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‘Mama!’ The argument Angelica was about to enter was cut short as the door opened and a tall, large-chested man entered the room in a rush.

‘Bella! The news of Bonaparte’s abdication is now official. No more false hopes, the long war is truly over!’ He flung out his arms and Mrs Leigh flew into his capacious embrace.

Pressed against his chest, she became soft and kittenish and with a winsome twinkle, gazed into his face. Adept at flirting, she purred, ‘So Neddy, can we go to Paris soon?’

He released her with an indulgent smile and turned to acknowledge Angelica. ‘Forgive me, my dear. This is indeed such welcome news. At last I can begin to rebuild my continental business.’ Pulling Mrs Leigh close again, he smiled into her excited face. ‘And yes, we will go to Paris in the next few weeks. I am set on importing French porcelain again; we’ll visit the factories of Sèvres and Limoges, and you’ll come with me.’

Edward Breville was large in body and character. His big square face belonged on a statue of a stalwart adventurer, heading into the unknown. Fortitude set his jaw and his dark shrewd eyes were intent and watchful but quick to find amusement in the vagaries of the world. He had escaped the poverty of his Rochdale childhood where he had withstood the gruelling conditions as a child labourer in Mr Vavasour’s woollen mill. Like Amabel Leigh and Mr Brunner, he had come to London in search of his fortune. Where Mrs Leigh had used her beauty, guile and charm to advance her prospects, Brunner his strength and courage in the boxing ring, Edward Breville’s more ambitious dreams had been reliant on the brilliance of his mind and a hard-schooled determination.

His memory and mathematical ability meant he could reckon the odds so fast in games of chance he made his first fortune gambling at Hazard. Always disciplined, he did not succumb to running his luck in the gambling hells off St James’s and Covent Garden. Instead, he gambled to a scheme and when he’d won a sufficient amount, he invested in his business, the import and export of fine porcelain for the increasingly prosperous and discerning middle classes.

Mr Breville had left his homely wife back in Rochdale in comfortable circumstances in the bosom of her family. When he had met the comely Mrs Leigh she persuaded him how much it would profit him to have a beautiful woman in his bed who was able to preside over the management and decoration of his grand London house, as befitted a very wealthy man indeed.

Edward Breville’s forthright Yorkshire manner, bluff ways and the fact he had earned his immense wealth through his own enterprise in trade meant that the highest echelons of society were closed to him. This merely made him declare in his bull-headed way he couldn’t give a curse. But in fact, just a week before he had approached White’s Club for membership and this most aristocratic of gentlemen’s clubs had unanimously black-balled him, intimating he was not sufficiently ‘high born’.

Angelica knew that beneath his confident braggadocio, Mr Breville longed for some recognition from the ruling classes. She had put her hand on his arm and said with sympathy, ‘I’ve never known an estimable man who is a member of White’s. You’re too singular for them, Mr Breville.’ He’d squeezed her hand in thanks.

Her mother had said archly, ‘Lord Latimer’s a member is he not, Angelica?’

‘I said estimable, Mama.’ They laughed and Angelica continued, ‘’Tis true, Lord Latimer has many personal virtues, he is charming and has every advantage of exalted nobility and wealth but what will he do with such good fortune?’ She paused for dramatic effect then turned with a smile to Edward Breville. ‘No doubt he’ll live an unexceptional, even useless life.’

All three of them knew they were disqualified for different reasons from being considered members of the haut ton. For the sticklers of social propriety, Angelica’s profession as an actress placed her only one rung above a bordello dweller, subject to all kinds of unwelcome advances, from the elevated membership of the gentlemen’s clubs to the soakers and card sharps scrabbling for a living on the streets. Her mother’s dubious beginnings and shady amorous past meant that no amount of beauty and fine clothes would make her acceptable, unless she married into the upper classes and could gloss her social status with her husband’s nobility.

However, money could buy a certain sort of celebrity and immortality and Mr Breville had paid a pot of gold sovereigns to the most famous and flattering society portraitist, Thomas Lawrence, to create a painting of the beauteous Mrs Leigh. In his delight on seeing the completed portrait he relapsed into his native accent, blurting out, ‘Ee lass, it’s almost as grand as the original!’ He had immediately got his footman to hang the painting above the drawing room fireplace where the image of his mistress welcomed all-comers with her beauty, and the clear evidence of his wealth.

