“So then, apart from this man Montfort, nothing untoward has happened here? Seriously, Judy, I need to know.”

“Absolutely nothing. We’re just going along as we always have.”

As far as Judy knew, this was the truth. It was also the problem—something she did not explain to the older woman.

“Then maybe . . . I really don’t need to be here,” Sophie said, and Judy fought the urge to close her eyes and exhale . . . yes! She had done it.

“Nobody can tell you that,” Judy said, trying to sound dissuading. “Nobody can tell you you ought to trust your executives. . . . that you have to trust Gregoire. Trust is so personal, don’t you think?”

Sophie left the office—for the day, she told Judy—around eleven. It was all Judy could do not to turn cartwheels across the length of the executive floor, past the cubicles and into the watercooler. But she contained herself. Patience—she wasn’t quite home yet.

She had Marie call Lazard’s secretary for an appointment, and sure enough, he slotted her in right away. Of course. Gregoire Lazard would not have ordinary meetings and lunches, not anymore. Everything had ground to a halt so he could look after the widow. Judy spritzed her scent, Hermès 24, Faubourg, into the air in front of her and walked into the cloud, the way all Frenchwomen did. It perfumed her lightly all over, without ever being overpowering. She had no desire to stink like some showgirl.

She walked to Lazard’s office, and knocked discreetly on the door.

“Judy, come in.”

“Thank you, Gregoire,” she said, making full use of the permission she had gotten to use his first name. “May I sit down?”

He waved her to the chaise longue. She sat down, catlike, upon it, smiling and confident of her own good looks.

“I wanted to update you on a conversation I had just now with Mme Massot,” she said evenly.

Lazard stopped giving her that slightly patronizing smile and took his seat again. He was now all ears.

“Have there been . . . fireworks in the office?”

“Fireworks? Why on earth would there be fireworks?” Judy asked, smiling firmly at him.

Lazard inclined his head; he seemed to enjoy the tap dance.

“Two such strong personalities,” he murmured.

Strong personality was not a phrase Judy would have used to describe the widow Massot. Weak as water was more like it.

“Mme Massot and I get on very well.”

“Oh,” he said, and for a second she thought she saw disappointment on his face. “What was the substance of your conversation, then?”

“Mme Sophie finds the volume of information you have given her to digest rather hard going.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“And she asked me about the state of the company. I was able to reassure her that nothing has changed here. And . . . I remarked that perhaps she was taking extra caution, in that she could not trust the assurances of her executives. . . .”