He took the photos and studied them in silence. Maitre had not been wrong in his assessment. Sophie Massot was an amazingly attractive woman. Even in the harsh daylight of these snaps, she looked pulled-together and beautiful in every shot. Not obviously so; her nose was classic, not tiny and even, and her figure was slim, not large breasted or boasting Jennifer Lopez curves. She was clearly in her late thirties; there were laugh lines around her eyes and mouth; but she had a serious face, not one that had done much laughing, he thought.

Montfort admired the even, glossy hair, the large eyes, the exquisite dress sense. Black; so she was wearing mourning, which in itself he felt showed some unusual style, these days. But she wore black with such variety and grace it might as well have been a rainbow of colours. On Mrs. Massot, each outfit was absolutely distinctive. Here was a severe Dior suit, cut 1940s-style, ending just over the knee; next, a dress, with a cropped jacket, the skirt billowing out from under it; the third picture saw her in a Chanel suit; there were no trousers in any of the pictures.

She liked jewellery, he could see that. Many women did, but they had no idea how to wear it. Sophie Massot had that instinct that many rich women lack. She was no Duchess of Windsor, whose collection he thought the ultimate triumph of wealth over taste. Her pieces always complemented, and never overpowered, her clothes; large pearls here, picking out white buttons; ruby studs on the day she went completely black, to punctuate the darkness; a large solitaire diamond, even in a picture you could see that it was very fine, and old—a Victorian rose-cut.

Montfort immediately adjusted his opinion of the woman. Whatever else he might think of her, she had immense style, and made it look easy. He appreciated the different elements of her dressing: clothes, accessories, and gems came together as beautifully as a piece of music.

“I must meet with her as soon as possible,” he said. “Is there some way for me to see her without Lazard present?”

“Not if you ask for a meeting. He would never allow it.”

“Then socially,” Montfort said. He wouldn’t need long to charm her; he never did. Fifteen minutes at the most. “Find out her calendar, can you? And get me to an event she is attending.” His dark eyes narrowed. “That is, if you can do it without rummaging through her dustbins.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur?”

Montfort sighed. “Never mind, man, just do it.”

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

“Mon Dieu,” Gregoire Lazard said, softly.