“I think we had better switch to English,” Lazard said. He propped up his half-moon spectacles on the brink of his nose and smiled briskly at her.

Judy bristled; she thought her accent was impeccable.

“And why is that?” she asked.

“You haven’t heard?”

Judy sat back in the walnut-backed chair, mystified. Gregoire Lazard smiled at her. He was tall, and beautifully, very carefully dressed, and he had friendly, twinkling eyes. But they still made her nervous.

“I would have thought you would have heard the rumours,” he said.

Judy shook her head. “I have spent the last two weeks in London, Monsieur.”

“Ah yes, the fashion shows.”

“We persuaded Vogue to run a piece on the new collection,” Judy added, pointedly.

“Yes. Congratulations.”

“I wanted to talk to you about my position.” You had to be firm with people, steer the conversation in the direction you thought it should go.

“Oh, Judy. I do not think your position is in any danger.”

Judy stared.

“Excusez-moi?”

“English,” he reminded her.

In danger? She had come here to be promoted.

“I don’t understand what you are talking about, Monsieur.”

“Your new boss,” he said. Despite his excellent English, there was a trace of French in the calm tones, even a touch of something underneath it—Slav, maybe, an eastern European touch. M. Lazard had the slight, rather sexy, hooding of the eyes that sometimes reminded Judy of Genghis Khan. Although he was, thankfully, altogether a more serene man. “And mine,” he added.

Judy exhaled. “A new boss?”

She could have kicked herself. How could she have missed this? Two weeks in dreary, raining London and she hadn’t bothered to read the business press. Her entire attention had been focussed on the women’s magazines, where Massot had to jostle for space with all the other small designers and the major jewellery houses.

“Somebody bought the company?” she asked, apprehensively. That was a problem. A big one. New brooms loved to consolidate, to fire, to replace. She could easily be swept aside. Even though Lazard said her position wasn’t in any danger, how could he possibly know for sure?

“No, nothing like that. It is just that Mme Massot has decided, enfin, to have M. Massot legally declared dead.”

Judy froze in her chair, with shock.

“It’s been seven years,” Gregoire Lazard continued. He looked at her, then judiciously looked away, perhaps to give her time to compose herself, Judy thought.

She swallowed hard.

“What . . . what does that mean for us, Monsieur?”

He shrugged in that particularly Gallic fashion, involving his whole upper body.

“I have no idea. Probably not much. It simply means that Mme Sophie will now control the company and her husband’s share of the stock. We expect her to visit headquarters soon, which is why I have asked the staff to switch to English. I gather madame’s French is still a little rusty.”