Stone tried to relax. “Who are our hosts for the weekend?” he asked.
“Lord and Lady Wight,” Monica replied. “He recently inherited the title from an uncle, although he managed the estates for many years while the old man was in a nursing home. The house is a nice old Georgian pile that has just undergone a five-year renovation that cost millions. I can’t wait to see it. His lordship made lots and lots of money in property development, so he can afford the title.” She glanced at him slyly. “Before he inherited, his name was Sir Robert Buckminster.”
Stone sat up straight. “Is he related to a woman named Sarah Buckminster?”
“She’s his daughter; know her?”
“Yes.” He had known her all too well in New York. They had practically lived together until someone had started trying to kill him, and when a bomb was placed in a gallery showing her paintings, she abruptly left New York, swearing never to return. “I knew her rather well. How do you know her?”
“My gallery represents her work in this country. We had a very successful show last month, sold out the lot.”
“Tell me, Monica, did you know that Sarah and I knew each other?”
She smiled a little. “I’d heard your name from her.”
“And does Sarah know I’m coming to her father’s house for the weekend?”
“No. I wasn’t going to tell you about Sarah, either; I wanted to see the look on both your faces, but I couldn’t stand the suspense. Now, I suppose, I’ll have to be content with the look on
This was all too catty for Stone. “Take me back to the Connaught,” he said.
“What?”
“I think it would be extremely rude for me to turn up there unannounced, so take me back.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stone; this will be fun!”
“Not for me, and very probably not for Sarah.”
“I won’t take you back.”
“Then let me out of the car, and I’ll find my own way back.”
“Oh, really, Stone; can’t you just go along with this?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, picking up the car phone and dialing a number. “Hello, Sarah? It’s Monica. Yes, sweetie. I have to tell you the funniest thing. Last night, I had a blind date with someone you know, Stone Barrington.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m not kidding; he’s over here on business and he met Erica and Lance, and they invited him to dinner.” She listened again. “He’s very well indeed, and I thought that, if it’s all right with you, I’d bring him down for the weekend.” She listened. “Wonderful! I’ll go get him, and we’ll be down in a couple of hours. See you then.” She hung up the phone. “There, she said she’d be delighted to see you. Satisfied?”
“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.
“I may as well tell you this, too.”
“What?”
“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”
“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”
“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”
“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”
“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.
“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.
“Hardly ever.”
“Do you still have a driver’s license?”
“Of course I do.”
Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.
“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.
Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.
“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”
“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”
“What was her name?”
“Matilda Stone.”
“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”
“Yes, she did.”
“I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”
“I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”
“I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”
“No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”
“I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”
“Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”
“I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.
Stone was relieved.
An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.
“Wow,” Stone said.
“Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”
He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.
Chapter 10
THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.
“This is glorious,” Stone said.
“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”
A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.
“Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned
