pink when she’d finally given up trying and crawled back into bed. ‘Is there still lots to do for tonight?’
Pulling a dripping long-stemmed lily from the vase, Genevieve sighed. ‘There does seem to be a lot of last-minute things to attend to. For one thing, these flowers are all wrong. Now I remember why I haven’t entertained like this since your grandfather died.’
Bella made a soft, sympathetic sound. After almost fifty years of marriage, Genevieve had been widowed two years ago. ‘Will it be awful for you, to do it without him?’
‘Awful? Not at all,’ said Genevieve matter-of-factly, looking critically at the arrangement of lilies and white hydrangeas. She didn’t elaborate, and Bella realised with a flicker of surprise how little she knew her grandmother. Up until five months ago she had been nothing but a remote, elegant figure who had always stood silently by Edward Lawrence’s side: coolness and shade to the full-on dazzle of his forceful presence. It was only since Bella had come, at Miles’s insistence, to live in the house in Wilton Square, following the business with Dan Nightingale, that she had begun to see the person behind the impeccable façade. And to like her.
‘It is a shame that your mama and papa cannot be here, though,’ Genevieve continued, adjusting a glossy, tropical-looking leaf. ‘I had a call from your mother this morning to say there has been more trouble overnight and the diplomatic situation is too tense for your papa to leave just now.’
Bella was slightly ashamed at the relief that leapt within her. Used to being the invisible member of the dynamic and high-achieving Lawrence family, she had felt completely smothered by the attention which had been focused on her since the Dan Nightingale thing, and she had been dreading seeing her parents for the first time since it happened. Miles’s stifling concern was quite enough to deal with.
‘They must be very disappointed,’ she said guiltily.
Genevieve gave a little lift of her narrow shoulders. ‘You know the Lawrence men, cherie. Work comes first. But we will manage without them, I dare say. Now—have you decided what you will wear tonight?’
Bella’s eyes lit up. ‘Well…I got this gorgeous little silk smock dress in Portobello Market the other day. It’s bright red with fuchsia-pink flowers around the hem, with kind of pink sequins and gold embroidery on them…’ The words came out in a rush of enthusiasm and her hands fluttered in the air, sketching fluid lines. ‘And it’s short—but not, you know, indecently short, and it’s got this deep scooped neckline and sweet little sleeves…’ The words petered out.
‘It sounds fabulous, cherie.’
‘Yes…’ Subdued again, Bella paused. ‘You know, I think maybe it would be better if I borrowed your black Balenciaga, though.’
Genevieve’s fine eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘Would it be foolish to ask why?’
‘I think that Miles would rather I—I don’t know…I think I should just keep it low key. After all that’s happened…’
Picking at the spiky leaves of a discarded palm leaf, Bella didn’t notice the concerned glance Genevieve cast her; however, she did detect the faint note of reproach in her grandmother’s voice. ‘Bella, ma chère, you cannot spend your life trying to be what your brother wants you to be.’
Bella gave a crooked smile. ‘No, but perhaps I have less chance of messing up that way. After all, I made a huge fuss about being given the chance to be myself and live my own life, and look what happened.’
‘You made a mistake,’ said Genevieve mildly. ‘Is that so bad?’
Bella’s smile faded. The huge, marble-tiled hallway felt suddenly cold. ‘Given that it could have caused a scandal which may have cost Papa and Miles their jobs, I think that’s as bad as I’d like it to get,’ she said quietly. Without realizing it she had completely stripped the palm frond, and its shredded leaves were scattered over the polished surface of the table. ‘I don’t want to make things any more difficult for Miles than I have already. It’s a pretty important time for him just now, with the election coming up and everything, and the last thing he needs is his drop-out, headcase sister mucking things up for him again.’
‘But, cherie, this is a private party for my birthday, not a political rally for Miles. You can wear what you like.’
‘I know, but you have to admit, Grandmère, that you have some pretty influential friends. I think I should stay in the background as much as possible.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘In fact it would probably be better all round if I didn’t come…’
She had been sweeping the torn leaves into a little pile, but now Genevieve stopped her, laying her hand over Bella’s quite firmly. ‘Stop this, Bella.’
‘Sorry… It’s not that I don’t want to be there for your party, it’s just that you have to admit I’m a bit of a liability,’ Bella said lightly. She gave an awkward smile. ‘Even Ashley, PR Genius and Totally Nice Person, would have her work cut out making an art school dropout, shop girl and psychiatrist’s dream ticket seem like a political asset.’
‘Oh, Bella,’ Genevieve sighed. Suddenly she seemed very sad. ‘You have such talent. If only you could see that.’
‘For art,’ said Bella soberly. ‘That’s all, and that avenue is fairly conclusively closed since—’
Genevieve cut her off. ‘Non. Not just for art. For empathy. For understanding people, and seeing through the façade to what lies beneath. For loving.’
Bella laughed, but there was a faint tinge of bitterness to it. ‘I think Miles would say that’s my problem, not my talent.’
‘Non! Don’t let him make you believe that!’
The sudden rawness in Genevieve’s voice made Bella’s heart miss a beat. Her words echoed for a moment round the grand room, seeming out of place amongst the gleaming marble and polished wood, the perfectly arranged Sèvres china and Georgian silver. The orchid she had been holding fell to the floor as Genevieve took Bella’s hands in hers.
‘I do not want to watch you throw away your happiness to appease your family. Please, cherie, tell me you won’t. Don’t make the same mistake that I made.’
As the car glided through the security cordon at the entrance to Wilton Square, the noise and activity of the city was left behind and Olivier felt as if he was entering a charmed world. Beyond the dark shapes of the trees in the central garden Genevieve Delacroix’s ivory mansion blazed with light, and music spilled from windows which had been thrown open against the sticky air. The party had been going for an hour or so, and Olivier had timed his arrival carefully to allow him to slip in relatively unnoticed.
The enormous black front door was opened by a stiff-backed butler in white tie and tails, and Olivier handed over the gold-edged invitation he had managed to procure from a contact in the Treasury who owed him a favour. The butler took it with an impassive nod, gesturing for him to leave the gift he carried on a mahogany sideboard groaning under the weight of exquisitely wrapped parcels. Placing the painting of Le Manoir St Laurien, carefully reinserted into its frame, amongst them, Olivier followed the direction of the noise.
The spacious first-floor sitting room was packed with cabinet ministers, high-powered media figures and ancient aristocrats, and their loud, almost unintelligibly well-bred voices drifted assuredly above the music of
