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  ‘Raymond, this is going to have to wait. You’ll understand, this is a sensitive moment—’

  ‘And for me, sir, but I have to speak with you.’

  ‘Raymond, by God! I’m wrestling with something of far greater significance than—’

  ‘No,’ declared Raymond. ‘I insist. This can’t go on a moment longer.’

  There was something so severe in Raymond’s tone that Maynard slowly replaced the telephone on its receiver. The housekeeper would, no doubt, be the recipient of Lord Edgerton’s ire, but that was somebody else’s problem.

  He looked over his pince-nez at Raymond. ‘What’s happening, Mr de Guise?’

  Raymond’s eyes were temporarily gazing beyond Maynard Charles, to the little safe in the wall behind him – containing the jewellery Hélène Marchmont wore on each celebration in the ballroom, but no doubt full of cheques from Lord Edgerton’s union friends, bankers’ drafts from whichever princely guests had called the Buckingham home in this last month as well. Keep it all in there, don’t you? All your ill-gotten gains. Taking money from the scum of the earth.

  ‘I’m going to dance tomorrow,’ he declared, with barely a tremble in his voice. ‘In the demonstrations, as well as the ballroom at night. I’m going to take my place.’

  Maynard removed his glasses from across the bridge of his nose and took a long, wearied breath. ‘Tonight, Raymond? You want to discuss this . . . tonight?’

  ‘It’s been too long, Mr Charles. The ballroom needs me.’

  Maynard’s eyes returned to the telephone receiver, sitting in its cradle. The words of the king of old were still resounding in his ears. He could recall every tremble in that proud and dignified voice. There was something to admire in a man who would give up his ancestry for love. Maynard was certain others of his rank would not see it as such. There were more men in the world who would give up love for rank and idolatry than the rest. It was going to cause untold problems for the Buckingham – what would happen to their reputation without a prince or a king to grace their halls? And yet he found his heart soaring at the idea. He was, he decided, a sentimental old fool.

  ‘I’m sorry, Raymond,’ he said, diverting his attention back to his desk. ‘Doctor Moore instructed bed rest until Christmas. I’ve been lenient enough with that prescription. Yes, I know you’ve been sneaking about the ballroom with a chambermaid. I haven’t caused a fuss. We are in the business, here, of managing risks. But I won’t risk you in the ballroom, Raymond, not until Doctor Moore has attended you and declared you fit. You’re an asset to this hotel, Mr de Guise. We look after our assets.’

  ‘I can dance, Maynard.’ Raymond caught himself. ‘I can dance, Mr Charles. I’ve proven it to myself. I don’t need a doctor to declare me—’

  ‘No,’ said Maynard, with an air of finality. ‘I do. I have your body insured, Mr de Guise. Your feet are worth two thousand pounds each. What would my brokers say were I to throw you back to the lions without a doctor having signed you off? No, you’ll wait it out, and we’ll talk about it when the hour is right. Nathaniel is keeping your seat warm, Raymond. The ballroom is in safe hands.’

  ‘That dog is to leave, Mr Charles. I’ll drive him out if I have to. I’ll put him down.’

  Maynard Charles stood. Though he was not a tall man, something in his girth was nevertheless imposing.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Raymond?’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘The Grand deserves better.’

  ‘The crowd enjoy his spectacle. The boy has received rave notices from some of our most valuable clientele.’

  ‘His father’s friends, perhaps. Lord Edgerton and the rest. White was their lapdog before he set a foot in our ballroom, and you know it. The boy has no elegance. He’s here for them – part of their entertainment after their supposedly secret meetings, not for us.’

  Maynard Charles shook his head. There was so little time to argue, on this of all nights. Good Lord, it wasn’t as if having Nathaniel White in the ballroom was his idea. Vivienne Edgerton had been cunning, and that was that. But there was something in Raymond’s tone that he would not tolerate.

  ‘Your critique of Nathaniel’s dancing prowess is duly noted, Raymond, and duly dismissed. The guests of our hotel expect a certain something. Nathaniel has it. You might be the better dancer, Raymond. But who would a lady of grand esteem rather have hold her – a boy of breeding like Nathaniel White, or a common street thug who thinks a little make-up across his face will elevate him a social standing or two?’

