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Ethan thought the setup was a miscalculation.

He served a purpose, standing there, just not the one he was hired to perform.

Ms. Tifton seemed to think he was there decoratively, an ornament to represent wealth and standing.

If Ethan were prepping to attack, he’d take advantage of the energy directed toward the front of the mansion to get up to the back door. He’d come from behind where the woods crept up to the brick wall encircling the herb garden with its decorative twists and turns.

There was a lesser possibility that a threat would come across the fields, hidden by the outbuildings—a carriage house stood on one side of the drive and now served as a garage. The stable stood on the other side of the drive. The stable had been converted into a resident artist space and gallery, which served as Ms. Tifton’s foot in the door to the creative world in Washington, D.C.

A few of those artistic types were here today: people who gave money to the museums, and those who sat on the boards of the opera, theater, and symphony rather than the performers. The money. The contacts. Not the creators themselves.

It was all about posturing for position.

Today, Ethan, with Tango panting at his side, had helped Ms. Tifton stage the right look as her guests arrived.

From Ms. Tifton’s perspective, that thought might be true, but it certainly wasn’t the case with Ethan. He took his job seriously, putting a great deal of time into preparation and training.

One thing he was certain of: the women, in their bright-colored dresses and spiky high heels, weren’t the threat.

The chauffeurs, opening the car doors for their client and showing Ethan the invitation that was their employer’s ticket into the event, posed low risk.

Was there a threat today?

Ethan wasn’t dismissing the possibility. But on the sprawling Tifton estate so far out in the countryside, it seemed unlikely.

Still, Ethan had to be vigilant.

There were always crazy people. People with grievances and vendettas.

In his preparations, Ethan recognized today was an event—not a party, not a celebration—it smelled of an economic rubbing of the shoulders instead of sharing joy over the coming nuptials.

It wasn’t him being cynical. Knowing the who and the why of an event weighed into Ethan’s security plans.

For example, he had to take into account Ms. Tifton’s concerns about how things looked as her guests arrived. She didn’t want the messy jumble of fifty cars piling up.

One of the instructions sent out with the invitations was that Ms. Tifton wouldn’t allow any vehicles to park within sight of the house.

She even required Ethan to park a mile away on an old cattle road and walk up to the mansion.

What if they needed to evacuate?

There was no way to move all the guests.

Walking anywhere was impossible, especially given the guests’ footwear.

Ms. Tifton batted away Ethan’s concerns when he presented them in the security planning session.

As Ms. Tifton explained, she didn’t want a bunch of cars to trample her grass, and she didn’t want guests walking all the way from the road, up her brick-paved drive in their heels.

Their drivers were instructed to drop off the invitees and leave, except for one, Mrs. Amanda Harcourt of Alabaster.

Ethan wasn’t told why Mrs. Harcourt was the exception, though he’d asked. That reason, too, might have weighed into his security preparations. Perhaps she had a medical concern that would need support.

If that were it, Ethan was ready. He’d stowed his resuscitation kits in the carriage house, ready to grab and run.

So far, things had gone without a hitch. The only intruders were random squirrels or birds that crossed their path.

In another hour, the chauffeurs would return.