“I’m sure Thomas and Katherine Massot fully support Sophie. We’ll see at the shareholders’ meeting.”

“We will indeed,” said Bernard. “A family feud! How delicious.”

“And Hugh Montfort.” Pauline Vente chimed in. The woman hadn’t aged well; she was a crow in black velvet and unimpressive diamonds. What a lack of style, Judy thought, to wear your diamonds to a party like this if they aren’t much to write home about. Pauline’s two-carat ring might as well be a chip in here, so dwarfed was it by everybody else.

But Pauline, the least chic woman employed by the bible of chic, did not care. Her job was to report on gossip. And her eyes were sparkling brighter than Sophie Massot’s briolettes.

Judy followed her eyes. Yes, there he was, Montfort. Just as handsome as before, but it had no further effect on her. He was sipping champagne and watching the room. Gauging his competition.

Montfort had nothing to worry about with Sophie. But plenty to worry about with her.

“Why is he here?” Pauline asked. “He’s the opposition. Is Sophie playing games with her shareholders’ money?”

Judy tried to look shocked. “What a suggestion, Pauline!”

“This whole party is a risky, pompous gesture.”

“I can see it now,” Jeanne said. “Sophie Massot. The new Marie Antoinette!”

“Let them eat caviar,” Bernard agreed.

“Oh, you mustn’t write anything of the sort,” said Judy, unconvincingly. She glanced back at Thomas Massot, then at Hugh. She had to excuse herself. Her work here was done; the journalists were ready to eat Sophie alive.

“You must be kind,” Judy said. “Sophie means well,” she added, damningly. “Enjoy yourselves.”

She squared her shoulders and moved off towards Montfort. Not that he mattered; he did not. But Judy had to let him know she was not scared of him.

The crowd parted as she moved through it—her lean, muscular body red and predatory in its glittering sequinned sheath. Judy flattered herself that there was a look in her eyes that forbade too much argument.

A few of the men present, old barons and counts and other social lions, bankers and ministers in their fifties, looked at her approvingly as she passed. Judy saw the flickers of appreciation, the corresponding anger flashing in the eyes of their wives, and she fed off it; adrenaline crackled through her, she pulled back her shoulders, better displaying her still-high embonpoint; Judy did fifty chest flies a day, and if she couldn’t firm the fatty tissue of her breasts, she kept the muscles just above them so tight and hard that they still faced north.

She felt alive when these men looked at her. It salvaged her pride; the mirror told her she was still attractive; now these men, the cream of Paris, pre-Revolutionary money, told her the same.