Montfort had been to some Massot stores last year. This was unrecognizable. The interior of the showroom was full of flowers in fragrant cascades of pastels; not flowers, no, just roses. He admired the blond woods, the new cases, the deep blue velvet, the lighting, the assistants; it was all very rich, very feminine.

“Good morning, sir.”

A young woman in a pink Chanel suit had materialized by his side. She wasn’t pretty, but she was, he noted, extremely well put together. There was a small brooch of gold—pure gold—a bar, with her name on it in raised letters, CLAUDETTE CHIRON. Montfort felt a thrill of appreciation. Assistants in Chanel, and their nameplates a piece of jewellery—twenty-four karat.

“Can I offer you any assistance this morning?”

“I think I’ll just look,” Montfort said. There were ten other people in the showroom, four of them browsing, the rest being helped with purchases. He could see tissue paper and ribbons. A dowager who had just finished paying walked towards him, and he realized the carrier bag was made of pale pink satin, stamped with the Massot logo in gold.

“Very good, sir. Do please summon me if you have any questions.”

Mlle Chiron smiled at him and melted away.

Questions? He had hundreds. Who was responsible for this magnificent look? He might want to hire them. More importantly, for his bid, how much did this cost?

He walked over to one of the cases; this was a grouping of necklaces. Not like his own firm, there were no ranges; each piece was bespoke. There were also no prices.

Was this madness? The free-spending caprice of a spoiled bitch, as the journalist had charged? Sophie Massot indulging a talent for interior design with other people’s money?

He bent to examine the pieces in the case.

They had been grouped stylistically. This case was full of bold colours and styles, while the one a few feet from him gleamed with discreet tones of silver and moonlight: opals, platinum, pearls, and zircons.

These pieces were more modern. Hugh eyed them with the appreciation of a connoisseur. They reminded him a little of Jean Schlumberger designs, the great twentieth-century master: bright green tsavorites threaded with violet tanzanite, yellow sapphires and emeralds, coral branches linked with diamonds and iolites, a necklace redolent of the ocean floor. There was flair, but it was never obvious; the colours contrasted, rather than clashed. He coveted each one. It was bitter that Montfort had no woman to hang them on. The yellow sapphires and emeralds, he thought at once, would have done very well for Georgie; they were vernal, like daffodils, showily beautiful, but with a certain irreverence that guaranteed good taste.

He moved on to a different part of the room. Brooches. The Cinderella of modern jewellery; so few houses made decent brooches anymore. The younger set just did not wear them.

Massot apparently did not care about the younger set.