Stone Barrington 06-11

accent.”
    Monica and Erica both shot him searing glances. “Do you really find my accent pretentious, Lance?” Monica asked.
    “Oh, very.”
    “It seems that every time I speak to you, your accent has traveled a hundred miles farther to the east,” she said dryly.
    Lance flushed a little.
    Stone began to feel that all was not entirely well between Monica and Lance, or maybe, between Lance and anybody. “Lance, what made you ask if I’d done government work?”
    “Just a hunch,” Lance said. “Perhaps there’s something a little bureaucratic about you.”
    Stone laughed. “When I was on the public payroll, hardly anybody thought I was bureaucratic enough. I wasn’t thought of as a team player by the NYPD.”
    “And why ever not?” Lance drawled.
    “Because I wasn’t, I suppose. I tended to go my own way, something that’s never appreciated in large organizations.”
    “I know what you mean,” Lance said.
    “Oh? Are you employed by a large organization?”
    “No, but I’ve had a taste of it,” Lance replied.
    “And, I take it, you didn’t like the taste?”
    “You might say that.”
    “What, exactly, do you do?” Stone asked.
    “I consult,” Lance replied.
    “With whom do you consult, and about what?” Stone asked, glad to be the griller instead of the grillee.
    “With a number of people about a number of things,” Lance replied. “Monica, will you pass the crisps, please?” Monica slid the little bowl of homemade potato chips toward him. He turned to Erica. “So, how was shopping today? Find anything?”
    “Only a pen and some fruit,” Erica replied.
    Stone was about to ignore the swift change of subject and return to the grilling when Lance looked at his watch.
    “I think we’d better go along to dinner,” he said.
    Everyone began to move toward the door, and Stone gave the waiter his room number for the check. He wondered if Bartholomew would bridle at the appearance of a Krug ‘66 on the bill.
    Outside, they turned right into Mount Street, and Stone fell into step with Monica, behind Lance and Erica.
    “We’re going to Harry’s Bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner.” She dropped back a few paces behind her sister and Lance. “It’s nice to see somebody turning the tables on Lance,” she said. “He can be awful.”
    “It’s all right; I don’t have anything to hide,” Stone said.

    “Really? How boring.”
    Stone laughed. “I’m afraid I’m an open book, as boring as that may be. How about you?”
    “I have a great many secrets,” Monica replied, “and you will have to ply me with a great deal of champagne and work very hard to learn what they are.”
    “I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said, taking her arm.
    They walked past the Hayward shop, turned left, and walked another few yards until they came to an unmarked door. Lance rang a bell, and a moment later a woman in what appeared to be a maid’s uniform let them in.
    “Have you been here?” Monica asked Stone.
    “No, in fact it’s been many years since I’ve been in London, so there are a lot of places I haven’t been. Just about everywhere, in fact.”
    “You’ll like it; the food is marvelous.”
    They were led into a dining room hung with many original Peter Arno cartoons, mostly from The New Yorker and Esquire, Stone thought. The headwaiter seated them at a corner table, and Stone drew the gunfighter’s seat, in the corner, which allowed him to view the other diners. He immediately spotted a well-known actor and a man whose photograph he was sure he’d seen in The New York Times —something to do with British politics, he thought.
    Then he glanced toward the door in time to see two men enter: One was sixtyish, white-haired, very English-looking. The other was John Bartholomew. They were handing their coats to the woman in the maid’s uniform.
    Stone leaned over and whispered to Erica, who was sitting on his right, “A man just came in who looks very familiar, but I can’t place him.”
    Erica turned and looked toward the door. “The white-haired one? That’s Sir Antony Shields,” she said. “He’s in the cabinet, I think, but I don’t remember which portfolio.”
    “No, it’s the other man who looks familiar.”
    She looked again. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. The two men disappeared around a corner to a table out of sight.
    So much for Uncle John, Stone thought. He wondered if Lance, whose back was to the door, would recognize