For a moment, Archie seemed imperious, the king of the ballroom: a god with grey hair and a suit of tailored white silk. Under his direction, the old Duke Ellington number, ‘In a Sentimental Mood’, filled the cavernous interior of the Grand. Excitement stirred around its edges, where lords and ladies – and every debutante recently presented at the royal court – had been holding their breath in anticipation. Conversations were silenced. Heads turned. As one, the hotel’s guests watched, rapt, as the Buckingham’s dancers flocked out onto the floor.

Hidden among the debutantes stood a tall girl with immaculately sculpted auburn hair and a gown of golden satin, embroidered with strings of pearls along its every seam. Although she looked young enough to be a debutante herself, Vivienne Edgerton could scarcely tolerate the shrieks of delight which filled her ears when, down on the dance floor, the elegant Hélène Marchmont twirled around her partner. Hélène had been a star at the Buckingham ever since the Grand opened its doors, but Vivienne’s eyes were fixed, instead, on Hélène’s partner – the Buckingham’s male principal, with his wild black hair and sad, almond eyes. A girl could get lost in those eyes, thought Vivienne. They invited you to fall in, deep and fast. And those arms . . .

‘In A Sentimental Mood’ was coming to an end. The orchestra exploded in a rapture of trombone. On the ballroom floor, the hotel dancers fanned apart, reaching out to partner up with the guests waiting on its fringes, while in its heart Hélène and her debonair partner came to the climax of their dance. Arms around each other, they turned and turned again. Vivienne watched the way they gazed at each other, with such exquisite longing. Then, with the final flourish from the orchestra, they came apart to soak up the applause.

In the middle of the ballroom stood Hélène Marchmont . . .

. . . and Gene Sheldon, formerly of the Imperial Hotel, newly made the principal dancer at the Buckingham itself.

Vivienne watched, with something approaching amusement, as Sheldon waltzed away to accept the hand of the first debutante who reached him. He was a serviceable dancer, she supposed. He’d made a name for himself, romancing the guests at the Imperial. But he was no Raymond de Guise.

The band was lurching into its next number when Vivienne felt a tap on her arm – and turned to discover Billy Brogan standing at her heel. Brogan was still like a faithful hound, Vivienne decided, even though this new season found him in the smart black uniform of the hotel’s concierges, not the forgettable grey that the hotel pages all wore. Sixteen years old, and two years Vivienne’s junior, Billy had been a page until his recent promotion. He was not a bad sort, but he had a tendency to hang about like a bad smell.

‘What is it, Billy?’ Vivienne asked.