There was an ancient bellpull to her left, which still worked. She tugged on the worn red rope, and within a couple of minutes Bernarde had appeared.

“Good morning, Madame. Your usual breakfast, Madame?”

Rather surprisingly, given her anxiety, Sophie felt hungry. She ordered a large breakfast.

“Certainly, Madame.” Bernarde smiled her approval; the staff were always trying to mother her. “And M. Lazard has already called for you four times, Madame, but I told him you were not yet risen.”

“Yes, thank you, Bernarde. If he calls again you can take a message.” Sophie nodded to herself. “And ask Richard to have the car ready in an hour. I will need him most of the day.”

“Yes, Madame,” Bernarde said. Her eyes betrayed concern, but Sophie was not inclined to be forthcoming, and she withdrew.

She ate well, knowing now why she was hungry; she had work to do, and there was much of it to get through. In her heart she knew, although perhaps the shirt was not conclusive—and somebody who wanted to could make excuses, all kinds of excuses: maybe Lise owned a similar shirt, maybe she had spilled something on what she’d come to his house in and needed to change. Nevertheless, Sophie knew better. She had seen it with her own eyes. It was too convenient, his hiring a new assistant. No, they were lovers, and she felt dirtied, even though he had never slept with her.

And even more than that, there was the hurry—his insane rushing to the altar. She had not liked that. It made her feel uneasy, even before she suspected him. Sophie finished her food and rang for a servant to clean it away, then went into her bathroom. She ignored the antique tub and its marble surround and headed for the modern, American shower she’d had installed last year, despite Tom’s protests. Its powerful jets blasted and scrubbed her, and she stepped out feeling invigorated.

Her closet, a vast thing, formerly a small study, had two or three outfits laid out for her perusal. Sophie glanced at them all, but rejected the choices. She wanted something altogether different today, something businesslike.

There was a black, wasp-waisted Richard Tyler suit with jet buttons, extremely fitted, tapering off exactly at the knee. Sophie chose that, with a sage green shirt underneath and plain, stylish shoes. She made up quickly, just some base and a little blusher; Sophie had long learned not to overpower the beauty of her skin. Then there was a spritz of her custom-blended perfume, and jewellery; Sophie picked fast, the way she always did.

She checked herself in the mirror.Very good. Unaccountably, Sophie felt a burst of pleasure and excitement. Now, why should that be? She ought, by rights, to be miserable.