Even with the success, the new jobs, the publicity for British design, few outside his company regarded Hugh Montfort with any affection. He knew it, and did not care. The soubriquet Boy Wonder conveyed it exactly: a calculated mixture of admiration and contempt.

“You know, apart from the financials, we think this is a perfect deal,” Edgar Lowell said. He was fifty, perhaps, a Boston Brahmin, pale skinned and weak chinned, no trace of the regional accent. “Massot is over, but perhaps you can make something of it. I used to buy Massot jewels for my wife.”

“And Mayberry ones for your girlfriend,” Strachan cackled. He was fleshy, and Montfort had heard tales of dissipation—a paler version of Pete, then.

“I am only interested in expanding our brand. This deal is about logistics and supply; Massot has them, we need them,” Montfort said coolly.

“I’m sure we can structure something of interest to the shareholders,” Karl Epstein said. He was bookish, and the man Montfort preferred to deal with.

“It needs to be more than of interest; it needs to be unmissable. There is only fifty-five percent floating out there. I need everyone. Every institution, fund manager, individual holder. I need them all.”

Hugh Montfort held the eyes of all three of them.

“There is no room for mistakes,” he said. “If your bank wants this business, you will be exposed; the press will be watching. The consequences of failure will be as bad for you as for us.”

Willoughby Strachan felt himself begin to sweat. The limey was threatening them. It was a powerful threat, too. As a new bank, hoping to attract M&A business, they simply could not afford to fail in public. But the rewards of masterminding such a high-profile takeover . . .

He thought of his personal stockholdings.

Strachan was driven by the two gods of the market: fear and greed. The Englishman with the hard jaw and uncompromising manner apparently knew this.

They were being played, and yet he could not, they would not, say no.

“There won’t be any failures, Mr. Montfort,” he said, resenting him. “Let me call our deal team in.”

Hugh Montfort sat back against the burgundy leather of his chair.

“What a good idea,” he said.

The meetings took all day, and when he was finished, he went back to the hotel. The Ritz was the finest in the city and provided, amongst the many amenities of his splendid rooms, a comprehensive guidebook: entertainment choices in one of the oldest cities in America. He could have attended the theatre, concerts, a fine museum of the Revolutionary War, had he chosen to have his face rubbed in it. Or sports: Boston had prominent teams in basketball and baseball. His taxi’s radio had announced the presence of the New York Yankees at Fenway Park, and the callers were full of excitement and bile; it was one of the oldest rivalries in American sports.