In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts Read Free Page B

road. This was no mere country cottage; this was a castle, complete with turrets and ivy-covered stone walls. Formal gardens stretched out for acres, and a brick path led to what looked like a medieval maze. So this was where old Hugh Tavistock had repaired to after those forty years of service to queen and country. Earldom must have its benefits—one certainly didn’t acquire this much wealth in government service. And Hugh had struck him as such a down-to-earth fellow! Not at all the country nobleman type. He had no airs, no pretensions; he was more like some absentminded civil servant who’d wandered, quite by accident, into MI6’s inner sanctum.
    Amused by the grandeur of it all, Richard went up the steps, breezed through the security gauntlet, and walked into the ballroom.
    Here he saw a number of familiar faces among the dozens of guests who’d already arrived. The London economic summit had drawn in diplomats and financiers from across the continent. He spotted at once the American In Their Footsteps
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    ambassador, swaggering and schmoozing like the political appointee he was. Across the room he saw a trio of old acquaintances from Paris. There was Philippe St. Pierre, the French finance minister, deep in conversation with Reggie Vane, head of the Paris Division, Bank of London. Off to the side stood Reggie’s wife, Helena, looking ignored and crabby as usual. Had Richard ever seen that woman look happy?
    A woman’s loud and brassy laugh drew Richard’s attention to another familiar figure from his Paris days—
    Nina Sutherland, the ambassador’s widow, shimmering from throat to ankle in green silk and bugle beads.
    Though her husband was long dead, the old gal was still working the crowd like a seasoned diplomat’s wife.
    Beside her was her twenty-year-old son, Anthony, rumored to be an artist. In his purple shirt, he cut just as flashy a figure as his mother did. What a resplendent pair they were, like a couple of peacocks! Young Anthony had obviously inherited his ex-actress mother’s gene for flamboyance.
    Judiciously avoiding the Sutherland pair, Richard headed to the buffet table, which was graced with an elaborate ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. This Bastille Day theme had been carried to ridiculous extremes. Everything was French tonight: the music, the champagne, the tricol-ors hanging from the ceiling.
    “Rather makes one want to burst out singing the ‘Mar-seillaise,’ doesn’t it?” said a voice.
    Richard turned and saw a tall blond man standing beside him. Slenderly built, with the stamp of aristocracy on his face, he seemed elegantly at ease in his starched shirt and tuxedo. Smiling, he handed a glass of champagne to 28
    Tess Gerritsen
    Richard. The chandelier light glittered in the pale bubbles.
    “You’re Richard Wolf,” the man said.
    Richard nodded, accepting the glass. “And you are…?”
    “Jordan Tavistock. Uncle Hugh pointed you out as you walked into the room. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
    The two men shook hands. Jordan’s grip was solid and connected, not what Richard expected from such smoothly aristocratic hands.
    “So tell me,” said Jordan, casually picking up a second glass of champagne for himself, “which category do you fit into? Spy, diplomat or financier?” Richard laughed. “I’m expected to answer that question?”
    “No. But I thought I’d ask, anyway. It gets things off to a flying start.” He took a sip and smiled. “It’s a mental exercise of mine. Keeps these parties interesting. I try to pick up on the cues, deduce which ones are with Intelligence. And half of these people are. Or were.” Jordan gazed around the room. “Think of all the secrets contained in all these heads—
    all those little synapses snapping with classified data.”
    “You seem to have more than a passing acquaintance with the business.”
    “When one grows up in this household, one lives and breathes the game.” Jordan regarded Richard for a