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“I guess that’s why they’re rich,” Lex said.
She was ignoring the resentment in his voice. She didn’t seem to have any resentment herself, or any political leanings.
They pulled up in front, letting the valet take the keys. Lex stepped carefully out of the car, mindful of the delicate fabric of her skirt, and the revealing slit.
Black took her arm. He loved how petite she was next to him, a full foot shorter. She was the smallest woman he’d ever dated—she probably weighed less than a hundred pounds. But she still had elegance and presence, from how she carried herself.
They strode up the broad front steps and into the grand house.
It was much lovelier inside than out. They found themselves in a lavish entryway, all glimmering marble and polished mirrors.
A receptionist checked their tickets and took their coats, before they were offered a glass of champagne and ushered into the main room of the party.
It was, for lack of a better word, a ballroom, though the Home Secretary’s wife probably called it a salon or something equally pretentious. Black recognized a few of the other guests (the mayor of London and his wife, and the author that won the Booker prize the previous year, with a woman who was most definitely not his wife). They would never have recognized Black. He only knew them from television or news articles.
Because the party was already in full swing, most of the guests looked a little buzzed, if not already drunk. Black had no intention of imbibing anything other than his glass of champagne. He never allowed himself to drop his guard in situations like this. An earl might be forgiven for getting sloshed at a party, but a common cop never would be.
Commissioner Coldwell waved at Black from across the room. He strode over to greet them. He was an older man, on the far side of sixty, but still with an imposing build, only a little gone to seed. He had a big, hawkish nose and thinning black hair.
“You found the place,” he said.
“Easy enough,” Black said. “It’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Coldwell chuckled. “They don’t like to be subtle, do they,” he said.
He liked to be conspiratorial when talking to Black, as if they grew up in the same neighborhood. But Black knew he was from old money himself.
“And this must be the lovely lady we’ve heard so much about,” Coldwell said, taking Lex’s hand. “Black wasn’t exaggerating.”
“He never does,” Lex said, smiling at the commissioner in her charming way. She allowed him to kiss her hand.
“Is that an American accent I hear?”
“It is,” she said patiently, as if she didn’t have to answer that question every single day.
“What brings you to our little island?” Coldwell asked.
“The weather, of course,” Lex replied.
Coldwell laughed. “Well, it can’t be the food,” he said. “Unless you like curry.”
“I do,” Lex said.
“She likes curry and rain! Won’t take much to keep this one happy, Black.”
“If only that were true,” Black said.
Coldwell slapped him on the back and continued on through the crowd.
Black turned to Lex and made a face.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What’s to be sorry about?” Lex said. “Look at this place.”
She gazed around appreciatively at the many fine paintings hung on the walls and the glamorous guests in their dress clothes. A string quartet played from the far corner of the room. Black could see an elaborate banquet table against the opposite wall, piled high with fresh fruit, confections, and exotic-looking finger foods.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Lex.
