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ancestors.”
    “A beautiful place,” he said. “Your family has been around a long time.”
    “We have served the Crown four centuries.”
    “Now your son is married to Victoria’s daughter.”
    “For an American, you certainly know a lot about me.”
    He shrugged. “I just love the English.” He lightly stroked one of the sphinxes. “It’s not going to work.”
    Yourstone’s face remained rigid.
    Then he realized. This man already knew he was involved. Perhaps he’d even expected a visit? “You have good spies.”
    “One good spy is better than 500 well-armed troops.”
    “Sun Tzu also said all war is deception.”
    “That it is.”
    And something else the great Chinese strategist had written about winning came to mind.
Pretend inferiority and encourage arrogance
.
    Time to leave.
    He stepped toward the door. “You have a good day, Lord Yourstone. We’ll be seeing each other again real soon.”
    And he left.
    Malone exited the town house. He’d accomplished what he came to do. Nothing slowed an enemy down faster than the knowledge that someone may be in close pursuit. Especially an enemy who cared about his public image. If nothing else the visit would buy him time to figure out just what was happening here. Yourstone would, at a minimum, be concerned. But coming here also had drawn attention, which nearly always meant trouble.
    That was okay.
    He was accustomed to trouble.
    And the ball needed to stay rolling.
    So he found his cell phone and dialed William’s private number, explaining what he’d like for Victoria to do next.
    “Excellent suggestion,” William told him. “I shall organize it immediately. As you learned earlier, refusing the queen’s invitation can be difficult.”
    He found the sidewalk and started walking back toward the Underground station. He’d take a train to Osborne House and have William arrange a meeting later with the Prince of Wales. He needed to see for himself exactly what he was dealing with.
    He thought again of the cauldron from earlier.
    That was another subject he’d need to learn more about.
    A car braked at the sidewalk, and its rear door popped open. “Mr. Malone.”
    He whirled.
    An older man sat inside. He was in his early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed. Thick, steel-rimmed glasses hid his eyes. He wore a stylish dark suit with a vest, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. The right hand held a walking stick, the handle an ivory globe.
    Which he recognized as the trademark of Sir Thomas Mathews.
    Head of Great Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.
    Or as more commonly called, MI6.
    “We need to speak,” Mathews said.

CHAPTER SIX
    Yourstone stared through the car’s tinted windows and admired St. James. The quarter was once the haunt of London’s bachelors, and there still remained an air of quality to its regal surroundings. The plush private clubs that currently filled the brick buildings, descendants of 18th-century coffeehouses, were famous. Boodles. Brooks’. White’s. The Carlton. The Oxford and Cambridge Club. Membership commanded high price tags and deep lineages.
    Eleanor sat beside him.
    The call had come to his town house just after Cotton Malone left. The Prince of Wales wanted to speak with both his sister and Yourstone. Richard had sounded his usual distraught self. Eleanor told her brother that they would come immediately.
    Yourstone knew what the buffoon wanted.
    A sympathetic ear.
    But he also knew what he wanted. And time was running out.
    So this opportunity had to be maximized.
    The car stopped at a gated entrance. The red-brick edifice of St. James’ Palace had been a wedding present from Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn. In the centuries since it had served as the perennial home of the heir to the throne.
    They were allowed inside, and the limousine parked in a courtyard beneath a brick porte cochere. They stepped out into a balmy afternoon and entered the