He climbed back into the car. It was almost six-thirty now; that drive from London had taken longer than hed expected. Blast these backcountry lanes! He turned the car around and headed for the main road, taking care this time to slow down for curves. No telling what might be lurking around the bend. A cow or a goat.
Or another witch on horseback.
I have quite a hard head. He smiled. A hard head, indeed. She slips off the saddle-bump-and shes right back on her feet. And cheeky to boot. As if I couldnt tell a mare from a stallion. All I needed was the right view.
Which he certainly had had of her. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the female of the species hed been looking at. All that raven hair, those laughing green eyes. She almost reminds me of
He suppressed the thought, shoved it into the quicksand of bad memories. Nightmares, really. Those terrible echoes of his first assignment, his first failure. It had colored his career, had kept him from ever again taking anything for granted. That was the way one should operate in this business. Check the facts, never trust your sources, and always, always watch your back.
It was starting to wear him down. Maybe I should kick back and retire early. Live the quiet country life like Hugh Tavistock. Of course Tavistock had a title and estate to keep him in comfort, though Richard had to laugh when he thought of the rotund and balding Hugh Tavistock as earl of anything. Yeah, I should just settle down on those ten acres in Connecticut. Declare myself Earl of Whatever and grow cucumbers.
But hed miss the work. Those delicious whiffs of danger, the international chess game of wits. The world was changing so fast, and you didnt know from day to day who your enemies were
He spotted, at last, the turnoff to Chetwynd. Flanked by majestic elms, it was as the black-haired woman had described it. That impressive driveway was more than matched by the manor house standing at the end of the road. This was no mere country cottage; this was a castle, complete with turrets and ivy-covered stone walls. Formal gardens stretched out for acres, and a brick path led to what looked like a medieval maze. So this was where old Hugh Tavistock had repaired to after those forty years of service to queen and country. Earldom must have its benefits-one certainly didnt acquire this much wealth in government service. And Hugh had struck him as such a down-to-earth fellow! Not at all the country nobleman type. He had no airs, no pretensions; he was more like some absentminded civil servant whod wandered, quite by accident, into MI6s inner sanctum.
Amused by the grandeur of it all, Richard went up the steps, breezed through the security gauntlet, and walked into the ballroom.
Here he saw a number of familiar faces among the dozens of guests whod already arrived. The London economic summit had drawn in diplomats and financiers from across the continent. He spotted at once the American ambassador, swaggering and schmoozing like the political appointee he was. Across the room he saw a trio of old acquaintances from Paris. There was Philippe St. Pierre, the French finance minister, deep in conversation with Reggie Vane, head of the Paris Division, Bank of London. Off to the side stood Reggies wife, Helena, looking ignored and crabby as usual. Had Richard ever seen that woman look happy?
A womans loud and brassy laugh drew Richards attention to another familiar figure from his Paris days-Nina Sutherland, the ambassadors widow, shimmering from throat to ankle in green silk and bugle beads. Though her husband was long dead, the old gal was still working the crowd like a seasoned diplomats wife. Beside her was her twenty-year-old son, Anthony, rumored to be an artist. In his purple shirt, he cut just as flashy a figure as his mother did. What a resplendent pair they were, like a couple of peacocks! Young Anthony had obviously inherited his ex-actress mothers gene for flamboyance.
Judiciously avoiding the Sutherland pair, Richard headed to the buffet table, which was graced with an elaborate ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. This Bastille Day theme had been carried to ridiculous extremes. Everything was French tonight: the music, the champagne, the tricolors hanging from the ceiling.
Rather makes one want to burst out singing the Marseillaise, doesnt it? said a voice.
Richard turned and saw a tall blond man standing beside him. Slenderly built, with the stamp of aristocracy on his face, he seemed elegantly at ease in his starched shirt and tuxedo. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to Richard. The chandelier light glittered in the pale bubbles. Youre Richard Wolf, the man said.
Richard nodded, accepting the glass. And you are?
Jordan Tavistock. Uncle Hugh pointed you out as you walked into the room. Thought Id come by and introduce myself.
The two men shook hands. Jordan s grip was solid and connected, not what Richard expected from such smoothly aristocratic hands.
So tell me, said Jordan, casually picking up a second glass of champagne for himself, which category do you fit into? Spy, diplomat or financier?