Avalon by Stephen R. Lawhead

for James’ bag. “Allow me.”
    “Lead on,” he replied, relinquishing his luggage. “My name is James, by the way,” he offered, falling into step beside their young guide. “What’s yours?”
    “Just call me Rhys, sir. I’ll be your driver during your stay in London.” He glanced around expectantly, and it was all James could do to keep from returning the implied salute.
    “Thank you, Rhys,” he said, and as he spoke the name aloud, felt an unaccountable familiarity sweep over him.
I
know
this young man
, he thought. No sooner had the thought formed in his head, however, than it was brushed aside by the realization that, as an army officer, he had known hundreds of earnest young fellows exactly like Rhys; they were a type. And the name — a venerable old Welsh standard — was hardly unique.
    They crossed the station, passing the baguette kiosk, burger bar, and Sock Shop, and came to a roped-off area where, parked in the center of three empty spaces, sat a sleek black Jaguar sedan. Cal took one look at the plates and nudged James with an elbow. “Brand-new,” he murmured. “I’ll take it.”
    As Rhys merged the car smoothly into the city traffic, his passengers settled back into the cool leather seats and gazed at the lights of the capital through tinted glass. A short drive brought them to the tall Victorian houses of Belgravia, the embassy district, and at last to a long cul-de-sac surrounding a park. Rhys stopped the car outside an enormous white town house with a newly painted black iron fence bearing the sign KENZIE HOUSE. He got out and opened the door. “Go right in. They are expecting you, sir.”
    “They?”
    “Lord and Lady Rothes.” The answer brought raised eyebrows from Calum, in whose opinion only the stodgily elitist clung to their titles these days. “They are Embries’ associates, you might say,” Rhys continued, ignoring Cal’s expression. He went on to inform his charges that the Rothes were, from time to time, pleased to offer discreet accommodation. “You are the only guests.”
    “I see.”
    “Is something wrong, sir?” He regarded James intently — as if ready to act on his slightest word.
    “No, not at all,” James assured him quickly. “It’s just that I thought we would be seeing Embries tonight.”
    Rhys relaxed. “Ah, yes, well.” He smiled by way of apology. “Mr. Embries’ affairs called him away at the last minute. You’ll be very comfortable here, sir.”
    “I’m sure I will,” James replied, feeling acutely disappointed for the second time that day.
    Rhys stepped to the rear of the car, pressing the key fob as he did so. The boot opened with a sigh as he came around, and he lifted out the luggage.
    “You don’t have to fetch and carry for us. We can manage,” said James, reaching for his bag.
    “Certainly, sir,” he said. “I will collect you in the morning, and Mr. Embries will see you then. Is eight-thirty convenient?”
    “Extremely,” replied James.
    Rhys wished them both a good night, and drove away. “Who’s this Embries chap?” asked Cal as they made their way up the short walk to the steps. “You never told me about him.”
    “He’s the one with all the answers.”
    Before Cal could ask anything else, the door opened and they were swept into the house by a tall, handsome matron dressed in a trim white cardigan and black-and-white checked slacks. She had well-brushed gray hair, blue eyes, and the kind of fresh, slightly wind-chafed complexion women get from days spent in healthy outdoor pursuits.
    “Here you are at last!” she exclaimed, her accent burring gently. “I am so glad you’ve arrived. Please, come in, come in both of you.” She pulled her visitors convivially into a grand foyer, tastefully — and expensively — decorated with polished wood and dark blue wallpaper stamped with tiny gold crests that glittered in the softly flickering light of a dozen candles of various sizes. “I’m Caroline,” she said,