He had barely begun to consult the oracle that was his index when there came a knocking at the door. Scrabbling to put it away, he barked, ‘Enter!’, and looked up to see Mr Simenon guiding Vivienne Edgerton through the doors. This morning Vivienne was dressed in a burgundy house dress, with a single pin in her hair. Her lips were painted with a striking lipstick and there seemed something strange about her eyes; she had the look of a lady who had spent all night in the cocktail lounge, being indulged by her various suitors. Her pupils were big and round and she seemed to glare.

‘I’m in the middle of something quite important, Miss Edgerton. Might this wait?’

‘Mr Charles, I believe I know your predicament. And I believe I may have a solution.’

‘My . . . predicament?’ So, thought Maynard Charles. The manic look in her eyes was evidently not because she was still riding the waves of last night’s Cointreau and vermouth. ‘Tell me, Miss Edgerton, what do you know of my predicament, and how do you know it?’

Maynard Charles hardly needed an answer to that question. Mr Simenon was, even now, bowing his head and sloping backwards through the door, off to offer his services to the party from the Côte d’Azur. He was indispensable with his knowledge of London, its theatres and galleries, its private parties and invitation-only boutiques, but his thirst for all knowledge extended too far in this hotel. One day soon Maynard would have to put a stop to that wagging tongue of his.

‘I have a suggestion, Mr Charles. You might laugh, and you might think it not my place, but . . . When my stepfather was here, he had in his company a dancer of the most superlative talent.’

Maynard Charles sank back into his seat. Why did he feel, suddenly, like a fly caught in a spider’s trap? It was not only in the words Vivienne was speaking. There was something about the confidence with which she said it. One might almost think it was Vivienne herself who had laid waste to Raymond de Guise.

‘Miss Edgerton, there are a hundred talented ballroom dan-cers across this city, and every last one of them is champing at the bit to come and dance for me in my ballroom. I’ll consider your suggestion, but perhaps you might leave this matter to those of us more . . . capable?’

He ought not to have said it. Immediately, and in spite of the petty thrill it gave him, he regretted it. Seeing Raymond this morning had inflamed him. It had addled his mind. He knew better than to speak to Lord Edgerton’s stepdaughter like that. He watched as the anger that erupted on her features settled into a kind of knowing glee. For Vivienne was certain, now, that she would get what she wanted.