There was something brusque in his manner so Nancy said no more. Instead, she set about her work. Some time later, she became aware that he was watching her as she moved across the room, straightening the angora blanket upon the chaise longue.

‘Your leg, Miss Nettleton. Are they . . . working you too hard? Mrs Moffatt can be a slave driver – no matter how genial she seems.’

The mention of her leg – what had Vivienne Edgerton called it, her old lady’s leg? – hardened Nancy, and she kept on fussing with the pillows.

‘I’ve said something out of turn, haven’t I?’ Raymond stopped. ‘Your leg – it’s an old injury?’

It had seemed as if Nancy was turning into stone but something – perhaps only Raymond’s contriteness – broke the spell, and she softened. ‘It’s only a little stubborn. I had polio when I was a girl. Lots of folks had it in our little village. I was one of the fortunate ones. My leg’s a little . . . contrary, Mr de Guise, but nothing more.’

Raymond blurted out, ‘Nancy, forgive me.’

She lifted a hand, and busied herself with new bed sheets. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

‘I’ve seen championship dancers with legs weaker than yours.’

Nancy stopped. ‘Really?’

‘That’s why you came to the ballroom that night, isn’t it? You wanted to dance?’

‘Just to see the place, Mr de Guise. To see Hélène Marchmont and yourself in full flight, and all the patrons, and all the lights, and . . . No, I would never have thought to dance myself. They have nothing more elaborate than the village hall where I come from.’

‘Come now! You’re not so very far from Blackpool.’

‘Not as the crow flies, perhaps, but a world away in real life. We took a day trip once, to look at the pier. But the Winter Gardens? The Empress Ballroom? It may as well have been in the heart of Africa.’

Raymond moved around the edge of the bed, until he stood in front of Nancy. There he opened his arms. ‘Would you allow me to show you some steps?’

‘Oh, Mr de Guise,’ Nancy blustered, bustling past him to reach her trolley again. ‘The very thought! And . . .’

Something had pained her. Raymond reached out and took hold of her wrist. ‘What is it?’

Nancy hesitated. ‘It’s nothing. I’m speaking too much, aren’t I? I always do when I’m nervous.’

‘Did you get in trouble, Nancy?’ Raymond’s voice was hushed.

It was absurd, but the thought that she had been dragged in front of Mrs Moffatt, perhaps even Maynard Charles, while Raymond was out dealing with the ghost of Ray Cohen, made his blood boil.

‘No,’ Nancy answered, ‘nothing like that. But I tried a few steps, just me on my own in the empty ballroom. Only, it wasn’t empty. Miss Edgerton was there as well. She . . .’

‘She what?’