“Fantastic.” Sophie stroked the glittering little thing. “They’re so elegant, so perfect for spring. You could charge thousands for this. What did the Brandts think?”

Rachel blushed. “They were very kind. . . .”

“I bet they were. This is wonderful work.” Sophie looked at the young designer; indeed, it was a hopeful sign that this was being produced by a pupil of Gertrud’s. The Brandts would not be there forever, and Montfort must not depend on any one designer; Pete Stockton had learned that the hard way. “I can’t wait to send it out to Vogue and Cosmo. Congratulations, Rachel.You’ll get a bonus.”

Rachel beamed. “Really?” She was only twenty-four.

“Of course. One percent of the profits made from this line. It could be quite a lot, if it does as well as I think it will.”

The young girl looked amazed. Sophie smiled; she wanted her to learn. Business was fun, and if you made something commercial, you should benefit. How else would you get people to give you their best work?

There was a sharp knock at the door. Sophie recognized it at once, and thrilled: Hugh. What was he doing here? Come to steal her for lunch—a bit early. Maybe take her to bed. That would be nice.

“Tell you what, Rachel, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Come in,” she called out.

The door pushed open, and there he was, panting, sweating. The squirming in her stomach died at once.

“Mr. Montfort.” Rachel noticed too. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her, and she shrank back.

“Give us a moment, please, Miss Greenberg.”

“Yes—of course,” she muttered, and hastily exited the room.

“My God, darling, what’s happened?” Sophie exclaimed. Fear flooded her. “It’s not Tom—not my Tom?”

“No, nobody’s died.” Hugh grimaced. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”

Sweat was pouring off him; Sophie saw the stains on his suit.

“My darling—my sweetheart,” she said.

“Don’t.” Hugh held up a hand. “Sophie—don’t call me that.”

She stared.

“Sophie.” There was no way to soften it. “Pierre’s alive.”

“What?” she whispered.

“Pierre is alive. He’s in Paris.”

“Impossible.”

“He says he was kidnapped and jailed in Russia. He denies having an affair with Judy. He says that the stories about him and other women are just gossip.”

She just stood there. She couldn’t take it in.

“You’ve spoken to Pierre?” she asked numbly.

“He was on television.”

“It’s not him. An impostor . . .”

“It is him, Sophie. There’s no mistaking it. He looks like Tom thirty-five years from now. And anyway, I remember him well,” Hugh said, leadenly.

Sophie didn’t ask if this was a joke. Hugh would never play with her in that manner. She stared into space.

“Hugh, is it true? That there were no other women?”