Old Farrow Hall, Drummond estate
Tuesday morning
Nicholas turned onto the drive leading to his family home, Old Farrow Hall, or OFH, as everyone hereabouts called it. In the spring and summer the branches of the ancient lime trees intertwined above like a secret tunnel. In mid-winter, everything was naked sticks and branches—alien, yet still achingly beautiful, at least to him.
Once through the ancient stone gate, another half mile and the hall itself loomed before him, three stories of four-century-old red brick with stone quoins, gables, and turrets. Home. He pulled into the roundabout, the gravel crunching under his tires.
A small man with a tonsure of gray hair circling his head stood by the open door, dressed in a fine gray morning coat, crisp white shirt and tie.
“Good morning, Master Nicholas. Hurry in, now, the rain is coming down harder.”
“Morning, Horne,” Nicholas said, and stepped into the central core of the old hall. “You’re looking well. Nigel sends his best.”
Horne’s expression at the mention of his beloved son didn’t change, since age-old precepts of decorum prevented it, but he did allow a full-bodied “Ah.”
Nicholas pulled the hamper from behind his back. “Can you sneak this in for me, Horne? I don’t want Cook Crumbe seeing I’ve brought pastries from Fortnum and Mason for my mother.”
Horne’s nose twitched. “Of course. No sense in upsetting her. Your mother and his lordship are waiting for you in the breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Horne. I’ll head there straightaway.”
He passed through the grand entrance hall and made his way toward the back of the house to what had been labeled the breakfast room by some ancestor centuries ago. He smelled cinnamon and apple and cardamom. Cook must have made apple tarts for breakfast, his favorite. All hail the prodigal son. He hoped they wouldn’t kick him out.
The long, narrow breakfast room gave onto the sweep of the back lawn. A row of six tall windows overlooked the lower garden and the labyrinth, a fetching scene, even with the rain scoring down the glass. A fire crackled in the grate; the room was a bit too warm, but that was the way his grandfather liked it. Nicholas didn’t mind, not today.
His grandfather, Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was ensconced at the head of the table in the master’s hand-carved chair, his buttocks cradled by a decades-old crimson velvet cushion thicker than Nicholas’s fist. He was halfway through a bowl of Cook Crumbe’s solidly bland Scottish porridge, welcomed his grandson with a swirl of his spoon, his voice gruff. “Nicholas, my boy. About time you joined us. You’re late.”
“The score of vehicles I nearly ran off the M11 getting here wouldn’t agree with you.”
The baron wheezed out a laugh.
“Good morning, Mother. I like that jumper you’re wearing, matches your eyes.”
The old man harrumphed, spooned in more porridge. “The demmed thing doesn’t match her eyes at all.”
Mitzie Drummond laughed as she lightly laid her hand along his cheek, leaned up, and gave him a kiss. “Good morning, darling.”
“Where’s Father?”
Mitzie said, “On a call, talking to the Home Office about some nonsense in the Middle East he shouldn’t have to worry about.” She shook her head, the perfectly maintained blond bob swinging forward. “He had tea, said he needn’t have anything more.”
Nicholas turned to Horne. “Would you ask him to join us, please? I have some news I’d like to share.”
Mitzie narrowed her eyes at him.
“What sort of news?”
“Let’s wait for Dad, shall we? What’s been happening round here?”
Mitzie took the hint and began filling him in on the leak in the West Wing roof, and how she was certain Gwynne Willis, the town butcher’s wife, was slowly poisoning her abusive husband—served him right—and she was having trouble with her moral compass since she’d just as soon see the husband belowground. Did she have proof of this? She nodded, sadly, but said no more.
A few minutes later, Harry—Harold Mycroft St. John Drummond—joined them. He was taller than his son, fit and lean, a full head of black hair, distinguished gray at the temples. Nicholas stood and shook his father’s hand in greeting. He took his seat and poured some tea.
His father’s every motion was done with economy and purpose, like his grandfather, Drummond hallmarks. He was a man of infinite calm, which made him an excellent diplomat, and a man of common sense and reason. He was not, like his son, with his impatient, impulsive American blood, a man who ever leapt before looking carefully at the terrain beyond.
Properly fortified, Harry leaned back in his chair. “What’s this news then, Nicholas?”
Nicholas also poured himself a cup of hot tea, stirred in milk and a bit of sugar. Liquid courage. He took a sip and said, “I’ve decided to join the FBI.”