As it was, he could not offer jewellery. Wine or chocolates would have been completely out of place; a painting or piece of art, too ostentatious.

He had chosen, therefore, with extreme care.

His telephone rang.

“Yes?”

“Your car is ready, Monsieur.”

“I’ll be right down,” Montfort said.

He put on his coat, picked up his gift, and left his suite. His limousine was purring right at the entrance to the hotel. It was a clear night, some stars visible even through the lights of the city; the cold snap had passed, and the air was refreshingly cool, not chilly, a perfect night for a party.

His driver shut the car door behind him and Montfort settled into his seat.

“Maison Massot, rue Faubourg St.-Honoré,” he said.

The car melted into the fast-flowing traffic, and Hugh felt something odd. Anticipation. That was it.

Excitement was to be expected, perhaps. Sophie appeared to be under the delusion that one party would rescue her ailing company and win back the hearts of her shareholders. He would be there himself—he would see it wasn’t true.

Tonight was the last gasp of his old adversary, Pierre Massot.

But something told him that he wasn’t being quite honest with himself. It was more than being satisfied that House Massot would soon be his, that he would have achieved his goal for Mayberry.

He was looking forward to more than that. He was looking forward to seeing Sophie Massot again.

Tom sat with his grandmother in the car, his heart thumping.

He wondered if she felt the same. Katherine was stiff-backed, and hadn’t spoken a word to him for the last twenty minutes. She had arrived with her driver to pick him up, quickly perused his dress, accepted compliments on her own, and they had set off for rue Faubourg.

He wanted to say something. Other than to praise his grandmother’s gown once again. She had certainly pulled out all the stops. Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen Katherine Massot in such fine estate. She was so dressed up, it was almost as if she wanted to look good, rather than maintain her normal elegance. Her coiffeur had constructed an elaborate updo, winding her fine white hair into a gleaming knot, spraying it with something that gave it an unnatural sheen, and then securing it with three splendid combs encrusted with pavé diamonds; her face was powdered, her cheeks had an extremely careful rouge to them, enough for a rosy cheek—not overdone and clownish. Katherine’s gown was of pale grey silk fringed with silver lace, and she wore, around her neck, an enormous choker of seed pearls and diamonds, as thick as a collar; it concealed all the crepey skin of her old age, and a boned bodice and skirt gave her a figure she had not possessed in nature for many years.