Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  Barty shook herelf almost visibly.

  ‘Of – of course you may,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. Come along, then.’

  He took her hand and led her on to the floor and then took her into his arms, and began to dance with her with absolute assurance and musical sense and skill. The band was playing ‘Dancing on the ceiling’; Barty moved into the music, joined him in it and it was as if there were no one else on the floor, no one at all, and they danced again and then again, he didn’t ask her, simply assumed, and was right in assuming it, that she would want to stay with him.

  What seemed a long time later, when the music had changed to a waltz, she tried to pull herself away; not because she wanted to, but because she felt she should. He sensed it, looked down at her, and said, ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘of course not, nothing at all, I just thought I should—’

  ‘Should what?’ he said, his eyes moving over her slowly and deliberately, as if studying some interesting object that he had found. ‘If you want to sit down, we could go into the small bar over there. It’s very hot in here. You do feel rather – warm.’

  ‘Do I?’ she said stupidly, and ‘yes,’ he said, his eyes very serious. ‘Really extremely – warm.’ And indeed she did, very warm, almost feverish. ‘So let us go and have a drink of something cool. And talk for a little while.’

  ‘I really ought to—’ she said and stopped again.

  ‘If you mean rejoin your party, I don’t think that’s at all a good idea,’ he said, ‘I was watching you dancing earlier.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘I was indeed. Thinking two things. That you danced extremely well, and that your partner didn’t deserve you. Besides, I happen to know he is engaged to someone else. Silly little thing, making that fuss on the dance floor.’

  ‘I didn’t think she – made a fuss,’ said Barty.

  ‘Of course she did.’ He sounded irritated. ‘She was clearly jealous of you. With good reason. Mr Brewer was obviously enjoying you very much. As indeed he should have been. Champagne?’

  ‘No, water, I think,’ said Barty. ‘I’ve had too much champagne.’

  ‘How very unusual,’ he said, ‘for a girl to know such a thing. Very well, we will both have water.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to spoil your fun.’

  ‘What an extraordinary thing to say,’ he said. ‘How could I be having more – fun? And how could drinking alcohol increase it? I have never found getting drunk particularly fun. A few glasses, then the palate is numb, don’t you think? And then the other senses begin to follow it. Not a good idea. Particularly not at this moment. What about lemonade, would that be nicer than water?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I like water.’

  ‘So do I. Another bond.’

  ‘Another?’ she said, amused. ‘And what is the first?’

  ‘Oh, there are several,’ he said, his eyes moving over her again. The smile, the extraordinary smile, did not come very often, she observed. ‘Several already. And no doubt we shall find more. We both dance extremely well. We find one another – intriguing. We’re both tall. I like tall girls. Iced water,’ he said to the waiter, ‘a large jug.’

  He showed her into a chair, sat beside her.

  ‘Cigarette?’ He took out a silver case.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘But you carry a case.’

  ‘Of course. Tell me about yourself. You’re English, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Staying over here?’

  ‘For a little while, yes. A year or so.’

  ‘A year! What brings you here? A simple love of our city, or something more?’

  ‘I do love it, yes. I adore it. I don’t know quite why, but—’

  ‘It suits you,’ he said, ‘that’s why. You have an – originality about you. You are impossible to categorise. New York likes such people.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said wishing she could find something as interesting to say, ‘oh I see.’

  ‘And where are you living?’

  ‘I’ve got a small apartment. In Gramercy Park.’

