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.