Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (24 page)

Finding himself in the Duffield Brown drawing room, then, or at their dining table, to be an object of interest and even of some glamour, was a considerable novelty. He was, moreover, rather uncomfortably aware that it increased his attraction to Helena, made him perhaps seek her out rather more than he would otherwise have done.

But then – he told himself – that meant he got to know her better and more swiftly, and that in turn increased his appreciation of and his fondness for her. By the end of that June, when Helena was planning her twenty-sixth birthday party and asking him if he might be able to join its celebration at a house party at the Duffield country house near Dorking – ‘Surrey, oh dear, the suburbs,’ said Celia when she first heard about it – he knew he must make some kind of a decision about her. She was clearly in love with him and it was wrong to go on encouraging her if he did not reciprocate her feelings. He had tried, indeed, to tell himself that what he wanted was a closer, more long-term relationship; but there was something holding him back, something unresolved and impossible to set aside.

That something was what he felt for Barty.

If she didn’t have her job, Adele thought, she would go quite mad; she despaired these days of finding love. It just didn’t seem possible. In all her grown-up life – twenty-two years of it – she had only once met a man who seemed even close to being what she wanted and needed. She had met, flirted with, been charmed by, even considered going to bed with, literally dozens of handsome, charming, rich young men, but there it began and ended. She was looking for something deeper than charm, more important than looks, more demanding than flirtation. She did not even know what it was, only that it had so far eluded her. The one man who had seemed to promise it was Luc Lieberman; and he was certainly not available to her. Indeed, her father had reported meeting Luc’s wife after his last trip to the Paris office: ‘Lovely girl, simply beautiful, works for one of the couturiers, apparently’ and, absurdly hurt and disappointed, Adele had resolved to remove him from her consciousness. It was, after all, ridiculous to take as her ideal a man she had met only twice and who was patently uninterested in her; there must be other, more sympathetic examples to be found.

She was still a virgin, a fact which alternately amused and worried her. Like most girls of her generation she was intrigued by the notion of sex and impatient to experience it; also like many of them, she was nervous of the consequences. Venetia’s pregnancy, which had happened despite her best efforts at preventing it, had been sobering; it was not something, Adele thought, to be lightly risked.

But Cedric at least kept her increasingly busy and distracted from her own personal inadequacies. He had become her best friend, she felt at times almost as close to him as she was to Venetia and, these days, more accessible. He was devoted to her and her welfare, breathlessly interested in what she was doing, wearing, who she was seeing, how every new relationship progressed. He made her laugh, boosted her spirits, bolstered her morale and she would do the same for him; they would sit for hours chatting, dissecting one another’s relationships – ‘Not that one, not nearly good enough for you, Cedric, he’s just a tart’ – ‘Oh, darling, no, dull, dull, dull, don’t you go wasting a single moment with him.’

‘An old maid, that’s what I am,’ she said to him one afternoon over tea at Fortnums, ‘I shall retire soon to a little flat somewhere with some cats to whom I shall leave all my money and people will say poor old Miss Lytton, it’s so sad, no one ever wanted her.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Cedric briskly, ‘everyone wants you, Adele, it’s just that you don’t want them. As for retiring, don’t even think about it, I need you far too much, and I simply loathe cats. Now then, for tomorrow we want a tea set, one of darling Clarice’s would be best. And one of those lovely glass and chrome cocktail trolleys, a bit passé now, but still so pretty. By ten o’clock, darling, so no time for looking for your little catty flat today. Let’s move on to the Ritz, in your mood champagne is the only thing. And I saw the most divine hat in that shop in the Burlington Arcade, we might just pop over on our way and let me show it to you. Come along, darling, keep that little chin of yours up. It’s too pretty to start sagging downwards, it might double up on itself and then no one really would look at you.’

‘Abbie, you are free to come to the Prom tomorrow, aren’t you? It’s the “Pastorale”, and I’ve got two tickets. You said to get you one if I could—’

‘Oh, Barty, I’m so sorry. I can’t. I’m going out, I forgot all about the concert.’

