“I’m quite sure that your father was not happy with my attempts to take over his company. He said as much. But there was nothing personal in it. We did not even know each other. House Massot was a good fit with my company, and I wanted it.” He sighed. “I hope you can accept that.”

Massot nodded. “I can see why you wanted to acquire it.”

“All I can tell you is that I never allowed personal feelings to influence me in business. I’ve heard myself described as a robot.” Hugh smiled slightly. “Fair enough, until I met your mother.”

“You said ‘allowed,’ ” Tom pointed out.

“Ah, you caught that. Yes, I admit I am now partly, even substantially, motivated by my personal wishes.”

The boy stiffened. “In what regard?”

“In that I wish to effect the complete ruination of Mr. Peter Stockton.”

Tom grinned. “Ah, some common ground,” he said.

Hugh was relieved, but didn’t let it show on his face.

“And M. Gregoire Lazard. The first for my own sake, the second for your mother’s.” He paused. “And yours. Sophie believes that both of them combined to cheat you of your inheritance, and that you were seduced by bad advice.”

To his amazement, at that comment the boy’s eyes reddened, and he turned away smartly, covering himself with a cough.

“You could say that.” Tom took a step forward and offered Hugh his hand. Montfort shook it, delighted.

“If you hurt my mother, I’ll kill you,” Tom said.

Hugh nodded. The idea of this slip of a lad killing him, a battle-hardened soldier, was amusing, but he admired Tom’s guts.

“You know that our wedding is due to take place very soon.”

“Why do you think I’ve come?”

Hugh marvelled. Maybe there was something to the idea of a God, after all. His prayers, if you could call them that—all his private, quiet hopes—had been realized. Tom was here, the boy was being reasonable, and there was nothing, now, to cloud Sophie’s happiness.

“To see your mother, I hope. Shall we go?”

Tom gave him a wary smile, but it was more than enough for Hugh.

“After you,” he said.

They stepped out of the taxi at Seacourt Place. Hugh and Sophie had moved into his townhouse, temporarily; London was the perfect transportation hub, and it seemed more convenient to be there than in New York. Hugh hadn’t permitted Sophie to stay in Paris. Not while Tom was daily ridiculed in the national press.

“This is a gentleman’s house,” Tom Massot remarked.

“Thank you.” Montfort smiled inwardly at the arrogance of youth; his splendid Georgian house had been in the Montfort family for two hundred years. But who cared. Today he was simply glad to see the prodigal son in front of him.

He rang the bell.

“My mother may cry.”