When she first saw it, Angelica had gasped, admiring the enhanced charms of her mother. The artist had shortened her nose a touch, added lustre to her glorious hair, and a suffused colour as delicate as a blushing peach to her cheek. ‘Mama! You look very welcoming indeed,’ she said with a naughty smile. The portrait was a glossy embodiment of seductive beauty with Amabel Leigh’s creamy bosom almost bursting from the constraints of her ivory satin bodice, her eyes sparkling with promise.

Now, as Mr Breville’s energetic presence filled the room, Angelica greeted his news of the end of the war with a smile. ‘This is a happy day for everyone, but tonight the theatre will be even more unruly.’ She thought of the usually rowdy pit and knew that during her performance more alcohol would be drunk and wild revelry ensue.

Mr Brunner insisted on taking her and Mary to the theatre in the Breville carriage. They both clambered into the chaise to make the short trip to Covent Garden Theatre through roads already filling up with celebrating Londoners. As they approached the Piazza, Angelica was increasingly recognised by the crowd. Men with red faces staggered towards the coach, their eyes bleary and smiles lopsided as they hailed her. The women on their arms cried, ‘It’s our angel! God love yer, dearie,’ as they waved their work-worn hands and blew her kisses. Angelica waved back; she believed only luck had separated her fate from theirs.

The young women disembarked and dashed through the stage door, nodding to the keeper who guarded the entrance from unwelcome visitors. As they were settling into the dressing room Mr Dunbar appeared round the door. ‘Ah, good. I wanted to discuss our next play with you, Miss Leigh. Mary, would you be so kind as to go to Pastow’s tavern for some ale?’

Mary looked doubtfully at her mistress but Angelica nodded for her to go. The manager lounged in the chair and gazed at Angelica speculatively. She noticed how pale and doughy he looked as if he never saw the sun. His hairline was receding and he had affected a tousled hairstyle in the hopes that the side curls would disguise the thinning on top. His pale eyes narrowed. ‘What did you think of The Child of Nature?’ he enquired in a mild tone.

‘It’s fine enough. There are some fair passages and I think the audience would find it entertaining. Why, what think you?’

‘It would be a fitting play after we finish this run of Hamlet. As you know I’d like you to play the part of Amanthis, “in which perfect beauty, and enchanting grace, timid innocence, with matchless sensibility, were all united.”’ With his eyes half-closed he recited the description of the main character as if in a kind of trance.

More irritated than enraptured, Angelica briskly replied, ‘It’s her vapid innocence that galls me. But I can see it would be an affecting part to play.’ She was grateful for any first-rate employment in the premier theatre in the city, although she thought the male parts had more meat on their bones.

‘Well then, Miss Leigh, the part may well be yours.’ His expression changed from neutral benignity to something more malign. ‘Why not show your appreciation and come and sit in my lap,’ he said in a wheedling voice. ‘A little thank you kiss and a fondle would do no harm, surely?’

Angelica felt a shock of surprise, then her good spirits faltered. She knew her profession was held in low regard but did not expect this from the usually inoffensive Dunbar. She swung round from the dressing table and said with disdain, ‘Sir, if you think me good enough for the part then I will accept with gratitude. Should you be unsure and need persuasion then I suggest you offer it to someone else.’ She knew this was a risk and her future work depended on men like him, but she also knew that he considered her presence a boost to ticket sales and she hoped such mercenary thinking would prevail.

With a flash of anger he spat out the words, ‘Hoity-toity! Beware you don’t become a Covent Garden doxy. Your sights may be set on that notable sprig, Latimer, but believe me, madam, women like you, however beautiful and clever, do not marry into the higher reaches of our nobility.’ He leapt to his feet, his pride stung.

Angelica tried to keep her voice calm and said, ‘Mr Dunbar, I’m a good actress. I know I can get work at other theatres, should you wish to dismiss me.’

David Dunbar was not used to being challenged by a young woman who depended on him for her livelihood; having her disdain his power to make and break careers unsettled him. His voice rose. ‘You’ll come to rue the day you treated my patronage with such disrespect. You’ll learn to know your place!’ He grasped her arm as if to forcibly embrace her.

Just at that moment the door opened and he stepped back. Mary entered with the tankard of ale and handed it over with distinct lack of grace. She did not care to be ordered about by someone who did not employ her. By the colour in her mistress’s cheek and the scowl on Mr Dunbar’s face it was obvious her mistress did not care to be imposed on either. The door closed with a bang behind the manager’s departing back and the women exchanged glances that spoke of their trials.

‘Thought he’d be up to something.’ Mary’s sniff was freighted with disapproval.

‘Yes, thank you for being so quick and turning up in time.’

‘He’s a hog-grubber. Always was, always will be. I’m not running any more errands for him so he can impose on you, Miss Angelica.’