  ‘There you are, you see,’ he said, leaning back and looking at her with immense satisfaction, ‘I was right. You are totally unpredictable. Who would have thought that you, chic, beautiful, accomplished, as you so clearly are, should have an apartment in Gramercy Park. Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I like it there,’ she said, laughing at him. She was beginning to regain herself. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’

  ‘And what do you find so wonderful about it? When it is moving down the social scale more swiftly every day. I know the Roosevelts and the literary elite – Edith Wharton for one – used to live there, but now – it’s becoming really rather shabby.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s why I like it. And that the houses are so pretty, and the streets are quite narrow and—’

  ‘Has anyone told you about the Gramercy Park Speakeasy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful story. On the corner of Irving Place and Seventeenth, now called Pete’s Tavern, there was a flower shop. At the back of the flower shop they put a walk-in fridge and behind that was a speakeasy. A favourite haunt of politicians, that flower shop. Now then, I realise I don’t even know your name. What is it?’

  ‘It’s Barty. Barty Miller.’

  ‘Barty. What a wonderful name. I have never heard it before. Is it English?’

  ‘It’s a nickname,’ she said. ‘When I was born, my little brother couldn’t say Barbara, and Barty I became.’

  ‘And were you born into an immensely grand and important English family, Miss Miller? Are you an honourable, or even a Lady with a capital L?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, nothing like that. A very humble family. Actually.’

  ‘You don’t speak as if you come from a humble family.’

  ‘Well I do,’ she said.

  He looked at her curiously.

  ‘No further explanation?’

  ‘Why should I give you one?’

  ‘Because I want one.’

  ‘And do you always get what you want?’

  ‘Almost always. I work very hard on it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I also want an explanation because I find you extremely interesting. As well as extremely beautiful. It’s a very potent combination.’

  Barty was silent; she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be crass. And more than anything she wanted not to be crass. She wanted him to continue to find her interesting: and unpredictable and unusual and all the other things he had already pronounced her. She wanted him to stay with her for a very long time; she found, indeed, the idea of him leaving her even at the end of the evening, almost painful.

  He reached out a finger and traced the shape of her face, pausing on her chin.

  ‘Even your beauty is unusual,’ he said.

  Barty stared at him; she felt frail, helpless, absolutely in his thrall. If he had told her to remove her dress and dance with him in her chemise, she had an uneasy feeling she would have done so. She shook herself mentally. This would not do; this was not how she behaved. It did not do her own self justice.

  ‘I really think I should be – getting back,’ she said for the third time.

  ‘Of course you shouldn’t,’ he said, and his voice was impatient again, almost rough. ‘Of course you shouldn’t be getting back. What on earth for, why should you?’

  ‘Because – because they might be looking for me. Wondering where I am.’

  ‘In that case, they could find you. We have not left the building, we are not running away from the city; we haven’t even departed from the ball.’

  ‘No,’ she said helplessly, ‘no, I suppose not.’ And then suddenly realising she didn’t know his name either, she asked it.

  He looked at her, his extr
aordinary eyes thoughtful. Then he said, ‘My name is Laurence. Laurence Elliott. Absolutely at your service, Miss Miller. I am so very glad you came to New York.’

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘My darling, you’re not going away again. How can I function, with my alter ego constantly leaving me. It’s too bad, you know I have a desperately important shoot next week. Tallulah herself, and for Vogue. I wanted furs, rugs, tiger skins, everything. And acres of fabric, silk lace, velvet – I really need this to be successful, Adele, it’s too bad of you.’

  ‘Cedric, I’m sorry. But – I do have to go.’

  ‘To see the wretched Mr Lieberman.’

  ‘He’s not wretched.’

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ said Cedric, his face suddenly petulant.

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘And he didn’t like me.’

  ‘Cedric, he did. Of course he did. But he wanted to have me to himself. We only had a day. He’s very – possessive.’

  ‘Well he has no right to be. Seriously, Adele. He does nothing for you, nothing at all. I don’t know how—’ He sighed. ‘Oh, dear. It’s no use my saying it all again, is it?’

  ‘None at all, Cedric, I’m afraid. I know you all think I’m quite mad, but—’

  ‘We don’t think, darling, we know. Never mind. I shall have to find someone else to seek out Tallulah’s tulle for me. You’ll lose your place in my life soon. And my heart. Then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘I will. If it happens. As you’re my best friend, next to Venetia, I hope it won’t.’

