Raymond caught a fleeting glance of himself in the mirror hanging over the dresser. Thirty years old, but there were still those who would mistake him for twenty. It was only when he laughed that the creases showed about his eyes, revealing his true age. He had curly black hair that was a constant battle to sculpt in time for the afternoon demonstration dances, and eyes that sloped ever so slightly downwards, giving him what a former lover had once called an ‘elegantly sad air’. The prominent cheekbones had been inherited from his father, God rest his soul, and his nose had been broken and reset so many times, thanks to the attentions of an unruly brother and events in his previous life, that it made his face appear somewhat crooked. He could see Mrs Adelman appraising him from beyond his reflection.

‘Mrs Adelman, I really must . . .’ Something stuck in his throat. ‘I really must . . . ask . . . why am I here?’

The question hung in the air between them, threatening, as if it shouldn’t have been said. He hoped, above all else, that she had not brought him here to proposition him. She would not have been the first – and, if she did, she would not be the first to be told, in the kindest possible terms, that Raymond de Guise was a gentleman, not a gigolo; that, though they might joke about it in the kitchens and the housekeeping lounge, the dancers in the Buckingham Hotel were not the kind to slip out of the ballroom with a beautiful guest and wake beside her the following morning. Mrs Adelman patted the bed beside her and Raymond felt compelled to sit.

Then she looked into his eyes.

‘Your mother sent me.’

Of all the things she might have said, this was the least expected and it startled him.

‘My . . . mother?’

Raymond’s mouth felt suddenly dry. Every other thought that had been in his head was obliterated. An image of his mother hovered into view, and suddenly he felt a thousand miles away from the sights and sounds of the Buckingham Hotel.

‘How long has it been, Raymond? Two years?’

A little stab of guilt caught Raymond de Guise in the breast. ‘Three,’ he whispered, almost contritely.

‘Three years, and you her firstborn son.’ She said it not with admonishment, but with regret. ‘I met her, of course, in the years since you went away. Well, they were hard times for your mother . . . and I know what it’s like to lose a son. Mine died at Passchendaele, but how bittersweet to lose your son and yet know he’s still out there, and never comes home . . .’

Raymond was not ordinarily unsure of himself, but now he stuttered, ‘Mrs Adelman, let me change my question. Why . . . why are you here?’