The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

“It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”

“Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.

“No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.

“Give me your number, then.”

She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

“Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.

Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones’s card, and punched in the number.

“Yes?” Jones said.

“I’ve got it.”

“Where are you?”

“In Berkeley Square.”

“You know Jack Barclay’s?”

“Yes.”

“Go and look at a Rolls; I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”

“Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don’t you think?”

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.

Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn’t this a beautiful Bentley?”

Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You’ll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.

20

AFTER BREAKFAST STONE LEFT THE Connaught and began to wander aimlessly around Mayfair, window-shopping and thinking. He was making precious little progress in his investigation of Lance Cabot, and even less in his investigation of his client, John Bartholomew, or whoever he was. Still, he had been in England for only a few days; perhaps he was being impatient.

Finally, his impatience led him into Farm Street, where he saw Ted Cricket standing at the far end. He did not approach the house, but he motioned for Cricket to go to the next mews, and they met there.

“Anything to report?” Stone asked.

“Not yet, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket replied, “but then I didn’t expect for anything to happen. They haven’t left the house yet, and when I checked the tape, there had only been a couple of phone calls, both for Miss Burroughs, both innocuous.”

“Heard anything from Bobby?”

“Not yet, but I expect we’ll have some results before the day’s out. We have your cellphone number, if anything of note occurs.”