Tom worshipped his father, still. And Pierre was dead. It hurt him enough when Sophie had to declare that legally. Could she now wound him again by destroying Pierre’s memory?

Yes, the gossip columnists would run with the story. But it would be a blind item, a sneering little number without the real names of the participants. After all, they couldn’t prove anything, and Pierre, when alive, had been highly litigious. The papers would all assume Sophie would be the same way.

She had money, and power. No, they would not name names.

So then, why should she?

Sophie knew now, and it was bitter, and dreadful—what a humiliating lie her marriage had been. But their son didn’t need to share that pain.

I will not tell him, she thought. I will never speak of it to anyone. My husband is dead. Let them gossip; let them say it to my face, if they dare.

Nobody would. After all, nobody had ever said anything to her, not for fifteen years.

Sophie blinked back the tears in her eyes and took a moment to compose herself. Then she returned to her chair and clicked on her e-mail. There would be press reaction from the party last night; she needed to hire somebody to deal with it, and as soon as possible.

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

“Yes, I see. Thanks for your time.”

Hugh hung up, snapping his mobile shut. Another investor who wouldn’t sell to him. Nick Chambers-Darling was a small fish by objective standards—a successful stockbroker on the private client side, he had ten thousand shares in his personal portfolio. But Montfort’s window was closing. He had to chase everything in the pond, even the minnows. Chambers-Darling was sitting tight. Said he liked what Sophie was doing.

Yes, so did Hugh.

His conversation with Stockton had aggravated him. That fat slob was obnoxious; it sat ill with Hugh that he worked for him. But there was some point to Pete’s gibbering rage. Hugh had not anticipated Sophie’s success. He’d underestimated her.

Well, she was beautiful, elegant, impressive. He had not thought she could be much of a businesswoman.

But he’d been wrong.

The sun beat down on the Champs-Elysées, and Montfort was hot. He passed a hand across his forehead in frustration. Unable to concentrate in his suite, he’d thought a walk would clear his head. So far, it wasn’t working.

He decided to go to the Massot showroom. See how sales were holding up. Was it a blip? A temporary effect? Perhaps, if the store was empty now that the party fuss had died down, he could call back—convince some of those reluctant sellers that the honeymoon had been brief. This time, though, he wouldn’t buy so much as a cuff link. They needed no further publicity from him.