“Yes, so they tell me.” The new collection was flying off the shelves, so fast it presented a problem; they needed to source more stones or come up with something new. He couldn’t have his stores empty. “How is the report coming along?”

“It should be with you in a day or so.”

“Give me a preview now. Wait a second.” He put the Frenchman on hold and buzzed Mrs. Percy. “Hold all my calls—nothing must interrupt this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me everything.” He spoke to Maitre again, and pulled forward a yellow legal pad and his Montblanc pen.

“Well, I think the moment may have arrived. Enfin.”

Hugh smiled broadly. “Really.”

That was wonderful news, far better than the Oscar hoopla or the sales of the new collection. He wanted House Massot. The board wanted House Massot. Taking it over would end every problem associated with Mayberry’s rapid expansion. He thought covetously of the prime locations, the ancient stores, fusty and ripe for redevelopment, on Bond Street, Fifth Avenue, rue Faubourg St.-Honoré—they even had a presence in Tokyo, although that store was a giant money loser. And there were the contracts with the De Beers site holders, the artisans, the designers, the gold mines—everything.

He had been trying to buy House Massot for the last nine years. Nothing doing. They wouldn’t even talk to him. That popinjay Pierre Massot, so in love with his own name and the showgirls of the French Riviera, he couldn’t give a damn what was best for his shareholders. And then Gregoire Lazard insisting he must hold to Massot’s wishes, even though the man had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Mayberry, under his guidance, had had a clear vision, but not enough money or clout for a hostile bid. Although the balance of power had been shifting, every year, in his favour. And he had never given up.

This was it. This was the deal. The one that would make Mayberry into the new Tiffany. He had sold it that way to Pete Stockton and the board and to a man they agreed with him.

“They’re in trouble,” Maitre said. “The latest collection was a disaster.”

“Fashion or jewellery?”

“Fashion. It was practically booed off stage at the shows. The accessories line, worse. It was received with indifference. Same old, same old,” Maitre said, proud of his colloquialism.

“And the jewellery?”

“Continues steady, from what I can discern. But their company accounts are impenetrable. So many intangibles. They gave our auditors headaches.”

“But they verify the figures?”

“They can’t contradict them. Not enough information.”

“So their sales are lacklustre.”

“The fashion house must be bleeding money, Monsieur. It is a disaster. My wife would never shop there,” Maitre said earnestly.

Montfort smiled; such a French analysis. But he remembered Diane Maitre, a very stylish woman. If she wouldn’t shop there, he was inclined to trust her judgement.