His tone was dry, analytical. She nodded, terribly ashamed.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“For what?” he shrugged. “I see the child inherited some of my taste.” A thin smile.

Judy felt sick.

“Come, come, we have never been bourgeois,” Pierre said. “Why would I care?”

He saw her expression, and added gently, “You are mine, not his; you will always be mine.”

“Okay.” Judy sobbed. “Okay . . .”

“Now go,” Pierre told her. “I am trusting you with something important. It matters to me very much.”

She did not argue. The worst was over. She shut the door, and went to the street to fetch her car.

Tom had watched from the window as Judy’s car sped down the drive, and wondered idly where she was going. He thought about calling his mother, but it was late; she would be with her new husband—their first night married . . .

He winced; he might have made a fragile truce with Montfort, but he still did not wish to think about that. There was Katherine, but he was still angry with her, and Grandmother had never been affectionate, not in the way he needed at the moment.

Then there was Polly. But he couldn’t call her now. Not right now.

His head was racing. So many thoughts. A surfeit of unpleasant emotions. He hated the mother of his child, that was what it came down to. And she was right, total bitch that she was—he could do nothing about it. She would beggar him, and he’d pay it, just to keep his baby alive.

He walked out of Judy’s suite and crossed the main stairway on the first floor; the ornate moldings and gilt leaf on the ceilings oppressed him . . .

Mother had often complained of it, and he knew why now. It was a ridiculous house for one person. It made him feel small and lonely.

He walked to the great polished banister that curved down to the lobby. The east marble staircase was four-stories high. He wondered what Polly would do if she were here. . . . Probably whoop and slide all the way down, screaming.

That was what the château needed! A bit of life, a bit of light!

Tom walked into his own suite, thinking hard. He had calmed down now. He entered the bathroom, his father’s original bathroom. It was sumptuous, but all he wanted was a hot bath. To wash the smell of Judy, her carefully perfumed skin, away from him.

He tossed some Floris bath essence into the steaming water. He wished he had some Radox, which Polly always used, but this would do. He luxuriated in the basic physical pleasure of warm water, and wondered how he would handle this.

It was all up to him.