“I see.” She had not seen fit to inform him.

“I was going to mention it to you tonight, to ask your advice on what I should wear.” Katherine smiled at the crowd of courtiers. “Tom advises an old lady on her toilette so I do not make a fool of myself.”

There was a chorus of dissent.

“What you will wear? But we are not going, surely?” Tom asked, shocked out of discretion.

Katherine fixed him with a watery eye. “But of course we are going, my dear,” she said softly. “It is your party. For it is your company. That is what your father intended.”

He was finally alone at one in the morning. Helene Duloc, a curvy brunette daughter of some publishing magnate, had practically offered herself as a bed partner, but for once Tom was not interested. His mind was too busy. He needed to be by himself, and besides, she was half-drunk, and he preferred them sober. Nice tits, though; maybe he would call her tomorrow.

After his grandmother had been picked up by her chauffeur, and the last guests made their farewells, the catering company had most efficiently packed everything away; they had twenty people on the job, and within fifteen minutes his apartment was as pristine as when they arrived.

It was a great relief. Of course, at the château he would not have had to worry. He could simply have removed to the kitchen, one of the drawing rooms, his father’s smoking room, or the kitchens—anywhere—really, and waited for the servants to clear the stuff away in the morning. In the apartment, however, Tom did not have the luxury of space.

He walked into his spotless kitchen and reached for the coffeemaker; they had thoughtfully laid out some decaffeinated blends. Tom selected a Jamaican Blue Mountain, poured in a little cream; he chose a couple of moist macaroon cookies—the sweetness, and the richness of the coffee, was soothing.

He felt a touch uneasy. More than a touch. What was Grandmother planning? To see Maman at this party for the first time? They must quarrel. It might ruin the party, but it would also damage the reputation of the House, and more importantly, of his family. Surely Katherine could not want that. Yet he was sure, for all her correct words, that his grandmother had little time for Maman.

Tom could not be so harsh. Yes, she had behaved appallingly, but it was all new. Some kind of midlife crisis. Since Papa . . . went away . . . his mother had been the picture of ladylike elegance, keeping her state in the castle, throwing the right parties, and doing nothing improper. He thought all those years of good behaviour had to count for something. She must be corrected. But it must be done with respect.

He perceived a malice in Katherine’s bloodshot old eyes that disturbed him.