“Your office phoned ahead with all the arrangements, Mrs. Cooper. We’ve substituted your name for Mr. Battaglia’s where appropriate, and I’ve alerted all the staff to that change. I’m sure, madam, that you’ll be quite comfortable. Let me see,” he said, walking back to his antiquebureau plat inside the doorway, “you’ll be in the suite reserved for Mr. Battaglia. The Asquith. We only have thirty-seven rooms, of course, and they’re all filled at the moment with the gentlemen who are attending your conference.”

Nothing so crass as rooms with numbers here. Each of the suites was named for a titled or celebrated family who had visited Cliveden throughout its history.

Graham told one of the footmen to get our luggage from the car and take it up to the Asquith suite. He gestured in Mike’s direction, “And if there is anything at all I can do foryou, Mr. Cooper-”

“Chapman,” Mike snapped. “I decided to keep my maiden name, Graham. It’s Chapman.”

He picked up his bag without waiting for any help and started into the building. I was laughing as I followed him into the Great Hall, realizing for the first time that no one had expressly mentioned that the room assignment for Battaglia and spouse should not simply have been reissued to Cooper and spouse.

“What, hurt your feelings, Mikey? Don’t like being Mr. Cooper? Or are you scared of being alone with me in the dark?”

“MisterCooper? A guy’d have to have balls of steel to want that job title. Let’s check out the room, Blondie.”

The footman holding my bags was waiting for us. “The lift is this way, madam. The Asquith suite is on the first floor. Mind your step.” He led us across the hallway and under the staircase to a small elevator that rattled its way slowly up to the next landing.

Our suite was at the end of a narrow corridor reached by passing rooms named for Westminster, Curzon, Balfour, and Churchill. When the door opened and Mike noticed the twin beds standing several feet apart, he murmured in my ear, “Only the English. Typical.”

The spacious bedroom was tastefully decorated in a pale shade of green with ivory trim and had an adjoining sitting room with a writing desk and chaise as well as a large bathroom. There was a stunning view of the rear of the property with its parterre gardens and trimmed box hedges and miles of riding paths leading down to the Thames.

It was almost nine o’clock by the time we unpacked. But it was still the middle of the night at home and we were both frustrated by our inability to call to speak with Maureen and to check our offices for updates. There were no faxes or messages waiting for us so we had to assume that nothing had developed in either of the cases.

“Want to check out the grounds?” Mike could function on less sleep than anyone I knew.

The luncheon and afternoon conference in which I would be participating started at one o’clock. I didn’t want Battaglia to get any bad reports about my presentation so I figured it was smarter to work on my notes. “I’m going to clean up, rest, and change for my speech.”

“I’m taking a walk. Been sitting still too long. See you later, Lady Asquith.”

I refreshed myself with a hot shower, then, wrapped in an oversized white terry robe with the Cliveden crest embroidered on its lapel, sat on the bed to work. The break revived me, despite the lack of sleep, and I was almost dressed and ready to leave the room by twelve-fifteen when Mike called me from the front desk.

“Are you receiving?”

“I’m just about ready to go down to the lobby.”

“Thought I’d shower and change if you were out of the way.”

I finished brushing my hair and putting on earrings as Mike came in. I gathered my notes and told him I’d meet him in the dining room for the luncheon. I took myself downstairs and through the expanse of the Great Hall, drawn to John Singer Sargent’s famous portrait of Lady Astor, the American-born Nancy Langhorne, who had become the first woman to take a seat in Parliament in 1919. The painting dominated the room and I sat at the desk below it to review the remarks I would be delivering on Battaglia’s behalf.

Once done, and noting that it would soon be 7A.M. in New York, I picked up the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with a number in New York City, billing the charge to my suite. When the switchboard answered at Mid-Manhattan Hospital, I gave the receptionist Maureen’s room number.

“What is the name of the patient to whom you wish to speak?”

I gave her Maureen’s name, and when I heard no response I spelled the surname for her.

“Let me put you on hold, ma’am.”

Several minutes passed until a voice returned to tell me that the patient I was trying to reach had been discharged from the hospital. It was only Thursday and my recollection was that she was not to be released for another twenty-four hours. I was relieved that someone had made the decision to take her out of harm’s way.

The time difference was already proving to be a nuisance. I wanted to say hello to Maureen and knew that no one in a hospital could sleep long past six when the clanging of breakfast trays and bedpans roused everyone except the comatose. Now that she was at home I would place that call to her later on. It was a bit too early to hound Joan, still the middle of the night for Nina in Los Angeles, and I was determined not to speak with Drew until I knew what had driven the timing of our meeting at Joan’s apartment.

Graham glided toward me as I sat at the desk, thinking to myself and gazing up at the delicate features of Lady Astor, bare shouldered in her white gown trimmed with pink satin ribbons. The pose was a bold one, perhaps struck when she was said to have refused Edward VII’s offer to join him in a game of cards with the line, “I am afraid, sire, that I cannot tell a king from a knave.”

“Miss Cooper, Mr. Bartlett-that is, the Home Secretary-has asked me to tell you that the morning session has ended and your group will be lunching in the Pavilion. That’s the building just next door to the boardroom. Shall I tell him you’ll be joining them?”

“Yes, thank you, Graham. I’m waiting for Mr. Chapman.” He stepped away and within minutes I could see Mike descending the staircase at the far end of the room, stopping every few feet to examine the paintings and armored figures that were part of the Cliveden collection.

“C’mon, let’s do the sightseeing later. We’ve been summoned for lunch.”

We returned to the front entrance, followed the path pointed out by Graham’s gloved finger, and made our way over to the series of rooms that housed the conference facilities. The Pavilion was a light-filled, cheerful area overlooking the notorious swimming pool-scene of the Profumo scandal-that had been set up with eight rectangular tables for the meeting participants and their guests.

I immediately spotted Commander Creavey’s substantial figure as he stood to wave us into the room, where he had held empty seats on both sides for Mike and me to join him. He rose and bellowed to the polite diners after he kissed me on the cheek and embraced Mike with a few sound slaps on the back. “This ‘ere is Alexandra Cooper. Top of the line in America. She prosecutes rapists, wife beaters, child abusers-all that type of bloke. I don’t advise you to trifle with her while she’s here. And this is Commander Michael Chapman. I’ve promoted him a few notches, but that’s because over ’ere-with what ‘e knows-’e’d be running the show. Be no need for me.

“Sit and enjoy your lunch. There’ll be time to mix with all these fine gents this evening.”

Chapman and Creavey jumped right into discussing each other’s work and catching up with “on-the-job” events since they had last had the opportunity to talk at a session in New York. I played with my salad as I looked around the room to see whether I recognized any familiar faces. I knew from the list that Battaglia had passed along to me that most of the speakers and panelists were from the United Kingdom and Western Europe and it was quite clear that diversity was not an element in selecting voices to speak about the future of society as we neared the millennium.