She had always said—kept it in her heart—that she was brighter, more passionate, more alive, than Pierre’s wife. And of course, unlike that shadow of a woman, Judy had loved him, most deeply. But maybe now was a chance for revenge. To show the world, and show herself, what Pierre had missed.
Judy would find a way to use the dabbling of the jewel-encrusted wife. And there must be no more veiled displays of hostility, she admonished herself. No, the first thing I must do is get close to her.
Chapter 10
“I trust everything is in order, Monsieur,” said the valet. He shut the door of the closet on Hugh’s clothes, which he had quickly and efficiently unpacked. “If there is anything else I can do for you . . .”
“Nothing.” Montfort pressed a ten euro note into the man’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, disappearing.
Hugh examined his room with satisfaction. It was lunchtime, so the curtains were drawn back, and he could see rue St.-Emilion below him, bustling with people and traffic, although of course it was completely silent; the windows shut out all possible noise. He admired the heavy chintzes and ornate furnishings; the George V was one of the world’s last great hotels, and always made business travel that much less of a penance.
Not that it was a penance today.
He had a meeting with Louis Maitre at three, but he was hungry, and needed to shower and change. After a flight, no matter how brief, Montfort always required a clean shirt. He thought better that way.
He dialled room service and ordered lunch without consulting a menu. A salad, lamb chops with new potatoes, and a blackcurrant sorbet; he recalled they made a particularly good one here. And half a bottle of Krug, as he was in an expansive mood, some mineral water, and coffee, to finish off.
He showered quickly, towelled himself off, and selected a new shirt and suit. The meal was delivered very promptly, and Montfort ate it with relish, although when it came to it he drank only one glass of the wine. Everything was spectacularly delicious, and he made a resolution to come to France more often, merely to eat. A Mercedes had been ordered for him and was waiting patiently when he stepped out of the heavy gilt doors of the hotel at quarter to three, and at 3 p.m. precisely, he was walking into the Mayberry showroom on rue des Princes, alive with excitement and the scent of the deal.
Although it was a Wednesday afternoon, Montfort was pleased to note, the place was jammed. Crowds of tourists peered into the brilliantly lit glass cases; Japanese and Americans he could identify instantly, but he thought there were also at least ten Frenchwomen. He could further see that although the store was very full, their carefully designed layout was working. There was no sense of a cattle market.
The hushed, pale grey colour inside the stores, a hue he had chosen himself, reflected its calming palette everywhere, from the soft carpeting that deadened the clicks of ladies’ heels to the silvery, moth-coloured background of the gem cases and the walls that looked as though they had been washed in moonlight. The cases were all small and well spaced out; Mayberry jewels, Hugh had decreed, were not to be jumbled together in one huge box. Each range would be separate, displayed to its best advantage.
For a few moments he watched the women cooing over the pieces. The brightness of the displays played up his fresh, hip brand. Unlike every other jewellery store, you didn’t have to guess at the prices here. They were not invisible, or written on tiny paper tags. They were displayed, electronically, on screens beside each piece, along with information on stones and carat weights. The greatest crush was around the Molten Sun collection, his Oscar triumph, but he noticed other lines doing well: Bloodlust, the ruby and spinel line, was attracting the attention of the Frenchwomen, and the Japanese ladies were interested in Onyx Moon, which, of course, contained no onyx; it was a selection of chokers and brooches in jet, opals, and black diamonds.
Perfect; it was fashion, and the dedicated followers were out there, hunting not just for the famous line, but for the next big thing. As he watched, eight more women entered the store, but it was at capacity already, and they murmured to themselves, then left again.
His annoyance mingled with anticipation. Yes, of course customers left if there was no room for them to see the merchandise. It was a scene likely repeated in Mayberry stores around the world. He needed space, and prominence. He needed the stores of that dinosaur, House Massot.
“Monsieur.”
He turned; fat little Louis Maitre was standing there, smiling and rubbing his hands.
