“I’m not a racehorse, Judy. I don’t need soothing, and I don’t need managing.” Tom’s dark eyes swept over her. “Sometimes, I think you imagine I’m stupid. I’m not; I’m young. Don’t make the mistake of confusing the two.”

Judy swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course we will send you all the press.”

And she had.

Tom could see her reservations had good cause. He wanted to think the carping was envy, bitterness from petty little journalists who hated wealth and power, who would drag him back to the Bastille if they ever had the chance. After all, there was certainly a carping note to these stories; HEIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW? That was the Financial Times. He supposed it was mildly amusing, if you were a sour British prig angry that Hugh Montfort had failed to capture a glory of France.

But other stories had the same message. He was a figurehead only; the important decisions would be taken in L.A., by Pete Stockton. House Massot would crumble. And the one he most shuddered at ... that the brand would be diluted, the jewels mass-produced. His family name would be prostituted, and he would sit in a nice office with a pretty secretary and be powerless.

Tom noted that the phone had been pretty silent. Despite his assurances, Stockton had not been in touch. His dissatisfaction increased, and he rose from his desk and walked to the window.

Very well, Tom thought; I will do something about it. I must prove to Mayberry the value of House Massot, exactly as it is, as Father wanted it. If the fat slug Stockton will not come to me, I will go to him. The thought made him feel a little better. A plan gave him a sense of control, and he comforted himself against the notion that was starting to take a hold of him; that, despite what he’d said to Judy, if he wasn’t stupid, he had at least been stupid....

Hey, Tom thought. Chief executives all over the world report to boards. I’m no different from Howard Stringer at Sony or Meg Whitman at eBay....

The phone rang; he jumped a little, then felt foolish. Howard Stringer probably did not jump when the phone rang. He pressed the red light.

“Yes?” Tom said, snappishly. He wanted to sound as though he’d been in the middle of reading a report on the latest De Beers site allocations. “What is it, Margot?”

“Excuse me, Monsieur.” His personal assistant was a blonde twenty-two-year-old with a nice firm rack; Stockton had said, with a leer, that he’d picked her out personally. And Tom did enjoy the breathy, French Marilyn thing she had going on. “But I have a woman on the line for you. . . .”

“From where?”

A beat. “Monsieur, she says she’s your mother.”

Tom flushed. A nasty mixture of guilt and loneliness.