bones broken.”