She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the flagstone floor, and padded across the room to look out over her grounds. The château’s manicured park stretched out below her; the lake was a dark circle, its waters not yet sparkling in the sun. Behind it, beneath the slope of the lower lawn, was her mother-in-law’s residence, the elegant Georgian lines of the dower house.

Sophie wondered how Katherine had slept. Not well, she thought, not well.

It would be hard to forgive the old woman. She had never thought her antipathy to her son’s bride, her rejection of his choice as unworthy, would go so far as to try and drive a wedge between Sophie and her baby.

Nevertheless, they were family, and neighbours. There would have to be a reconciliation, whether Sophie wanted one or not.

She watched the sun rise over her grounds. When would she get a chance to enjoy them again? Sophie wanted Tom to be here, wanted to picnic with him by the lake, discuss new planting schemes in the pear orchard with him. He would have to meet M. Lindeur, the estate manager. In three years it would all be his: their vast estate, and the duties that went with its upkeep.

Perhaps very soon. In three weeks it would all be over.

She turned from the window and went to take her bath. Her thoughts ran over the party last night; Sophie felt an extremely pleasant calmness. She had done all she could. Either the press coverage would persuade the shareholders to give her vision a chance, or it would not. Either way, it was now out of her hands.

Bernarde had chosen a good outfit; now that Sophie was out of mourning, she was experimenting. Her outfit was playful but had a business edge; she couldn’t help wonder how Hugh Montfort might rate it.

Her flirtatious clothes reflected her growing confidence.

Sophie added a peridot and citrine necklace to lighten it up a touch, applied a spritz of rose water, and called for her driver.

Something was niggling in the back of her mind. Despite her satisfaction and the warm promise of the day, a reconciliation with Tom, there was still something amiss.

Hugh Montfort. No—she wouldn’t think about him now. Not yet. Maybe once the bid was played out.

But it had to do with Hugh, all the same . . .

Her telephone rang.

“Richard vous attends, Madame.”

“Merci. Je viens.”

Sophie shut her bedroom door and walked down the sweeping marble stairs; Junot was already at the door, holding it open for her; the Rolls-Royce was purring on the gravel drive in front.

She wished her butler a good morning and slid gracefully into the back of the car. It would come back to her, Sophie thought.

And as Richard pulled noisily out of the drive, stones crunching beneath the tires, it did.

Judy Dean. Montfort had warned her about Judy Dean.