It’s a joke, Tom thought. I’m meant to be the big man around here, but I still think of my mother. Grandmother is chivvying me along like a hen being hurried back into the henhouse at night. And I’m stuck here in the countryside with a woman that I don’t really want, presiding at my family table.

He was due downstairs for dinner shortly; Judy had told the cook she wanted roast pheasant with chestnut sauce and candied walnuts, one of his favourite dishes; there would be mashed potatoes, peas, and a glass of good claret. All very pleasant—but how much more pleasant, Tom thought, if he didn’t have to eat it with Judy.

Right now she was at the office. Thank God; he would be better able to think without her here.

Well. His grounds did look inviting, bathed in the warm light of sunset. Tom decided to go for a walk; he wanted to clear his head.

“You’re looking around, my dear.” Katherine reached across to Judy and patted her on the knee. “You mustn’t stare, you know; it’s not done to look impressed.”

“I wasn’t—”

But it was no good.The rheumy blue eyes were still sharp with that cynical gaze. Judy knew she’d been caught out. She flushed; how she loathed Pierre’s mother! Oh, it had been a convenient alliance, but the bitch never passed up an opportunity to show that she was still queen bee.

“It is a very beautiful house,” she muttered.

“All true estates have a dower house.” Katherine smoothed her long skirt, vintage Chanel tweed, paired with the matching jacket tailored to her still-slim form; she wore a cream silk shirt by Givenchy and a necklace of pearls the size of marbles, their lustre soft against the wrinkles of her skin. “This is, I believe, one of the better ones in France,” she added complacently. “And my dear Pierre had a great hand in choosing the decor,” she added.

Her claw of a hand gestured at the antique Chinese wallpaper, the curtains of pale orange dress silk fringed with cloth of gold, the cream-and-cornflower tones of the priceless Persian rug that underlay her Louis XIV chairs and Chippendale sideboard.

“He always had such great taste,” Judy forced herself to say.

Katherine looked at her. “Has, Judy, has.”

“Let’s hope so.” She took refuge in her coffee. Bitch! Why did Katherine always twist the knife, talking about Pierre? And throwing parties, to show that Judy was not the hostess. It was as though she was trying to rub in the nasty feeling that Judy couldn’t smother for too much longer—that this little adventure was Pierre, part two.

Judy was in the house with Tom—but not his wife. She was at the parties—but not the hostess. She got gifts of jewels—but no engagement ring. . . .

Judy perceived quite clearly what Katherine was saying, in her roundabout, spidery way; I’m family—you’re not.