Celine winced. Sophie did not sound as if she were in the ideal mood Celine had been hoping for. The delicious cinnamon coffee was cooling rapidly, untouched, before her.

“I want you to discuss something with me, something confidential.”

“Very well, Madame,” said Celine, warily. “And what is that?”

“You hear company gossip, don’t you?”

“I never pay any attention to it, Madame,” Celine lied earnestly.

“It’s okay.” Sophie smiled, and held up one hand. “You’re not in any trouble—anything you say is going to be just between us. Well, at least,” she corrected herself, “I won’t say where I heard it.”

“Bien.” Celine smiled, flattered. She liked Sophie; it would be wonderful if Mme Massot would take her into her confidence. Better Celine than—

“Judy Dean. It’s about Judy Dean.”

Désastre. Celine said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t have to discuss the scandal in public.

“What’s the matter? I said you are in no trouble.”

And what if Madame got angry?

“But Judy Dean is your most particular friend, Madame. You told me—remember?”

“I know I did. But you can forget that, now. I’ve heard something, from . . . ,” her boss hesitated, “from a person I trust. Is there something about Judy I ought to know, Celine?”

Celine stared. “You are serious, Mme Massot?”

“Perfectly.”

“You mean you did not know?”

“About what?” Sophie asked impatiently. “Spit it out. If there’s something to tell, tell me now, please.”

Celine hesitated. Really? She didn’t know? How could Celine break it to her? She was a good woman—a nice woman. Celine was overcome with pity. Whoever would have believed this savvy businesswoman could be that naive?

“I thought you knew, and did not care, Madame. In France—some people don’t. Rich people.”

Sophie stared at her, waiting.

“It is M. Massot,” Celine muttered. “Everybody knows. I thought . . . you had to know. But some here say you did not.”

“Pierre?” Sophie blinked. “What about him? He’s been dead for seven years.”

“But Mlle Judy has been here longer than that, Madame.”

Sophie gasped. She was amazed, and Celine stared back at her, equally amazed; how could Madame be surprised? With M. Massot such a whoremonger, legendary, really.

But the Englishwoman was surprised. Celine watched the emotions running over her aristocratic features in quick succession. Understanding, shock, calculation, and lastly, humiliation. Her breathing had quickened, like a struggling fish on dry land.

Tiens! Poor Sophie.

“Are you all right, Madame?” Celine asked, alarmed.

Sophie took a deep breath. “I’m fine—fine. It’s just a shock.” Celine watched her struggle with the information. “Judy slept with my husband? How often? Was it after a Christmas party, or . . . ?”

“Oh, Madame.”

Celine was squirming.

“Tell me the worst. Tell me everything.”

“You must understand, I wasn’t here when this took place. I was only a teenager. But it’s what I heard.”

“Very well.”