Montfort be damned. Judy lifted her head. She would go to him, defy him to his face. Then let him find Sophie, wherever she was, and the two of them could fence little barbs at each other all night long.

Judy had other business. A brilliant idea, a flash of inspiration had occurred to her. She would find Thomas Massot. And with his help, she would destroy them both.

Tom moved to a corner. His grandmother had excused herself to go to the bathroom; he was alone. Thank God.

He drained his champagne flute and beckoned a passing waiter.

“You were drinking rosé, M’sieur? I only have demi-sec. Allow me to fetch—”

“It’s fine,” Tom said, cutting him off. “I’ll take this.”

Alcohol. It was all alcohol.

He felt weak and depressed. The shock, the dreadful, shaming shock. Just as he had planned to speak to Maman and put an end to all this, as he had been convincing himself of her respect for his father . . .

Sophie had greeted him and Grandmother. And she was not in mourning. There was not a stitch of black anywhere on her body. Not even anything sombre—purple or navy. Instead, she was wearing pink.

And not just any pink. His mother had been wearing a glorious, certainly antique, empire-waisted dress of the palest rose pink, decorated with white seed pearls, so it glittered and shone, opalescent against her fair skin. Her hair was secured into a chignon with ivory combs set with diamonds, and she wore pink diamond earrings—true pinks, one of the most valuable diamond colours on the planet—pear shapes, four carats apiece, worth millions, and a necklace, quite exquisite if not so valuable, of naturally pink conch pearls threaded with pale green peridot. The centerpiece, a rare large peridot, round-faceted and ten carats, sat just above her cleavage. Drawing attention to it. His mother, in an eighteenth-century gown that actually showed her cleavage, and this in front of the best, the noblest couples in Paris.

Tom had actually struggled for breath, so embarrassed, so furious, was he. Maman debasing not only his father’s legacy, but also his name.

He had nodded to her stiffly, and walked away, with his grandmother.

Tom took a slug of his fresh champagne flute. As soon as Grandmother returned he was getting out of here. They’d come; they’d made their point. Now they should leave and allow his mother to debase herself without a family audience.

So much for keeping it quiet. He had no compunction about that, not anymore. He would call a press conference first thing tomorrow morning and announce to the world that he and Katherine would vote their stock against his mother.

Montfort watched her.