‘Abbie! That’s too bad of you, you said you’d keep it free. Do you have to go out?’

‘I do, yes, I’m afraid. I’ve got to see my parents, they’re in London for a few days. You know how they spring it on me.’

‘Yes, but – couldn’t you see them afterwards?’

‘Not really. Oh, dear, don’t be cross.’

Barty sighed. She was: a bit. Abbie had been a rather less than satisfactory friend recently, constantly cancelling arrangements, saying vaguely she was busy, had to work late. But not to come to a concert for which tickets had been bought . . .

‘Well, I am disappointed,’ she said, ‘but I suppose if it’s your parents . . . that’s a lovely watch, Abbie, is it new?’

‘Yes,’ Abbie glanced quickly at the gold watch on her slim wrist, ‘yes, it’s nice, isn’t it?’

‘Present?’

‘Yes. From – my uncle David.’ The pause was infinitesimal; Barty

wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t felt so irritated.

‘I didn’t know you had an uncle. Certainly not a rich one.’

‘Oh, Barty, don’t be boring. What are you, a jealous husband or something?’

‘Sorry. Well – have a nice evening.’

‘Thanks. Enjoy the concert.’

She had intended to go straight out from work next day, but she had managed to spill some coffee down her sweater and decided to go home and change; while she was rummaging through her wardrobe, her phone rang. Maybe the girl who had expressed interest in the ticket.

‘Is that Miss Miller?’

‘Yes it is.’

‘Miss Miller, you don’t know me, but you’re a good friend of my daughter. Abigail Clarence.’

‘Oh, yes, hallo, Mrs Clarence.’

‘I hope you don’t mind us telephoning you, Abbie gave us your number once when I wasn’t very well.’

‘Of course not. But—’

‘We’re trying to get hold of Abbie. We’re coming to London tomorrow and want to see her, but she’s not answering her telephone and we thought she might be with you.’

‘No,’ said Barty slowly, ‘no, she isn’t, I’m afraid.’

‘Well look, if you do see her this evening, would you tell her to telephone us?’

‘Yes, of course. Only—’

‘Thank you. Goodbye, Miss Miller, I do hope we meet you soon.’

‘Abbie,’ said Barty to herself as she put down the phone, ‘whatever are you up to?’

She sat at her window late that night, watching for Abbie’s light to come on, half intrigued, half ashamed of herself. Abbie was right, she was acting like a jealous husband. At eleven she went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She was surprised at her own distress; that Abbie should have lied to her. She’d thought they were closer than that.

It was almost midnight when she heard a car in the street below; she got up, and went over to the window. Just too late; she could only see the rear lights disappearing round the corner, and about a minute later, Abbie’s own lights go on.

The only thing she could be sure of was that the car had been a big one. Very big.

‘Celia, good morning to you.’ Boy was just arriving at his Cork Street gallery as Celia walked towards it. ‘Come in and have a cup of coffee. I’ve got a present for you, I was going to bring it round this evening, but since you’re here, I’ll give it to you. It will amuse you so much.’

‘I don’t know that I want a present from you, Boy,’ said Celia briskly.

‘Why on earth not? What have I done wrong? Anyway, what on earth are you doing in this neck of the woods? Not calling on dear old Bunny, are you? He’s got a pad here, I believe.’

‘No of course not,’ said Celia irritably. ‘And while you’re making innuendoes, Boy, what on earth were you doing at the opera the other night with – with some woman? When you know perfectly well Venetia is still quite frail and weepy? And who was she, anyway?’

‘She works for one of my father’s charities, and he asked me to take her. Venetia could have come; I naturally wanted her to. As you know, she has no great interest in opera, and she’s still recovering from Elspeth’s birth. And I didn’t want to waste the ticket altogether. Hardly my fault.’

‘Possibly not. Although you could have stayed at home with Venetia.’

