Of course, he still loved her.

He tapped the letter affectionately against his palm. It was written on his mother’s signature pale blue Smythson paper, and had that faint scent of violets from the perfume she always wore, the one she had custom blended on rue Faubourg. For a second, to his surprise, he felt violently homesick for Paris. For some decent food and real coffee. The so-called French cafés round here served greasy, heavy croissants and a vile thick brew you could cut with a knife and fork, and then wrapped it all in a napkin with a tricolor, and that was supposed to satisfy him? He wouldn’t touch it. Pigswill.

He paused, wondering whether to ignore the letter, then shrugged and tore it open.

Darling Tom,

This is a short note to let you know that I have recently been to see M. Foche. . . .

The family lawyer. What could she want with Foche? He quickly scanned the rest of the letter. His eyes widened, and he gasped.

The porter was delivering post to the pigeonholes around him and glanced at him with concern.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Tom snapped back to himself.

“Oh yes . . . perfectly . . . thank you,” he said. He took the letter over to the waste bin in the corner and methodically ripped it into shreds. His back was rigid with anger.

The porter wisely said nothing. Tom Massot was a good-for-nothing wastrel, just another rich playboy; they had a bunch of those every year. He wondered what the letter said. Maybe one of his girlfriends was up the duff. That would give the little shit something to concentrate on.

Massot strode out of the lodge and paced down the warm flag-stones of Tom Quad towards his tutorial. He would get that out of the way, and then decide what to do. He thought of Papa, then wrenched his mind away. No! Whatever, whatever happened, he must not cry. Not even have red eyes. This was not child’s play, now, this was the business of House Massot. He would not have his affairs become the gossip of a bunch of impoverished Britons.

To take his mind off it, he concentrated firmly on Polly and last night. Yes, that worked. That would work for the next hour.

As soon as the tutorial was over, Tom having grunted his way through a dull analysis of Pope’s Rape of the Lock, he raced back to his rooms, ignoring the cries of his friends who wanted him to come in to lunch at Hall. He locked his doors and pulled out his mobile. He hoped his mother was there and not having one of her endless hair appointments or holier-than-thou visits with Father Sabin.

“Sophie.”

“Maman,” he said, switching to French to punish her. They had always spoken English together, but what the hell. He was his father’s son. Something she had apparently forgotten. “You cannot do this.”