‘An untalented little junkie, barely fit to visit the ballroom, let alone perform in it. Oh, Vivienne, you silly little girl. What did you think all this was for? You girls and your wild romances. A ballroom isn’t for romance, Vivienne. It’s for the cold, brutal, realities of life. You think it’s all beauty and starlight, but you’re wrong. It’s war.’ Nathaniel’s eyes roamed the room, desperate to see Hélène stride back through the doors. He was coiled like a serpent ready to strike. ‘Good God, Vivienne, this night’s about to fall apart right in front of me – and what do you do? Did you really think a few weeks of dancing could turn you into somebody worthy of the world stage?’ He barked one last time. ‘I like you, Vivienne. We had our fun, didn’t we? You helped me get my foot in the ballroom and I gave you what you wanted in return. I danced with you, didn’t I? Not just out there, but up there too. But how could you even hope to compare with somebody like Hélène Marchmont? Girls like you are good for just one thing, Vivienne – and it isn’t for kings and queens . . .’

The whole of the dressing room was a blur. Vivienne staggered backwards, flailing over her own feet. Good for just one thing, she thought. The words echoed mercilessly in her ears. Yes, good for just one thing – and that thing, it was waiting upstairs, right where she had left it.

She wanted it now. She needed it now.

She took another step backwards, crashed into whatever was behind her. As she turned, she felt arms picking her back up. Raymond was standing there, his arms around her. His chambermaid was with him, her eyes full of fury. Do they know what I’ve done? Vivienne wondered. She could not stand that now. She did not want to know.

Raymond set her back on her feet, then strode past her. His face was set hard. His eyes were full of fire. He reached out and clapped one of his meaty hands on Nathaniel’s shoulder. It was strange how little Nathaniel seemed compared to Raymond. She hadn’t noticed it until now.

Through the doors, the band had started playing. Sofía LaPegna and the other dancers leaped up and out of their chairs, preparing for the first dance. Yet the door to the ballroom was being blocked by Nathaniel.

Raymond brought his hand back. Vivienne saw it clenched into a tight fist.

‘She might be a spoilt little rich girl,’ he said, ‘but she’s our spoilt little rich girl.’