“Bienvenue,” he said. “You can see we are doing very well here, M. Montfort.”
“Indeed.” Hugh nodded towards the back office. “Shall we go inside? It’s a little crowded.”
“Of course. Please follow me.”
Maitre kept his office neat and simple, traits of which Hugh approved. He pulled up a chair, which was barely comfortable.
“I do not take many meetings,” Maitre apologized.
“That’s quite all right.” Hugh waved it away. “Now, what has happened, if anything, at Massot?”
Maitre puffed air out of his lips in a heavy sigh. “Nothing, Monsieur. Rien. She goes to the office each weekday. I am informed they have given her an office. But nothing happens—nobody is dismissed, no changes are made. It is as if she were not there.”
Hugh nodded. That was mildly disappointing; ideally the wife would have had some stupid ideas to implement.
“She is seen much in the company of the chief executive, though.”
“Gregoire Lazard?”
“The same. I have people watching the building,” Maitre said shamelessly. “He takes the madame for many luncheons and, last Tuesday, even for a drive in the country. And there is a rumour that she is to invite him to dine at her estate.”
Montfort paused. This was new information indeed. He instantly decided it was unwelcome information.
“It means one of two things,” he said, thinking aloud. “First, that she is in fact taking a very close interest in the company and is asking a lot of questions.”
“I doubt it, Monsieur. She would hardly start now.”
“Second, that Lazard intends to marry her and control her fortune, and her stake.”
“Or third, that they are in love.”
Hugh’s lips curled at the corners. “M. Maitre, love is never quite that convenient. It is amazing, is it not, that M. Lazard should suddenly fall heavily in love with a housewife?”
“But, Monsieur.” Maitre was a gossip hound, and eager to show off all the information he had gathered. “Mme Sophie is more than just a housewife, she is a most attractive lady.”
“I’m sure she was, when Massot married her.”
“No, now. Look . . .”
He pulled a sheaf of photos from a drawer of his desk. Montfort was shocked.
“What is this?”
“You said to find out all I could, Monsieur,” Maitre said defensively.
“Yes, but—not to have the lady followed,” Hugh replied. He was a little embarrassed. Such things were beneath him, miles beneath him. “It is my own fault for not being more explicit, but in future, M. Maitre, nobody is to follow Mme Massot or take pa parazzi photos of her.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” Maitre said, a touch sulkily. “I suppose you do not wish to see these, then.”
Hugh laughed. “As you have them, you may as well hand them over.”
He took the photos and studied them in silence. Maitre had not been wrong in his assessment. Sophie Massot was an amazingly attractive woman. Even in the harsh daylight of these snaps, she looked pulled-together and beautiful in every shot. Not obviously so; her nose was classic, not tiny and even, and her figure was slim, not large breasted or boasting Jennifer Lopez curves. She was clearly in her late thirties; there were laugh lines around her eyes and mouth; but she had a serious face, not one that had done much laughing, he thought.
Montfort admired the even, glossy hair, the large eyes, the exquisite dress sense. Black;
so she was wearing mourning, which in itself he felt showed some unusual style, these days. But she wore black with such variety and grace it might as well have been a rainbow of colours. On Mrs. Massot, each outfit was absolutely distinctive. Here was a severe Dior suit, cut 1940s-style, ending just over the knee; next, a dress, with a cropped jacket, the skirt billowing out from under it; the third picture saw her in a Chanel suit; there were no trousers in any of the pictures.
She liked jewellery, he could see that. Many women did, but they had no idea how to wear it. Sophie Massot had that instinct that many rich women lack. She was no Duchess of Windsor, whose collection he thought the ultimate triumph of wealth over taste. Her pieces always complemented, and never overpowered, her clothes; large pearls here, picking out white buttons; ruby studs on the day she went completely black, to punctuate the darkness; a large solitaire diamond, even in a picture you could see that it was very fine, and old—a Victorian rose-cut.
