She’d walked out of that first demonstration humiliated and ashamed. That night, as she’d prepared to dance with the hotel guests, Louis Kildare had caught her seething at the dressing-room doors. Some of the other girls had been whispering: White’s only here, they said, because of who his father is. One of Lord Edgerton’s set. Only Louis Kildare preached calm. ‘He’s just a boy,’ he said. ‘Nathaniel can’t help who he was born to any more than you or I. This is the Grand Ballroom, remember? Young or old, rich or poor, black or white . . .’

Well, Hélène thought, as she fastened the brooch on her evening blouse and made sure her floor-length skirts were fastened, he’d had time. And the way he’d ignored every other guest this evening, while twirling Vivienne Edgerton around like another of his playthings, was distasteful at best. Somebody ought to tell Maynard Charles – paying guests are being overlooked while Nathaniel indulges Miss Edgerton – but of course nobody would.

At that moment, Billy Brogan appeared in the dressing room, to the shrieking of Sofía and the other girls. Billy rolled his eyes, as he did every time.

‘Miss Marchmont.’

Billy was holding an envelope in his hands, with only her name written on the front. Hélène took it off him with eyes like daggers – a scathing look that said, ‘Never in front of the girls, Billy!’ – and turned it over.

The envelope was folded rather than sealed, but Hélène believed she could feel a faint moisture, as if some keen observer had been steaming it open. She had heard a number of times the secret policy of the hotel post room, that no letter could come in or out without the prying eyes of Maynard Charles first knowing what it said. It wasn’t beyond a boy like Billy to pick up some of those tricks. But she’d been using Billy to ferry messages back and forth to the Archers ever since she came back to the Buckingham Hotel. She had to trust somebody.

‘It came that way, Miss Marchmont. There’s no one had it but me. It was dropped down in Lambeth, just like always.’

Hélène nodded, dismissing Billy – who left to mock declar-ations of love from some of the girls. It would take more than that to make Billy Brogan blush, thought Hélène. He must have seen it all, sneaking in and out of the hotel suites as he did. Then she opened the letter.

Dearest Hélène,

She walks! At eight this morning (10th November), Sybil picked herself up without first reaching for Maurice and tottered five whole steps to reach me in my chair. The delight on her face was plain. The delight on ours will continue to Christmas and beyond. Next time you come, she will be running and jumping!