The Final Cut

She said slowly, “Well, Dillon is right. All in all, you’re not a bad cop. You’ve got a pretty good brain. Trust the academy to train you up, make you into a real agent. Then yeah, maybe I could deal with having you in New York.”

“I’m blushing. You and Savich, both of you heaping all these compliments on my head.”

She joined him on the sofa and took one of his battered hands in hers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the queen makes you a knight or something.”

He felt the warmth of her flesh as she cradled his hand. It felt good. He realized she smelled like jasmine and wild grass again. He said, “Well, fact is, even though I hate to admit it, I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

She cocked her head to the side and regarded him thoughtfully. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we? If you come to New York, I wouldn’t say no to having you as a partner.”

“You’re saying if I join the FBI, you’d have my back?”

She patted his bruised cheek. “Stitches and all.”

99

Farrow-on-Grey, England

Old Farrow Hall, Drummond estate

Tuesday morning

Nicholas turned onto the drive leading to his family home, Old Farrow Hall, or OFH, as everyone hereabouts called it. In the spring and summer the branches of the ancient lime trees intertwined above like a secret tu

Once through the ancient stone gate, another half mile and the hall itself loomed before him, three stories of four-century-old red brick with stone quoins, gables, and turrets. Home. He pulled into the roundabout, the gravel crunching under his tires.

A small man with a tonsure of gray hair circling his head stood by the open door, dressed in a fine gray morning coat, crisp white shirt and tie.

“Good morning, Master Nicholas. Hurry in, now, the rain is coming down harder.”

“Morning, Horne,” Nicholas said, and stepped into the central core of the old hall. “You’re looking well. Nigel sends his best.”

Horne’s expression at the mention of his beloved son didn’t change, since age-old precepts of decorum prevented it, but he did allow a full-bodied “Ah.”

Nicholas pulled the hamper from behind his back. “Can you sneak this in for me, Horne? I don’t want Cook Crumbe seeing I’ve brought pastries from Fortnum and Mason for my mother.”

Horne’s nose twitched. “Of course. No sense in upsetting her. Your mother and his lordship are waiting for you in the breakfast room.”

“Thank you, Horne. I’ll head there straightaway.”

He passed through the grand entrance hall and made his way toward the back of the house to what had been labeled the breakfast room by some ancestor centuries ago. He smelled ci

The long, narrow breakfast room gave onto the sweep of the back lawn. A row of six tall windows overlooked the lower garden and the labyrinth, a fetching scene, even with the rain scoring down the glass. A fire crackled in the grate; the room was a bit too warm, but that was the way his grandfather liked it. Nicholas didn’t mind, not today.

His grandfather, Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was ensconced at the head of the table in the master’s hand-carved chair, his buttocks cradled by a decades-old crimson velvet cushion thicker than Nicholas’s fist. He was halfway through a bowl of Cook Crumbe’s solidly bland Scottish porridge, welcomed his grandson with a swirl of his spoon, his voice gruff. “Nicholas, my boy. About time you joined us. You’re late.”

“The score of vehicles I nearly ran off the M11 getting here wouldn’t agree with you.”

The baron wheezed out a laugh.

“Good morning, Mother. I like that jumper you’re wearing, matches your eyes.”

The old man harrumphed, spooned in more porridge. “The demmed thing doesn’t match her eyes at all.”

Mitzie Drummond laughed as she lightly laid her hand along his cheek, leaned up, and gave him a kiss. “Good morning, darling.”

“Where’s Father?”

Mitzie said, “On a call, talking to the Home Office about some nonsense in the Middle East he shouldn’t have to worry about.” She shook her head, the perfectly maintained blond bob swinging forward. “He had tea, said he needn’t have anything more.”

Nicholas turned to Horne. “Would you ask him to join us, please? I have some news I’d like to share.”

Mitzie narrowed her eyes at him.

“What sort of news?”

“Let’s wait for Dad, shall we? What’s been happening round here?”

Mitzie took the hint and began filling him in on the leak in the West Wing roof, and how she was certain Gwy

A few minutes later, Harry—Harold Mycroft St. John Drummond—joined them. He was taller than his son, fit and lean, a full head of black hair, distinguished gray at the temples. Nicholas stood and shook his father’s hand in greeting. He took his seat and poured some tea.

His father’s every motion was done with economy and purpose, like his grandfather, Drummond hallmarks. He was a man of infinite calm, which made him an excellent diplomat, and a man of common sense and reason. He was not, like his son, with his impatient, impulsive American blood, a man who ever leapt before looking carefully at the terrain beyond.

Properly fortified, Harry leaned back in his chair. “What’s this news then, Nicholas?”

Nicholas also poured himself a cup of hot tea, stirred in milk and a bit of sugar. Liquid courage. He took a sip and said, “I’ve decided to join the FBI.”

Dead silence, all eyes staring at him. Well, he had their attention. There was more dead silence.

“I’ve been accepted to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s twenty weeks of immersion training. I’ll probably be assigned to the New York Field Office with the same people I worked with to find the Koh-i-Noor.”

He looked around the table at the shocked faces. “Well, say something.”

Harry studied his son’s face. “You already changed direction once when you left the Foreign Office for New Scotland Yard. You are certain you wish to make another change?”

“I’m sure.”

Harry sat back and looked at his dark-eyed, dashing son. He took after his mother, with his handsome face, his spirit, his bullheadedness, traits that made Harry proud, and profoundly worried on occasion. Nicholas had spent his entire career avoiding any hint of favoritism, of nepotism, striking out on his own from the very begi

His mother was biting her lip. “You’ll move to New York? When will we see you?”

“I’ll come home as often as I can, I promise.”

She shook her head. “I always knew your uncle Bo would drag you into his den of thieves.”

Nicholas said mildly, “It’s not the old Wild West, mother. It’s your country, too.”

She waved an elegant hand. “Of course it is, Nicholas, it’s simply too far away for my tastes.” She sighed. “I suppose this is a wonderful opportunity for you, but—” She didn’t finish; instead, she came to give him a hug, and he relaxed. This, telling his family, was the part he’d dreaded. Penderley hadn’t fought him at all, even wrote him a glowing recommendation. Nicholas suspected Penderley was probably happy to get him out of his hair more than anything else.