‘Which I did. I left after the first act, handed over my charge to someone else. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’

‘I – did notice,’ said Celia. She felt slightly foolish and irritated with herself.

‘Well, there you are. Did you enjoy the opera yourself?’

‘Very much.’

‘And how much did Lord Arden tell you about his exciting new political party?’

‘Hardly his,’ she said, grateful for a change of subject. ‘But yes, quite a lot, as a matter of fact. He’s promised to introduce me to Tom Mosley. I find all their ideas rather interesting, I must confess.’

‘Celia, don’t even think about them. Those people are deeply dangerous. They believe in force when it suits them, they are violently racist and they all think that chap Adolf Hitler is the most wonderful chap, when in my view he’s a psychopath.’

‘Absolute nonsense. And I wouldn’t agree with you about Hitler either,’ said Celia, ‘he’s a visionary, and vision is what’s needed at the moment. We could do with a bit of it here. All these wretched people out of work, hunger marches, the miners virtually starving and all the government can offer is reduced unemployment benefit. No imagination at all.’

‘And what does Sir Oswald have to offer them?’

‘He says control should be taken from the established authorities and complete reformation of the economy and society inaugurated.’

‘By force if necessary, as I understand it.’

‘Not by force, by persuasion. To his vision of how things could be. You know he’s been approached by both major parties, they recognise how brilliant his ideas are. But he’s bravely decided to go on on his own. To try to do things his way. His ideas are so exciting, you have no idea.’

‘I haven’t actually, no,’ said Boy drily, ‘and do I sense a new book coming on, Lady Celia?’

‘I – well, it’s possible,’ she said, ‘yes. I think more people should know about these ideas.’

‘And what does Oliver think about that?’

‘We haven’t discussed it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Now can we change the subject?’

‘Yes. Open your present. Go on.’

She opened it and began to laugh. ‘Boy, it’s heaven. Thank you so much.’

‘Isn’t it? I knew you’d like it.’

It was a paper doll of Noël Coward, dressed in vest and underpants, complete with cut-out wardrobe. ‘I adore it. I shall keep him in my bedroom.’

‘Very appropriate. I have one myself, in my office here. He cheers me up.’

‘Do you need cheering up, Boy?’ she said. She spoke lightly, but her dark eyes were sharp.

‘Oh – only occasionally. Milk?’

He would speak to her, Giles decided. Find out how she felt once and for all. After all, she had no real idea how he felt about her. It might be reciprocated. And then – well, then everything would be all right. More than all right, wonderful. It had to be done. It really did. Otherwise he was going to go mad . . .

‘Barty, hallo. How would you like to have supper with me tonight?’

‘I’d love it. I really would. But I’ve got to get these proofs up to Sebastian, get his comments on the corrections. Could it be a bit later than usual?’

‘Of course. Why don’t we meet at – let’s say, eight-thirty. Where would you like to go?’

‘Oh – I don’t know. Corner House.’

He looked shocked. ‘Barty, I meant somewhere a bit special. I – well I want to talk to you about something. We could go to the Ritz if you like.’

She looked at him just slightly anxiously. Then she said, ‘Oh, Giles no. Not the Ritz. I feel so – uncomfortable in those places. What about that little place in Walton Street, we went a few months ago, that was lovely.’

‘Oh – all right. Yes, I’ll see you there.’

She was fifteen minutes late; she looked upset.

‘I’m sorry. It’s so sad up there, Giles. Little Izzie is so sweet and so exactly like Pandora, more every day. And she toddles about, chattering away, and every time she sees Sebastian, she goes up to him and raises her arms to be picked up and he just ignores her, walks past her, and she stands looking after him, her little face so sad. It’s awful, it really is. I don’t know what can be done.’

‘Perhaps she could go and live with Venetia,’ said Giles, ‘one more would hardly make a difference.’

‘Do you know, she actually suggested that? Venetia, I mean.’