Tonight would prove if the Buckingham could withstand removal of the English king’s patronage. Billy hovered anxiously in the reception hall as Lord Edgerton’s associates arrived. Graf and Gräfin Schecht were already in attendance. Nathaniel White’s father, Oliver, appeared with his family in tow, and a horse-drawn carriage wheeled around in the snow to deliver Lady Edgerton, Vivienne’s mother, to the marble stairs. The great and the good, thought Billy. We call these the great and the good. Why, then, did he feel so dirty?

Soon, guests milled between the tables in the ballroom. The popping of champagne corks could be heard echoing in the ballroom’s magnificent rafters, as waiters pirouetted across the expanse serving the canapés that the Queen Mary’s sous-chefs had spent long days preparing. Billy thought about venturing down there. Hidden behind one of those fanciful masks, perhaps he might even go unnoticed. But then he looked at the revolving brass door, and the snow strafing down across Berkeley Square. The temptation to run out into it, to bury himself in the pure white, was almost overwhelming. He took two faltering steps in that direction, but then he stopped. The die had already been cast. His fate was already sealed.

Sickened, he turned back towards the ballroom.

*

In the dressing rooms, the excitement was threatening to turn into panic. Sofía LaPegna could not find the ribbon that matched her gown. Raymond was steeling himself against the pain in his ribs with the best Martini the Candlelight Club had been able to provide. Nancy kneeled at his side, sorting out the bandages he meant to bind himself in before the first dance. Louis Kildare was polishing his saxophone clean on the hem of his very best shirt, while Archie Adams welcomed one of the guest singers for the night – a dapper young man in a white cocktail suit, who went by the name of Alfredo Bianchi – and the rest of the orchestra ran through their set list with increasing intensity. In the midst of it all, Nathaniel White hovered over Hélène Marchmont as she stared into the looking glass, painting delicate lines around her eyes. Ordinarily, Hélène had the steadiest of hands – but tonight, even she was trembling.

‘You must remember how it goes exactly,’ Nathaniel intoned. ‘Once the number comes to an end, release me at once. That’s when I shall approach the crown princess.’

Hélène paused, still applying her kohl. ‘It’s drilled into me, Nathaniel. You can be certain of that.’

‘My father is out there tonight.’

‘I know that too,’ she retorted, exasperated.

‘Lord Edgerton and all of the rest. I’ve choreographed this specifically for them, Hélène. When we go through those doors . . .’