On the evening of April 16th, 1927, golden twilight lingered over Mayfair. The last glow of the sun brushed the Georgian façades of Charles Street, where gas lamps flickered to life one by one.
Shane's Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a halt before a stately villa, its polished bonnet reflecting the soft shimmer of the lamps. The chauffeur opened the door, and Shane stepped out, adjusting the bow tie of his dark grey velvet tuxedo.
From the far end of the street came the distant cry of a newsboy, his voice breaking through the evening calm:
"The Circus smashes records — box office tops two hundred and seventy thousand pounds! Chaplin speaks to the Daily Express!"
Shane's gloved hand brushed the gilded edge of an invitation in his breast pocket. The faintest smile touched his lips as he ascended the stone steps to Lady Diana Cooper's townhouse.
Inside, the foyer glowed with restrained luxury — marble floors softened by Persian rugs, walls adorned with gilt-framed portraits, and the faint murmur of laughter drifting from the salon beyond.
Lady Diana's private gathering was already in full bloom. Crystal champagne flutes caught and fractured the candlelight, scattering it like shards of gold across the room. The air was thick with the mingling scents of perfume, cigars, and fresh roses.
In the adjoining music room, Noël Coward was holding court, glass in hand, surrounded by admirers. His diamond-studded brooch — shaped like a film reel — sparkled with each gesture.
Lady Diana herself leaned elegantly against the grand piano, her peacock-feather fan half-hiding her smile. Pearls draped twice around her neck trailed down the bare curve of her back, catching the light as she moved.
"My dear, you're finally here," she called out, her voice effervescent as the champagne she held. "Noël has already told three wickedly untrue stories about you."
She gestured toward Coward with her fan. "You might as well defend your honour before he turns you into a farce."
Coward, catching the cue, raised his glass. "Ah! The young Irishman who has made London talk!" His grin was sharp but not unkind. "Did you hear? Prince Albert himself requested a private screening at Buckingham Palace — quite the achievement for a man who still looks barely old enough to order wine."
Laughter rippled softly through the crowd.
The salon was a tableau of modern London — Rex Whistler's sketchbook left open on an armchair, pencils scattered nearby; Cecil Beaton's camera case half-hidden beneath a velvet settee; Vita Sackville-West arguing poetry with Edith Sitwell, one high heel discarded beneath her chair.
Gertrude Lawrence struck the piano keys, teasing out a melody from The Jazz Singer. A wrong note drew delighted laughter rather than censure.
Lady Diana tossed her pearl clutch onto the piano, producing a discordant chord. "There," she declared, "now it's perfect. Too much harmony is frightfully dull."
Shane accepted a glass of champagne from Lawrence, noticing the faint trace of lipstick on the rim. Lady Diana caught his glance and murmured with a conspiratorial smile, "Don't worry — it's Gertrude's, not mine."
Despite the air of spontaneity, every detail of the evening — the lighting, the floral arrangements, even the seating — had been orchestrated with care. Lady Diana ruled her salon like a conductor guiding a symphony.
"Come, come!" Coward beckoned Shane nearer. "Our box-office magician must tell us what trick he pulled this time."
"The trick," Shane replied mildly, "was believing Londoners still crave wonder."
Coward tilted his glass, amused. "How philosophical of you — and far too modest." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Between us, I hear the Royal Opera House is desperate for acoustic renovation. They say even the ghosts of Verdi and Puccini complain from the rafters."
Lady Diana, ever perceptive, appeared beside them at that very moment, her fan poised like a delicate shield. "My dear," she said in a voice soft enough for only the two of them to hear, "I have tea tomorrow with Mrs. Cartwright — the board chairman's wife. You might wish to lend her a little inspiration."
Shane reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a slender silver card case. Inside lay not business cards, but a small embossed card bearing the Pioneer Optics emblem and a neat sketch of a resonant dome.
"Our chief engineer, Krause, will arrive next week with his team," Shane said quietly. "We intend to offer full sponsorship for the acoustical restoration. A gift to London's future — and perhaps to its echoes."
Coward arched an eyebrow, impressed. "Good Lord. Far more elegant than building a new concert hall."
Lady Diana's eyes gleamed with calculation. She turned, raising her voice so nearby critics could hear: "Charles has been terribly distressed about the opera dome's sound. Perhaps our young Mr. Cassidy will save the music of London yet!"
The remark drew Cecil Beaton's attention. He lifted his camera, capturing their trio in a sudden flash — Shane's composed smile, Diana's sly amusement, Coward's knowing glance. The magnesium light faded, leaving a brief afterimage of fame suspended in the air.
Coward leaned in again, whispering, "Next Wednesday — La Traviata. Royal attendance expected. Have Krause ready by then. The timing will be… divine."
Lady Diana gave a subtle flick of her fan, a gesture that meant: leave it to me.
Shane raised his glass. The champagne fizzed softly, a golden tide rising and bursting in tiny, perfect bubbles.
Across the room, Rex Whistler's sketchbook lay open once more — and on its page, beneath a careless swirl of pencil, the dome of the Royal Opera House was already drawn, waiting for its rebirth.
The diamonds on Coward's brooch caught the candlelight, flashing like stage lights before a curtain rises.
The next morning, London woke beneath a veil of fog. In front of the Savoy Hotel, two Rolls-Royce Phantoms waited with engines purring quietly in the mist.
Mikhail directed the porters as they loaded six oak crates into the trunks. Each contained a bottle of 1921 Moët & Chandon Dom Pérignon, recently arrived from Reims, their necks bound with crimson ribbons that glowed faintly in the pale morning light.
Shane stood beside William Catterson, holding a gilded card embossed with the Pioneer Optics film-sprocket motif.
"A small token for Mr. Coward and Miss Lawrence," he said softly, handing the card to the driver.
The driver bowed. Shane added, "And remind them — the red velvet seats at the Broadway Theatre in New York will always reserve a place for my friends."