Maynard Charles stood. Though he was not a tall man, something in his girth was nevertheless imposing.

‘I beg your pardon, Raymond?’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘The Grand deserves better.’

‘The crowd enjoy his spectacle. The boy has received rave notices from some of our most valuable clientele.’

‘His father’s friends, perhaps. Lord Edgerton and the rest. White was their lapdog before he set a foot in our ballroom, and you know it. The boy has no elegance. He’s here for them – part of their entertainment after their supposedly secret meetings, not for us.’

Maynard Charles shook his head. There was so little time to argue, on this of all nights. Good Lord, it wasn’t as if having Nathaniel White in the ballroom was his idea. Vivienne Edgerton had been cunning, and that was that. But there was something in Raymond’s tone that he would not tolerate.

‘Your critique of Nathaniel’s dancing prowess is duly noted, Raymond, and duly dismissed. The guests of our hotel expect a certain something. Nathaniel has it. You might be the better dancer, Raymond. But who would a lady of grand esteem rather have hold her – a boy of breeding like Nathaniel White, or a common street thug who thinks a little make-up across his face will elevate him a social standing or two?’

Raymond stammered, ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ while, inside, his mind whirred. How did he know? Did he know? What did he know? There wasn’t a soul in this hotel who knew his story – not a soul . . . except Nancy.

‘You’ll have a place in the ballroom when you’re healed,’ said Maynard, returning calmly to his seat. ‘We’ll discuss who remains principal when the time is right. But Nathaniel is to maintain his duties until the New Year is done. Isn’t New Year a mess already without us arguing over who takes the hand of the crown princess? That’s if we have any royalty left . . .’

Raymond’s mind was still in disarray. A common street thug. That’s what Maynard Charles had called him. Images of Cable Street arced across his eyes. His brother, under a barrage of boots. His mother and aunts, out with their skillets to defend the barricades, the upturned bus . . .

I should have been there. It was my duty to be there.