He’s not what I would have expected, Sophie thought. Except for his class—the name Hugh Montfort spoke volumes. But she had pictured him as an indolent, weak-chinned public school boy, looking to glom on to the success of Pierre and Gregoire, and sulky when he was refused.

Montfort had been nothing of the kind. He was her own age, maybe just a touch older, and well-dressed without too much care taken about it, which she never liked in men. Tall, like Gregoire, but stronger. Indeed, he made her shiver, although the evening was balmy. He was very muscular, and tense when he moved, predatory, in more than the corporate sense of the word. Sophie longed for the comfort of Gregoire.

As soon as she had slid into the back of her limo, she reached for the phone and called his direct line at the office. Nobody was there. She gave the driver his home address.

The car pulled along the gravel drive into the neon stream of nighttime Parisian traffic. Sophie was almost the first to leave, but she didn’t care. She had put in an appearance; that was sufficient, as representative of the House. And now she had something a little more fun to do.

Well, there was a tinge of fun to it, she admitted. Of course she was madly in love with Gregoire, and being courted was very exciting, but still. . . .

Truth to tell, she had found the time away from the office just slightly dull. Looking back on it, even studying reports hadn’t been so bad. And there was Judy Dean to talk to. Judy had come down to the château for a visit, but it wasn’t quite the same. Sophie had actually enjoyed working. It wasn’t true work, not like Judy’s—she knew that—but it had been fun to try, at least, to wrap her mind round something more important than planting schemes and estate management.

And now she had some important information—now she could help Gregoire! Their enemy was on the prowl again. Of course Gregoire would know how to defeat him. She wondered, a touch anxiously, if he’d be offended if she asked for updates?

Ah, here they were. Boulevard la Reine, with its modern town-houses, all in a row. Gregoire’s was the third, and she could see that the light was still on. A car was parked outside, a little Renault, so she had the driver wait in the next space, and climbed out, carefully lifting her coat and dress so that mud didn’t splash on the hem. She had a good dry cleaner, but one couldn’t ask for miracles.

Sophie rang Gregoire’s bell. She heard light footsteps running down the stairs, and the door opened.

“Yes?” said a young woman.