He wondered if he should visit his deputy, Gregoire Lazard. But he thought not. Lazard already knew too much. Tomorrow he would discover that Pierre had left, and in the meantime, he would have crossed the French border. The less anyone knew of his movements, the better.

Pierre Massot remained a loner.

He wanted to see his son and heir. Without speaking to anyone, he secured the sample diamonds, retrieved his coat, and stepped into his private elevator, the one that led directly to the garage.

No farewells, no complications. He liked it that way.

It was half six when his car reached the château. This was one of his favourite times of day: early evening, with his son playing in the bath, and Sophie, his little bride, waiting with a cocktail; he preferred a Tom Collins, and enjoyed her slight air of nervousness almost as much as the drink. Sophie was not the child bride she had once been; she was thirty-two now, but still with that milky English skin, those high cheekbones—a beauty that would last well into her fifties. Pierre had made that particular calculation early.

She was not quite so gauche these days, not quite so grateful and nervous. His vast wealth had ceased to overawe her. But yet, she was still anxious around him, off balance, timid with the master of the house and her mother-in-law, the formidable and distant Katherine, who still withheld all approval and warmth.

Sophie poured herself into Tom, which was precisely what Pierre intended she should do. She was loyal, stylish, and polite. A wonderful hostess, a loving mother, a decorative and obedient wife.

Not all that thrilling, perhaps. But he sought excitement elsewhere. The qualities he wanted in a spouse were the exact opposites of those he looked for in a mistress.

Well, there were plenty of women in the world. No one of them could be all things to Pierre.

He walked briskly across the gravel drive towards the pillared entrance of his château. Sercourt, his butler, was there waiting; he silently took Pierre’s coat.

“Is Master Thomas still in the bath?”

“I believe so, Monsieur. Madame is with him in the East Wing. . . .”

Pierre did not wait to hear the rest of the sentence; he bounded upstairs, unthinkingly, towards his son’s bathroom suite.

“Papa!”

Tom recognized his father’s tread; Pierre heard the hasty splashing as the taps turned off.The door swung open; Sophie was there, smiling softly at him.

“You’re early, chéri,” she said. “I’m sorry—I haven’t got your drink ready. . . .”

“That’s quite all right, my dear.” Pierre kissed her coolly on the cheek. “It’s Tom’s bath time.” He grinned at his naked son. “We always keep to our schedule, n’est-ce pas?”