Wild Card

5

By mid-afternoon, people were arriving. First came Vanessa Pym, a svelte beauty with a mane of honey-blond hair, whose hired Rolls-Royce disgorged ten pieces of matched luggage. Craig made the introductions, and then Stone called Major Bugg and specified the former master suite for Craig and Vanessa, which contained a large dressing room. “And you’d better assign a maid to Ms. Pym, too. I think she’s going to demand one, anyway. Move Mick down the hall a bit, so the maid can use his room for ironing.”

“And you’ll be five for dinner?”

“Yes, unless Mick also produces a female companion.”

“And Dame Felicity?”

“She’s in London. And if we hear from her, don’t mention the presence of our guests.”

In the late afternoon, two Mercedes Sprinters arrived and set down a team of eight men with bulges under their jackets and extra-long luggage. They were housed in a large cottage that had been used for the same purpose before — Stone had already ordered for a cook and a maid to be assigned to them. The tallest among them reintroduced himself to Stone as Derek Forrest. “Same as last time, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Stone said. “Whoever’s out there has already missed me and wounded a guest, then left in a gray Ford van.”

“I’ll have a man on the front gate and another on the dock,” Derek said.

“Very good,” Stone said, handing him a card with his cell number on it. “Call me directly if there’s an emergency. Otherwise, call Major Bugg, whom you’ve met.”

“Yes, sir, I already have his cell number.” Then the man went about his business.

Stone sent word to Craig that dress for dinner was lounge suits, not dinner jackets. When they turned up for drinks in the library, Vanessa had apparently not received the message, since she was dressed in a floor-length yellow gown billowing around her breasts from cleavage nearly to her navel.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were dressing up?” Jamie hissed in Stone’s ear.

“Because we’re not. Vanessa apparently dresses to a different standard.”

“Did you see her luggage?” Jamie asked.

“I did. We’re fortunate that it’s a large house.”

“I’ll bet she has a ball gown and two fur coats packed.”

“I’ve assigned her a maid.”

“You didn’t assign me a maid,” Jamie said, pouting.

“That’s because you are so wonderfully self-sufficient,” Stone said, kissing her on the forehead. “I didn’t want to insult you.”

“Well,” Jamie said, smoothing her skirt.

Stone knew that to be a complete sentence.

Stone saw to it that everyone had been well lubricated and Craig anesthetized before they sat down for dinner, so they were all in a jolly mood. He observed that Craig knew exactly the level of attention that Vanessa required, and he admired the way the man managed it.

“I don’t expect you have a projection room,” Craig commented as they settled in with after-dinner drinks.

“No,” Stone responded.

“How about a very large TV?”

“In your bedroom,” Stone said.

“A pity. I brought a copy of my latest film — hasn’t been released yet.”

“We are desolated,” Stone said. “I suppose we’ll have to fall back on conversation.”

“Are you sure you’re not English?” Craig asked.

“On both sides, all the way back, but not by birth.”

“I had rather thought you might be Eton and Oxford, but for the accent. I’m Harrow and Cambridge, myself.”

“I’m PS Six and NYU,” Stone replied.

“Not the Ivy League?”

“We used to call it the Poison Ivy League.”

“Do you have a London club?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I could propose you for the Garrick, but it takes years to work your way up the list. A lot of fellows have to die before your name comes up.”

“That’s kind of you, Craig, but I don’t think it’s worth bothering. I might not improve with age.”

“Felicity tells me you belong to the Royal Yacht Squadron. How’d you manage that, not being English?”

“By not being English,” Stone replied. “No members knew me well enough to vote against me.”

“Very good,” Craig said, chuckling, “very good.”

“Another brandy?”

“Thank you, but Ms. Pym expects to be serviced, if that dress says anything. And I’d better be up for the task, so to speak. I warn you, she’s noisy when in full flight.”

“You’re far enough down the hall, so don’t worry,” Stone replied. “She can cut loose.”

“Believe me, she will.” Craig got gingerly to his feet and, after good nights were exchanged, escorted her from the room, limping slightly.

Jamie was ready for bed, too. Mick O’Leary was in a chair before the fire with a book in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. “I think I’ll have another brandy and give Craig and Vanessa a head start,” Mick said. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Stone left him the decanter and walked Jamie upstairs.

Upstairs, Stone drew the curtains before unzipping Jamie.

“Stone,” she said. “Just how much danger are we in here?”

“Less than in New York, I expect,” Stone replied. “There are eight armed men patrolling the grounds in shifts. All are ex-SAS or Royal Marines, and they don’t mess about, as the Brits would put it.”

“How far down the hall are Craig and Vanessa?” she asked, slipping out of her underwear.

“Far enough that we shouldn’t hear Craig’s pitiful cries.” He got into bed with her. “I’m a little worried about them hearing you, though.”

“Am I that noisy?”

“Only in extremis,” he replied. “And I like it that way.” He nibbled lightly on a nipple.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, if you want noise,” she said.

“I’ll do the best I can,” he said, turning to his appointed task.

Sometime later, from outside, he woke to the crack of a rifle.