Scandalous Behavior

1

Stone landed his airplane at Southampton International Airport, in England, and taxied to the FBO, Signature Aviation. As he came to a halt and shut down his engines, an Aston Martin coupe drew up alongside the airplane, closely followed by a sinister-looking black Range Rover with darkened windows, as was Felicity’s due as director of MI6, the British foreign intelligence service. As Stone opened the cabin door and came down the steps, Dame Felicity Devonshire got out of the Aston Martin and flung herself into his arms.

After a kiss and a hug, Stone stowed the cabin steps, closed and locked the door, and got his bags out of the forward luggage compartment. A man in a dark suit got out of the Range Rover, took his luggage, and stowed it in the SUV.

“What airplane is this?” Felicity asked.

“The new one: a Citation CJ3 Plus.”

“I love the paint job.”

“Thanks, it’s my own. You can always spot me on a ramp by the stars on the tail.” He walked around the car. “And what Aston Martin is this?”

“It’s the DBS, brand-new. I recently sold my father’s estate in Kent, so I splurged.”

“You certainly did.” Stone got into the passenger seat. “I should check in at the FBO.”

“Don’t bother, it’s taken care of. They’ll put it in the hangar straightaway and refuel it whenever you like.”

“So what’s the big surprise?”

“You’ll have to wait a little while and take a boat ride, before all is revealed.” She drove quickly out of town and onto a motorway for a short distance, which she covered in record time. Soon they were driving through the village of Beaulieu (pronounced “Bewley” in England), then down the eastern side of the Beaulieu River, a tidal estuary that flowed into the Solent, the body of water separating the Isle of Wight from the mainland. Soon she used a remote control to open a wrought-iron gate, hung on old stone pillars, and drove down a driveway lined with ancient trees until a large stone cottage with a slate roof revealed itself.

“Come with me,” she said. “My housekeeper will take your bags upstairs and press your dinner suit.” She led him through a handsomely decorated living room and out a rear door, and they walked down a stone path to a dock, where a charming old wooden cabin cruiser was moored. She got the engines started while Stone dealt with the lines, and they proceeded downstream half a mile and tied up at another dock, where a sign read: WINDWARD HALL. They walked up from the floating pontoon and were met by a man in an electric vehicle who took them down a shaded drive.

“Stop here, Stan,” Felicity said. “Come on, Stone, we’ll walk.”

Stone got down from the cart and followed her farther along the narrow road. Without warning they emerged from the trees, and there before them, in a lovely meadow, dotted with old oaks and half a dozen grazing horses, was the most beautiful Georgian house Stone had ever seen. It was not overly large and it was symmetrical, with wings extending from either side. In the center was a white portico supported by four slender columns. Stone’s breath was taken away. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect,” he said.

“That was my reaction, too, when I first saw this house as a child. The owner was a friend of my father.”

“Who lives here?”

“Sir Charles Bourne,” she said. “Come, let’s go inside.”

“Is he expecting us?”

“He’s in London this afternoon. He’ll join us for dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron in Cowes tonight, but someone else is expecting us.” They walked up the steps, and the door was opened by a butler in his shirtsleeves and an apron, who stuffed a cleaning cloth into his pocket. “Hello, Geoffrey,” she said. “This is Mr. Barrington. He’s come to see the house.”

“Of course, Dame Felicity,” the man said in a beautifully modulated voice. “Ms. Blackburn is in the library. Shall I escort you?”

“No, Geoffrey, we’ll find our way.” They entered a central hall; the pictures had been removed, and scaffolding set up. “It’s undergoing a major renovation, which is not yet quite done,” she said, showing him a drawing room to his left and a library to his right, which had had all the books removed. “He’s having many of the books rebound at a country bindery nearby, and the paneling sanded with two new coats of varnish. There are probably ten or twelve coats present already.”

Another woman walked into the room, bearing a canvas carryall and a large drawing pad.

“Stone, this is Susan Blackburn, one of Britain’s finest interior designers.”

Stone took her hand. “I know your work from pictures in magazines,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”

“How do you do, Mr. Barrington?” she said coolly. She was tall, perhaps five-ten, and was wearing jeans and a chambray work shirt. Somehow, she made the clothes look elegant.

“Susan, will you show us what you’re doing?”

“Of course.” She walked them through the library and the drawing room, then took them to a lovely old kitchen with brand-new appliances, then upstairs and to the master suite, which was without furniture or curtains. “We’ve taken a small bedroom next door and turned it into a dressing room and bath, so there will be two of each. I think that arrangement preserves relationships.”

“I agree,” Stone said. “I have a similar arrangement in my New York house.”

“There are four other bedrooms, each with en suite baths. The present house is the third on a very old property and was built in the 1920s. During the war, the RAF requisitioned it for a bomber base. They didn’t give it up until the sixties. Sir Charles bought the place at that time and gave it a thorough systems upgrade, and all mod cons were installed, even air-conditioning. The house got pretty run-down and is now undergoing its first full renovation since that time.” Some of the rooms were very nearly complete and Stone was impressed with the beauty of the fabrics and wallpapers the designer had employed. “The original estate was more than two thousand acres, in the eighteenth century, but now it’s only around sixty. There are four cottages, a stable, and a greenhouse on the property.”

They spent an hour seeing the house and the beautifully tended gardens. “The renovation is on schedule to be completed in six months’ time,” Susan said. “Sir Charles has moved into one of the cottages for the duration. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to return to London for a meeting.” She shook hands and departed.

“There’s one more thing I want to show you,” Felicity said. She took him back to the waiting cart, and they drove half a mile or so, through a grove of large trees, and emerged into a wide space bisected by a runway.

“I didn’t know Brits had private airfields,” Stone said.

“As Susan said, the RAF built it as a bomber base during the war, and Charles has maintained it as a fully functioning airfield. It even has a published GPS instrument approach, I’m told. Charles owned and flew a King Air, which he has recently sold.”

“Is he getting too old to fly?”

“Too ill,” Felicity said. “His doctors have given him only a few months to live. You wouldn’t know it to see him, but he’s really quite sick — his heart. They’ve told him that when the end comes, it will come quickly.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Stone said. “It’s sad that he won’t get to enjoy the house when the work is complete.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Does he have family who will inherit?”

“He has a son and a daughter from whom he has been estranged for at least twenty years. Both are childless, and he won’t leave the house to the National Trust, which he regards as some sort of communist institution that robs the wealthy of their property.”

Stone waved a hand. “And this is your secret?”

“Not anymore.”

“And why are you showing it to me?”

“Because I expect you to buy the place.”