“Bienvenue,” he said. “You can see we are doing very well here, M. Montfort.”

“Indeed.” Hugh nodded towards the back office. “Shall we go inside? It’s a little crowded.”

“Of course. Please follow me.”

Maitre kept his office neat and simple, traits of which Hugh approved. He pulled up a chair, which was barely comfortable.

“I do not take many meetings,” Maitre apologized.

“That’s quite all right.” Hugh waved it away. “Now, what has happened, if anything, at Massot?”

Maitre puffed air out of his lips in a heavy sigh. “Nothing, Monsieur. Rien. She goes to the office each weekday. I am informed they have given her an office. But nothing happens—nobody is dismissed, no changes are made. It is as if she were not there.”

Hugh nodded. That was mildly disappointing; ideally the wife would have had some stupid ideas to implement.

“She is seen much in the company of the chief executive, though.”

“Gregoire Lazard?”

“The same. I have people watching the building,” Maitre said shamelessly. “He takes the madame for many luncheons and, last Tuesday, even for a drive in the country. And there is a rumour that she is to invite him to dine at her estate.”

Montfort paused. This was new information indeed. He instantly decided it was unwelcome information.

“It means one of two things,” he said, thinking aloud. “First, that she is in fact taking a very close interest in the company and is asking a lot of questions.”

“I doubt it, Monsieur. She would hardly start now.”

“Second, that Lazard intends to marry her and control her fortune, and her stake.”

“Or third, that they are in love.”

Hugh’s lips curled at the corners. “M. Maitre, love is never quite that convenient. It is amazing, is it not, that M. Lazard should suddenly fall heavily in love with a housewife?”

“But, Monsieur.” Maitre was a gossip hound, and eager to show off all the information he had gathered. “Mme Sophie is more than just a housewife, she is a most attractive lady.”

“I’m sure she was, when Massot married her.”

“No, now. Look . . .”

He pulled a sheaf of photos from a drawer of his desk. Montfort was shocked.

“What is this?”

“You said to find out all I could, Monsieur,” Maitre said defensively.

“Yes, but—not to have the lady followed,” Hugh replied. He was a little embarrassed. Such things were beneath him, miles beneath him. “It is my own fault for not being more explicit, but in future, M. Maitre, nobody is to follow Mme Massot or take pa parazzi photos of her.”

“Very well, Monsieur,” Maitre said, a touch sulkily. “I suppose you do not wish to see these, then.”

Hugh laughed. “As you have them, you may as well hand them over.”