Hugh thought that was a likely assessment. “She’s a woman,” he said. “Goes with the territory.”

Massot glanced back at him, amused.

“Coming,” his mother’s voice sang from the hall. Tom was struck by the joy, by the liveliness of her tone. Judy never sounded like that; with her, it was always forced.

The door wrenched open. Sophie saw Tom, and screamed.

“Lovely to see you, too, Maman,” he said.

Sophie flung herself on her son, her arms snaking around his neck. She covered his neck with kisses.

“Tom! My baby. Tom—Tom—”

“I think I’ll just go and have a shower,” Hugh said loudly. Sophie paid no attention; he hadn’t expected her to. But he managed to close the door behind his half-smothered future stepson, squeeze past his fiancée, and make his way up the stairs.

As he was lathering himself up in a cloud of Floris soap, Hugh heard Sophie’s laughter floating up even over the noise of the water. And he thought it was the most pleasant thing he’d ever heard.

They ate dinner at home. Hugh called, and the Ritz sent it over—a compliment paid only to the most special of clients. Hugh was gratified to see both his guests attacking the food with an excellent appetite. The conversation was light—small talk about the château and its gardens, about Katherine and the staff—but the emotions were heavy; Sophie’s eyes never left her son’s face. She was alight with joy and contentment, and Hugh knew the final piece of the puzzle had now been replaced.

“Where exactly is the wedding?” Tom asked.

He glanced at Sophie. Tom had been sent the sole invitation, which had gone both to his office and to the cháteau; clearly he had not even opened it.

“At the Jesuit church in Farm Street. Père Sabin is coming over especially to perform it.”

“And how many guests?”

“Counting you and the priest, two,” Hugh said.

He blinked. “No guests?”

“None. We wanted this to be as low-key as possible.”

Tom nodded. He began to look at Hugh with a new respect.

“We haven’t told anyone, and the date hasn’t been published in the church bulletin. We’re hoping to avoid the press.”

“You have no family?” Tom asked Hugh.

“We’re not that close—and I think they’ll understand. My people have never been fond of circuses. There’s an old saying in England that a gentleman should be mentioned in the press only three times: when he’s born, when he marries, and when he dies.”

Tom laughed. “I like it.”

“I haven’t been able to manage that,” Hugh told him. “But I’m working on it.”

“The press are evil,” Tom said, with sudden venom. “If you knew what I’ve lost because of them . . .”

“Darling . . .” Sophie interrupted.