Montfort immediately adjusted his opinion of the woman. Whatever else he might think of her, she had immense style, and made it look easy. He appreciated the different elements of her dressing: clothes, accessories, and gems came together as beautifully as a piece of music.
“I must meet with her as soon as possible,” he said. “Is there some way for me to see her without Lazard present?”
“Not if you ask for a meeting. He would never allow it.”
“Then socially,” Montfort said. He wouldn’t need long to charm her; he never did. Fifteen minutes at the most. “Find out her calendar, can you? And get me to an event she is attending.” His dark eyes narrowed. “That is, if you can do it without rummaging through her dustbins.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur?”
Montfort sighed. “Never mind, man, just do it.”
Chapter 11
“Mon Dieu,” Gregoire Lazard said, softly.
Sophie looked at him. The car had just turned past the pear orchard behind its crumbling stone walls; this was the first view of the house. She was used to it, but of course Gregoire was not. He leaned forward in the backseat to admire it: the plain grey walls, almost honey coloured in the full light of the sun, the round tower and its pointed cone, the windows glittering like the surface of the lake to their left. It was a hot, even sultry day, with just a whisper of a breeze; the château’s grounds showing to excellent advantage, its lawns smooth as a billiard table, the topiary hedges neatly shaved into balls and spikes, the gravel walks lined with lavender.
“You like it?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. All the time she spent with Gregoire, he was so reserved. Sophie could hardly get him to say, flat out, that he liked or wanted anything, apart from his requests for her company. She decided he was proud, but that was a good thing. He had perfect manners.
But she wanted to please him, to see him enthusiastic for once.
“Like it? Like is not the word,” he said, shaking his head. “C’est magnifique. How old is it?”
“It was built in the late 1600s. It was the seat of the Barons Rossigny, but they were wiped out in the Revolution. Pierre bought it three years before we were married. . . .”
Sophie could have kicked herself. Why did she mention Pierre, why? Was it out of respect for him that Gregoire had not declared himself to her?
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I remember.”
“You must have been here before. . . .”
He shook his head. “We were friends, you understand, but on a business level. He kept his social life separate.”
The car purred on towards the garages, a converted stableblock not far from the main entrance.
“And what is that?”
He was gesturing at the golden stone of the dower house, looking small at this distance, below the lake at the foot of the lawn’s slope.
“That is the lodge where my mother-in-law lives.”
“Ah. Mme Katherine.”
Sophie looked at him in surprise. “You know her?”
“I have only met her briefly, at company functions.” Gregoire added delicately, “Mme Katherine moves in much different circles.”
Sophie blushed and felt a pang of shame. Gregoire meant, of course, that Katherine had cut him dead. He might be a successful businessman, even Pierre’s deputy, but since he had no estates of his own, to Katherine a man like Gregoire would be nothing more than the hired help. And in fact, for him to say that Pierre and he had never mixed outside the office . . .
She wondered with embarrassment if, perhaps, Pierre had treated him the same way. In which case his kindness to her was all the more remarkable. She being the last vestige of a family that had looked down on him. . . .
Gregoire had told her he was a Polish immigrant. She hoped fervently his background of poverty had nothing to do with it.
But it most likely had, of course. Her own middle-class origins—Katherine had never let her forget them.
“It is very beautiful,” Gregoire said, “but perhaps we should go somewhere else. We are near the village of St.-Aude, I believe they have a pleasant fish restaurant there. . . .”
Sophie looked at him with dismay. “You don’t want to see my home?”
He sighed. “Don’t you see? It is because it is your home.”
She tensed. Weeks of spending almost every moment in his company, and Gregoire, who made her feel so womanly, so alive, had refused to be drawn on his feelings. He complimented her constantly; he sent her flowers; he would interrupt her as she tried to go through Massot papers, interrupt her all the time, with jokes and pleas to take tea with him.
