“There is something else.”

“Go on.”

“The wife has had Pierre Massot declared dead.”

Hugh exhaled in surprise. “The wife?”

She had done nothing, said nothing, for as long as he had been following House Massot, even back when Pierre was around. A trophy wife, a cipher of a woman, the kind that is quite content to stay home and give tea parties while her husband cats around with every blonde in France. She’d had two blind eyes to it, from what he had heard. With her enormous château, which had, he believed, a very fine park indeed, perhaps she hadn’t cared.

“When did this happen?” He could hardly believe it. Such initiative.

“Just two days ago. A contact in the courthouse called me.”

“And that means . . .”

“She inherits a large sum, but most of it goes to the son. However, he will not take over the stock until his twenty-first birthday. So she votes Massot’s thirty percent, for now, and also takes his place as chairman of the board.”

Montfort felt his excitement rise. “She has no business background?”

“None at all; he married her when she was nineteen.They had a son; that’s what she’s been doing.”

“This is terrific!” he exclaimed.

Maitre’s voice reflected surprise at his emotion. “I’m glad you are pleased, M. Montfort.”

“Perhaps she will see reason. And if not, we shall go to the shareholders. They were always dazzled by Massot, but his wife . . . they won’t care to have their stock reduced by a chairman of the board without a shred of experience.”

“But I cannot imagine M. Lazard will encourage her to interfere. What if she just leaves him alone to get on with it?”

Montfort thought about it. “Yes, and I suppose she will, if she’s half a brain in her head. But we should be able to plant the fear that she will use Massot as her personal playground. Anyway, the best you can say of Lazard is that he’s trodden water.”

“He has not been an inspiring leader, Monsieur,” Maitre said respectfully. Unlike you hung in the air.

“Thirty percent is a problem, but there’s still a seventy percent float out there.” He grinned. “Pierre Massot is gone, and now House Massot will be too.”

“You can do a better job, Monsieur.”

Montfort nodded. “I certainly can.”

“I will send you the report.”

“Excellent. Well done. Goodbye, Maitre,” he said, hanging up. He pressed the buzzer.

“Yes, sir?”

“Mrs. Percy, clear my schedule for next week, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.” She knew better than to ask questions, but he heard the curiosity in her tone.

“I’m going to Paris,” he said. “Book me in at the George V. And Mrs. Percy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may take the rest of the day off.”

“What?” asked the normally unflappable Elizabeth. “I mean—excuse me—it’s only eight twenty in the morning.”