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‘Mrs Fitzjames thinks I’ve gone to Bullock’s Museum; I won’t be missed for an hour.’ They began walking back down Bruton Street, their maids trailing behind, gossiping.

‘Is Mrs Fitzjames your mother?’

‘No! Mama died when I was ten. My father married again.’ The way Isobel Fitzjames wrinkled her pretty nose was so expressive of dismay and disdain that Angelica wondered if this was a fraught relationship and part of her distress. They walked on in silence and soon had crossed Berkeley Square and were mounting the steps of Mr Breville’s house.

Martin opened the door and Miss Fitzjames seemed taken aback. ‘Welcome home, my dears.’ He bowed low with a flourish, discreetly holding on to his wig with his free hand, as the four young women entered and removed their bonnets. The maids headed for the kitchen and Angelica asked Martin if he could bring some ratafia to the library where she knew a fire would be lit.

She ushered Miss Fitzjames to the chair opposite hers. Once Martin had left and they each had a glass by their sides, Angelica leaned forward. ‘Now we can talk,’ she said.

Isobel Fitzjames was suddenly shy. ‘I apologise again for my temerity. It’s just I have no sisters and few friends since…’ Her voice faded away and she looked steadfastly at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap.

‘There’s no need to apologise. I too am without a sister. Treat me like one, if it pleases you.’

The young woman looked up and smiled and for the first time Angelica could see what a charming face she had, if rather lacking in vitality. ‘That would make me very happy.’ She sipped her ratafia and then launched into a tale of woe. ‘My step-mama insists that I marry a man I cannot love so that the Fitzjames fortune is restored to the family,’ she said in a rush of words.

‘How so?’ Angelica’s sympathetic expression met her guest’s forlorn one.

‘My father was a gamester and during a long night and a day he lost all our family’s wealth to the man I now have to marry.’

Angelica’s spirit recoiled. ‘Is the sacrifice of you part of the deal?’

Isobel Fitzjames nodded in misery. ‘It seems the only way my family’s patrimony can be in part restored.’

‘And what does your father say to this prospect?’

‘Sadly, he is dead.’ She sighed and met Angelica’s eyes; the shadow of grief hung between them, then she added, ‘By his own hand.’ Her voice faltered as her head drooped. Angelica was shocked. Those words by his own hand carried so much personal suffering and the censure of society and the Church. She involuntarily reached out to touch Miss Fitzjames’s arm as the young woman continued haltingly, ‘He could not bear the shame. But now it’s for me to try and make it right.’

Angelica’s natural sisterly sympathy was replaced by a flash of anger on Isobel Fitzjames’s behalf. She had been grievously let down by both men. ‘Who, pray, is this reprobate who will happily deprive a man and his family of their home and means to live?’

‘Oh, he’s Lord Fulsham. I think he’s well-known in the clubs and gambling hells. But we aren’t quite destitute yet. We’ve relinquished our house in Grosvenor Square but have managed to rent a smaller one in Charles Street, just around the corner from here. When the marriage settlement is legalised I think we’ll all move back into the Fitzjames mansion.’

‘But my dear, you can’t marry someone you dislike so. A man so morally corrupt.’

‘I don’t think he wants to marry me either. Perhaps he feels obliged after the tragedy of my father’s death. My family is an old and venerable one and after my father died Lord Fulsham was blamed by some.’ Colour rushed to her pale face as she recollected the reason for her bartered future. Her voice trembled with a tragic outrage. ‘And Mrs Fitzjames is a termagant whose son’s patrimony has been lost.’

A sudden thought occurred to Angelica. ‘Perhaps something so easily gambled away can be as easily won back?’

Isobel Fitzjames looked at her aghast. ‘No, there’s no one who can play better than Lord Fulsham. No one with his luck.’

Unlike her young guest, Angelica was temperamentally disinclined to accept the hard hand dealt by fate. Her mind was already busy with possibilities of resolution. ‘You don’t think anyone has Lord Fulsham’s skill. Well, I know someone who possibly does.’ Angelica then felt embarrassed at having confided to a stranger such an audacious idea, an idea that was not hers to suggest. She put down her glass and got to her feet. ‘Miss Fitzjames, do you ride?’

‘Oh yes, and I still have my mare.’

‘I’m riding with my groom in Green Park this afternoon. As you live so close, would you care to accompany me?’

‘I’m still in mourning,’ she said, gesturing to the dark fabric of her dress, ‘but riding with a friend is not considered disrespectful by anyone other than my stepmother.’ Her face looked more hopeful.

Angelica linked her arm in Isobel Fitzjames’s and led her into the grand hall where Martin returned her bonnet. The young woman’s spirits seemed improved. She crammed the pretty straw onto her springy brown hair and grasped Angelica’s hand in farewell. ‘I’m so glad to have met you. Do you think you would be happy to call me Isobel?’

‘Of course.’ Angelica smiled. ‘And you can call me Angelica. I’ll have Storm saddled for three. Shall we meet outside and ride up to the Park together?’

* * *

Elinor Asprey was waiting for her father in the breakfast room. She had taken greater care than usual in dressing in her new spotted muslin and tied a blue ribbon in her hair. Sitting quietly munching on a caraway bun, she looked up when Nicholas Digby entered the room carrying a sheaf of papers for his employer to read and sign. He smiled at the sight of the pretty child, the early sun making a halo of her light brown curls. ‘Good morning, Miss Elinor,’ he said, an amused warmth in his voice. ‘I didn’t think to find you here. Are you waiting for your papa?’

She nodded, looking up into his friendly face. She liked the way his brown eyes always seemed to be smiling. ‘I want to hear about Mr Kean and Prince Hamlet. And read him my Latin text of “The Fox and the Crow”.’ Her eyes were striking but not as deeply blue as her father’s, with none of his piercing and chilly regard.

‘Aha, that’s a useful fable indeed. What, Miss Elinor, do you think of the moral?’ He poured himself a cup of coffee and settled down in the chair across from hers.