Mitzie took the hint and began filling him in on the leak in the West Wing roof, and how she was certain Gwynne Willis, the town butcher’s wife, was slowly poisoning her abusive husband—served him right—and she was having trouble with her moral compass since she’d just as soon see the husband belowground. Did she have proof of this? She nodded, sadly, but said no more.
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 beginning. His son had courage, and honor, which made him, his father thought, a fine example of Drummond blood. And sometimes he was a wild hair, doing something so unexpected it left one speechless, something Harry recognized in his own father.
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.
He stole a look at his grandfather, who appeared to be ignoring all of them, still studiously eating his oatmeal. He was eighty-three, his back ramrod-straight, his eyes still the rich Drummond brown, always sharp and assessing. The only real acknowledgment of his age was his thinned hair, and, well, not to belabor it, but his ears and nose seemed to grow bigger each passing year.
Nicholas was the grandson of a baron; there were no two ways around it. The heir twice removed, as Penderley had sometimes called him if he was feeling jovial. There were responsibilities to come in his future, but not now. His grandfather was hale and hearty, his father as well.
No, not now.
Finally, his grandfather put down his spoon and met his eyes. “Don’t forget where you come from, Nicholas. This is your home, and it always will be.” He said again, “Don’t forget.”
Nicholas smiled. “Never.”
EPILOGUE
Farrow-on-Grey, England