Hugh was relieved to find himself ravenously hungry. Karen had been supple and enthusiastic, and the physical act of sex for him was as strenuous as a workout. He rang room service and ordered a steak and fries. He polished off everything and was enjoying the coffee when the phone rang. He sighed; it was late, and he had wanted to get to sleep. This could only be Pete.

“Yes?” he said.

It wasn’t Pete. It was Louis Maitre, and he sounded incoherent with excitement.

“Monsieur! I am glad I track you down at last. Monsieur . . . there is news.”

Montfort forgot everything else. “Yes? Tell me.”

“The widow Massot has gone mad,” Maitre said.

“Slow down, Maitre,” Hugh said carefully, “and tell me exactly what has happened.”

The flight back to London took an eternity. Montfort could not sleep, and the distractions of films, indifferent meals, and champagne had no power for him. He took out a notebook from his briefcase and began to jot his thoughts down on paper.

Sophie Massot was “on the rampage,” Maitre had said—an image that made him smile, despite the blackness of his mood. That woman in the dress of raven silk, with the briolette diamonds, as cold and proper as a dowager queen—he could not see her “rampaging” for anything or anybody.

And yet the facts were there. A few phone calls had confirmed them. House Massot stores in London, Paris, New York, and Tokyo, closed—shutting their doors to visitors. Nothing but their lacklustre brand of fashion and accessories was trading. Staff had been fired across the globe—not made redundant, but dismissed for cause. The predictable lawsuits had been filed; the company had hired a London firm—Brocket, Sterns—to take care of those cases.

Montfort knew Brocket, Sterns; they were sharks—ruthless—the kind of firm he might have selected himself, in the circumstances.

The chief executive, the indolent Gregoire Lazard, had been escorted from the Paris offices by security guards. He too had filed a multimillion euro lawsuit. Meanwhile, at Sophie’s request, Brocket, Sterns was apparently investigating compensation and expenses for the rest of the board of directors.

Maitre’s network of informants told him House Massot’s bankers were nervous. Their stock had dropped a full 3 percent and continued to slide. Meanwhile, shareholders and analysts were demanding information, but the PR department had not released so much as a statement.

“She is completèment folle,” Maitre triumphed. “Your task will now be easy, Monsieur.”

Montfort had asked when the next shareholders’ meeting was.

“Six months, Monsieur. By then the collapse will be complete.”

I wonder, Hugh thought.

He had good instincts for any kind of threat, and they were prickling now. Montfort didn’t like it. Any of it.