She started to move. At first she was only swaying. Then, tentatively, she took one step, then two. Nancy had never learned to dance. There had been a dance hall in the neighbouring village and, once, she had persuaded her father to take her there, just to watch the village ladies coming and going. She tried to remember how they’d danced back then, and then how Raymond de Guise and Grusinskaya had danced, right here. Then, suddenly, she found that her feet understood. She stepped forward, then to the side, then back, cradling the broom as she described a simple box step on the floor. She turned – there was a twinge in her leg, but no more serious than any she felt changing beds or sweeping rooms – and began to believe that, when you did not think about it, it was not really so difficult at all. You just let the music in your mind carry you onward.

The music was cut short by a single braying laugh.

Vivienne Edgerton was standing in the arch where the dressing-room doors used to be, before they had been taken from their hinges and carted away to be sanded down and repainted. How long had she been standing there? She was wearing an exquisite gown. Her face was painted, as if she was about to dance for an audience herself. But the look of horror, tinged with delight, that she wore shone through all of the make-up.

‘It’s . . . you again, isn’t it? Daddy’s dancing chambermaid. My Lord, what on earth do you think you’re doing with that broom?’

Nancy held the broom tighter, her palms sweating. ‘I’m sweeping, Miss Edgerton. If you please.’

‘Sweeping?’ Vivienne strode forward, her head cocked to one side in a way that expressed sincerity, yet her tone of voice made it clear she was anything but sincere. ‘Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen somebody box stepping as they swept. Show me that again, would you?’

Nancy could sense Vivienne moving closer to her, crossing the dance floor in poised, elegant strides. She was beautiful, Nancy decided. She was austere, but there was something of the look of a Greek goddess about her. She was imperial and proud and . . .

‘Can I . . . help you, Miss Edgerton? Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but the ballroom is closed for refurbishing. For cleaning.’

‘Well, you came here to dance. Maybe I came here to dance myself. And maybe I have permission. And, what’s more, maybe I don’t have a . . . Tell me, what exactly is wrong with your leg? You carry it an inch behind you, always. What is it . . . forgetful? Well, little leg, you won’t dance well like that! The body’s got to keep perfect time with itself if it’s to dance – even with a broom!’