All she wanted to do was step out on New Year’s Eve, resplendent in her gown, with Nathaniel on her arm – and remind her mother that she existed. A night like that was worth all of the rest. A night like that would be something to look forward to, a diamond in the rough of her life.

But Nathaniel hadn’t even wanted to touch her. What was she – dirty to him now?

She fumbled the key into the lock and stepped through. At first she did not notice the envelope that had been slipped under the door – but, as she flailed forward, it caught the end of her foot.

Dear Miss Edgerton,

We may not have seen eye to eye in the past, but perhaps we can set this to one side. You may not have been told, but it was me who found you and brought your predicament to the attention of Mr Charles and his staff. I have been instructed to keep my own counsel, but I have seen the ruin addiction makes of a person and my heart goes out to you. Perhaps we can talk? I am sure I can be of some assistance.

Your friend in a time of need,

Nancy Nettleton

Nettleton? thought Vivienne. The chambermaid with the lame leg . . . and the eye of Raymond de Guise? Vivienne supposed she ought to have been grateful for what she’d done, but that girl really was above her station. To suppose Vivienne needed her? She stood and stared at the letter. Then she took it between thumb and forefinger and tore it into a wealth of tiny pieces.

She didn’t need cheer. She didn’t need pity. All she needed was for Mr Simenon to do what he was told.

Why, then, did her mind keep going back to Nancy’s words – my heart goes out to you – and why did they bring the shimmer of tears to her eyes?

*

Billy Brogan had hoped never to attend the Midnight Rooms again – and yet here he was, trudging back through the slush and snow of Soho in winter, with a little lavender pouch tied up in his back pocket. The Midnight Rooms did a roaring trade in winter. Christmas and New Year were the most indulgent times of year.

Afternoon was curdling to night, and Christmas only days away. Billy looked forward to Christmases in Lambeth. His brothers and sisters still bought into the magic of the season. He longed for the chicken on the table – because, unless he was wily enough to pilfer one from the hotel kitchens, the family could never afford a goose – and the family gathered around; the presents wrapped in newspaper they would open and the songs they would sing. He had been siphoning off his money from Mr Charles all autumn, and back home the cavity underneath his bed was crammed full of all the books and toys he’d bought for his brothers and sisters.