{"product_id":"touchstone-isbn-9780553586664","title":"Touchstone","description":"\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Laurie R. King takes us to a remote cottage in Cornwall in this gripping tale of intrigue, terrorism, and explosive passions that begins with a visit to a recluse code-named . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce studied by British intelligence for his excruciating sensitivity to the world’s turmoil, Bennett Grey has withdrawn from the world–until an American Bureau of Investigation agent comes to assess Grey’s potential as a weapon in a new kind of warfare. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgent Harris Stuyvesant needs Grey’s help to enter a realm where the rich and the radical exist side by side–a heady mix of power, celebrity, and sexuality that conceals the free world’s deadliest enemy. Soon Stuyvesant finds himself dangerously seduced by one woman and–even more dangerously–falling in love with another. As he sifts through secrets divulged and kept, he uncovers the target of a horrifying conspiracy, and wonders if he can trust anyone, even his touchstone.“This suspense novel unfolds slowly, but King is so adept at telling a story that the pace never lags. …. an entertaining mix of ambition, intrigue, social unrest and unfettered idealism.”—\u003ci\u003eArizona Republic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cinematic…richly, even lushly, imagined.” –\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Intelligent and nuanced . . . Indelible characters . . . a plot as tight as a drum. What more could you want?” –\u003ci\u003eSeattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An Anglophile’s treat of sixth sense and sensibility.” –\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eLaurie R. King\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of thirteen Mary Russell mysteries, five contemporary novels featuring Kate Martinelli, the Stuyvesant \u0026amp; Grey novels \u003ci\u003eTouchstone\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Bones of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e, and the acclaimed \u003ci\u003eA Darker Place, Folly, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Keeping Watch\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Northern California.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eight days after stepping off the Spirit of New Orleans from New York,  Harris Stuyvesant nearly killed a man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fact of the near-homicide did not surprise  him; that it had taken him eight days to get there, considering the circumstances,  was downright astonishing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fortunately, his arm drew back from full force at the  last instant, so he didn't actually smash the guy's face in. But as he stood over  the prostrate figure, watching the woozy eyelids flicker back towards consciousness,  the tingle of frustration in his right arm told him what a near thing it had been.  He'd been running on rage for so long, driven by fury and failure and the scars on  Tim's skull and the vivid memory of bright new blood on a sparkling glass carpet  followed by flat black and the sound of the funeral dirges that-well, the guy had  got off lucky, that was all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He couldn't even claim it was self defense. The cops  were right there-constables, he should call them, this being England-and they'd already  been moving to intercept the red-faced Miners' Union demonstrator who was hammering  one meaty forefinger against Stuyvesant's chest to make a point when Stuyvesant's  arm came up all on its own and just laid the man out on the paving stones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A uniformed  constable cut Stuyvesant away from the miner's friends as neatly as a sheepdog with  a flock and suggested in no uncertain terms that now would be a good time for him  to go about his business, sir. Stuyvesant looked into the clean-shaven English face  beneath the helmet and felt his fist tighten, but he caught hold of himself before  things got out of control.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He nodded to the cop, glanced at the knot of demonstrators  forming around the fallen warrior, and bent to pick up the envelope he'd dropped  in the scuffle. He turned on his heels and within sixty seconds and two corners found  silence, as abrupt and unexpected as the sudden appearance of the Union workers had  been five minutes earlier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He put his back against the dirty London bricks, closed  his eyes, and drew in, then let out, one prolonged breath. After a minute, he raised  his hand to study the damage: a fresh slice across the already-scarred knuckle, bleeding  freely. With his left hand he fished out his handkerchief and wrapped the hand, looking  around until he spotted a promising doorway down the street. Inside was a saloon  bar. \"Whisky,\" he told the man behind the bar. \"Double.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When the glass hit the  bar, he dribbled half of it onto the cut-teeth were dirty things-and tossed the rest  down his throat. He started to order a repeat, then remembered, and looked at his  wrist-watch with an oath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Late already.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh, what the hell did it matter? He'd spent  the last week chewing the ears of one office-worker after another; what made him  think this one would be any different?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But that was just an excuse to stay here  and drink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stuyvesant slapped some coins on the bar and went out onto the street.  