Lucid Intervals (10 page)

“Can’t, Herbie; too much work to get done. Have a good day.”

“You, too,” Herbie said, and then walked out.

After he heard the outside door close, Stone walked down the corridor to Joan’s office. “You let him use my office?”

“Why? Did he disturb anything?”

“Only me.”

“Well, he’s our most important client, isn’t he? We have to treat him well.”

“Did he tell you he’s thinking of buying the house next door?”

Joan put the back of a hand to her forehead. “Oh, no.”

“If he does, he’ll be in here every day.”

“Oh, no, no!”

“Wouldn’t you be happy to see our most important client every day?”

“No, no. Please, no.”

“I’m encouraging him to go high-rise,” Stone said. “Assist me in that endeavor, will you? Help me convince him that he belongs in a penthouse in some building on the far Upper West Side or maybe New Jersey.”

“New Jersey would be perfect,” she said.

“By the way, did you happen to see the woman standing across the street?”

“Oh, God! Was it Dolce?”

“I don’t know; she was wearing a hood that obscured her face, and she walked away shortly after I spotted her. Your view must have been blocked by the car Herbie is thinking of buying.”

“The Maybach? That’s big enough.”

“We’re supposed to have one of Cantor’s people here to deal with Dolce, remember?”

“Oh, there was one here. He said he was going down to Second Avenue to look for a paper.”

“Did you offer him the
Times
or
The Wall Street Journal
?”

“I think he’s more of a
Post
reader,” she replied. “Oh, here he comes.”

The door opened, and a large young man walked in carrying a
Post
under one arm. “Hi,” he said, offering Stone a hand. “I’m Jake Musket. Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Stone said, shaking the hand, “except for the woman who was standing across the street when I arrived ten minutes ago.”

Jake Musket reddened. “Oh,” he said.

19

F
elicity went home to Stone’s early, shortly after Joan had left. She came to his office and gave him a kiss. “You did well this morning,” she said.

“I did?” Stone asked. “I didn’t really learn anything of value.”

“Of course you did,” she said. “You now know as much about Stanley Whitestone as anyone.”

“I now know he once had a scar on his forehead and that, as a boy, he played cricket, ran fast and was good with horses. None of those things is likely to help me find him in New York City.”

“But you’re getting a feel for him, aren’t you?”

“And I know that he was an amateur actor and is good at disguises.”

“You see? You know a lot now.”

“I also know that your Mr. Smith hated his guts—still does, probably.”

“Well, I’m not sure what you can do with that,” she said. “Would you like to go to a dinner party tonight? Good,” she said without hesitating.

“I guess I’d love to,” Stone replied. “Who’s giving it?”

“The ambassador.”

“He’s back?”

“Got back today. He forgot to invite me before he left. It’s black tie.”

“I own a black tie,” Stone replied.

“We’re not due there until eight,” she said. “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a little nap?”

The little nap came only after half an hour of inventive lovemaking, and it was welcome.

THE ELDERLY ROLLS-ROYCE
picked them up at eight and drove them to the Upper East Side residence of Britain’s ambassador to the UN. They were greeted at the door by a uniformed butler, who led them to the residence’s living room and shouted over the conversation of the early arrivers, “Dame Felicity Devonshire and Mr. Stone Barrington.”

The first person Stone saw was Mr. Smith, whom he had met earlier in the day.

“Don’t speak to Smith,” Felicity murmured in his ear.

Stone nodded to the man and received a nod in return.

“He doesn’t look important enough to be dining with the ambassador,” Stone whispered back.

“I expect he’s on call as the odd man,” she replied. “I would have been seated next to him if you hadn’t come.” A succession of introductions ensued, and Stone made an effort to remember at least their surnames. A waiter passed with Champagne flutes, and Stone snagged a pair.

He was surprised when he tasted it. “This is Krug,” he said to Felicity.

“That means there is at least one person here who is very important to the ambassador,” she said.

“I wonder who it is,” Stone replied.

“I’ll figure it out before we’re done. Come meet the ambassador.”

