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‘What? You’re not that much older than me.’

‘I’m afraid I feel very much older.’ His uncle gave a rueful smile.

‘Anyway, Papa has already met Miss Leigh and approves of her.’ His lordship’s petulant expression transformed into a grin. ‘He said he thought the genealogical tree could do with a new grafting of beauty.’

Ivor Asprey laughed, then grew serious again. ‘I’m not surprised. She’s a very taking young woman. But I’m afraid your dear father’s opinion does not matter as much as your mama’s.’

This statement chilled the atmosphere between them and the young man said with a scowl, ‘I’ve almost reached my majority; there’s nothing Mama can do to stop me.’

The men fell silent and refilled their glasses. Both were sizing each other up. Lord Latimer had always treated his uncle as a hero figure, thirteen years his senior and as fine a horseman and sportsman as anyone he knew. When he confounded his family and friends by putting aside the profligate ways of a rich young man to become instead a reforming politician concerned with the suffering of the poor, the young lord was as nonplussed as they. From that point, Lord Latimer considered his uncle had become less amusing.

Gazing at his nephew’s youthful face, Ivor Asprey attempted some advice. ‘I too, at your age, was in love with an actress. I could not imagine finding any other woman as worthy of my love. But you know, Charles, ’tis a stage many young men go through.’

His nephew bridled. ‘Oh no, sir, don’t try to persuade me this is just calf-love.’

‘Well, dear boy, there is no denying that Miss Leigh is an actress and, however fine, is in no way suitable to become your duchess.’

‘I never thought I’d hear you spouting such fustian cant!’ Lord Latimer had sprung to his feet again, so irritated was he with his uncle’s patronising tone. ‘Where the New Man? Where the reforming politician? You’re no better than the rest of ’em. The bang-up Corinthian become the dullest of dogs. It’s a tragedy!’

‘I’m sorry you’re so disappointed, Charles.’ His uncle’s voice was dry and amused but he wondered if there was not a scintilla of truth in this; that he had indeed lost his spark. At this point, Dante Locke meandered towards them. His friend hailed him, ‘Dante, come and save me from my prosy relation.’ The queasy poet subsided into a chair, elegant even while drunk. He gazed up at Charles Latimer and Mr Asprey and opined, in a voice made all the more affecting by his slurring lisp, ‘The best of life is intoxication, is it not?’

Lord Latimer shook him. ‘No it’s not, my friend. Your poetry is more important than wine.’ He turned to Mr Asprey. ‘Uncle, Dante’s writing an epic about the tragedy of Ophelia.’

‘Yes, Miss Leigh has inspired me, the fragile beauty of her pale cheek, her hair aflame.’ Alcohol and fatigue made his words falter. ‘I could read you some now.’ He fumbled in his coat pocket.

‘Some other time, Mr Locke. I still have work to do. But I must say it is rather remarkable how Miss Leigh’s charms seem to affect so many.’ Ivor’s blue eyes looked coolly at his nephew. ‘Charles, do me the honour of at least considering what I have said. Good evening, gentlemen.’ He doffed his hat and headed for the door.

‘The devil take him!’ Lord Latimer looked sadly at his uncle’s receding back. ‘He used to be such a dashing buck, an out and outer, but look at him now, it’s midnight and he’s going back to work!’

‘Well, like all self-respecting Trojans we’re returning to the gaming tables. Come on, Charlie.’ Dante Locke grasped his friend’s arm with an uncertain hand and hauled himself to his feet. With their arms around each other’s shoulders they wove their way back to the card room. The gambling dons, strict about their own drinking, greeted the two rich, befuddled young men with keen avaricious eyes.

‘Don’t overdo it, Dante. We’re going riding tomorrow. There’s always a chance we might come upon the divine Miss Leigh. She often exercises her prancer in the afternoon and we need to be at our best.’ Lord Latimer’s smile sparkled with the thought.

While the two young men returned to the dice, Ivor Asprey walked down Jermyn Street at a brisk pace and was soon home. As he entered, Goodall divested him of his coat and hat and then presented him with a complexly folded piece of paper. He recognised his daughter’s hand and walked across the stone-flagged hall to enter the sanctuary of his library. The fire was glowing in the fireplace, the whisky was on the table and his favourite chair awaited. He sank into it as weariness engulfed him and he wished he could ignore his work and head upstairs to bed. His long fingers unfolded the paper and there, written in his daughter’s best hand was a message.

My dear Papa, I hope you Enjoyed seeing Prince Hamlet. I have been Reading in Latin about the Frogs who wanted a King and the Vain Crow and the Crafty Fox. I will see You tomorrow.

With coloured inks she had illuminated the P of Papa as if it were a medieval manuscript. And she ended with an elaborate signature, Elinor, that owed not a little to Queen Elizabeth’s famous flourish.

3

THE MASQUE OF TRAGEDY

Angelica passed her mother’s rooms on her way downstairs to breakfast and noticed the door was open and clothes were strewn across the bed. She knocked and entered. ‘Mama!’ she called and Amabel Leigh bustled from the dressing room with an armful of shawls.

‘Angelica, I can’t find my best Kashmir. I am désolée.’ She had taken to sprinkling French words into her conversation, in part because it mimicked the social mode of talk of aristocratic women but also to acquaint herself better with the language she would need on her expedition to France with Mr Breville.

Angelica kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘But you have so many shawls, surely one of those would do?’

‘No, no!’ Mrs Leigh was agitated. ‘These are passably good but my Kashmir is so striking it draws all eyes. Neddy bought it for me when he was in Amsterdam and chose the finest from one of the great trading warehouses there.’

‘You’re not packing for Paris already, are you?’ Angelica laughed.

Her mother frowned in irritation. ‘You have too much levity of spirit, young miss. Your joie de vivre will chase away every suitable gentleman. There are still those who consider feminine laughter to be close to ill-bred, you know.’

‘Oh, Mama,’ Angelica sighed.

‘And you’re lacking in a proper appreciation of the things that should matter to a young lady.’