“Funny you should mention that,” Felicity said. “Legend has it that when he was a young lieutenant in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, he walked into the wrong pub and was set upon by half a dozen IRA toughs. He killed two of them with a broken bottle and reduced the other four to whimpering lumps of flesh.”

“I’m glad I didn’t know that when we were training,” Stone said.

“I’m glad he showed some restraint,” Felicity said.

“Look, it sounds to me as though the powers that be have sent you a good man. Perhaps the thing to do is to use him well.”

“I knew you would say something sensible like that,” she replied. “Men!”

Stone laughed. “Would you rather they had sent you a bumbling idiot?”

“Yes, quite frankly. Bumbling idiots are easier to handle. They need only to be exposed. How would you handle this, Stone?”

“Either find a way to shunt him aside, or give him the toughest job you’ve got. That way he will either show himself to be inadequate to the task and humiliate those who sent him—or, he will solve your problem. I’d call that a win-win situation.”

Felicity sighed. “I was hoping you’d suggest that I just have him taken out and shot.”

“Then he wouldn’t be any good to you at all.”

Felicity kissed him lightly on the lips. “I wish they’d sent me you,” she said.

“Tell me, had you ever met Rose before our dinner together?”

“No, she is apparently too junior for me to have had contact with her. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Stone replied.

13

Stone went back to the house. On the way he saw Rose and Dino galloping across the meadow, making for the stone wall. He went into the house, to the library, lit a fire, found a book, and read while the butler set the table for lunch.

A few minutes later Viv came into the library, found a Country Life, and took a seat opposite from him. “It appears,” she said, leafing through the magazine, “that this publication exists for the purpose of displaying fine houses to be sold by the wealthy to the rich. Oh, look,” she said, holding it up. “An actual article—about cooking on those massive AGA stoves they have.”

“When did you last cook something, Viv?” Stone asked.

“Right before I went into the Academy. Then after I met Dino, I couldn’t cook anything Italian without insidious remarks about the cooking of his mother—who was, by the way, a vile cook. After that, I gave it up.”

“Smart move. I had his mother’s cooking once—just once—and you describe it accurately.”

“This is typical,” she said, holding up the magazine. “Five bedrooms and two baths. How does that work?”

“One for guests, I suspect. And a few years ago, they wouldn’t have had central heating.”