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imported blooms. He also carefully studied the photographs of the Smith-Greaves clan in Tatler , searching for any family resemblance to Cat. He’d noticed that Miranda Smith-Greaves needed short kips just to get through the day and she always looked like she’d only just woken up. Was this some sort of genetic trait perhaps? Maybe she was responsible for Cat constantly nodding off? Henri hoped like hell that his intuition was incorrect. For if it was true that children inherit their intelligence from their mothers, then Cat was in deep shite.
    When time was tight, Henri was not above presenting British tulips artfully re-boxed as Dutch tulips. Nor was he above refilling vintage Château Lafite bottles with a lesser wine. Henri maintained a secret storeroom in the labyrinth where he kept all the exclusive used packaging, boxes and empty bottles for such emergencies.
    He confided to his chum Jim Blade, ‘It’s a nice little earner and keeps the wife in luxury goods.’
    Jim shifted uncomfortably. ‘Don’t tell me this sort of thing. I’m supposed to be stamping out in-house corruption.’
    Henri laughed so hard he damn near fell off his perch. ‘You can talk, my fine feathered friend, what with your card sharping and dirty deals in the boiler room.’
    Jim shrugged. ‘I get your point. But for heaven’s sake, make sure you’re discreet about it.’
    Henri Dupont was very discreet but while smoking a post-coital cigarette and engaging in pillow talk, he happily regaled his wife with tales of excess. He told Mrs Dupont, ‘So I said to our internationally famous ballet dancer, “Sir, I understand your request. Here at the Hotel du Barry we live to serve and, yes, I can find you a courtesan with beautiful feet.” Apparently, my dear, ballerinas develop ugly feet from dancing en pointe . Grotesque bunions, thick calluses, corns, twisted toes, the works. Ugh. Frankly I was more surprised at his request for a female than I was to discover he had a foot fetish.’
    Mrs Dupont giggled and Henri kissed her before popping another French chocolate truffle into her mouth. Mimi wondered if he was intentionally fattening her up. She was nearly three stone heavier than she’d been on her wedding day.
    Around the time that Mary Maguire mastered the fine arts of typing and shorthand, Mildred, Daniel’s personal secretary, died. Daniel ensured Mildred had the financial resources to die as elegantly as she’d lived. And he personally accompanied Mildred, in a Hotel du Barry limousine, to the finest suite at a private London hospice. Prior to their arrival, Henri Dupont had filled it with Mildred’s favourite blooms. Henri also booked a Hotel du Barry beautician and a hairdresser to attend on Mildred every morning. Her brilliant white hair was still abundant and she’d maintained the greyhoundleanness of her youth. Although frail, her mind was sharp as a tack and her patrician nose still capable of sniffing out authentic people. She adored Mary and her affection was returned in full.
    The day before she died, Mildred dismissed the beautician and said to Mary. ‘I’ve made peace with the world and am now ready to leave. Please bring Cat and Choupon in to say goodbye tomorrow morning. And do let’s have a bottle of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne, so we can have a wee tipple before I check out.’
    â€˜But of course, Mildred.’
    The next morning Mary smuggled Mildred’s miniature French poodle into the hospice in a Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper. The nurses pretended not to notice the beady black eyes glaring at them from under Mildred’s satin quilt. Mary and Cat sat on one side of the bed and Daniel the other.
    Franz Liszt played on the phonograph and Mildred commanded Mary to, ‘Play that movement again, please. It’s my favourite Liszt passage. You know Danny, your father pretended he detested classical