She stumbled forward. Somebody was coming through the doors behind them and instinctively she reached out for Billy Brogan’s hand. Together, they were swept further into the club. Billy didn’t mind. The chance to wind his fingers into Nancy Nettleton’s hand was not likely to come around again, so he made sure he held her tight as he led her into the room.

A young man and his lover had been drinking dark liquor in one of the alcoves on the furthest side of the dance floor, and Billy spied them as they got up and fought their way down to the dance floor itself. ‘Come on, quickly!’ he said and, still grasping Nancy by the hand, plunged between the dancers. The revellers did not seem to notice. They parted and came together again, and soon Billy and Nancy were safely ensconced in the alcove, the black walls on either side dampening the music and dancers so that they could almost hear each other speak.

‘Shall I get us some drinks?’

‘What?’

‘I said, shall I get us some drinks! Nance?’

Nancy nodded. She was nervous letting Billy go, but she was hypnotised too. The band had moved into a different number. ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’, the new Louis Prima number. The dance floor, which had momentarily calmed as the band switched songs, came alive again.

She stared.

She found her own feet tapping.

She saw Raymond de Guise.

He was there in the thick of the dance floor, spinning Hélène Marchmont around, catching her and spinning again. Gone was the elegance and grace she had come to know. He still held himself as confidently, he still owned the dance floor in spite of the dozens of others whirling past him, but there was something free – something more fun – about the way he moved too. Revelling. Raymond de Guise, star of the ballroom, was a nightclub reveller now. Nancy was captivated. Then she saw the look on Hélène Marchmont’s face. Austere, glacial Hélène Marchmont – Ice Queen of the Buckingham herself – was beaming from ear to ear.

It shouldn’t have knifed her like it did, but there was no denying the envy Nancy felt at seeing the way they were dancing together. She was certain: the girls were right. What Hélène and Raymond were compelled to hide in the sophisticated surroundings of the ballroom must have felt right, here in the Midnight Rooms. You’ve been a foolish girl, Nancy. He was teaching you to dance. That was all. Just look at them! They’re perfect together. From the same standing. From the same class in life. They’ve probably been in love for years and years – and here you are, a little country mouse still, thinking you’re something special. She carried on staring. Even now, their hands were . . .