“So what are my options?” Tom asked.

“Under the terms of the will, Mme Massot is in an unassailable position. She inherits five million euros and is guardian, until your majority, of your estate, which comprises the château and all other holdings, including thirty percent of House Massot stock.”

“So we challenge the will.”

“We can do that, certainly. It won’t work,” Mr. Elgin said. “You do realize that, sir?”

“Then what would be the point?” Tom demanded, annoyed.

“To gain an injunction preventing Mme Massot from acting until the case is heard. We can file a number of motions,” Mr. Hartford said encouragingly. “And if we are fortunate, we may be able to delay her. After all, you are only three years away from total control.”

“Ah.”Tom looked at them with a touch more respect. “Drown her in paperwork; yes, I like that.”

“And we could possibly challenge the declaration of death . . . if you have any evidence your father is still alive.”

He looked away. “I wish I did.”

“Of course . . . you do realize, Monsieur, that you have some stock of your own. Five percent, a gift when you were born.”

Tom nodded. “I can’t do very much with that, gentlemen.”

“And your grandmother,” Mr. Elgin went on, slyly, “the will mentions that she has ten percent.”

“Fifteen percent of the stock is substantial,” Mr. Hartford murmured, discreetly. “If you received enough shareholder votes, Monsieur . . .”

Tom leaned forward. Brilliant! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Grandmother! She had dignity, she valued his father . . . she wouldn’t stand for what Maman was doing any more than he would.

“Yes? What?” he demanded.

“You could demand a seat on the board. And naturally, the other board members would be aware that in a few years, you will control everything.”

“Forty-five percent, including the stock of the elder Mme Massot.”

“One doubts they would be all that keen to oppose your wishes.”

“Mme Massot could find her plans blocked.”

Tom stood up. The two older men regarded him with dismay.

“I hope we haven’t been too precipitate, sir?” asked Leonard Elgin. “There are other ways . . . quieter methods.”

“Where’s the retainer agreement?” Tom demanded. It was handed to him; he removed from his jacket pocket the platinum, custom-made Montblanc pen Maman had given him last Christmas and signed with a flourish.

The lawyers looked at each other with suitably muted triumph.

“Coutts will transfer the two hundred thousand to your corporate account later this morning,” Tom pronounced. He had made his decision; this was the right firm, now he simply wanted to get out of here. I am a man of action, he thought; Maman will think better of trifling with me.

“Thank you, M. Massot.” Mr. Elgin offered a firm handshake across the table. “We are delighted.”

“It’s a great honour to be working with you, sir,” said Mr. Hartford.

Tom shook hands coolly; such respect was no more than his due.