High above, Vivienne Edgerton stood at her open balcony window, allowing the bitter cold of Berkeley Square to flood in. She had been waiting hours already. She had been waiting too long. The lights below lit Berkeley Square only in small halos, but it was enough. As she hovered there, she saw the tiny figure of Hélène Marchmont canter out onto the square, wrapped up in a thick coat. She stumbled, caught herself before she plunged into the snow, righted herself against one of the townhouse railings, and disappeared off the square.

Vivienne smiled.

It took great effort to close the windows against a sudden onslaught of wind, but Vivienne battled them back and marched to her wardrobe. Inside hung a sky-blue gown, a spectacular creation of chiffon and lace. Yes, she thought, this was as elegant as anything Hélène Marchmont ever wore. She picked it out, held it up against herself and gazed into the mirror. She would look beautiful in this – and anyone who said otherwise could hang.

She looked up from the mirror, back at the window panes, and something caught her eye. With the dress still held against her, she staggered over and looked back out. Another figure was hurrying across Berkeley Square. Another figure she knew. She clenched her jaw – but then, thinking again, relented. What did it matter if he was gone, after all? The poor fool had already done everything she asked. He could freeze out there for all she cared.

*

Billy Brogan tore across Berkeley Square in his shirtsleeves. A dozen horses and carriages were wheeling around the snowy expanse in the heart of the square, bringing their guests to the ballroom for the night. Stopping while one of the carriages sailed by, Billy felt the bite of the wind. He thought he saw Hélène striding purposefully along one of the roads leading to Regent Street, but by the time the carriage had passed, all he could see was the snowy dark.

He looked up at the towering facade of the Buckingham Hotel.

He remembered his father’s words.

He tore back across the square.

By the time he reached the staff entrance, he could feel the chill in his bones – but he did not stop. He clattered on, up through housekeeping, around the reception hall where more guests milled, and burst back through the dressing-room doors.

Nathaniel rounded on him at once – ‘What did you do to her, Brogan?’ – but Billy sidled past, to the corner where Nancy and Raymond still sat.

‘Nance,’ he said. ‘Nance, I’ve—’

‘Spit it out, Brogan!’ roared Nathaniel, gripping him by the shoulder.

At once, Nancy stood. ‘Don’t manhandle him, Mr White. Can’t you see he’s—’