No, there was only so long he could ignore Mrs Adelman’s appeal. He looked up at the notice pinned to the wall beside the ballroom bar: 12–19 SEPTEMBER, THE GRAND BALLROOM CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. Every September the ballroom went into a week-long hibernation, reopening as radiant as the day it first opened, the air heavy with the smells of beeswax and varnish. No dancing for a week, thought Raymond, and all of these evenings to myself. Maynard Charles would make him work for those days off – the autumn season with its new debutantes, the Christmas festivities and New Year Masquerade Ball to come – but that week, Raymond decided, was when he would extinguish the kernel of fear that was taking root in his gut.

This was the week he would go and find his brother for himself.

Raymond heard knocking at the ballroom’s door. He crossed the dance floor to unlock it.

Vivienne Edgerton was standing there in her day dress, aquamarine with pleated sleeves and a single felt flower sitting over her heart. Evidently, she had been up early to prepare for her lesson, because she had painted her face as elegantly as if she were stepping out into the Grand for the night. Her lips were striking and red, and her nails were painted crimson. The elegant women of London town scarcely painted their nails, but Vivienne was a New Yorker through and through.

‘Miss Edgerton,’ he said, ‘please come through.’

Vivienne stopped to survey the empty ballroom. Her lips, which had been pursed, parted as she tried to suppress her smile. The whole of the Grand – and all to herself . . .

She turned on the spot to find Raymond closing the doors. When he looked her up and down and noticed the ball gown she had draped over one arm, he said carefully, ‘You won’t be needing it, Miss Edgerton. It is best if we are free, at least to begin . . .’

For a fleeting second, Vivienne seemed disappointed. Ordinarily she leaped upon any opportunity to wear one of the dresses she acquired in her shopping trips to Knightsbridge and Earl’s Court. The gown she had brought was a perfect replica of the one worn by the Hollywood starlet Myrna Loy; she’d appointed a couturier from Bond Street to recreate it herself. Relenting, she draped it over the balustrade and descended the marble steps onto the oak and mahogany chequered floor. ‘Shall we?’ she began – and stumbled as she attempted a spin.

‘First things first, Vivienne.’