But he was shy, and would not declare his love, or anything except a wish to be her friend. And Sophie could not seem to draw him out.
Was he about to say something at last?
“What do you mean?” she asked gingerly.
He gave a laugh that sounded a little hollow. “Sophie, you have seen my place.”
“Four times.” He had invited her for three dinners and once, a late breakfast, when he declared he couldn’t stand to see her poring over “those dull figures” for one more minute. “It’s a lovely house,” Sophie added, encouragingly.
Gregoire lived in a brand-new townhouse on boulevard la Reine—a chic brick building with skylights and a courtyard garden, Japanese appliances in the kitchen, and its own cinema room. It certainly cost over a million euros, and he had a collection of twentieth-century sculpture and paintings that was probably worth as much again, Sophie guessed, even though she herself hated modern art.
“It suits me very well. But it is hardly like this. When I see something so beautiful . . .” and he paused meaningfully, so she couldn’t be sure if he meant her or the house, “it reminds me only that I am not worthy.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sophie laughed. She struggled to make Gregoire feel more at ease. “Do you know the story of my background?”
“No,” he said in a polite way that she knew meant yes.
“Well then,” she said, answering what he hadn’t said, “you know that my father owned a local newspaper in Tunbridge Wells and my mother was a kindergarten teacher.”
Lazard smiled at her. “You are very kind.”
“But it’s the truth,” Sophie said robustly. She felt a frisson of pleasure at having said such a thing openly. Pierre, and more importantly Katherine, had always drummed into her that her dreadfully bourgeois background must never be mentioned. “Please, Gregoire, relax with me.”
He smiled warmly at her. “I will try.”
Sophie ordered that lunch be served in the conservatory; it was her favourite room in the house, the least intimidating. They had to walk through the immense stone hallway, past the portraits and the tapestries, and through the Yellow Room, with its silk wallpaper and elegant divans, to get there; but once she had led him through the small wrought-iron door, they were surrounded by the scent of growing things, and the odd drowsy butterfly. There was Victorian rattan furniture from the British Raj and giant cushions from Pakistan, in a silk
en rainbow of colours, heaped round a glass-topped table. Despite the glass and stifling heat outside, it was cool; Sophie had added modern air-conditioning, because without it the place would be unusable from late spring until autumn.
“This is delightful!” Gregoire said.
“I’m so glad you like it.”
Bernarde, one of the maids, appeared in uniform. “Could you ask cook to send in . . . an assiette,” Sophie said, searching for something simple. “Just some ham and cheese and bread and tapenade. And a fruit salad. What would you like?”
“What is on the menu today?”
Sophie laughed. “Anything you want, as long as you don’t have a hankering for roast peacock or something.”
“Would a cheese soufflé be too much trouble?”
She shook her head, pleased. Perhaps he was going to relax after all. Soufflés took a little while to prepare. “Lionel’s soufflés are outrageously good.”
“And for dessert, Monsieur?”
“A poached pear,” he said, decisively. “And some wine. Anything white.”
“And water. I’ll have tea when we’re finished.”
“Yes, Madame,” said Bernarde. She smiled radiantly at Gregoire, and at her mistress, then disappeared. I suppose it’s been a long while since I’ve had a man to the house, Sophie realized—just one man, unaccompanied by a wife, anyway. She kept a proper distance from her staff, in obedience to Pierre’s wishes, but she had always been friendly and pleasant, and paid very well. They were all fond of her, and knew how to make their feelings known.
“I am glad you are going to enjoy your lunch,” Sophie said.
Gregoire brushed his hand across his face, as though to get rid of cobwebs. “When I am with you, it is difficult not to be happy,” he said.
Sophie blushed.
These past few weeks, she thought, have been the happiest of my life.
The idea shocked her. But it was true; well, always excepting the time she had spent with Thomas, when he was younger. But as a woman, aside from motherhood . . . yes. She could not recall having been happier.
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