Summer at Tiffany's by Karen Swan Page B

and gilded interiors through its street-facing windows. Unlike the colonial style of the Explorers Club in New York, this club boasted the kind of grandeur that was standard for hosting royalty, aristocracy and eminent diplomats and luminaries, with silk walls and marble floors and shimmering chandeliers that would bring down the roof of an average London terrace house.
    Not that Cassie got to see much of it. The lobby was as far as she was permitted, and to save both herself and the concierge the embarrassment of staring at each other politely, she was busily occupying herself by reading the club housekeeping notices on the walls while Bob Kentucky and Derek Mitzenhof, the president and chair of the Flag Expedition Grant Board, were called from their rooms.
    She had been lucky to have made it this far (although she was going to pay through the nose for it when her mobile bill came in – half-hour calls to New York didn’t come cheap), but there had been no other way to get the names and London addresses of the men Henry had been en route to meeting yesterday. The Explorers Club had been reluctant to impart their details, even after she had lengthily explained her relationship to Henry and yesterday’s disaster; they had much preferred the option of getting the board to contact Cassie, but she had stood firm, for once. This had to be sorted today. She had called them, standing outside Jimmy’s garage in Putney as he hunted for her car keys, and it had taken her another hour to get back into town and find a parking space.
    â€˜Miss Fraser?’ Cassie turned to find a tall, white-haired man with a lean face and neat moustache standing before her. ‘Bob Kentucky.’ He held out his hand. He was wearing a dark grey suit and a tie that she recognized as being Explorers Club – Henry had been given the same one when he was made a fellow back in March – and she wished she was wearing something smarter than her blue-and-white-striped sundress, Converses and navy moth-nibbled cashmere cardigan.
    She saw Bob Kentucky wish it too and he discreetly looked over at the doorman, who, after a moment, gave a nod as subtle as the Mona Lisa’s smile.
    â€˜We’ll take coffee in the reading room,’ Kentucky said – whether to Cassie or the doorman, she wasn’t sure – holding one arm out in an open hook and inviting her to step into the gilded sanctuary.
    It was immediately apparent the walls must be as deep as Afghan caves, as the rush of London traffic speeding along to St James in one direction and Admiralty Arch and Trafalgar Square in the other was instantly muted when the inner door closed behind them.
    â€˜I’m afraid Derek can’t join us,’ Bob said with an apologetic smile. ‘He’s engaged in a fight-to-the-death rackets game with an old acquaintance.’
    â€˜Oh, no, of course. I’m just so grateful you could see me at such short notice. I’m really sorry for turning up unannounced like this,’ she said, as they climbed the elegant winding staircase, which was set at such a gentle pitch it seemed almost embarrassed to turn.
    Kentucky smiled. ‘On the contrary – I was delighted when the club rang to tell me you were on your way. We were so baffled by Henry’s no-show yesterday.’
    â€˜I’m also sorry for looking so scruffy. I hadn’t planned on coming here when I left the house today.’ She tried rolling the cuff of her cardigan to hide the fact it had a thumb-sized hole through it.
    â€˜Well, I admit jeans would have been harder to get around, but I think Mr Stanley at the door was also of the opinion that with a face as pretty as yours, nobody’s going to be looking at your feet.’
    â€˜Oh . . . Thank you.’ Cassie blushed. ‘You’re very kind.’
    â€˜We can talk in here,’ he said, stopping outside the door to a large and sunny room. Inside, groups of leather chairs were