“Champagne?”

“God, yes.” Lynne Doran sighed waspishly at the waiter. “For everyone, I should think, after that god-awful weather.”

Jane resisted the urge to point out that they had been outside for a grand total of thirty seconds—fifteen from the front door to the car, and another fifteen to the door of La Grenouille. The rest of the day had been spent indoors: the library and newly discovered indoor pool for her, the game room for Ian McCarroll, and the den for Malcolm’s father. Blake Helding had rounded up all the thirtysomething men for a card game of some sort. His wife, Laura, had her manicurist make a house call, much to the delight of Ian’s little sister Ariel, although the rest of the children had favored a wild, five-story version of hide-and-seek.

All three branches of the family had done whatever it took to avoid having to actually step outside in the subzero temperatures and driving sleet, but their reservation at La Grenouille—Jane’s “official” welcome party—had forced their hands. Andrew McCarroll had been on the phone for half an hour trying to bribe the executive chef into coming to the mansion to cook for them in-house, but eventually had had to grant that the chef’s objections (“ambiance,” “supplies,” and “sous-chefs”—he didn’t bother with “a restaurant full of other customers”) were probably valid. Jane suspected that if Lynne had been the one on the phone, they would all be dining in after all, but Lynne and her twin cousins, Belinda and Cora, had locked themselves in the west-facing atrium on the eighth floor with strict instructions that no one should interrupt their “girl time.”

And now here they were, all twenty-odd of them, tucked into a private room.

“Isn’t Jane sick of French food, though?” Ian piped up from the end of the long, flower-adorned table. He wore a preppy light blue Brooks Brothers button-down and tan cords. “Isn’t that what she, like, ate at home?”

Before Jane could mention that her version of French cuisine was hardly five-star, Malcolm saved her the trouble.

“If she’s willing to put up with all of us at once, she should get something familiar out of the deal.” He ruffled Ian’s hair and took a sip from his champagne flute. Jane did the same, minus the ruffling. The bubbles tickled her nose.

“It’s really lovely,” Jane offered sincerely. The cozy space was covered in so many dense sprays of flowers that she had felt as though she had walked into a garden. Recessed French windows led to balconies that were so inviting she could almost forget about the hostile weather on the other side. She had been a little anxious about being the center of attention twice in four days, but the lush private room and champagne had worked wonders on her nerves.

As Lynne prattled on to Belinda about invitations, and Ian told Malcolm about his Fantasy Football team, a crew of waiters delivered to the table artfully arranged plates of foie gras and blinis with caviar. The rich hors d’oeuvres turned Jane’s smile up a notch, and she popped a bubble of golden osetra against her teeth with the tip of her tongue. Malcolm patted her knee under the table. Mr. Doran and Blake clinked their champagne glasses, and little Ariel admired her metallic-purple manicure.

“Now Jane,” Cora McCarroll announced, setting her fork down decisively. “I hear you start a job next week.” She managed to pronounce the word “job” with precisely the same mix of confusion and disdain that her cousin typically used, as if it were some kind of family quirk.

The silence around the long table was deafening. In the awkward pause, all that could be heard was the clinking of silverware against china.

“It’s event planning,” Lynne informed the family with a dismissive wave of her glass.

“I thought she was an architect,” Belinda Helding snapped to her twin sister, and then whipped her silver-gray head toward Jane. “I thought you were an architect.”

“I was,” Jane replied weakly. “I am, I mean. Just not right—”

“God,” Laura sighed melodramatically, flicking her blond tresses off her shoulder. “A job? Are we all going to be expected to work now?”

“No one expects that of you, dear,” Blake slurred cheerfully from across the table. Jane felt suddenly, uncomfortably sure that the foot rubbing against her ankle neither belonged to Malcolm nor was there by mistake.

“Thank goodness.” Laura dug back into her blini.

“Ariel, stop playing with your foie gras. It’s not polite,” Andrew said.

Cora’s and Belinda’s eyes were still glued to Jane as though she were a bizarre museum exhibit. She braced herself, but no one else at the table seemed to register any tension at all.

“So no more architecture?” Cora drawled. Her steely dark eyes were as cold and unyielding as the black Mikimoto pearls on her necklace.

“Now’s not the right time for it,” Jane said, choosing her words carefully. “But I do really love it. Making a space into someone’s real home is so—”

“Of course,” Belinda interrupted, waving a finger in the air. “You’d like that sort of thing, as an orphan.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open. In an instant, Laura was up and tapping her shoulder. “I’m going to powder my nose. Jane?”

“Excuse me,” Jane murmured. Ariel dropped a piece of foie gras down the back of Ian’s shirt. She snickered behind her hand as Ian obliviously continued to shovel risotto into his mouth by the forkful.

“This way,” Laura whispered, leading her down a narrow wooden staircase.

“Thank you,” Jane whispered as soon as they were out of earshot.

Laura waved her off airily. “They take some getting used to, don’t they?”

The two women took the shortest path to the discreet hallway that contained the restrooms, their heels tapping dully on the thick carpet. Just when they came into view of the main dining room, a flash of blue-white light tore through the room, shaking Jane so badly that she dropped her clutch.

Jane swiveled her head frantically to look for the source of the disturbance, but no one else seemed to even notice it. Am I seeing things? The flash came again, along with a vaguely familiar clicking noise. This time, Jane spotted a bearded man crouching behind a vase of gladioli, and the disparate pieces of information came together when she saw that he was holding a bulky camera.

“Laura,” she whispered, “who is that?”

“Who knows?” Laura whispered back, then seemed to register her concern. “Probably Page Six, but he could be freelance. Just ignore him and look happy. The hostess will escort him out soon enough.” She looped her arm through Jane’s and pasted a smile on her face until they were in the relative safety of the bathroom.

“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?” Jane asked awkwardly. The marble bathroom was also covered in flowers. A bouquet of peonies drooped from a metal vase and a collection of gold soaps and lotions lined the vessel sinks. Wall sconces cast dim, flattering light throughout the room, but Jane’s reflection still looked pale.

Laura leaned into the mirror and applied a coat of Nars Dragon Girl to her lips. “You should have seen the fuss when I was trying to poison my mother-in-law.”

Jane’s mouth fell open. “You . . . what?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “I seriously don’t know where the tabloids get their stories. As if any sane person would cross one of those old bats.”

Jane snickered.

“But you,” Laura went on, dabbing a Jo Malone perfume behind her ears. “You are impressive. I wouldn’t trade both of the twins for Lynne. Malcolm might have been the hottest catch in town, but the idea of that as a mother-in-law could make a girl think twice.”

Jane stiffened, surreptitiously checking under the stalls for legs. Laura seemed nice, but Lynne was seriously well-connected—and well-informed. “We seem to be getting along all right,” she mumbled.

Laura shrugged again. “Well, good luck with that.” She smiled, as if at some private joke, before sashaying to the door. “You’re certainly going to need it.”