Free Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) by Penny Vincenzi Page B

just amuse ourselves, you won’t have to worry about us.’
    Oliver patted her hand. ‘Of course we won’t worry about you,’ he said, smiling at her.
    How do they get away with it, thought Barty, realising with a degree of relief that she and the boys would be travelling home from Paris on their own. The complete lack of effort they put into their lives, the nonsense they talked – ‘behind with their winter wardrobes’ for heaven’s sake, the self-indulgence that marked every hour of every day; and yet even Celia let them get away with it. It was not what she would have wanted, that idle, pleasure-seeking life: not in the least. Just the same, she still couldn’t help feeling a little irked that no one seemed to expect anything more of them.
     
    Of her own future nothing had yet been settled; Celia had talked about a job at Lyttons for her in rather surprisingly vague terms and, still more surprisingly, had accepted Barty’s request for a little time to think about it. She was altogether not quite herself at the moment, distracted, and slightly subdued; perhaps she was finally slowing down, losing some of her famous energy. After all, she wasn’t exactly young any more; she must be over forty now, although this evening, her tanned skin shown off by a narrow white silk dress, her dark hair gleaming in the candlelight, she looked particularly beautiful.
    And many, many years younger than dear old Wol . . .
     
    ‘Girls, I need your help.’
    Oliver had come down to breakfast at the Georges V on his own; the twins, already almost finished, anxious not to waste a moment of shopping time, looked at him with a degree of anxiety. ‘What with? And where’s Mummy?’
    ‘Your mother is not well. That’s the whole point. And—’
    ‘Mummy’s not well! But she’s always well.’
    It was true; Celia’s good health was legendary, her only physical weakness being a tendency to miscarry, a problem no longer in any danger of troubling her.
    ‘Well, she is not well today. She had oysters last night as you know and—’
    ‘Oh God.’ Venetia shuddered. She had once had oyster poisoning herself and could not longer bear so much as to look at them on a dish. ‘I did warn her off. Poor, poor Mummy.’
    ‘I know. She feels perfectly dreadful; a doctor is with her now. Of course it’s not serious, but she will have to remain here for at least two more days. But I need a hostess for luncheon. I am taking Guy Constantine and his editorial director to Maxim’s and I don’t want to do it on my own.’
    ‘Why ever not?’ said Adele, genuinely puzzled. ‘It’s business, isn’t it? Why do you need a hostess? And anyway, where’s Giles?’
    ‘He’s at their warehouse near the Quai d’Orsay. In any case, this is a social arrangement,’ said Oliver impatiently. ‘I refused luncheon in the boardroom, said I would like to make a pleasant break in the day, that your mother and I would like to take them to luncheon, and they were delighted. We will have been talking business all morning, and I want this to be a relaxing occasion, with some light-hearted conversation. So I would like you to join us. Preferably both of you, but certainly one.’
    ‘But Daddy—’
    ‘Venetia,’ said Oliver and his voice had an entirely different note to it, ‘I don’t often ask you to do things for me. Your mother and I devote a great deal of time and money to making life pleasant for you. You have just had an extremely good holiday and the next few months are not going to be exactly difficult for you. Now, which of you is going to be kind enough, generous enough even, to accompany me to Maxim’s for luncheon?’
    The twins looked at each other.
    ‘Both of us,’ they said.
     
    They arrived at the Constantine building at twelve-thirty as instructed, having left their shopping at the Georges V and having looked cautiously in on their mother. She was asleep; the nurse in attendance put her fingers to her lips.
    It was a glorious