Vivienne waited until he was done, her eyes roaming the shelves. There were row after row of ledger books, chronicling in columns of profit and loss the peculiar history of the Buckingham Hotel. The head of a stag, shot by one of the hotel’s first directors, was mounted on mahogany and glared down from above Maynard’s desk.

‘Miss Edgerton,’ he said at last, ‘I’m sorry to take you from the festivities.’

Maynard Charles had a paternalistic tone, but Vivienne knew it was calculated; he had never become a father, because his life had been devoted to the smooth operation of the Buckingham Hotel. All twelve hundred of its staff were his children, from its elegant dancers to its porters and pages.

‘Am I to understand that I’ve done something wrong?’ Vivienne tried not to, but she needled him further. ‘Committed another great sin, perhaps?’

Maynard raised an eyebrow, pointedly refusing to be baited. ‘I received a telephone call from your father’s secretary this afternoon – on a matter grave enough that she had thought to query me before involving your father.’

‘My stepfather,’ Vivienne interjected, with ice in her voice.

‘Forgive me,’ said Maynard, standing at last. ‘Might I pour you a drink?’

‘I don’t care for brandy. I was happy with the Moët they’re serving up down in the Grand. Mr Charles, if I haven’t done anything wrong – and I haven’t, I’m quite certain of that – might I be permitted to return? I’ve kept myself clean since Christmas. I’m trying my best to . . . go unnoticed. But I’ve been anticipating the Spring Ball and I was looking forward to dancing.’

‘This is important. Lord Edgerton’s secretary feels she must take it to him, unless I can tell her robustly that nothing is amiss.’ He paused, composing himself as if for a grand announcement. ‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed, in this hotel, that since the debacle at Christmas – when, let’s not beat around the bush, Vivienne, you were close to perishing from your overindulgences – you have withdrawn from life inside and outside the Buckingham. You haven’t been on lavish spending missions into the Regent Street arcades. You haven’t frequented the Queen Mary, the Candlelight Club, nor any of our other restaurants and bars. Why, I believe your appearance at tonight’s Spring Ball might be the first time you’ve worn a ball gown all year.’

Vivienne bristled. ‘What of it?’

‘Miss Edgerton, you haven’t drawn on your stepfather’s allowance in one hundred and eleven days. The generous stipend he permits you is simply accruing in an account – and his secretary is questioning why. Why would Vivienne Edgerton suddenly stop spending? Why is she ordering simple room service meals instead of sitting at the table of honour in the Queen Mary? Why isn’t she dragging a hotel concierge out with her into the boutiques of Mayfair?’