  ‘My darling, I’m afraid both of us come a very poor second to the Enfant Terrible. Aren’t you jealous of his other admirer?’

  ‘His other admirer?’ said Adele, intrigued.

  ‘Darling, he’s so in love with himself, I don’t think that you can possibly compete.’

  Adele was actually beginning to find the constant criticism of Luc, and of her relationship with him, whether spoken, as in the case of her mother and Cedric, or unspoken, as in the case of Venetia and her friends, rather wearing. None of them understood in the least: how it was for French men. Of course Luc loved her; he told her so constantly. And she loved him. Absolutely. She took no notice of what they all said to her, or what they thought. She had no trouble defending him and his behaviour to herself; it was just that to do so to everyone else was a little more difficult. Just the same, she did occasionally think he might say – or even do – something that indicated his appreciation of her and what she had given up for him. Willingly of course. But – maybe she should say something – something very gentle, when she saw him the next day. Just so he understood a tiny bit better.

  ‘Sebastian, I’ve had a request from that girlfriend of Barty’s. Abigail something or other. To donate a signed book which she can raffle at her school fête. I said you’d be delighted. That you’d probably give two, and that you might even draw the raffle.’

  ‘Well, you had no right to speak for me, Celia. I should be nothing of the sort. She can’t have one.’

  Celia stared at him. ‘Oh, don’t be absurd. Why ever shouldn’t you sign the books for this girl? It’s a perfectly reasonable request. She’s doing something altruistic, I don’t see what criticism you can possibly have of her.’

  Sebastian glared at her. ‘I don’t like her. I didn’t like her when I met her, and I can’t see that anything’s happened since to make me change my mind.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Celia, ‘you’re just being awkward for its own sake. I find your attitude baffling, she seems a most admirable person, working for her school in this way. I’m not asking you to have dinner with the girl. Merely to sign some books which can then be raffled for charity.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Very well.’

  ‘Good. I do like to see enterprise rewarded. I see from her card she gives piano lessons as well. I wish my girls would turn their lives to something half as useful.’

  ‘Celia, I don’t want to sit here hearing Abigail Clarence lauded any further. I said I’d send the books. But don’t ask me to draw the wretched raffle, will you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Celia coolly.

  ‘Celia,’ said Sebastian, and there was something of his old spirited self as he smiled at her, ‘you would dream of doing almost anything.’

  Abbie was marking exercise books that evening when her telephone rang. It was Sebastian Brooke.

  ‘I just thought I should let you know that I’ve signed your books for you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Mr Brooke, thank you. That is so kind of you, I know—’

  ‘I will not however be able to draw your raffle.’

  ‘That’s a shame, I—’

  ‘And I would also like to say that if you make any further approaches towards the Lytton family, I shall personally see that you are extremely sorry. Good evening.’

  He rang off at once, before she could say anything; she put the receiver down with a hand that she noticed was shaking.

  Arrogant bastard. Who did he think he was, interfering in her affairs, when he wasn’t even a Lytton. She would approach them if she liked. It wasn’t going to do bloody Venetia any harm: Venetia in the large, warm cocoon of her marriage and her money and her family.

  So Barty had told Sebastian, had she? After swearing she wouldn’t tell anyone. So much for friendship. She was besotted with that family, in spite of her rather pathetic affirmation to the contrary. It was as well for her that she was in New York, Abbie thought. Otherwise she’d be on the receiving end of some very frank speaking.

  Boy had told her that Barty had gone; he had no idea of course that she knew of their relationship. The whole lot of them were so – so protected. From reality, from financial worries, from worries of any kind. Suddenly, she rather wanted to worry Boy at least. Drifting in and out of her life when it suited him, assuming she would be pleased to see him, that she would be sure to be free for him. She was always resolving to be busier, to tell him it was impossible, that the very next liaison he proposed was impossible; but somehow she never did.

