They went for breakfast at the Victrix, the ancient hotel off Mayfair. Hugh explained to his new stepson that this hotel made the best breakfasts in England—nowhere else cooked his kipper exactly the way he liked it. The staff greeted them with surprise and delight, and led them into a small, ivy-clad courtyard garden; the rain had ceased and the sun was now shining brightly, with an unseasonal determination. Sophie recognized a few of the other diners from endless Parisian parties, and Hugh introduced her to some of his friends: aristocrats, businessmen, and two cabinet ministers breakfasting with the leader of the opposition.

“Are they plotting a coup?” Tom was intrigued.

“If so, this is a good place for it.” Hugh shrugged. “It’s one of the most discreet hotels in the country.”

Nevertheless, Sophie noticed, the diners were carefully glancing their way, trying to be unobtrusive, but mostly failing. Hugh would nod and smile at them, and raise his champagne flute; some looked sharply in the other direction, others waved back.

“This isn’t the sort of place that tolerates the press,” he said, “but I’ll warrant this story will hit the wires in less than twenty minutes. Shall we order? I’m famished.”

They were served by unobtrusive waiters who didn’t bat an eye at the wedding gown or morning dress. It was a merry meal, and Sophie’s happiness swelled; she felt the weight lift off her, as though she had been walking through life with a ball and chain strapped to her ankles, and it had now been removed.

She signalled the waiter.

“May we have the bill, please?”

“There is no bill, Mrs. Montfort,” he said. “The chef offers his congratulations, sir, madam.”

Hugh smiled. “Very kind. Thank you.”

Sophie thrilled. She’d just been called Montfort, and she loved it. Getting Pierre’s name off her was like bathing away a layer of dirt; she revelled in it. But her eyes went to Tom, to see his reaction. Would he wince? Would it hurt?

He was frowning and staring off into the distance; she observed that he hadn’t noticed or cared. He was anxious, and it didn’t seem to be about the wedding.

Sophie turned to Père Sabin.

“Dear Father,” she said. “Would you like to come home with us? Stay for lunch, or overnight?”

“Good Lord, no,” he said. “I have Benediction at four. I shall get on the undersea train. It’s a marvel, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, as it’s nearly nine thirty, I should be going.”

“We’ll drop you,” Sophie said. She felt guilty for being relieved, but she wanted a few moments alone with her son.

Sophie poked her head into Hugh’s kitchen, where Tom was fiddling around with the coffeemaker.

“Darling. Are you busy?”

He shook his head.

“Then go for a walk with me.”

Tom looked doubtful. “What about Hugh?”