Tom woke up in his bed. The alarm was buzzing on the night-stand, incongruously modern in his room full of glorious eighteenth-century antiques. It was still dark, but he was not tired. In barely two seconds he had leaped out of bed.

It felt like it had when he was very young, on Christmas morning. No matter how broken the night, there was no sleeping after Père Noel had come, at half past five, with his sack of gifts.

There was no wake-up call to match sheer joy.

He was going to take over the family firm. And this time, for real.

Tom rushed into his bathroom and climbed straight into the marble shower. The press had gone beserk; he had referred them to a bland, A-list PR agency, the first hire he had made with company funds. No more Judy sabotaging Massot’s press. Doubtless they would gather, looking for a photo or an interview. Tom had no interest in either. If he never saw another paper for as long as he lived, it would be fine with him.

He admired Hugh Montfort’s very English restraint. No interviews. No photos. No comment. The Lazard murder was being investigated by the gendarmerie—all questions about that to them. Mr. Stockton had been fired by Mayberry and was under investigation for corruption—call Mayberry. He had nothing to say.

Tom’s next order of business was to find a chief executive.

He would get somebody competent—bloody good, in fact; somebody with flair, but fiscal conservatism. And when he’d found a name, he would have Hugh check them out.

Tom had discovered something important. He intended to run the greatest fine jewellers in the world. That would take time, and patience. And expertise, which he had to acquire.

He didn’t know enough. He could admit it. He would find a wonderful caretaker.

And then—he was going back to Oxford.

Tom wanted to finish his degree, and then take an MBA. He was tired of rushing to grow up. He would learn for the sake of learning, and study business; keep an eye on House Massot from across the Channel, support his child, pay Judy off . . .

And court Polly.

He dressed, and ran downstairs; the kitchen was awake, and cook had left him a pot of fragrant vanilla coffee and some warm, crumbly croissants. They were delicious, and he tossed the coffee down black and scalding.

The car was waiting in the driveway, the engine purring, headlights flooding the gravel, steam rising in the predawn chill; Richard was silhouetted in the front seat; Tom could see the orange gold streaks of light breaking in the east.

He felt flooded with possibilities. He would get to the office, and the first call he would place would be to Polly. Whether she’d still be interested in a single dad with this kind of emotional baggage, he didn’t know, but there was only one way to find out.