He decided—he would give Judy whatever she wanted. But if she demanded marriage, after tonight, it would be under duress. He would marry her only civilly, not in a church . . . and divorce her as soon as the child was born. At that time, he would give her an estate, but take the baby. What was money worth, if it couldn’t buy him justice? He would hire armies of the best lawyers in Europe. Or he would bribe her with still more cash. Whatever it took.

And then he’d marry Polly. If she’d have him. Which wasn’t at all certain.

Another thought came to him.

Bribes. Money. Wasn’t that what all these bastards wanted?

In the end it was only money that they cared about.

He had a weak case, maybe a nonexistent one, as far as House Massot went. The only reason it hadn’t been dismissed was the brilliance, and the relentless, highly paid persistence of his army of lawyers.

What if there were an easier way? What if he just bribed the fat slug of an American and his French lickspittle of a lackey? After all, why slave for Mayberry if you can retire with a private income? Stockton might control the shares, but Tom could buy and sell that toad ten times over.

Brilliant, he thought—and so traditional!

He hauled himself, dripping, from the bath, toweled off, and dressed hurriedly, pulling on the first suit and shirt he saw. No matter; everything in his wardrobe was bespoke. He looked good; apart from the damp hair, you would never know there had been any hurry.

He lifted the phone and rang down to the servants’ quarters.

“Good evening, M. Massot. Would you like some supper?”

“No thank you, Jacques; could you ask Richard to bring the car around to the drive? I am going to Paris.”

“Very good, Monsieur; the chef will await your return.”

“Just ask him to leave me a late supper in the kitchen, would you? I may be some time. And the staff can take the rest of the evening off.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

The tone, he noted with embarrassment, was much less hostile these days. He supposed he’d become a bit less of an arrogant git.

Maybe, Tom thought, I’m growing up.

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Sophie gasped; she flung her head back and clutched at Hugh; waves of pleasure rocked through her. She couldn’t see. . . . She felt dizzy . . . it was perfect. . . .

It washed across her, subsided; she was there in his arms, clutching at him.

“My darling,” she said. “My darling . . .”

He kissed her, twice, then rolled away.

“I had no idea,” Sophie said.

He lifted a brow; he was bathed in sweat.

“None? I can’t believe that. . . .”

“It’s better—it’s so much better now.”

“Guilt-free, eh?” Hugh chuckled.

She blushed. “Something like that.Yes. And knowing you’re all mine now, and you’ll stay mine.”