Talk, thought Raymond. Mrs Adelman’s hand was on his arm. Yes, it would not be the first time one of the ballroom’s patrons had asked him to . . . talk. The hotel director almost demanded it: ‘Whatever our patrons require, Mr de Guise, you are here to provide.’ Perhaps it was the way he held them as they danced, or perhaps it was the way he worked to make them feel that, no matter what else was going on in their lives, in the Grand they could be themselves, just follow the rhythms of their bodies, but people felt . . . safe with Raymond de Guise. He had to admit that he liked that feeling.

‘I’m staying in the Trafalgar Suite. It would be a little more private. Shall we?’

The music had died away. Archie Adams was up on his feet, ushering his orchestra off for their well-earned refreshments. In the quiet that followed, Raymond risked a glance over his shoulder. The unblinking eyes of Vivienne Edgerton were still on him. He was not sure whether they were accusing or pleading or worse, but perhaps it would not be a bad thing to escape the ballroom, if only for a time.

He reached out and took Mrs Adelman’s hand.

*

Raymond tried not to catch the eye of Mr Simenon, the slippery head concierge, as he and Mrs Adelman strode, arm in arm, through the doors of the ballroom, past the grill room and cocktail lounge and up into the hotel’s lobby – where its celebrated bronze doors stood open to the balmy scents of Mayfair after dark. He did not answer when one of the hotel pages called out his name, nor break his stride when Maynard Charles himself appeared at the reception desk, his spectacles perched haphazardly on his nose as he scrutinised the day reports in preparation for the night manager’s arrival. Perhaps they thought less of him, thinking him little better than those ‘table dancers’ who haunted the booths of the hotel’s Candlelight Club, seeking a wealthy patron with whom they might spend the night for a fee. Let them think what they want, he thought. My business is my own. Not a word was spoken, even as he accompanied Mrs Adelman to the ornate gold cage of the guest lift and she instructed the attendant to take them to the third floor, where her suite awaited.

‘Are you staying here long, Mrs Adelman?’ he ventured, as they walked together along the burgundy hall.

‘Oh,’ Mrs Adelman replied, ‘it’s a one-night thing, Raymond. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

A one-night thing, thought Raymond. Yes, he had heard this story before as well: a wealthy dowager, just flitting through, looking for somebody to . . . talk with, for the night.