But the sad fact was that watching Nathaniel throw Hélène around was not the same. It was showy and ostentatious and some of the things they were doing seemed improbably ambitious, but there was something more mechanical, less elegant, about it as well. Hélène’s face seemed locked in a rictus of concentration.

Vivienne’s eyes were on them too. Maynard Charles sensed her imperceptibly hardening.

‘We can manage almost any scandal here at the Buckingham, Miss Edgerton, but were anything untoward to happen where I cannot disguise it . . .’

Vivienne wrenched her eyes away from Nathaniel – was she wrong or did his hands not have to rest so low in the small of Hélène’s back? – and faced Maynard Charles. ‘You will see me for who I really am, Mr Charles.’

Maynard was momentarily at a loss, the silence following her declaration difficult to interpret. He simply nodded and stepped aside.

After he was gone, Vivienne fingered the hotel notepaper she had secreted in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on Hélène, the way she stiffened and then softened as she and Nathaniel danced. Yes, Vivienne thought, there was nothing here that was beyond her. Nathaniel had shown her enough. All she wanted – all she needed – was for the world to listen. Everyone deserved to be heard, didn’t they?

She was watching them still when she heard the patter of footsteps behind her. Billy Brogan had appeared. He was wearing one of his sheepish looks, as if to say he didn’t want to be here at all. But what did that matter?

She handed him the paper. ‘Arrange it for me, Billy. Do this one thing and we’ll say no more about the Midnight Rooms.’

Billy opened the paper, took in the words Vivienne had written, and felt as if a crevasse was opening up underneath him, earthen hands reaching up to drag him down.

Billy folded the letter and scurried away.

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-three

MAYNARD CHARLES WOKE WITH A start, his heart and head pounding as he clawed his way up from some feverish dream.

It was dark in the Park Suite. Maynard trembled as he reached for the water he had left at the bedside, then stood and peeled back the blinds. Fat, lazy snowflakes were drifting down across the square. London was a perfect vision of white. He could not have asked for a more magnificent setting for his New Year celebrations.

Why, then, is my heart beating like a panicked bird?

Why, then, was the Buckingham Hotel crumbling to dust in my dreams?