Louis Kildare shook his head as he watched the hotel page go. ‘You have a soft spot for the boy.’

Kildare was a broad man, with black hair cropped short in the style of all the players in the Archie Adams Band. He was wearing the same white jacket as the saxophonists and trumpet players, though on Kildare the cuffs seemed too short – and he was positively bursting out of the bow tie Archie Adams insisted he wore. When he grinned at Hélène, the smile seemed to dominate his face – but tonight she was not smiling back.

‘They’ll understand, you know.’

Hélène hardened. ‘Who will?’

‘I know where that letter was going, and they’ll understand. It’s hotel business. It isn’t your fault Graf and Gräfin Schecht demand the pleasure of your company. Are you hearing me?’

Louis Kildare had a simple way with words, or perhaps it was just his accent that made him seem so blunt. He’d grown up playing trumpets in his native Caribbean, a familiar face in every club from Jamaica to Trinidad and Tobago, but in the end London had offered so much more. He’d come here on the heels of greater musicians than he: Ken Johnson, who made the alto sax feel alive; Ellis Mills, who played the horn but could have shown the dancers in the Grand Ballroom a thing or two if only Maynard Charles might have permitted it; Carl Barriteau – who’d taught Louis to hold his own on the clarinet when they’d bunked together in the bars of Trinidad. All of these people from all over the world, but London was the place they all aspired to be. Here the clubs and hotels were eager for any talented players they could find – and, even though most still resisted having a black musician in a white orchestra, there were other places where it was the music, not the colour of your skin, that mattered. The Nest. The Midnight Rooms. Café de Paris. Louis and his companions had played in all of these clubs until Archie Adams had chanced upon them and demanded they audition for his own band.

‘You ever want to go back to the clubs, Louis?’

Louis smirked. ‘Every now and then. They were different to the Buckingham.’ He paused, sensing that something was wrong. ‘Hélène, has something happened?’

‘It’s nothing, Louis.’ She touched his hand tenderly. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘I worry often, Hélène.’