The lettings agent nodded and rubbed his hands eagerly. “It is one of our finest properties . . . a jewel. Of course, you would know about that.” He laughed at his own joke, but the boy, the Massot heir, did not speak. “We have others if this is not to your taste,” he added hastily. “Several others . . . perhaps something more modern . . .”

Tom turned his gaze to the little man. “It will do, Monsieur. I gather my grandmother has already advanced you the necessary monies.”

He wanted to get this over with. He found the agent’s giggling and joking impertinent.

“Oh, yes, that is all arranged.”

“Then have you some papers for me to sign?”

The man practially fell over himself in eagerness. “No, no, Monsieur. With you that is not necessary. We are well acquainted with House Massot. It’s all yours.”

“Excellent.”

“Perhaps a drink to celebrate, then.” He produced a bottle of champagne. Tom glanced at it: Moët, nonvintage and nonimaginative. “Compliments of the agency, Monsieur. Shall I open it?”

Tom said, “No thank you,” very distantly and dismissively.

The man’s face fell; he finally got the message.

“Very good, Monsieur. I shall leave my card—if there’s anything further I can do for you, anything at all . . .”

“Thank you. Good day,” Tom said, instantly.

Discomfited, the agent put down the champagne, which had been hanging rather limply in his hand, on a side table, and fished out a card, which he placed next to it. Then he gave one last obsequious smile and let himself out of the front door.

Tom looked around the place with resignation. As he had said, it would do. It was a luxurious apartment, nineteenth-century, four bedrooms and two salons, somewhat baroque; fully furnished with real, though unremarkable antiques; the correct address on the Left Bank, and a glorious view of the Seine. It was rented at twenty thousand euros per month and would be an acceptable temporary headquarters.

But the soullessness of the place depressed him. It was not a Massot property, nothing like Château des Étoiles. He was here because his mother had forced him to be—out of his home, out of his inheritance.

Grandmother . . . well. She had been a surprise. There was a hidden steel to her ancient frame, and it almost made him feel sorry for Maman. But she had brought this on herself, and, he promised himself virtuously, he would give her every opportunity to retreat with grace.

He tried to force himself into a more cheerful mood. He was back in France, there was that to be thankful for. And maybe he could set things aright. Hush up his mother’s scandals and take his place at the helm of House Massot. Perhaps there would not be any struggles after he showed his hand.