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‘I know, an elevated place in society, preferably with a town house, an estate in the country and 50,000 pounds a year. Mama, it may sound foolish, but I’d hope that love might have a place in my life.’ Angelica moved the clothes to one side and sat on the edge of the bed.

Her mother was busy admiring her new pelisse of saffron silk and, exasperated by her daughter’s obstinacy, turned from the looking-glass. ‘Absurdités, my girl! For women like us, without family or fortune, it is an indulgence to talk of love. Such only belongs in novels and plays. You and I have to exhibit more sense.’

‘Well, Mama, thus is the world we live in. Last night, Lord Latimer’s uncle came to the theatre and offered me a substantial settlement if I would quash his nephew’s designs on a shameful marriage.’

Amabel Leigh dashed to her daughter’s side and took both her hands. ‘What! To you?’

‘Indeed, it seems marriage to a mere actress brings down on a noble family too much scandal for them to bear.’

‘Angelica, quelle insolence! Such lofty behaviour, attempting to pay you off like a mercenary streetwalker. I am lost for words! I’m so sorry, my dear.’ Her expression of outraged sympathy then turned thoughtful. ‘It does give me pause, however,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘Lord Latimer’s family are clearly exercised by the matter, perhaps a proposal may be more directly on the cards after all?’

Angelica shook her head. ‘You are impossible, Mama. To be fair, his uncle, Mr Asprey himself, did not seem to think his nephew serious. I think he was a reluctant go-between. But the Duchess is the main antagonist.’ Angelica draped one of the discarded shawls round her shoulders and said with a faint smile, ‘Lord Latimer declares his mother is more high and haughty than our Queen and has a great opinion of her family’s place in society.’

Undeterred, Mrs Leigh pressed for more information. ‘It does seem peculiar that Mr Asprey should be despatched to do his sister’s will. The Duke is still alive, is he not?’

Her daughter was growing restless, wishing for breakfast and fatigued at any more discussion. ‘Mama, I suppose the Duchess thinks her brother has more authority than the poor injured Duke. Mr Asprey has made a name for himself attempting to reform child labour laws.’

Amabel Leigh looked up, startled. ‘Really? How curious he should care. But I suppose there’s no accounting for rich men’s whims.’

‘He’s certainly not whimsical. In fact, more supercilious and cold.’ Angelica felt a small shiver slide down her spine and quickly changed the subject. ‘I’m going with Mary to Bond Street this morning to take my Leghorn bonnet in for re-trimming. Can I get you anything? A new romance novel, perhaps?’ she teased, recalling her mother’s view of where love rightfully belonged. But Mrs Leigh was already distracted by the next sartorial challenge and had headed back to her dressing room, humming to herself.

After a quick breakfast Angelica dashed up the stairs to slip on her new green silk spencer, corded and toggled in silver braid. She barely stopped to check her appearance but grabbed a bonnet trimmed with pink feathers which matched her gown then picked up the bandbox with her favourite hat for refurbishment.

Martin, the butler, was adjusting his white powdered wig in the large looking-glass in the hall. He was a small man but his exuberance and histrionic air gave him presence. Excessive drinking had coarsened his once good looks but the twinkle that had made him a passable comic actor was undiminished. He liked the clothes and manners of the last century and even occasionally sported a patch on his cheekbone. ‘Oh Miss Angelica, what a picture you are!’ He turned to open the front door.

‘As are you, Martin. Thank you, we won’t be long.’

Mary had joined her in the hall and they tripped down the front steps into the late spring day. Berkeley Square was sparkling after a brief shower of rain. Two blackbirds were pouring out their liquid song, defending territories at opposite ends of the Square. The young women walked through the gardens, noticing how the stately plane trees and topiary hedges were bright with new growth.

As they approached the east of the Square, the front door of number thirty-eight swung open and the unmistakeable figure of Lady Jersey emerged. Angelica caught Mary’s arm and they paused to watch the strikingly tall society queen and patroness of Almack’s sweep down the front steps, her fur-edged cloak billowing behind her like a theatrical Valkyrie’s. She climbed into her waiting carriage and the coachman drove it away at speed, rattling over the cobbles.

