The sprigs of holly with plump red berries and woven ropes of mistletoe were replaced by brass braziers in which blue and green flames would burn. The smaller Christmas trees which had sat in the corners of the ballroom were taken away as kind-ling, and in their place stood proud mannequins dressed in Venetian finery: startling white frocks with ostentatious frills and lace, great velvet capes bedecked in emerald feathers and tall headdresses. Beyond them, the stage where the Archie Adams Band would welcome its guest singers was being transformed into a palace of glittering silver and gold leaf.

The main doors to the ballroom were open as workmen filed in and out, so it was simple enough for Vivienne to slip through. Maynard Charles was here too, surveying the carpenters, joiners and painters embroiled in their tasks. Maynard Charles came to stand at her side as Vivienne looked down on the dance floor where Raymond de Guise was practising a few simple moves with the Spanish girl Sofía LaPegna.

‘It’s good to see you on your feet, Miss Edgerton.’

Vivienne disliked the insolent reminder of her disgrace, so she nodded sharply.

‘I was sorry to miss Christmas at the hotel,’ she said at last. ‘I have imagined it a magnificent affair.’

‘I’m certain you had an extraordinary Christmas of your own?’

‘Extraordinary is not quite the word. Mr Charles, I believe I know what you’re thinking. I have been a hindrance to your good work in my stepfather’s hotel. I hope you know how much I appreciate your discretion. You are going to see a changed woman, Mr Charles. By New Year, you will see – I promise.’

Maynard Charles hesitated. The doors to the dressing rooms had opened and out onto the dance floor came Nathaniel White and Hélène Marchmont, no doubt practising the routine with which they would open the Masquerade Ball. Maynard Charles remembered last New Year, when Hélène had returned from her sabbatical and he had watched her dance with Raymond. The ballroom had come to a standstill to watch them turn around each other. One of the guests had remarked that it was as impressive an affair as watching Alicia Markova or Margot Fonteyn at the Royal Ballet. Sofía LaPegna and all the other girls in the troupe had marvelled at everything they saw, the emotion of it as Raymond and Hélène danced, each of a piece with the other – and perhaps it had inspired them all to greater deeds, too, because in the months afterwards the ballroom had been more alive with magic and light than Maynard could remember. And we need that this year, we need it more than ever.