“Has my friend Sophie Massot arrived?” Hugh asked pleasantly. “I forget where she’ll be seated.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur; Mme Massot was one of the first to arrive,” the man said in a slightly more friendly tone. “She is a great benefactress to our work. She is seated at . . . table five tonight, Monsieur.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said. “Drive on.”

He smiled. This was going to be easy.

The ballroom, cleared of display cases, had been transformed. The party designer had outdone herself on the commission; rather than strain to link the decor to literacy, somehow, she had gone for classically elegant: a string quartet in black tie, the walls draped with billowing white chiffon, myriads of candles in cut-crystal holders, everything soothing and creamy, a snowy paradise without the cold and wet. A waitress came by and offered Hugh a glass of champagne, which he took. Perrier Jouët, he thought, nonvintage, but still good.

He made his way swiftly through the tables until he could see number five, still a few metres away from him. He scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes running over hundreds of rich, beautifully dressed French ladies. Where was she, where was she . . . ?

Ah, there. Standing by the pillar, talking to an older woman in a plain red sheath. Sophie Massot was pristine, he thought, in a floor-length, tailored black dress, silk over satin, with a shawl of black lace—almost certainly antique. Heels of some sort; you couldn’t see them, but Hugh could tell from the way her body was poised. And her earrings; they were quite breathtaking: briolette diamonds that tumbled like raindrops, throwing out light everywhere and swinging with every slight movement of her head. They showed, to beautiful advantage, her long neck and the slim curves of her face, and softened the severe lines of her hair, her chestnut locks pulled up into a formal chignon.

Montfort approved immensely; she was very dignified. But still, stylishness was one thing and business sense quite another. This was the wife who had allowed her husband to cat around France, quite openly, all those years. He reminded himself of that and was a little ashamed of his shallowness in changing his opinion of her just because of the way she looked.

He sipped his champagne reflectively and looked around the room for Gregoire Lazard. There was no sign of him. Hugh was patient; he might be in the loo, or fetching Sophie a drink, any number of things. He toyed with his glass and waited a full ten minutes, but Mrs. Massot appeared to be on her own. Eventually the lady in red drifted off, and Sophie headed towards her table, a look of boredom crossing her face, which, he noted, she quickly banished.

Well, it’s no surprise she has social graces, he reminded himself; what else has she had to do all these years?