Stealth

9

After lunch, Stone got a phone call.

“Would you like a couple to join you for dinner this evening?”

“If one of them is you, Felicity.”

“One of us is. You know the other, too. See you at six-thirty for drinks?”

“Fine.”

“How are we dressing?” she asked.

“Lounge suits for the gentlemen.”

“Done.”

He hung up and turned to Rose. “Have you ever met Dame Felicity Devonshire?”

“Am I about to?”

“At dinner,” Stone said. “She has a house just across the river, and she’ll arrive via her motor launch with another guest, whose name has not been vouchsafed to me.”

“Fine with me. I saw horses in the meadow. Can they be ridden?”

“They can, if you can.” Stone picked up the phone, called the stables, and ordered up mounts.

“Did you bring clothes?” Stone asked.

“I’m ready for anything,” she said. “Give me ten minutes.”

Stone went to his dressing room and changed, exchanging his invalid’s boot for an Ace bandage and a riding boot. Rose returned, togged out in riding trousers, boots, and a Barbour jacket over a turtleneck. “Voilà,” she said, curtseying.

They walked out to the stable and found a groom holding the horses. “Yours is the mare,” Stone said, “and I usually ride the gelding. Or there’s a stallion, if you’d like a few bones broken.”

“The mare will be just fine,” she said, rubbing the animal’s nose and slipping her a carrot from the kitchen. The groom gave her a leg up.

“I’ll need a leg up, too, Stan,” Stone said. “I’ve got a wounded ankle.” Stan obliged, and they crossed the meadow at a trot, which soon became a canter.

“Are you up for jumping the wall?” Stone called out. “Or shall we use the gate?”

“Just follow me,” she replied, taking the wall in stride. Stone followed.

“You’re right about the grand house,” she said, seeing the Arrington come into view.

“The previous owner was murdered by an old friend,” Stone said, “and his widow sold us the house. It was redone by Susan Blackburn, who also redid Windward, under the old owner’s watchful eye. I bought the place a few weeks before the work was completed.”

Stone looked back and saw the white Range Rover following along the lane across the meadow. “I forgot to tell them we were riding,” he said, “but they got the picture.”

A little farther along and they came to the hangar and landing strip.

“Your own private airport?” Rose asked.

“It was an RAF base during the last war,” Stone replied. “They flew secret missions to France. Sir Charles, the previous owner, kept it in good nick. It’s very convenient after a transatlantic flight to land at home.”

“What do you do about customs?”

“They drive over from Southampton, for only a slight emolument. So does the fuel truck.”

“But there’s no airplane in the hangar.”

“I flew over on a very nice Gulfstream belonging to Strategic Services. They make the trip two or three times a month for various business purposes. My airplane is smaller, so it’s a two-day trip. What with refueling stops and crew rest.”

“Sounds like you need a Gulfstream,” she said.

“I’ve toyed with the idea, but it seems far above me. And I enjoy flying my own airplane.”

“You couldn’t fly a Gulfstream?”

“After a month or six weeks of training,” he said, “but it’s hard to find the time. Still, if I could bring myself to write the check I could fly as a third pilot and give the crew some rest, just as I do with the current aircraft. I’m part of an investment group that is bringing an initial public offering to the market soon, and if that goes well enough, I might feel comfortable writing it.”

They rode down to the Solent, the body of water separating England and the Isle of Wight, crossing neighbors’ properties, then back to the house.

“How much time have I got to dress for dinner?” Rose asked.

Stone looked at his watch. “They’ll be here in two hours.”

“That should be enough,” she said, heading off upstairs.

Stone went to his own bath and dressing room. He didn’t see Rose again until she walked into the library. It was the first time he had seen her dressed for an occasion that didn’t involve taking a hike, a motor trip, or bandaging his ankle, and he was more than impressed. “You do a great deal for a little black dress,” he said, kissing her.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“Can I get you a libation?”

“You can get me a good single malt,” she said. “I’ll watch you drink the bourbon.”

He handed her the drink, and they sat down just in time to rise again when Dame Felicity and her companion arrived. Stone introduced the two women; introductions to Felicity’s companion were unnecessary, since he was Colonel Fife-Simpson, of Station Two.