Raymond’s eyes were temporarily gazing beyond Maynard Charles, to the little safe in the wall behind him – containing the jewellery Hélène Marchmont wore on each celebration in the ballroom, but no doubt full of cheques from Lord Edgerton’s union friends, bankers’ drafts from whichever princely guests had called the Buckingham home in this last month as well. Keep it all in there, don’t you? All your ill-gotten gains. Taking money from the scum of the earth.

‘I’m going to dance tomorrow,’ he declared, with barely a tremble in his voice. ‘In the demonstrations, as well as the ballroom at night. I’m going to take my place.’

Maynard removed his glasses from across the bridge of his nose and took a long, wearied breath. ‘Tonight, Raymond? You want to discuss this . . . tonight?’

‘It’s been too long, Mr Charles. The ballroom needs me.’

Maynard’s eyes returned to the telephone receiver, sitting in its cradle. The words of the king of old were still resounding in his ears. He could recall every tremble in that proud and dignified voice. There was something to admire in a man who would give up his ancestry for love. Maynard was certain others of his rank would not see it as such. There were more men in the world who would give up love for rank and idolatry than the rest. It was going to cause untold problems for the Buckingham – what would happen to their reputation without a prince or a king to grace their halls? And yet he found his heart soaring at the idea. He was, he decided, a sentimental old fool.

‘I’m sorry, Raymond,’ he said, diverting his attention back to his desk. ‘Doctor Moore instructed bed rest until Christmas. I’ve been lenient enough with that prescription. Yes, I know you’ve been sneaking about the ballroom with a chambermaid. I haven’t caused a fuss. We are in the business, here, of managing risks. But I won’t risk you in the ballroom, Raymond, not until Doctor Moore has attended you and declared you fit. You’re an asset to this hotel, Mr de Guise. We look after our assets.’

‘I can dance, Maynard.’ Raymond caught himself. ‘I can dance, Mr Charles. I’ve proven it to myself. I don’t need a doctor to declare me—’

‘No,’ said Maynard, with an air of finality. ‘I do. I have your body insured, Mr de Guise. Your feet are worth two thousand pounds each. What would my brokers say were I to throw you back to the lions without a doctor having signed you off? No, you’ll wait it out, and we’ll talk about it when the hour is right. Nathaniel is keeping your seat warm, Raymond. The ballroom is in safe hands.’

‘That dog is to leave, Mr Charles. I’ll drive him out if I have to. I’ll put him down.’