He took the envelope. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. “And thank you for seeing me.”

Sophie offered her hand. “I’ll have Celine show you out.” Enough was enough, she thought. She could make magnanimous gestures, too, but Hugh Montfort was her enemy, her son’s enemy, her husband’s enemy. Sophie was not about to let a passing fancy blind her to that.

Gregoire Lazard was the last time.

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Tom bowed halfheartedly.

“And this is Celeste de Fortuny, and her sister Margot.”

Two more moonfaced girls with weak chins. He sighed inwardly.

“They are the daughters of the Marquis de Fortuny, you know, darling,” his grandmother persisted.

“I know the marquis,” Tom acknowledged. They had met several times at Maman’s interminable dinner parties at the château. De Fortuny was a dullard with a face flushed from too much testing of the product of his own vineyeards, and his daughters looked scarcely more interesting.

“And here is Louise Tatin.”

“Enchanted,” Tom said, kissing her hand. Louise was a slight improvement. She had red hair and reminded him of Flora.

“And her young man, Georges, the younger son of M. Grec ques, the minister of finance.”

“How d’you do,” Tom managed. So the slightly pretty one was taken, no surprise there. God. How much more of this? Grandmother’s parties, and salons, and introductions, were wearing him out. Tonight was the worst; fifty of her closest friends and their children for dinner in the rented apartment, Paris’s most costly caterers, no expense spared. The adults had mostly left after the sumptuous dinner; even Tom had enjoyed the dinner; it was a rush to finally sit at the head of his own, long table, Grandmother presiding at the second one. The caterers had brought it in, laid it with the finest linens, crystal glasses, and silverware, punctuated it with vases crammed with lilies and orchids, and beeswax candles, and then served a meal of utter magnificence. If he were to be honest, he had enjoyed all those dukes and barons as his guests; he had revelled in the free flow of vintage champagne from the great marques, the caviar and other amuse-gueules, the nettle sorbets, the Normandy cheeses, the truffled butter, the succulent roast geese. It was all extremely French, extremely haut, a mark of respect to his father. Grandmother wore an impeccable Givenchy gown of moss green satin and dripped with Massot emeralds and diamonds. The one concession to England had been at his own request: Charbonnel & Walker chocolates. One simply could not get better, neither in Paris nor from any Brussels confectioner, and Tom would rather have the best than be a purist.

French was, of course, usually best. But sometimes the British did a thing or two well. Such as chocolates. And women.