Tom glanced again at the papers he had set off to the side. The first, a NewYork Times profile of Montfort Jewels. They had a large photograph of two of the pieces from the first collection. There was a mermaid brooch, gold with inlaid mother-of-pearl on the tail, minute diamonds scattered through the hair, and jet eyes, and a choker, an intriguing piece of very fine strands of gold shaped like a series of spiders’ webs, with an onyx spider sitting in the hollow of the throat.

It was unique. He understood at once that this was some of the finest work the Brandts had ever produced. No wonder the markets were going crazy.

His mother’s new company was a unique success. Despite his troubles, he was proud; he admitted that. He was proud of her.

Hugh Montfort. Tom still loathed him—so he told himself. But it sounded a little less convincing every time. As the press sniffed around, printing lots of ugly innuendo about Maman from that pig Gregoire Lazard, Hugh and Sophie said nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It dignified them; it was a gentlemanly response. Just like Camilla Parker Bowles, his mother said nothing. Which left the muckrakers with nowhere to go.

But once Tom filed his lawsuit, Sophie and Hugh put out a short statement:

“Sophie Massot and Hugh Montfort support Thomas Massot in his lawsuit against the chairman and chief executive of Mayberry. As former executives of the companies involved, we note with dismay the plummeting sales and declining stock price that have accompanied the new management’s regime. Fine jewellery is not fast food.”

Style. Tom knew something about Montfort’s manner of speaking; he knew that note had been written by him.

It was brilliant. It was savage. All the papers ran it.

Tom could almost see Stockton gnashing his teeth.

He was tempted to pick up the phone. But in the end, events took over. There were too many flights to New York and London to meet with the lawyers.

For the first time in his pampered life, Tom Massot was working hard.

And the strange thing was, he enjoyed it.

Tom saw clearly now. He’d been a fool, gulled by the promise of a fancy-sounding title into surrendering complete control. And he’d done it because—well, because he was a sexist. And childish.

Tom wanted Maman to stay exactly what she was—a mother; to stay home, to garden, to give parties. He’d wanted her to wait, so that Papa could—one day—come walking back down the drive.

Tom passed a hand across his forehead. Yes. He’d brought on this disaster. And why?

Because in his head it was still that warm summer’s evening when Papa had come to kiss him goodbye.

He’d waited for Papa to come back.

And in his heart, Tom knew he was still waiting.