  Raymond stammered, ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ while, inside, his mind whirred. How did he know? Did he know? What did he know? There wasn’t a soul in this hotel who knew his story – not a soul . . . except Nancy.

  ‘You’ll have a place in the ballroom when you’re healed,’ said Maynard, returning calmly to his seat. ‘We’ll discuss who remains principal when the time is right. But Nathaniel is to maintain his duties until the New Year is done. Isn’t New Year a mess already without us arguing over who takes the hand of the crown princess? That’s if we have any royalty left . . .’

  Raymond’s mind was still in disarray. A common street thug. That’s what Maynard Charles had called him. Images of Cable Street arced across his eyes. His brother, under a barrage of boots. His mother and aunts, out with their skillets to defend the barricades, the upturned bus . . .

  I should have been there. It was my duty to be there.

  Somebody was speaking. He did not know until he was already in full flow that it was his own words streaming out. ‘You’re one of them, Maynard. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You and Lord Edgerton, all those fascist pigs who come and fraternise in our hotel. You serve them up whatever they desire. You crawl around and you beg at their heels. You’re a pig yourself, Maynard. Good God, this hotel was a grand place before his lordship came. You yourself were a noble man. But now? Now the Edgertons are here, with the Astors and the Schechts and the Whites and the Mosleys. Stirring up hatred, jetting off to meet their Nazi cousins, petitioning Parliament to turn a blind eye, to make a dirty deal, to go along with whatever their Führer wants. Well, out there – there in the real world – they might think the Buckingham is high and mighty, but it’s not, is it? We might have queens and princesses here. Mr Baldwin and his ministers might come to entertain. There might be the stars of stage and screen. But we’re gone, Maynard. Our soul is gone. You sold it. You sold it to the same kind of bastards who’re making war in Spain. You sold it to the same kind of bastard who turned London streets to pitched battle. You sold it to those society fools in bed with Nazis. And you turned me into a part of it too. I danced with a Mitford for you, you dog. I let you sell a piece of me. Well, I won’t sell it any longer. You don’t own me, Maynard. The Buckingham doesn’t—’

  ‘Well then,’ interjected Maynard, maintaining the repressed calm in which he’d endured Raymond’s assault, ‘it seems your mind is made up.’ He stopped. His eyes had returned to the tele-phone, and it was only now that he realised it was not sitting correctly on its cradle. The call he had placed to Lord Edgerton’s residence had not ended. He lifted the receiver, put it to his ear – but all he could hear on the other end was silence. Had somebody heard? he wondered. Had they listened to all the foulness Raymond de Guise had spewed out, here in his office? His heart was beating a new kind of rhythm now. He had kept his anger in too long.

  ‘Get out, Raymond,’ he uttered. ‘Or should I say Ray?’

  That single syllable felled Raymond de Guise. Something changed in his eyes. His hands curled into fists and his eyes darted into every corner of the room. How? he gasped, inwardly. How does he know?

  Maynard Charles paused, evidently taking delight in the way the word transformed Raymond’s face. ‘Call me a fascist, would you? Tell me I sold my soul, when I freely gave it away fighting in Flanders for the freedom of people like you – so you could grow up and do the things you loved to do. The music. The song. The dance. You don’t know t
he cost of a thing, Ray Cohen. So no, you’re not dancing in the ballroom this Christmas. You’re not stepping out with the crown princess this New Year. The fact of the matter is, you’re not dancing in the Buckingham Hotel ever again.’ He paused, allowing himself one last breath. ‘Your contract with us is terminated. As of this instant, you are no longer welcome in the Buckingham Hotel.’ Maynard Charles picked up the receiver, prepared to dial a number again. ‘You have half an hour, Mr Cohen. Collect your things. If I see you here in the Buckingham again, it will be the end of every secret you have.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  LONG PAST THE MIDNIGHT HOUR, Nancy Nettleton sat awake in her quarters, watching the fat flakes of snow drift down across Berkeley Square. The snow had been tumbling down since darkness first fell, transforming the rooftops of the city to a crystalline wonderland of white. Even the tracks Raymond had left in the snow as he’d stalked out of the Buckingham had vanished. Now that he was gone, there was hardly any trace of him at all.

  The letter was half finished in her lap.

  Dear Frank,

  It’s gone. All gone. Three hours ago, I watched Raymond leaving the hotel. I couldn’t get near him. He was throwing his things into his pack, and then he was being marched out by Mr Simenon and Diego from the Candlelight Club. I’m quite sure I saw Mr Simenon smile. Raymond wouldn’t even look at me. What if it was all just rot, every last moment of it? What if I never see him again?

  The tears fell hard and fast, blotting the ink on the page. She had been there when Raymond stormed back into his quarters and began collecting his things. She’d pleaded with him, demanded he tell her exactly what was going on – but the look he gave her was one filled with venom, almost as if he was accusing her – though of what, Nancy could not say. She had tried to take his arm so that he might be forced to talk to her – and that was when Mr Simenon had appeared at the door, flanked by the head barman from the Candlelight Club. That Nancy was there at all was an affront to them, so she quickly exited and left them to it. Minutes later, when Raymond shoulder-barged them out of the way to march down the hallway of his own accord, she called out his name – but he didn’t break his stride, didn’t even look her way.

  Oh, Frank, I wish you were here. How can a day that began so brightly end like this? If you were here I would make us cocoa and drop so many sugar cubes in it that it would turn sickly sweet. I would get out mother’s old blanket and we could wrap up in it together, to listen to the wireless or read our books.

  Frank, I miss you. I haven’t said it enough. I miss you, little brother.

  I have been a fool. A romantic fool! I came here to find a way to build a new life for us. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love and make a nonsense of myself in the process. But that’s, precisely what I have done.

  Nancy

  In the Candlelight Club, all talk was of the new king and the old. In the Queen Mary, where the cast of the Ziegfeld Follies were being hosted by Maxwell Lloyd – the West End impresario intending to bring them to London from their native New York – they whispered of the coronation to come. In the cocktail lounge and French brasserie, they talked about the sweet release that must have come for the prince, knowing, at last, that he could be with the woman he loved. But in the Grand, where Nathaniel put his arm around Hélène and tangoed in the centre of the ballroom, the whispers were different. The guests might have bemoaned the loss of a sovereign sympathetic to their cause, but in the dressing rooms the talk was of another fallen king.

  Raymond de Guise was gone.

  Late that night, after the revelries had finished and the last notes of the Archie Adams Band had died away, Vivienne Edgerton stole across the upper storeys of the Buckingham Hotel and gently tapped at a narrow mahogany door. Inside, by the light of a dozen candles, Nathaniel was admiring himself in the mirror above his armoire. He turned to greet Vivienne. She had looked ravishing in the ballroom tonight, her lips plump and red, her hair sculpted so that she seemed a style icon out of the pages of Vanity Fair, her black velvet gown with its striking silver sash procured from a Knightsbridge tailor who had made pieces for Greta Garbo. She stepped through and closed the door softly behind her. Then she opened up in the most radiant smile Nathaniel had ever seen grace her face. He had thought he had seen her in the throes of ecstasy before – but this simple, childish joy was something else altogether.

  He stood and embraced her.

  ‘Oh, Nathaniel, it couldn’t have happened better if I’d planned it myself!’ She lay her head on his shoulder, then drew back so that she could plant her lips on his. They hovered there for a moment, enticing, before she kissed him. ‘All that fool had to do was bide his time. Broken bones heal. Bruises fade away. They’d have had to put him back in the ballroom eventually. The guests would have demanded it. Where’s Raymond de Guise, they’d all say. But now . . .’

  Nathaniel kissed her again. They slid, together, onto the foot of his bed.

  ‘Do we know what de Guise did?’

  ‘Mr Simenon spilled it all. He always does. Raymond hanged himself. He went down there meaning to lash Mr Charles and force you out of the ballroom, but he wound up flogging himself. Isn’t it the most delicious irony?’

  Nathaniel beamed. Sometimes, the stars really did align. Two weeks until Christmas – and the only thing standing between him and dancing with the Queen of Norway on his arm when the New Year bells tolled was suddenly gone, cast out into the snow. My ticket to greater glories yet. My ticket to the palaces and boudoirs of the continent. To becoming a star for the ages . . . Surely there had not been a more satisfying Christmas story in the history of the world.

  ‘I saw the way they looked at me in the ballroom tonight. Not the guests. The dancers. Those ingrates in the Archie Adams Band. Kildare, that swaggering saxophonist who’s always creeping around Hélène – as if she’d ever stoop so low as to dance privately with one of them. They think I’m the reason de Guise is banished. As if I pushed him to it . . .’

  Nathaniel had started to grow tense at the memory of those eyes burning into him, but Vivienne drew him nearer. ‘Let them think what they like. They can follow de Guise, if that’s what they want. They’ve been lording it over the ballroom for too long. New Year’s coming. The Masquerade Ball. You’re the star, now that de Guise is gone.’

  ‘It’s Hélène that’s the problem now. It’s like she . . . resists me. Every time I show her how I want her to dance, a blank look comes across her face. And where does she go to, anyway? It feels like it’s every week. Whenever the ballroom’s closed. She evaporates. Leaves the hotel, when what she ought to be doing is rehearsing everything I’m teaching her.’

  ‘Off with some lover, no doubt. She keeps her secrets. She left for an entire year, not long ago. Some rich paramour was jetting her all over the world—’

  ‘She can have as many paramours as she wants. But she has a job to do. And that job is making me look magnificent.’

  Vivienne bristled. Must we talk about Hélène Marchmont, even now?

  ‘You don’t need to think about her, Nathaniel. Think about us. That’s what this New Year could be, isn’t it? A chance to show the world, not just the Buckingham, exactly who you are, exactly what you can do. There’s more than just glory in it, isn’t there? There’s riches as well . . . You can tour the continent, on a reputation like that. You can see the world. And me? I can finally show my mother that I’m not someone to be cast aside like an unwanted dog. Just think . . .’

  Nathaniel did. New Year: the night of the Grand masquerade. When the clocks struck seven, the doors of the Grand would open, the Archie Adams Band – and whatever guest singers they’d drawn in – would strike up, and the dancers would stream out for the Grand demonstration. Then, the lords and ladies in attendance would choose their partners for the night. Nathaniel pictured himself, sweeping the crown princess across the dance floor one moment; holding the warm body of her mother the queen the next. The King may no longer be in atten
dance, but that did not mean there was not a reputation to be made.

  ‘And a little space, perhaps, for me, Nathaniel? After all I’ve done . . .’

  Nathaniel beamed. ‘Always,’ he said – and, as they slid together upon the bed, he kissed her again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  SNOW EDDIED AND WHIRLED IN the mews as Raymond de Guise rapped his knuckles urgently on a nondescript door.

  The Académie des Artistes sat on one of the cobbled rows snaking away from Covent Garden, the only thing to announce it a simple silver plaque on the wall between the French restaurant La Folie and an antique bookseller of high renown. The door itself was unremarkable – the Académie did not have to announce itself to the world. Those who knew of it, knew where to find it.

  The doorman, when he appeared, was a man who had been born in the heart of the last century; his wrinkled skin hung loose around what had once been his significant jowls, and the suit he was wearing seemed to come from another century as well. He considered the man standing on the cobbles coldly. Then, recognising him, he stepped aside and admitted Raymond within.

  Raymond was thankful for the heat emanating from the flickering fires. A narrow set of stairs led to the gentleman’s club on the building’s uppermost storey. The Académie des Artistes had a long and noble tradition. A small club with private smoking chambers and a staircase leading down to a secret back room and the restaurant below. The great Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova had made the Académie her home when she came to London with her rendition of the Dying Swan in the years before the Great War. Dancers and choreographers as feted as Jules-Joseph Perrot, the balletmaster of the Imperial Ballet in St Petersburg, had come to this place and dined among stars. Marie Taglioni, who first pioneered La Esmeralda. Enrico Cecchetti, the virtuoso from Milan, who had hidden from the world that he could only turn in one direction across his entire career. Eduardo Corrochio had celebrated here the night after he became the world’s first Tap Dancing Champion in 1890. Joe Frisco, the American vaudeville performer who took Broadway by storm with his Jewish Charleston, was known to frequent the Académie every time his shows brought him to London. There was even one night, which horrified the Imperial ballet artistes dining in the secret restaurant room, when Mata Hari herself was said to have draped herself across one of her paramours here, in this same smoky room.