Sophie blushed. “What I mean is that I’m not just your wife ...”

Hugh stroked her hand. “Darling, I knew you were competent when I married you; today, I find you inspired. You have nothing to prove to me. I’m not Pierre.”

“Thank God,” Sophie said, and laughed, for the sheer delight of it.

“Mr. Stockton.”

The butler—is that what he was? Pete guessed so, fancy suit and all—bowed slightly, with the bare minimum of politeness.

“Would you be so good as to go into the Oak Library? Mr. Massot and his party are ready for you now.”

The English was fluent, with just the barest trace of an accent. When he had his safety millions, he’d hire a flunky like this.

“Sure,” Pete said. He mustered up some bravado. Okay, this château was a freaking palace, but what the fuck, he preferred the glass and chrome in his place in Bel Air. “Why don’t you just say the library?”

“Because the château has three libraries, sir. The Oak Library, on the ground floor, is the smallest. If you’ll just follow me . . .”

Pete tried to think of a comeback, but it failed him. Well, fuck this guy, anyway. He was just a servant. And fuck France, and Montfort, and Massot, and all of them. He would take his three million shares and go the fuck home. And if he never saw this frog-eating pile of a nation, it’d be too fucking soon.

The servant opened the heavy door to the library. It was lined in green baize, and Stockton soon got a feel for the wealth of this kid: the room was at least a thousand square feet, lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves crammed with antique volumes, all leather spines and gold lettering. There was a flagstone floor with Persian rugs, a huge fire blazing in the grate, even though it was eleven o’clock in the morning, and furniture that looked like it came from some fucking museum.

A long oak table had been set up in the center of the room. There were four mahogany chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other. Massot and three men were standing on their side of the table. He recognized one lawyer—that old bastard Louis Foche. The other two, no. Lawyers, obviously. Stockton marched up to Massot, and shook his hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Stockton,” said Tom Massot, formally. Obviously there would be no reference made to Massot kicking him in the balls, Stockton thought resentfully. He deserved a fucking apology. Little prick. But what the hell, let him be uptight. Maybe it was better that way. Lawyers and everything.

“May I introduce you to Leonard Elgin and Crispin Hartford of London; Mr. Peter Stockton, chief executive of Mayberry.”

They nodded at each other. La-di-fucking-da, thought Pete.

“I take it you have received the bid of Bagatelle Incorporated for the House Massot division of Mayberry?”