Ever since she was old enough to understand the subtle gradations of class, Angelica had known her lack of high birth, fortune or influence debarred her from Almack’s and being presented to the assembled guests and scions of the nobility as an eligible young woman worthy of marriage into the upper echelons of society. She was further disqualified by a profession that placed her truly beyond the pale of respectability. Despite these barriers to conventional advancement, Angelica felt a sense of anticipation and excitement about her life rise in her breast. Perhaps her mother was right, she had too much levity of spirit to be acceptable to the ton, especially if overlaid on her social disadvantages, but she could not wish to trade this lightness of being for anything.

She and Mary turned into Bruton Street where the houses were almost as grand as Mr Breville’s. Soon they were in the bustle of Bond Street. The parade of smart carriages and knots of well-dressed pedestrians visiting the drapers, milliners, shoemakers and jewellers’ shops, each with glittering windows filled with their wares, added to the kaleidoscope of passing faces and fashionable clothes. Angelica took a deep breath and joined the swirling throng.

‘Here’s Madame Vigier’s.’ She led the way into a pretty bow-fronted shop, its window filled with a display of elaborate bonnets, their flaring brims trimmed with silk flowers, striped satin ribbons, veils of lace and plumes of ostrich feather.

Mary was transported by the range of ribbons that were brought out for Angelica to choose. After she had requested a striking Venetian silk of grey, pink and green Angelica asked Mary which she would like for herself. She chose a maroon and navy silk to trim her own bonnet, and Angelica asked Madame Vigier to add two yards to her bill. She thanked Madame and turned for the door.

As they rejoined the pedestrians on the street, the young women had to thread their way through the sauntering crowd. The road was so dirty with mud and horse dung no one wished to have to step off the raised pavement. Without warning, a young woman bumped into them. She raised startled eyes to Angelica’s face. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she whispered as she attempted to pass, but the press of people was suddenly too great.

Angelica had a chance to study this stranger more closely; she looked distraught, pretty but pale with glossy brown hair swept up into a fashionable topknot with carefully arranged fine ringlets framing a heart-shaped face. Her eyes would have been fine if they were not red-rimmed with crying. Angelica touched her arm and said quietly, ‘What’s the matter? Is there anything I can do?’

‘No, no. It’s very kind…’ She broke off, gazing for the first time into Angelica’s face. After a moment, her eyes widened with amazement. ‘Are you perhaps Ophelia, I mean Miss Leigh?’

‘I am.’

The young woman was overcome with embarrassment and babbled, ‘Forgive me! How rude to accost you, but for a moment I thought I knew you and you might be a friend. But you are so beautiful…’ Her voice died away once more.

‘Don’t concern yourself. People quite often think they know me. I am perfectly content with your addressing me so.’

‘Oh, how fortunate.’ The young stranger’s face brightened. ‘Miss Leigh, I am happy to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you at the Theatre twice. I am Isobel Fitzjames.’ She spoke as if she too expected her name to be recognised. When Angelica waited for her to elaborate, she continued, subdued again and close to tears, ‘I apologise for such liberty, Miss Leigh, but I have no one to speak to. I’m so much in need of advice.’ The young woman’s voice was breathy and her words tumbled out, unheeded.

Angelica smiled and gave a small laugh. ‘It all depends what advice you seek.’ By now the two young women, their maids standing discreetly behind them, had become an obstacle on the busy pavement and pedestrians were stepping into the muddy road to pass. Some of the Bond Street dandies, who habitually strolled the area hailing their friends and ogling the women, recognised Angelica, and their address became more familiar and jocular.

A young man in yellow pantaloons and an exaggeratedly tailored coat bellowed, ‘Oi! Miss Ophelia, don’t mind Lord Hamlet. I’ll give ye a johnnie, that’ll see ye right,’ to general guffawing amongst his peers. Miss Fitzjames looked shocked, but Angelica was used to the vulgar liberties taken by a few of her audience when they saw her in the street.

She took her new acquaintance’s arm and said, ‘We shouldn’t talk here. Would you like some tea or ratafia? I live just a short walk away.’