He took the letter between his fingers and, on a whim, tore it in half. Then he tore it again, then again and again, until Vivienne’s words were confetti being scattered onto the thick sheepskin rug.

The door opened. Raymond wheeled around, kicking through the falling shreds, and saw a chambermaid – the chambermaid – hauling her trolley through the door. In the same moment, she saw him.

Nancy. Nancy Nettleton.

It was Nancy who spoke first. ‘Good Lord! I’m so sorry, Mr de Guise. We were told . . .’ For a moment, she faltered. ‘Mrs Moffatt said we weren’t to expect your return for several days. That your rooms were to be in order before you . . .’

Raymond wearily shook his head. ‘I came back earlier than I’d intended, Miss Nettleton. I’m sorry. I can . . .’

Nancy brought the trolley into the small suite and closed the door behind her. Then, taking in the room, she said, ‘I haven’t quite mastered the art of being invisible, have I, Mr de Guise?’

Raymond smiled, remembering his own words. ‘You’ve no need to be invisible here. Please. You’d be surprised, Miss Nettleton.’

‘Call me Nancy, please. Should I . . . clean around you, Mr de Guise?’

This gave Raymond pause. ‘You’d like me to leave my own rooms?’

Inwardly, Nancy cringed. ‘I didn’t mean to say . . . I only meant . . .’

‘Nancy, I’m jesting.’

‘It’s only that, when I used to keep our own home, I’d quite happily throw my brother out on his ear if he was lounging around while I was trying to clean. Sometimes I forget – I’m not in Lancashire any more. This is the Buckingham Hotel! There are different rules.’

‘Forget about them – for here, at least.’

She had brought out her sweeping brush and, for the first time, her eyes dropped to the scattered corners of paper around Raymond’s feet. ‘Oh. Should I . . .’

Raymond dropped down and scrambled to get the pieces together himself.

‘A love letter, Mr de Guise?’ Nancy said, before she could stop herself.

‘What makes you say that?’ he asked sharply, still down on one knee.

She was speaking too freely – that much she knew. And yet . . . she remembered the fleeting look of admiration on Mr de Guise’s face when he realised that she had stepped out of her place and visited the ballroom regardless. Weren’t the dancers caught between the two worlds of the Buckingham, belonging to neither, but to one entirely of their own?

‘I can smell the perfume, Mr de Guise. Chanel. Once upon a time, my mother had an empty bottle. She bought it at a market in Manchester. I remember her filling it with water. There was still the faint scent, lingering around the rim.’

‘Well,’ said Raymond, stuffing his pockets full of the scraps of paper, ‘it’s no love letter, I can assure you of that.’