She shook her head. “Hardly. We’d been happy, making plans. He liked the U.S. He didn’t mind living here six months out of the year; he even liked the idea of being posted elsewhere in the world.

“George was in fact under a good deal of stress in the final two weeks of his life. It had to do with his eldest son and heir, William Charles—Billy. George had told me he was a troubled child throughout his school years and that despite his complete support, Billy was asked to leave Oxford in his first year. He soon cut off most contact with the family and moved to Germany. He lived in a mostly Muslim neighborhood in Hamburg and eventually courted a Lebanese girl and ended up converting to her religion. George thought that structured life seemed to help William at first, and perhaps it did, but there was more, a lot more. I realized George didn’t like to talk about Billy—it was a painful subject for him, and I didn’t push it.

“Two weeks before George’s death, there were huge headlines in the British tabloids, such as ‘Viscount’s Heir a Terrorist’ and ‘House of Lords Member Breeds Traitor.’” She gave him a twisted smile. “That’s doubtless one of the first things you read about me, isn’t it?”

Davis nodded, saying nothing.

“They published a photograph of Billy taken somewhere in Syria, bearded and in local garb, armed with a Kalashnikov. We had no idea where they’d found that picture, but it was clearly Billy, no denying it, George said.

“It was a major embarrassment, needless to say, both for George and his family and for me, the United States ambassador who was engaged to him. The story was irresistible, and we came under intense scrutiny by the press. But there was no talk between us of ending our engagement. And then George died, and that faked email surfaced in the press—again, I don’t know how—and it all led to the speculation that George had killed himself, that I was responsible because I sent him that email, favoring my own career in his time of need, that sort of thing.

“As you know, Davis, the English tabloid press is probably the most virulent in the world. I remember one of the headlines—that I’d gone to Paris to get away from George and meet up with my lover. The fact is I was in Paris when George died, but I was there to meet with Jean-Marc Ayrault, the French PM.

“Of course what the tabloids wrote was far sexier. I spoke to George’s family—those who would speak to me, that is—but they didn’t believe me when I told them I hadn’t broken it off, or they were too busy fending off the media wanting to know everything about George’s son—how he became a terrorist, why he became a terrorist, and what they felt about it. You get the idea.

“The tabloids even suggested that my husband, Brundage, had killed himself as well and I’d managed to get it covered up with a heart attack story, backed by the president.” He saw her hands were clenched into fists, flames nearly shooting out of her red hair. “Can you imagine? Accusing me of murdering Brundage?

“The press don’t have any of the famous British sense of fair play, no brakes. In England there’s simply no way to set things straight. If they decide you’re guilty of something, they single you out as their latest star.

“Needless to say, the whole affair embarrassed our government, the embassy staff, and many of my British friends. I offered to resign, but the president refused to accept it, told me to soldier on, that I had done nothing wrong. As for Perry, she wants to go tear out someone’s throat. Soldiering on is only part of the reason I’m sitting in my lovely house with a bodyguard to protect me—” She stopped cold.

Davis said, “What would the bodyguard protect you from? The press? No, not the press. You’d chew the press up and have Hooley toss them over the fence. All right, Natalie, why do you have a bodyguard? Why did you want to see me?”

She said, “I told you I didn’t believe George McCallum’s death was a suicide. Actually, my strongest reason for that is because I’m sure as I can be someone is trying to kill me.”

Natalie told him about the attempt on her life on the narrow country road on the way to George’s country home, vivid in her mind since she’d awakened early that morning sweating, her heart hammering in her chest, breathing hard and fast, nearly choking on the remembered fear.

“My Jag, Nancy, has lots of oomph, thank heaven, but I knew he could catch me; the Mercedes was more powerful and the driver was really good. Then two cars came over the hill in front of us, which meant witnesses, and the driver did a fast screeching K-turn and sped back toward the M2. I pulled over and sat there, my head against the steering wheel. It didn’t occur to me then to flag down those two cars, ask them what they’d seen.”