The ambassador, whose name was Sir John Pemberton, was younger than Stone had expected, only fiftyish, and his wife was fifteen years younger and quite beautiful, a redhead in a chic dress with an encouraging expanse of bosom showing.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Barrington,” the ambassador said.

“Yes,” Lady Pemberton echoed. “One meets so few of Dame Felicity’s friends; they’re such a secretive lot. Are you secretive, Mr. Barrington?”

“Sometimes,” Stone replied.

“Oh, good,” she said, deftly separating him from Felicity, like a cowgirl with a calf, and steering him toward a corner. “It will be such fun worming secrets out of you.”

Stone caught a glimpse of Felicity’s face as they moved across the room, and it occurred to him that if her glance were a knife, Lady Pemberton’s throat would already have been cut.

“Tell me,” Lady Pemberton said, once she had secured him in a corner. “What, as you Americans say, do you do?”

“I’m an attorney at law,” Stone replied, “and that is not a secret.”

“Solicitor or barrister?” she asked.

“In the United States attorneys frequently do both.”

“Oh, of course. I knew that.”

“Some attorneys specialize in trial work, while others never see the inside of a courtroom,” he said.

“And are you with a big, grand firm of lawyers?”

“I am of counsel to such a firm,” Stone said, “but I make my offices in my home.”

“How very convenient,” she said, flashing brilliant dental work. “Then you’re often at home in the afternoons?”

“Often,” he replied.

“How nice. I am frequently at loose ends in the afternoons,” she said, taking his arm in such a way that his elbow rubbed against one of her stunning breasts.

“May I have my gentleman back now, please?” Felicity said, stepping up and taking the other arm. “There’s someone I’d like him to meet.”

For a moment, Stone thought a tug-of-war would ensue with him as the rope.

“If you must,” Lady Pemberton said. “We’ll catch up later, Mr. Barrington.”

Felicity towed Stone to the other end of the room.

“Nick of time,” Stone said quietly.

“Yes, you’d have been upstairs with her in another moment,” Felicity said through a fixed smile that she bestowed upon everyone she passed.

They came to a tall, slender man of about sixty who wore a Royal Navy formal uniform with much gold trim and who stood ramrod straight, sipping whiskey neat from a tumbler. “Stone,” Felicity said, “may I present Admiral Sir Ian Weston? Sir Ian, this is my friend Stone Barrington.”

“Howjado,” the admiral said.

“Very well, thank you,” Stone replied.

“Did they fob that fucking awful bubbly off on you?” the admiral asked. Stone nodded. “They’ve got a proper bar over there with a decent single malt.”

“Oh, I’m quite happy with the Champagne,” Stone said. “I’m not often served Krug.”

“He’s pouring the Krug, is he? Must be somebody important here. Wonder who?”

“I was wondering the same thing, Sir Ian,” Felicity said. “Sir Ian is the ambassador’s naval attaché,” she explained to Stone. She looked around the room. “I’ll bet it’s that American couple over there,” she said.

“Could be,” the admiral replied.

Stone followed her gaze until it alighted on Bill Eggers and his wife, Suzanne. He laughed. “That gentleman is the managing partner of the law firm to which I am of counsel,” he said, “and I’m not certain anyone in diplomatic circles would consider him important enough for Krug.”

“Oh,” Felicity said. “And whom do we have here?” she asked, looking toward the door, where the butler was about to announce a portly man and his elegant wife.

“Lord and Lady Wight,” the butler intoned.

“What a coincidence,” Stone said.

“Yesss,” Felicity drawled.

20

S
tone had not set eyes on Lord and Lady Wight since he had been a guest in their country home a few years before. Wight had been the subject of an investigation by the House of Lords at the time, and the supposition was that he might be stripped of his peerage and perhaps even go to prison. Stone and one of their daughters, Sarah, a painter and sculptor, had been close then.

The Wights spotted Stone and came over. “Barrington, isn’t it?” Wight asked.

“It is, your lordship,” Stone replied. “Your ladyship, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “Sarah still speaks of you.”

“That’s kind of her,” Stone replied. “May I present Dame Felicity Devonshire?”

“Howjado,” Wight replied.

“So nice,” echoed his wife. Both of them looked right through her, having no idea who she was.

