Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(38)
They followed a footman into the entry hall, with a ceiling at least fifty feet high, then up a broad staircase, the walls of which were hung with huge portraits of uniformed men, presumably past dukes, to the next floor, where they crossed a broad hallway, with views to the back of the property.
Their room contained a huge, high bed—steps led up on either side, gilded posts were draped with red velvet—facing a fireplace larger than any in Stone’s country house. A sofa and a pair of chairs faced it, too. The bathroom was more modestly sized, but with room for two sinks, a large tub, and a shower stall, all walled in black marble with gilded fixtures.
“This is breathtaking,” Kelly said.
The footmen deposited their luggage in a dressing room and backed out of the room, disdaining tips. “Cocktails will be at six o’clock, sir,” one of them said, “in the library, dinner to follow there.” He handed Stone an envelope. “This is the schedule of events for the weekend and includes your seating arrangements for dinner on both evenings.”
Stone heard a pounding noise and opened a side door to find Bill Eggers standing in a short hallway between their two rooms, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. “Look a’ this,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “a complete wet bar between our two rooms!” He mixed everyone a drink, then they repaired to their adjoining terrace to watch the sun set over the gorgeous green landscape, dotted with autumnal reds and golds where forestland still stood.
“I don’t think there’s anything in the United States to compare with this,” Eggers said.
“Nor in England,” Stone replied. “It must have taken a hundred years to build.”
“I saw it listed in Country Life a few years ago for ￡200 million,” Eggers said. “Lance said it finally went for ￡150 million, minus some art.”
* * *
—
THEY FINISHED THEIR DRINKS about the time the evening chill came in, then repaired to their respective rooms. Stone and Kelly unpacked and dressed for dinner, then sat down to relax.
“You know,” Kelly said, “when I was recruited they never said there would be experiences like this. It was all to be cheap hotels and tiny rental cars: the government life.”
“Try not to get used to it,” Stone said, “because this doesn’t exist anywhere else.”
* * *
—
THEY WALKED DOWN the stairway, with sounds of chamber music wafting through the ground floor, and were directed to the library, which seemed to occupy one entire side of the house. The chamber orchestra was playing on a marble balcony, and dining tables were distributed along the sides before bookcases on two levels, one halfway to the ceiling, reached by spiral staircases in each widely separated corner.
Finely dressed couples wandered about the room, clutching champagne flutes, pursued by footmen with bottles in each hand, constantly refilling.
“We’re at table number ten,” Stone said, consulting his schedule, “just over there.” He nodded at a table in the center of the room before a tall set of French doors, through which lingering bits of sunset could still be seen.
“Can you imagine occupying this house as a family?” Eggers asked.
“I cannot,” Stone replied. “I expect they have an apartment somewhere that’s built on a more human scale.” Then he spotted something he thought of as less than human: Selwyn Owaki had entered the room, on his arm Chaka Kerwin.
Stone’s skin crawled.
30
AFTER THEY HAD BEEN drinking and hobnobbing for an hour or so, two footmen carried a large gong into the room, where a third beat upon it three times. The crowd hushed. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” the gong beater cried, “dinner is served.”
The crowd disseminated to their assigned perches, and, they had hardly settled in when the gong beater did his work again. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “The thirteenth Duke of Kensington and the Duchess!”
The recently seated crowd leapt back to their feet and applauded their titular host, who had been hired to visit his former ancestral home and welcome them. The duke was a tall man of about thirty-five, with thinning blond hair, and his duchess, of the same vintage, was nearly as tall as he with swept-up honey-colored hair. Stone imagined they had beautiful children.
Everyone took seats, and, with military precision, a brigade of footmen entered, bearing dishes and serving the crowd paté de foie gras in but a moment, while others topped off their Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame, which continued from cocktails into the first course.
Stone and Kelly were seated between an older couple and another who introduced themselves as Julian and Tabitha Tweed-Gaunt, and, flush with the Veuve Clicquot, were jolly companions.
“I say,” said Julian, in an accent born in Belgravia and cultivated at Eton and Oxbridge. “I hadn’t expected the duke to be here. Why would he have an interest in a lot of Q.C.s?”
“I expect he was well compensated to do so,” the man on the other side of Stone said. “Anyway, our real host is this fellow, Owaki, or whatever his name is, sitting at your seven o’clock, who is reputed to deal in arms.”
“Business must be good!” Julian cried, and everyone laughed a little.
“It’s said,” the older man said, “he dropped a hundred and fifty million quid on this estate and another fifty million into refurbishing.”