I’ve never seen Raymond in love before, thought Hélène. Love? The word had caught her by surprise. Is that what this is? The way he holds her, it seems so much more natural than the way he held Grusinskaya, or Philomena, or any of the other guests he’s danced with in the ballroom. Hélène had forgotten how technic-ally brilliant Raymond could be, but he wasn’t technically brilliant tonight. You can see how he doesn’t dare put his whole body’s weight onto the foot he’s stepping with. You can see he’s holding back. But none of that matters, does it? What’s technical brilliance when set against real connection? Hélène was almost envious. In all the years we’ve danced together, not once has he looked at me like this . . .

Nathaniel clapped his hands, slow and deliberate, and suddenly Hélène was pulled out of her thoughts.

On the studio floor, Raymond was so lost in the music – lost in his love, thought Hélène – that it was Nancy who noticed first. She pulled out of his arms and came to a stop, revealing her lazy leg for the first time.

‘Time’s up, de Guise,’ said Nathaniel flatly, striding down the step to the centre of the studio floor. ‘Hélène and I have real work to do, there’s a good fellow.’

Raymond’s withering eye flickered from Nathaniel to Hélène – who merely raised an eyebrow – and then back to the boy. Silently, he picked up his jacket, extended an arm to show Nancy the way, and walked with her past the spot where Nathaniel stood, glowering.

‘Raymond, I’m sorry . . .’

Raymond whispered to Hélène out of the side of his mouth, ‘Don’t worry, Hélène. It’s not your doing.’ Then something emboldened him and he spoke louder. ‘When the lord clicks his fingers, we all have to dance. Even when it’s with a fascist dog . . .’

Nathaniel tautened. ‘You’d be advised to mind your manners, de Guise. You’re confusing your master for your dog.’

Nancy took Raymond’s hand, as if to heave him out of the room. ‘Raymond, leave him. He’s not worth—’

‘Oh, he’s not worth a thing. Imagine a man, Nancy, who didn’t get where he is today by the talent in his feet, nor even the courage in his heart. Imagine a man who got where he is today by a pat on the back from Daddy. A man who thinks he owns somewhere as grand as the Buckingham because his father went to school with somebody who went to school with somebody who once held Lord Edgerton’s valise. And imagine – just for a second, imagine – a man who thinks that he can dance, when really, he’s just tumbling around the room like a circus clown.’

‘ENOUGH, de Guise!’