He was son, and father, to the two people here with her. They would always love him, just as she never could.

“There is no need to thank God. Pierre takes care of himself.” Katherine adjusted her collar of gleaming diamonds; they flashed and sparkled in the firelight. Sophie had never seen her dress like this; her appearance at the party had been a mere preamble to tonight.

When Katherine had entered the room, in all the state of a dowager queen, Sophie had gasped. She looked, from a distance, a full twenty years younger. Her hair had been viciously scraped back from her face, pulling the papery skin upwards. Her cheeks and eyes had been professionally made up; the slack folds of the thin neck were completely hidden in the diamond collar—probably, of all her personal pieces, the most expensive; Pierre had explained, long ago, that it belonged to the Empress Eugenie. Her gown was of a flattering mink-coloured satin, contoured with a whalebone corset and a billowing skirt; her hands wore fingerless ecru lace gloves, to cover the liver spots; and Sophie suspected that under the elegant folds of her hem, Katherine was wearing heels.

On her right hand, she wore a perfect, golden spessartite garnet, eighteen carats, surrounded by flawless diamonds, and a cuff bracelet of intricately worked Russian gold. She might have been attending a ball at the court of the Tsar.

Sophie was amazed; Katherine came close to looking attractive . . . in a certain light, like this one, lit by the dancing flames, not the harsh rays of the sun.

She herself had not changed. She would make no concessions, give nothing but her presence. She wore the suit she had arrived in: a simple, clean Givenchy in cornflower blue, with a sapphire pendant that was a gift from Hugh. Sophie had removed her engagement ring, and her second wedding ring.

The first would go, as well. But—she looked at her son again—not tonight.

There was a sound—the crunch of tires on gravel. Everybody heard it.

“He’s here.” Katherine’s voice was a shout of joy, as clear as a forty-year-old’s. “Pierre! He’s here! He’s home!”

Sophie felt light-headed, sick, but she didn’t care about herself. She walked over to Tom, squeezed him and hugged him.

“I’m happy for you darling,” she whispered. “I love you, Tom—I love you so much.”

Tom held her; his grip was so hard it hurt. But she did not care.

The butler came in; his voice trembled.

“Mesdames, Monsieur,” he announced. “The master of the house is here.”

And then, walking into the room, came her husband.

With Judy Dean, right behind him.

Sophie gasped. She heard Katherine gasp. Tom’s grip tightened further, painfully. Judy gave each of them a triumphant smile—she wore a scarlet dress of shimmering silk, and her neck was hung around with rubies.