Alexandria, Virginia.

Although the sun had just begun to set, every downstairs window of the colonial mansion was brilliantly lit, every outside floodlight gleaming. As the taxi steered through a tall, open, metal gate, Tess scanned the shrubs that bordered the fence, then directed her gaze toward the spacious, upwardly sloping lawn, the numerous, elaborate flower gardens, the magnificent, towering oaks (from one of which she'd fallen and broken her arm as a child; with painful fondness, she remembered her father rushing to help her), the fountain that she'd loved to wade in (what a tomboy I was, she thought and managed a smile).

At once her smile dissolved as the taxi continued along the extensive curved driveway, approaching the mansion and a silver Rolls Corniche parked below the white stone steps that led past columns to the huge double-doored entrance.

The Corniche had government plates. A chauffeur (bodyguard?) stood alertly next to it, his hands at his sides while he squinted toward the taxi.

No doubt about it. Brian Hamilton had arrived.

Tess paid the driver and got out of the taxi, staring at the chauffeur when she passed him, giving him a good look at her. Brian had presumably told the man what she looked like. With a nod, he stepped back, ignoring her, directing his attention toward the taillights of the taxi as it continued around the semicircle of the driveway and disappeared down the quiet, tree-lined street. Yes, definitely a bodyguard, Tess thought.

She carried her suitcase up the steps and hesitated beneath the portico, finally ringing the doorbell.

Ten seconds later, a butler in livery answered.

Tess hadn't been here in so long that she didn't recognize him. 'I've come to see my mother.'

'I know, Ms Drake. My name is Jonathan.' He gave her a solemn smile. 'Welcome. You're expected. If you please, let me carry your suitcase.' He shut the door when she entered and, with echoing footsteps, escorted her across the large, lofty, marble-floored vestibule toward the drawing room on the right. On the way, Tess noticed that a new Matisse had been added to the collection of paintings along the wall.

The drawing room's sliding oak door was closed. When the butler pulled it soundlessly open, Tess tried to appear calm the moment she saw her mother rise from a French Regency sofa to the left of the fireplace.

Theresa, dear, how wonderful to see you.' Her mother had never approved of her father's calling her Tess. Trim, tall, in her sixties, her mother looked ten years younger due to numerous face lifts that nonetheless gave her aristocratic features a pinched expression.

As always in the evening, she wore a formal dress, this one made of expensive amber silk that whispered when she walked, and considerable jewelry: a diamond necklace, matching earrings, a ruby brooch, a sapphire ring on one hand, her glinting, impressive engagement and wedding rings on the other (despite her husband's death six years ago, she persisted in wearing them), an emerald bracelet on one wrist, a gold Piaget watch on the other.

'Really, truly, how wonderful.' Like so many graduates of Radcliffe in the pure old days before that women's college had crassly (God help us, what's the world coming to?) been integrated with the men at Harvard, she walked as if a board had been strapped to her back, and with husky tones reminiscent of Lauren Bacall (who hadn't gone to Radcliffe), she tended to emphasize her words. 'It's been so long. You know how I miss you. You mustn't be such a stranger.'

By then, her mother had reached Tess and with the obligatory, fashionable, almost-kiss, brushed her right and then left cheek, barely touching, against Tess's.

'Yes, mother, and it's good to see you.' Tess managed to smile.

'Jonathan will take your suitcase to your room. Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted from your travel.'

'Mother, it's only an hour's flight from New York.'

'Oh, really? Well, yes, I suppose that's true. Then why don't I see you more?'

Tess walked toward the French Regency chair placed across from and matching the sofa. 'My work keeps me awfully busy. I barely have time to do my laundry, let alone-'

'Your laundry.' Tess's mother cocked her head back. 'You do your own…? I keep forgetting. You want to be independent .'

That's right, mother.' Tess squirmed against the scrollwork on the chair while her eyes searched the room but, disturbingly, found no sign of Brian Hamilton. 'Independent.'

'And your work? How is your little magazine doing?'

'It isn't little, mother. And I think it's doing some good.'

'Well, that's what we want.' Tess's mother fidgeted on the sofa. 'It's about the environment? Something about pollution?'

Tess nodded. 'And the problem's getting worse.'

'Well, of course, at my age, I won't live long enough to – Never mind. The important thing is that you're happy.'

'Yes, mother. 'Despite her confused emotions… about Joseph's death, about the man whose description resembled him, the man who'd attempted to steal the photographs she'd taken of Joseph's bedroom… Tess managed a genuine smile. She imitated her mother's habit of emphasis. 'I am happy.'

'Well.' Her mother smoothed her dress. 'In that case.' She straightened her necklace. 'I suppose that's all that matters.' But she didn't looked convinced.

Tess felt self-conscious as her mother assessed her sneakers, jeans, and short-sleeved cotton pullover. 'I know, mother. You wish I'd dress like…'

'A lady. At the moment, you appear to have come from an athletic event. At the very least, you could have worn a brassiere.'

'I feel more comfortable this way, mother. Especially when it's so humid.'

'Humid? Precisely. Your pullover's so damp that I can see your… I'll never forgive myself for allowing you to go to Georgetown University instead of one of the Seven Sisters.'

Tess bristled. 'It wasn't you who let me go. It was father.'

Tess's mother shook her head. 'That's an ancient topic. We've discussed it far too often. I'm sorry I raised it. Since we see each other so seldom, let's do our best to be agreeable.'

'That's all I want, mother.'

'Very well, then, it's settled. We'll be agreeable.' Tess's mother smoothed her dress again. 'I know you told me not to have dinner prepared, but I took the liberty of having Edna prepare some liver pate. You always enjoyed that, as I recall.'

'Very much,' Tess lied.

'And some tea, of course. I think we could all use some tea.'

As her mother picked up and daintily jingled a tiny silver bell, Tess peered around again. 'Speaking of all of us, I asked Brian Hamilton to meet me here.' Tess frowned. 'I think that's his Corniche in the driveway, but I don't-'

The door to the drawing room slid open. Tess swung her head sharply. A maid stepped in. She wore a uniform, complete with a bonnet, and carried a silver tray of toast and pate, placing them on a thirty-thousand-dollar antique table.

Someone else appeared, a man who wore a tuxedo and carried another silver tray upon which were tea cups and a two-hundred-year-old Japanese teapot. 'I apologize for taking so long on the phone, Melinda. I hope you don't mind. I thought I'd make myself useful and help Edna bring in the things.'

'Mind? Of course not. I'm sure Edna appreciates the courtesy, and no guest of mine can ever do anything wrong.'

The man set his tray beside the toast and pate on the table, then turned to Tess, and smiled. He was in his early sixties, but for all that, he was straight-backed, trim, solid, with thick, dark, superbly cut hair, and a rectangular, ruggedly handsome face. He photographed extremely well. In newspapers, the captions beneath the photographs usually emphasized his numerous medals from Vietnam and his legendary career as a maverick general in the Marines. His smile exaggerated the crinkles around his eyes and made him look more rugged. His voice was husky but with the smooth cadence of a TV announcer. 'How are you, Tess?' He held out his manicured, muscular hand.