Unintended Consequences

attorney-at-law,” Stone said. “Pretty boring.”
    “That depends on how you practice the law,” she said. “I shall not judge you too harshly until I know you better.”
    “I’ll look forward to your judgment,” Stone said.
    “Have you seen the car yet?”
    Stone nearly asked her what car but caught himself. “Not yet.”
    “I have a feeling we may have a look at the Blaise before the evening is over.”
    A tiny bell rang in Stone’s head. He had read about this car but not seen any pictures. It was the creation of a wealthy Frenchman who had racing teams, and that must be his host.
    Stone chatted idly with other guests but contrived to stay near Helga. She seemed comfortable with that.
    “Are you here alone?” Stone asked her when he got the chance.
    “No, I am with you,” Helga replied. “I believe that Marcel has . . . how do you say? ‘Fixed us up.’”
    “How very kind of Marcel,” Stone said.
    She gave him her most dazzling smile. “Yes,” she said, “how very kind of him.”
    A man taller than both Helga and Stone, Mediterranean-looking, with black, slicked-back hair, approached them. “
Buona sera
,” he said. “Good evening.”
    Italian, Stone assumed, and he watched as the man expertly began to divert Helga’s attention from Stone to him. Helga did not respond as he perhaps would have liked and pointedly included Stone in their conversation. Soon, he wandered in search of more amenable prey.
    “Italians!” Helga said with a snort. “Unstoppable!”
    “And yet,” Stone said, “you stopped him.”
    “Discouraged, perhaps,” she replied. “I think you will be better company.”
    “I’ll do my best,” Stone replied.
    Then from behind him the butler announced half a dozen other people, and for Stone, one name stood out, one he had heard earlier in the day.
    “M’sieur Richard LaRose,” the butler said.

5
    L aRose’s eyes passed slowly over the crowd, not pausing to recognize Stone. His appearance was distinctly different from the other men in the room: his tuxedo was not custom-made, but perhaps rented, draped on his thin frame as if on a hanger; his shirt collar was half an inch too big; his bow tie a clip-on; and his haircut of barber-college quality. Still, he seemed oddly at ease in the group, chatting easily with whoever came to hand.
    Stone took LaRose’s lack of attention to him as deliberate and did not go out of his way to greet the man. He thought he must surely be here in his professional capacity.
    Finally, LaRose was handed off by an uninterested knot of people to Stone and Helga. Stone introduced them both; LaRose spoke a few words to Helga in a language he did not recognize, then returned to English.
    “Your Swedish is very good, Mr. LaRose,” Helga said.
    “Thank you. I spent some time in our embassy there.”
    “Are you a diplomat?”
    “I am the commercial attaché at our Paris embassy,” he replied, glancing at Stone as if to see if he caught his drift.
    “What does that mean?” Stone asked, as if he were really interested.
    “It means that I work to promote commerce between the United States and the country in which I am serving,” LaRose replied smoothly.
    Helga looked across the room and spotted a woman waving at her. “Please excuse me for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Richard,” Stone said quietly, “if you’re going to mix with this crowd, ostensibly on embassy business, you should find yourself a good tailor at once.”
    “You have a point,” LaRose said. “I was unprepared for the invitation and had to rent this suit. Can you recommend a tailor?”
    “Charvet is very good, if your employer is paying.”
    “They’ve offered me a clothing allowance, but I haven’t taken advantage of it.”
    “Tomorrow would be a good time,” Stone said. “European tailors work at a deliberate pace. Charvet makes shirts and ties, as well.”
    “The people with whom I mixed at my previous postings were not so demanding,” he said. “What clothing should I have made? It’s a serious question.”
    “Half a dozen suits, a dozen shirts, not all of them white, and, by all means, a tuxedo. Then a navy blazer and a couple of tweed jackets for less formal occasions.” He looked down. “And shoes, though they need not be custom-made. Try Berluti.”
    LaRose was taking notes on a jotter. “I’m grateful to you,” he said. “My only other avenue of advice would be the ambassador, but he’s too far above my