  The trouble was she was half in love with Boy herself; it wasn’t just sex, not just the free meal she had defended so eloquently to Barty. He was so charming, so amusing, so interested in her – and so clever. She enjoyed talking to him almost as much – more, sometimes – as she did the sex. Although he was very good at that too: certainly the best lover she had ever had, imaginative, tantalising, and most gloriously interested in her and what she wanted. They would talk for hours, sometimes lying in bed, sometimes sitting in her pretty drawing room drinking the excellent wine he always brought with him: about politics (their views concurring more than she would have expected, but sufficiently different to inspire some fine arguments), about the rise of the Fascist movement in England, the dangerous international situation, about books (he was extremely wellread), about music (he had bought her a superb gramophone and often arrived with a present of a set of records that they would listen to together), opera (that night at the Wagner festival had been the most amazing of her life, she had been so filled with the wonder of the music that she hadn’t minded so terribly much having to leave in the first interval), and art, of course, about which he knew a great deal and was teaching her. He had even bought her a few pictures, by new artists who had come to his attention at his gallery, and her most cherished possession, a small abstract bronze which stood on her desk.

  She looked at it now, thinking of him in a mixture of rage and fondness; thinking of Venetia with pure rage, no fondness at all. Boy was very loyal to her, made it plain he would never leave her, but at the same time she knew he found her boring, in no way an intellectual companion to him. He had never said that in so many words, but often he would sigh and take her hand after they had nearly come to blows over some political nicety, or at the end of some symphony played on her gramophone and say, ‘I do so enjoy all of you’, or ‘You really are a very satisfying companion’ and she would know what he meant: that there were serious limitati
ons on what Venetia could offer him, and that she was not a very satisfying companion.

  Well, she ought to be; she must have a great deal of time on her hands, even with four children. She had a house full of staff, and nothing to do except direct them; the very fact that Boy would sometimes say, ‘Venetia’s going to be terribly busy all week with some dinner party she’s giving’ told more about her than anything. She was spoilt, she was intellectually lazy, and she didn’t deserve Boy; it wasn’t fair. Maybe it was Venetia who deserved a little worry in her life, not Boy. And how could that be accomplished, Abbie wondered, at first idly, then more carefully. She was an anachronism; she should be brought into touch with the modern world. And maybe her husband’s mistress was the person best placed to do that.

  Jay had finally made up his mind about his future.

  It had been a very difficult decision and he had changed his mind almost every day for weeks, even after his own personal deadline of the New Year had passed. In favour of joining Lyttons was that the business did absolutely fascinate him; he had grown up in the extraordinary blend of professional and personal influence that it exerted over the entire Lytton family. Books, authors, publishing cycles, bookshops, were as much a topic of conversation round the Lytton table and indeed the Robinson one, as politics and gossip or personal interest and ambition. He remembered once asking his Aunt Celia if she thought about books when she was on holiday or in bed, and she had looked at him with something close to astonishment and said, ‘Of course I do, Jay. Of course. We all do.’

  Not quite all of course; he hadn’t observed Venetia or Adele devoting a great deal of attention to the subject, and he wasn’t sure that Kit would do either, at sixteen his ambitions were rather un-Lytton, as Adele put it, he talked about becoming a barrister or even going into the Church. This last had produced the unthinkable from Celia where Kit was concerned, an outburst of quite severe criticism.

  ‘The Church, Kit! Really! You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, a long, tedious apprenticeship in miserable livings, very modest financial reward, dealing with wretched people, working seven days a week – and unless you become a bishop or a canon, very little proper recognition from anyone. I know about these things, one of my brothers went into the Church, and he had a dreadful time, he was sent up to Yorkshire at one stage, had difficulty in paying the children’s school fees. In the end, he left and went into farming, much more sensible, but Papa had to buy him somewhere, it wasn’t easy for him. I don’t want to hear any more about it.’