‘I’m sensitive to my staff, Miss Marchmont. But, plans are written and rewritten. Graf and Gräfin Schecht, the Hamburg Schechts, are flying into London on the twelfth. They’ve taken the Continental Suite for eight nights.’ Maynard was about to close the ledger but, before he did, he took a pencil and ruler and scored a line directly through Hélène’s name. ‘Graf Schecht has requested you accompany him in the ballroom during his stay. It is, you recall, one of his rare London pleasures, to see you dance.’

How could she forget? Graf Schecht was seventy years old, a whispery man of little grace but fierce determination. His wife, the Gräfin, had stopped dancing with him a generation ago – though she still enjoyed sitting in a ballroom and watching him twirl around someone much younger. Hélène could remember his hands all over her, and shuddered.

‘Mr Charles, I reserved those dates for a reason.’

Maynard Charles nodded. ‘Be that as it may. Hélène, you won’t deny we’re always flexible where we can be. Good Lord, the board were flexible enough to grant you an entire year on sabbatical when you wanted to tour California. But now that you’re here with us, I really must insist—’

‘I can’t change things so easily,’ Hélène replied, her voice hardening. ‘This isn’t a—’