“Being an American, I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said, “but the house of Massot is a very old French family....”

“All families are old,” Judy said, unfazed. “Adam and Eve, right?”

Katherine stiffened.

“I see it now,” she said, with a dangerous silkiness to her voice. “You’re so like poor Sophie, my dear ... common girls from common backgrounds ... it doesn’t do to have people from your class coming into society. It’s unkind, really. You have no idea how to behave, and you do rather linger past your usefulness.”

“And you?” Judy adopted a similarly light tone; she found she was actually enjoying the fencing. Maybe Katherine was banking that Tom was sick of her, but Judy had a suspicion Tom was sick of Katherine. After all, his grandmother couldn’t satisfy him in bed.

There was, as she considered that point, that sick feeling . . . the words of Françoise, about Pierre—father and son—but Judy wouldn’t go there. She told herself she loved Tom. And if she played her cards right, one day this house could be hers. She would sit in Katherine’s gilt chair, and the servants would fawn over her. “And you, Katherine? What’s your background? You aren’t a Massot by birth, are you?”

Katherine Massot stared at the American girl, sitting there as cool and impudent as you please, with her jewels—gifts from Tom—glittering inappropriately at her wrists and lobes; she was overwhelmed by them. A typical, brash New World slut, she decided.

“I’m afraid our conversation has left me a little fatigued,” she declared. “Would you mind very much if we terminated our little tea party?”

Judy stood up. This was typical of Katherine, who’d summoned her imperiously to tea out of the office. Katherine wanted to draw her into the web; she would try and truss her, and suck the juice out of her, the way she’d done with Sophie.

But I’m no Sophie, Judy thought. I’m not weak. I’m not trusting. I’m a match for her.

“Of course not, dear Katherine,” she said brightly. “I do hope you feel recovered by dinner. It’s Tom’s favourite. He does love to indulge.”

She invested the last word with as much meaning as she could, and pirouetted on her heels. It was a pleasant evening, and she’d walk back up to the château—that always made her feel better.