Hugh had had a busy morning. Two days since the party, and it had been as he had feared: the press was slavering over House Massot’s must-have original pieces; it had compared Herr and Frau Brandt to the great masters, describing their work as a mixture of Paulding Farnham and Germain Bapst. He had visited the Massot showrooms on rue Faubourg and New Bond Street, both of them humming with activity; there was buzz, the stock was up, and the bourse analysts were tapping away at their reports.

It had taken a lot of press spin just to stand still. Montfort’s line was, “Too little, too late”—one good party, even one good collection, could not wipe away eight years of mismanagement.

He had also spent hours on the phone with his institutional backers, pension fund managers concerned they were missing a trick. Hugh believed all would still be well, but he was grateful the vote was not far away.

He hung up on the latest fund manager with relief. It was noon, early for lunch, but he wanted to get out of the hotel, away from the business press, to give himself a chance to think.

Montfort told Mrs. Percy he would be back at two. Normally he abhorred long lunches, but it might be just as well to be unavailable for as long as possible. Allow some of the fuss to blow over, and the investors to regain their senses. There was a feeding frenzy, but he thought it would soon die down. The more he seemed unconcerned, the better.

“And will you have your mobile with you, sir?”

“No. You know I can’t stand the wretched things.” Hugh pulled it out of his briefcase and handed it to her. “In fact, you take it, Mrs. Percy. That way I can’t be tempted to answer.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Mrs. Percy gave him the crisp smile he so approved of, and Hugh left his suite.

It was good to get out of that room. He hated air-conditioning, hated anything artificial.

Step outside in Paris in August and you feel the power of summer. Tourists sweated, heat reflected so strongly off the pavements that if you walked barefoot, you would burn. Montfort relished it; he turned his face towards the sun, closing his eyes, and let the heat permeate his skin.

He would find a really good restaurant and have a wonderful meal. It was ideal not to have his phone with him; no tiresome journalists could call and interrupt, and he couldn’t call anybody, even if he wanted to.

And he did want to, very much. Although it would be suici dally stupid, he wanted to call Sophie Massot.

There were any number of pretexts; he could thank her for inviting him to the party. Or he could ask her again to vote him her stock. She would say no, but at least it was a legitimate reason to call. . . .