It was raining, again. He settled his hat, pulled up his collar, and hurried away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It had proven a piss-poor time to come to London and talk to men behind desks. He'd  known before he left New York that there was a General Strike scheduled at the end  of the month, in sympathy for the coal miners. However, this was England, not the  States, and he'd figured there would be a lot of big talk followed by a disgruntled,  probably last-minute settlement. Instead, the working classes were rumbling, and  their talk had gone past coal mining into a confrontation with the ruling class.  The polite, Olde Worlde tea-party dispute he'd envisioned, cake-on-a-plate compared  to some of the rib-cracking, skull-smashing strikes Stuyvesant had been in, didn't  look as if it was going to turn out the way he'd thought, either-not if men like  those demonstrators had their way in the matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And God, the distraction it had  caused in this town! One after another, the desk-bound men he'd come to see had listened  to his questions, then given him the same response: Does this have anything to do  with the Strike? Then please, I'm busy, there's the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yeah, that miner had been  damned lucky, considering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe when this next one showed him the door-Carstairs  was his name, Aldous Carstairs, what kind of pansy handle was that?-maybe that would  be where his temper broke. Maybe the bureaucrat would get what the demonstrator hadn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He couldn't help feeling he had reached the bottom of the barrel when it came to  a straightforward investigation. Certainly, he held out little hope that Carstairs  would do more than go through motions-he'd heard of the man more or less by accident  the previous afternoon, sitting across the desk from a Scotland Yard official he'd  met in New York years before. Now an exhausted and harassed-looking official in a  day-old shirt who, even before the inevitable tea tray arrived, was sorry he'd let  Stuyvesant in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, I've already talked to that man,\" Stuyvesant told him, in answer  to a suggested contact. \"Yeah, him, too. And him. That idiot? He was one of the first  I saw, and frankly, the sooner he retires, the better off your country will be. No,  that guy's in France, and his secretary's useless. Now, him I haven't talked to,  where-Scotland? Jesus, do I have to go to Scotland to ask about a man who lives in  London?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I should give you to Carstairs,\" the Yard official muttered, then immediately  regretted the slip and hurried on. \"What about-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Been there. Who's this Carstairs  fellow?\" Stuyvesant's instincts had come alert, aware of some overtone in the way  the man said the name, but the fellow shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just a name, honestly, he  doesn't have anything to do with what you need. I think you should go talk to . .  .\" Stuyvesant was soon out the door, holding nothing more than three names on a slip  of paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outside the office door, a pair of men in bowlers sat waiting. Stuyvesant  nodded to them, collected his hat and overcoat, and walked down the hallway and around  the corner. There he stopped, staring unseeing at the scrap of paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Give you to  Carstairs. Not, Give you Carstairs, which would have suggested the resolution of  a grudge, but a phrase with a touch of fear in the background: I should feed you  to Carstairs.\u003cbr\u003e Stuyvesant counted to thirty, then doubled back to the Yard man's office.  The two men were nowhere in sight when he walked in, and the secretary was just settling  back at his desk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry,\" the American said, \"I neglected to get a phone number.  Just let me pop in-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm sorry, sir, he has another appointment.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, I'll just  be-wait, maybe I could get it from you instead? The name's Carstairs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The secretary  looked blank for a moment and Stuyvesant resigned himself to a dud, but then the  man's eyebrows shot up. \"Aldous Carstairs?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's the man. You have a phone number  for him?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The secretary's glance at the closed door was eloquent testimony of the  unusual nature of the request, but reluctantly, he went to a book in the bottom drawer  of his desk, opened it to a page at the back, and copied out a number.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thanks,\"  Stuyvesant told him, and that was how he found himself running ten minutes late on  a pouring wet Friday afternoon, a bloody handkerchief around one hand and a sodden  scrap of paper in the other, searching for an address that he finally located in  an utterly anonymous building a stone's throw from Big Ben.New York Times bestselling author of Garment of Shadows","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303159288037,"sku":"NP9780553586664","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553586664.jpg?v=1767742856","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/touchstone-isbn-9780553586664","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}