Katherine’s old eyes stared out of her tall, lead-paned windows, gazing up the park towards the château. “Perhaps I ought not to say anything,” she murmured, not looking at him. “It is delicate; a mother and her son. . . .”

Tom swallowed; his mouth was dry.

“Grandmother, if something is wrong, I beg you will tell me now. It is my company, after all.” Resentment burned in his cheeks. “Or it ought to be.”

“Well, that is true.” His grandmother turned her eyes back to him, then gazed at her lap. “It seems your mother has dismissed the men Papa hired. She has involved the company in legal struggles. She has closed the jewellery stores—not just in France but across the world.”

Tom paled. “You are joking.”

“I wish I were, my dear.”

He removed his hand from his grandmother’s arm, sprang to his feet, and began to pace around the room. Katherine watched him intently.

“And what is the cause? What explanation has she given for such behaviour?”

“None,” Katherine said, crisply. “She tells the press nothing. House Massot is plunged into rumour and speculation. It is the talk of Paris.”

Tom felt nausea rise in his throat. It was even worse, then, than he had suspected. He was glad he had moved so swiftly, perhaps not swiftly enough.

“Grandmother, I have to ask you a favour,” he said, gravely.

“There is something else, my darling.”

He stared. There could not be more?

“I fear that this . . . precipitate action by Maman may have stemmed from something . . . well . . . unfortunate.”

Tom knew the old lady well enough to understand that the matter must be truly awful; for Katherine, these were strong terms indeed.

“Go on,” he said with a calmness he did not feel.

“There were rumours . . . more than rumours, I’m afraid . . . of a, how shall I put it, a liaison.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“A liaison between your mother and the chief executive of the company. A man your father chose and employed himself.”

“But . . . but . . .” Tom knew he was spluttering, but he could not help it. “That’s disgusting. It cannot be true. She would never ...”

“Your mother is convinced your father is dead,” Katherine said mildly. “You must remember that. I am sure she convinced the executive of it also. After all, she had that piece of paper.”

Tom had gone cold with shock. He made a feeble effort to collect himself.

“I am afraid it is quite true,” said Katherine, relentlessly. “The servants gossip, you know . . . she had him as a guest to the château . . . many times . . . went to his house . . . was quite devoted, from what I understand.”

“She brought a lover into my father’s house?” Tom repeated. The betrayal and pain were overwhelming.

“While still dressed in her mourning weeds!” Katherine exclaimed. Then shook herself, deliberately. “Oh—my darling, forgive me; I must not criticize Maman in front of you.”