Maynard Charles summoned Mr Simenon. Permitted to travel in the guest lift (with only a subdued hint that, even though he was a personal acquaintance of Lord Edgerton, the guest lift was for the use of genuine guests only), Mr Simenon opened one of the empty rooms in the staff quarters and allowed Nathaniel inside.

‘I presume it meets your satisfaction, sir.’

Sir, thought Nathaniel. Yes, he could get used to this kind of service. They had looked on him admiringly in the Imperial, but none of them had bowed their head in deference as the concierge did here. That, he supposed, was because of his connection to Lord Edgerton, but it buoyed him all the same.

He looked around the room. It was simple, rather than sublime. On the journey here – his father had sent one of his fleet to pick him up from his Holland Park residence and convey him in style to the scene of his future glories – he had imagined it as vast and ostentatious as one of the Buckingham’s finest suites. By comparison this was much smaller, but he had already caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung at the foot of the bed, and he liked the look of what he saw: Nathaniel White, principal dancer at the Buckingham Hotel. There were two months until Christmas. Maynard Charles had already impressed upon him the importance of the event, but he had no need; The King and his Norwegian cousins might have been in attendance, but Nathaniel intended to be king of the ballroom by then.

‘If there is anything you need, Mr White, don’t hesitate to contact me personally,’ Mr Simenon ventured.

‘There is one thing, Mr . . .’

‘Simenon,’ the head concierge replied, though he was quite certain he’d said it several times already.

‘I’d like cut flowers. Dahlias and chrysanthemums. Arranged in a magnificent bouquet. Separate the stalks with some of those ornamental grasses, would you? I’m sure you know the sort. Then bind them in scarlet ribbon with a simple white card inscribed with only my name. They’ll need to be lilac and pink and the card must be perfumed with a certain scent. A Guerlain or a Caron. And, Mr Simenon?’

Any of the other concierges might have bristled at such a specific and exacting request. But for Mr Simenon, this was a joyful thing. He would prevail where lesser concierges fell.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Have them delivered to Miss Vivienne Edgerton immediately, with my eternal thanks.’

*