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Angelica would have found his pompous delivery amusing if she had not sensed that something more serious was about to be presented to her. Disinclined to help him with his presumptuous mission, she responded sweetly, ‘Indeed, I am not unaware.’

‘His mother, the Duchess of Arlington, is concerned that his intentions may be more serious than mere flirtation.’

‘I must admit, Mr Asprey, I am not privy to such intentions. Have you, or she, spoken to Lord Latimer of the matter?’ Angelica still had a faint smile on her face but her blood was rising. ‘Perhaps I am mistaken, but is not his lordship about to reach his majority and is therefore will be free to do as he pleases?’

Ivor Asprey’s practised sang-froid came to his aid as his increasingly fragile moral ground crumbled beneath him. He said with unruffled hauteur, ‘He will indeed. But the Duchess requested me to offer you, in good will, significant compensation if you should agree to discourage his pretensions, and also return any gifts of ancestral jewellery.’

Angelica leapt to her feet and paced towards the door. ‘What Lord Latimer, and indeed I myself, choose to do with our lives is entirely our concern. And what makes you think I can be bribed? It is insolent in the extreme that you should even consider making such an offer.’

Ivor Asprey remained seated and to her exasperation appeared amused by her fiery response. ‘Certainly, Miss Leigh, how you choose to live your life is entirely your own concern. However, Lord Latimer has an ancient lineage to consider. Does not Ophelia’s own brother warn her of the disparity in the destinies of herself and Prince Hamlet?’ and with a sardonic smile he continued, ‘If I recall it right: “his will is not his own; for he himself is subject to his birth: he may not, as unvalued persons do, carve for himself…”’

Angelica whirled around to face him. ‘What pretensions, sir! Lord Latimer is no prince and I no green girl. Mr Asprey, I would be grateful if you would leave. I need to dress.’ She stood imperiously by the door, ready to open it and usher him out, unaware of the discrepancy between her manner and the dishabille of her attire.

But he did not move and instead merely crossed his legs and, ignoring her defiant eyes, murmured, ‘I’ll leave, Miss Leigh, when I have your answer for the Duchess.’

‘I refuse to honour such insolence with a reply. Do as you please, sir, but excuse me while I change. I am becoming chilled.’ Angelica walked behind his chair, slipped behind a narrow screen and began to remove her robe.

The sound of rustling silk swept the last support from Ivor Asprey’s moral stand and in an instant he knew she had check-mated him; it would do his reputation no good at all to be found in the dressing room of a semi-naked young actress. He rose unhurriedly to his feet and as Angelica covered herself decorously with the protective garment he bowed. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Leigh. And once again, congratulations on your performance.’ He lifted his cold blue eyes to meet hers which sparkled full of amusement and even a little triumph.

Feeling less in control of his life than he liked, Ivor Asprey stalked out of Angelica’s dressing room and almost bumped into the last man he would choose to meet in such a place. ‘Good evening,’ he said with a curt nod to Lord Rackham.

‘Asprey, I didn’t think I’d see you here. Although it’s entertaining enough, is it not, to contemplate the gay congregation of mistresses and divorceable wives, recognised courtesans and regular mercenaries?’ His usual expression of disdain had hardened into a sneer. ‘I presume you commended Miss Leigh’s touching performance?’ His lordship’s knowing manner seemed to implicate Ivor Asprey in his own licentiousness and in swift recoil Ivor doffed his hat and turned away to stride towards the entrance and fresh air.

The audience was leaving in a largely cheerful mood, the high tragedy they had just witnessed barely deflating the alcohol-fuelled celebration of the end of Emperor Bonaparte’s domination of Europe. Ivor Asprey joined the throng that spilled onto Bow Street.

His nephew, Charles Latimer, was expecting him at White’s, the club just a footfall away from his own house in St James’s Square, so he decided to walk the mile or so rather than hail a Hackney. He turned down Hart Street and headed for Leicester Square. It was a fine evening and the cool air helped settle his disconsolate thoughts. Tonight three women had intruded on his usually well-ordered mind: Lady Linus reminding him of his social and paternal duty, the Countess of his carnal desire and Miss Leigh, somehow conflated with Ophelia and his wife, Emma, had speared straight to his soul. These young women each represented something different, stirring his long-famished heart and the forgotten joys of youth and hope.

St James’s Street was busy with gentlemen arriving at their clubs for the night’s play. Drinking and comradeship were almost as important as gaming but Ivor Asprey had long abandoned the Hazard tables and card games of his wild youth. He walked past Brooks’s, his own club, and crossed the road to enter the edifice of White’s. The atmosphere in the overflowing clubs and on the street was exuberant.

As a prominent Whig politician, Ivor Asprey’s appearances at this Tory club were always greeted with ribald good humour. The noise and bonhomie had noticeably increased; pretty much everyone was more than half-cut, a few passed out on the sofas. He ascended the grand staircase and entered the card room, greeting acquaintances as he progressed. It was slightly quieter here, until his young nephew bounded to his side. ‘Uncle! Come, I’ve ordered a bottle of champagne.’

He followed Lord Latimer’s elegant back through the boisterous crowd until they stopped by a table where a game of Hazard was drawing to a close. As the dice were scooped up and the winnings collected, Charles Latimer gripped the shoulder of his friend sitting at the table and addressed his uncle, ‘Sir, you’ve met Dante Locke before.’

‘I have indeed. How d’ye do?’ Ivor Asprey looked down at the bleary-eyed young exquisite whose long dark curls were tousled decoratively around a pale finely boned face. The young man smiled uncertainly, alcohol and exhaustion taking its toll on a delicate constitution.

‘He’s a poet, you know,’ Lord Latimer added helpfully.

‘Really? You surprise me,’ Ivor Asprey murmured as he joined his nephew at a quiet table by the great window overlooking the street. He poured out two flutes of champagne and said, ‘To continuing peace and prosperity.’

Charles Latimer leaned in excitedly, his face shining. ‘Well, what did you think of her?’

‘I take it you’re talking about Miss Leigh?’ Ivor leant back in his chair and surveyed his young nephew. He was a fine-looking young man full of appetites and vivacity but not over-endowed with wit. Even his school, used to the unruly sons of the aristocracy, had found him hard to handle and threatened expulsion. Eton was Ivor Asprey’s old school too but he had been one of its stars; inevitably his sister had called him in as a mediator.

The young reprobate, whose school career he had salvaged, took a gulp of champagne. ‘Of course I mean Miss Leigh. Who else?’

‘Well, it’s true she’s an affecting actress.’

Lord Latimer was exasperated at his uncle’s deliberate obtuseness. ‘She’s an angel. Her name so becomes her. I love her, you know.’

‘I can understand that, Charles; half of London seems to have fallen in love with her.’ Ivor Asprey watched the young lord’s face darken at this attempt to point out that an ecstatic response to Miss Leigh was not unique to him. He continued in a reasonable voice, ‘You do understand, dear boy, that you’re not entirely a free agent when it comes to managing your conjugal choices.’

‘Oh, Uncle, don’t be so stuffy and pompous!’

‘It may seem irrelevant but I’m afraid the fact you will become the next Duke of Arlington comes with certain constraints and responsibilities.’

‘You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you?’ The young man leapt to his feet.

‘Oh, do sit down. Can I give you some fatherly advice?’