“How do you do, Lord Wight, Lady Wight,” Felicity said. Then, turning to him, “I believe you knew my father.”

Wight looked at her blankly for a moment, then the penny dropped. “Why of course,” he said. “You remember General Sir Giles Devonshire, my dear.”

“Of course I do,” Lady Wight replied. “Such a dear man. How is he?”

“Deceased,” Felicity replied. “Last year.”

“Saw the obit in the
Telegraph
,” Wight replied. “So very sorry.”

“Thank you,” Felicity said.

Wight narrowed his eyes in thought. “I believe he had a sort of second career after his retirement from the army, didn’t he? In Whitehall or someplace?”

“A minor post,” Felicity replied, “but it kept him busy.”

Lady Wight tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Must check in with the ambassador,” she said.

“Oh, Lord Wight,” Stone said. “I believe you’re acquainted with a Mr. Stanley Whitestone.”

Wight looked momentarily alarmed, then he lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, decent fellow,” he replied.

“Where is he these days?” Stone asked.

“Oh, dear, I’m not sure I know,” Wight replied. “Believe he was in Cairo for a spell; lost track of him after that. Will you excuse us? Must check in with the ambassador.” He hustled his wife toward the other side of the room.

“That was very direct,” Felicity said. “Very clever, too.”

“Thank you, but why?”

“Now we know that Wight knows where Whitestone is,” she said.

“We do?”

She shook her head. “Men can be so dense. Didn’t you see his reaction when you mentioned him?”

“You mean the lifted eyebrow?”

“You shocked him to the core,” she said.

“And you learned that from a lifted eyebrow? I could use you in court when picking a jury or cross-examining a hostile witness.”

“I expect you could,” Felicity said, and then the butler shouted that dinner was served.

THEY WERE SIXTEEN
at dinner; Stone knew because he counted. He found himself at Lady Pemberton’s right hand, and he could just make out Felicity at the far end of the table, between the ambassador and Lord Wight. A sliver of foie gras was served.

“Delicious,” Stone said.

Lady Pemberton gazed archly at him. “Yes, you are.”

Stone felt himself blush. “I hope you didn’t send to England for this,” he said. “We have quite good geese and ducks in the Hudson River Valley, and they keep us supplied with their livers.”

“Oh, we always order domestically,” she said, “except for Champagne, of course. Do you expect to be in your office tomorrow afternoon?”

On another occasion, with a less married woman, Stone would have been pleased to invite her over. She was, after all, quite alluring. As it was, Bill Eggers and his wife were halfway down the table, no doubt wondering what the hell they were doing here, and Susan Eggers could spot two people arranging an assignation from across the street. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I have a houseguest at the moment who is taking up much of my time.”

“What a pity,” Lady Pemberton said. “Perhaps another time?”

“Lady Pemberton,” Stone said, “in your position I’m sure you know who Dame Felicity is.”

“Of course I do,” she replied.

“Then you will know how … inconvenient it might become for her to suspect we’re having this conversation.”

It was Lady Pemberton’s turn to blush. “You have a point,” she said, “but I expect our paths will cross again here or there.”

“As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’ ” Stone replied. Lady Pemberton looked baffled for a moment then turned her attention to the gentleman on her left.

AFTER DESSERT, IN
the British tradition, the gentlemen departed the dinner table and wandered into Sir John’s study for cigars and brandy. In a moment the air was thick with the aroma of burning Cuban tobacco, an odor Stone despised. He would have to have his tuxedo sent to the cleaners tomorrow.

Bill Eggers approached. “What the hell are you doing here, Stone?”

“I might ask the same of you, Bill,” Stone replied.

“Oh, Lady Pemberton has taken an interest in early American furniture, and she and Suzanne met at some event or other and got on famously.” Eggers was a major collector of eighteenth-century American furniture and owned some pieces that had been loaned to museums for exhibitions. “What’s your excuse?”

“An old friend invited me to accompany her here.”

“The redhead? She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

“You have no idea,” Stone said. Apparently, the only people here who knew who Felicity was were the ambassador and his wife, Mr. Smith and, possibly, Admiral Sir Ian Weston.