And here was the reason. Composing himself, he stepped out of Mr Simenon’s office and saw the revolving doors open on the other side of the reception hall. From them, a porter already carrying her bags, stepped Vivienne Edgerton. Billy’s heart leaped. She looked as elegant as ever, in a flowing felt coat of forest green and with a pin in her hair, but Billy had long since stopped thinking about her beauty. No, his heart soared for one reason only: Vivienne Edgerton was still alive, and that meant that the powders Mr Simenon had sent him to procure for her were either still tucked away in her bags, or that they hadn’t poisoned her at all.

Billy tried to avoid her gaze, but soon Vivienne’s eyes had found him. There seemed something defiant about her today. She waved the porter past and he paused at the guest lift, holding the door open for her. Vivienne made him wait. Instead, she approached the check-in desk behind which Billy lingered and fixed him with a glare. ‘I’ll need to see you, Billy,’ she said, ‘and soon. I’ll be in the ballroom at noon. Make certain to find me there . . .’

Billy floundered for words. He’d been lucky once. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to the Midnight Rooms for more. His father’s words rang in his head.

‘Billy?’

‘Yes, Miss Edgerton,’ he whispered, and could not stop himself shaking until the lift doors were closed with Vivienne inside. Perhaps, he wondered, it’s time. Time to run. There are other jobs. Other hotels. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t need a reference at all. There’s a whole world out there. They always needed pages at the Savoy and the London Ritz. There are hotels in Paris and Berlin, hotels in New York and even further afield.

Anywhere, he thought, where the secrets and promises battling each other in his head might not be poised to expose him.

*

Vivienne Edgerton strode into her room, found it arranged to her satisfaction, and dismissed the porter with neither thanks nor tip. Then, with the door locked behind her, she spilled the contents of her suitcase onto the bed. The Madeleine Vionnet gown could go back into her wardrobe, the rouge and perfume onto the dresser. The pearls had been a gift from Lord Edgerton. He would expect her to wear them at New Year, she supposed, and perhaps she would indulge him; her hatred of her stepfather did not extend to the expensive jewellery he foisted on her – all those gifts, just so she wouldn’t put up a fuss at being kept here. Besides, her mother would attend the ballroom for the New Year celebrations as well – and, if it was the last thing she did, Vivienne intended to be noticed by her mother at New Year. Nothing else would do. Nothing else mattered.