Stone Barrington 06-11

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.

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 back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”
    Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.
    “Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.
    Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.
    “Come in.”
    He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.
    “We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.
    “Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”
    “Very much. You must see it.”
    She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.
    When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.

    At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.
    “Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”
    Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you about Stone.”
    “Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.
    “I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.
    Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.
    A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought