Shiny swathes of gold, scarlet and black fabric had been draped from the ceiling, while between the gaudy bolts a brand-new wallpaper of rose-covered trellis disguised the damp patches of the ballroom’s plaster. The room’s huge chandeliers had been lowered to floor level where servants laboriously slotted hundreds of white candles into the newly cleaned silver and crystal holders. More workers were twining vines of ivy around pillars newly painted orange, while an elderly woman was strewing the floor with French chalk so that the dancing shoes would not slip on the polished parquet.

The cavalry officer, clearly delighted with the elaborate preparations, strode through the room. “Bristow! Bristow!“ His tall boots left prints in the newly scattered chalk. ”Bristow! You rogue! Where are you?“

A black coated, white-haired man, who bore the harassed look of the functionary in charge of the ball’s preparations, stepped from the supper room at the peremptory summons. His look of annoyance abruptly changed to a delighted smile when he recognized the young cavalry officer. He bowed deeply. “My lord!”

“Good day to you, Bristow! It’s a positive delight to see you.”

“As it is a delight to see your lordship again. I had not heard your lordship was in Brussels?”

“I arrived yesterday. Last night.” The cavalryman, who was called Lord John Rossendale, was staring at the sumptuous decorations in the supper room where the long tables were draped in white linen and thickly set with silver and fine china. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explained his early appearance. “How many are you seating tonight?”

“We have distributed four hundred and forty tickets, my lord.”

“Four hundred and forty-two.” Lord John Rossendale grinned at Bristow, then, as if he were a magician, produced a letter that he flourished in the elderly servant’s face. “Two tickets, if you would be so kind.”

Bristow took the letter, unfolded and read it. The letter was from Her Grace’s private secretary and gladly agreed that Lord John Rossendale should be given a ticket for the ball. One ticket, the letter said, and Bristow gently pointed to the instruction. “It says just one ticket, my lord.”