‘I need a special delivery. I’m not asking for much. I know what I did and I know it was wrong, but I’m pent up, Mr Simenon. I don’t know where to turn. Maynard Charles is looking over me like I’m a baby deer, unable to do anything for myself – but he would better be reminded where I come from, and who I am. I need your help, Mr Simenon.’

‘Vivienne, you must think I’m a simpleton. I won’t be responsible for the death of you.’ He stopped. ‘You’re a sweet girl and what you do to yourself is nobody’s business but yours. But I value my place in the Buckingham Hotel. I’ve been here longer than Maynard Charles himself. I intend to retire my position here only when I’m too old to be of use to anybody. I won’t risk it for—’

Vivienne snapped, ‘You’ve already been risking it.’

‘I’m a concierge. I fulfil my guests’ requests.’

‘Then fulfil this,’ said Vivienne coldly – and Mr Simenon noticed the colour of anger rushed to her cheeks. ‘If you’re not able to help a girl in her hour of need, well, a little bird might whisper in Maynard Charles’s ear. The hotel director might be very interested to hear where his lord’s daughter has been acquiring her particular poisons. If there’s a scandal here in the Buckingham, you’re it – so why don’t you help a poor girl out? I am, Mr Simenon, your guest, after all.’

As Mr Simenon’s jaw worked frantically to come up with a reply – but found only silence – Vivienne Edgerton stepped out into the reception hall and back towards her suite.

As she marched out of the lift, it was all she could do to hold herself together. She’d been feeling so cold, too cold for these halls where thousands of cubic yards of hot water and oils pumped to keep the hotel warm. She could feel the goose bumps all over her flesh – but that, she realised, had nothing to do with the season. It was her body calling out for it. Something to pick her up, something to make her whole. If only Nathaniel had lain with her. If only he’d tricked room service into bringing her one of her cocktails, a bottle of Moët, something to take her away from this place where she didn’t belong.

She reached her room and fumbled to unlock the door, her hand shaking. Was it really so much to ask? There was Christmas to survive. Christmas with the family – a family who loved her so much they’d rather she boarded here, alone, in the Buckingham, than under their own roof. And even if she survived that – well, what was there to look forward to? More of this intolerable hotel. More of this . . .