He sat with her in the hospital until the undertaker came. He had gone out to Ireland with a family, and flown back with a coffin.

After that there were no more women. None to speak of. The odd whore, when he felt he couldn’t take it. But those girls, even though they were high class, whatever that meant, disgusted him. Because he was using them, and afterwards, when the hot need had evaporated, he disgusted himself.

Ah, now his mood really was blackening. The image of Pete Stockton, lusting after those shopgirls, forced its way into his consciousness. He was like Pete. He, Hugh Montfort. It was an awful thought. He vowed never to do it again, but it was a promise made, and broken, several times now, and he did not trust himself.

Montfort stopped dead in the street and breathed in.

“Watch where yer goin’, guv,” somebody snapped at him.

He focussed directly on a shop window. Liberty—the mannequin wearing some outrageous Butler & Wilson costume pieces. At once the thoughts of fat Pete and his own weaknesses were banished. He had thought of Georgiana, and now he could move on. Work had become his life, and now he had been presented with a chance at the ultimate triumph.

Hugh reached his front door and let himself in. As ever, his surroundings instantly soothed him. He had the house set up exactly as he wanted it: rush matting on the floors, dark red wallpaper, William Morris curtains—originals—heavy against his windows. Together with his antique furniture, some of it a gift from his elder brother, taken directly from his childhood home, the whole thing provided a sanctuary. He shut the door on London and was almost back in the country again.

He hung his coat up and went straight into his study. The laptop was perched incongruously on his ancient mahogany desk, but he didn’t reach to turn it on; Montfort needed to think, just to think.

Was there a way of approaching this problem? Something he could do that would secure the deal, without the need for expensive legal counsel and investment bankers?

But there was, of course. The woman. Sophie Massot. It was all down to her now. With her 30 percent, obtaining a majority stake would be easy.

He smiled. Of course, it would be aggravating, having to go to Paris and charm the smug young widow of such a playboy. He, who had known such happiness in marriage, despised men and women who made a convenience of it. Sophie Massot couldn’t wait to get her hands on the château, the riches, the servants, and had never objected to such a charade. She was like so many wives of his acquaintance, little better than a hooker—just someone with better marketing.