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‘I don’t know, Miss, but Martin’s sent the boy for Mrs Leigh’s quack so we’ll know soon enough.’

Angelica could only manage a whisper. ‘I’m sure he’s not a quack.’

‘Well, Cook has sent up this bowl of hot water with bay and thyme sprigs to ease your breathing.’ She cleared the table by Angelica’s bed and set it down with care, aromatic steam rising in the cold air. ‘She asks, could you manage some broth?’

Angelica shook her head and then, overcome with her own feebleness, only had energy enough to close her eyes. Hours seemed to pass punctuated by her coughing. Hot and yet shivery, she heard a moan which could only have been hers. Mary placed a cold towel on her forehead. Angelica’s hair was wet and heavy and had been plaited loosely to keep it off her face while she struggled for each breath.

Through a delirious haze she was aware of the dark presence of her mother’s doctor, Hapwood, looming over her bed. He took her pulse and peered down her throat with a solemn expression on his face, then asked if he could listen to her chest. When she nodded and pulled her chemise down to expose her breastbone he put his ear to her skin and began to thrum on her ribcage in an attempt to listen to the resonance. Even in the stupor of fever, Angelica recoiled from this unexpected intimacy with a stranger who smelt of camphor and hair oil, and was relieved when he straightened up. Dr Hapwood shook his head, before bidding farewell and leaving the room.

In the absence of Angelica’s mother, Martin had assumed the role of pater familias and it was to him Dr Hapwood gave the news that he would return to bleed the patient. ‘The fever in her blood needs to be released,’ he said with authority. His confidence in the extent of his knowledge and competence was not clouded by the merest quiver of humility or doubt.

Approaching Berkeley Square, Lord Latimer arrived at the front steps of number seven just as Isobel Fitzjames and her maid were at the front door. They walked into the house together to be greeted by Martin’s stricken face. ‘How is Miss Leigh?’ Lord Latimer asked in an urgent voice before he had even removed his hat and coat.

‘Not good, my lord.’

‘What has happened?’ He grasped Martin’s arm in alarm.

‘The young mistress is in a fever.’

‘That dog just leaving, was he the quack, Hapwood?’ Lord Latimer asked, his lip curling.

Martin was already distraught about the health of his young mistress and overwhelmed with responsibility for her; his frayed nerves were close to breaking and the arrogance of this young nobleman was the last straw. He snapped, ‘Dr Hapwood is trained in a noble profession.’

Lord Latimer snorted. ‘He killed my aunt Emma. It doesn’t take much skill or training for that!’

This was too much for Martin who lost any semblance of deference to his betters. ‘So my lord is trained in the medical arts too? Not content with being the beneficiary of a noble line, whose honour he has done little to earn?’ he said with theatrical scorn.

Charles Latimer whirled round as if to strike the old actor, but restrained himself and instead said with cold disdain, ‘If we were of equal rank I would call you out for such insolence.’

At this point Isobel Fitzjames stepped between them and said in her meek way, ‘Gentlemen, I know it is Miss Leigh’s health that concerns all of us most pressingly. Mr Martin, may I go and see how she is?’

Martin nodded and pointed up the stairs. ‘Mary is there with her.’ He then led Lord Latimer through to the library and asked him if he could offer him something to drink.

‘Brandy would do the trick,’ his lordship answered in a distracted way, then in an attempt at making some amends added, ‘You look like you could do with a quaff yourself.’

‘Thank you, my lord, but I don’t tipple while working.’ Martin’s manner was stiff and correct. Lord Latimer was left alone, staring into the distance, thinking. Death was more present to him than it was to most of the young swells he counted as friends. He recalled how his father’s injuries at Alexandria had not much affected him, a boy of barely seven, to whom the Duke was a stranger. But nearly sixteen years later the death of his aunt Emma, a young mother and loved by all, had shaken his sense of security in the natural order of things. ‘To have this play out again.’ He spoke out loud with a sense of dread as he walked to the window to gaze on a sky darkening before his eyes. With Mrs Leigh in Paris and Martin panicking, Lord Latimer was aware of an unfamiliar weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.

The library door burst open and Miss Fitzjames dashed into the room, a distraught look in her eyes. She flew to Lord Latimer’s side and grasped his hand in an uncharacteristically emotional gesture. For a moment she could not speak.

‘How is Miss Leigh?’ He caught her by the elbow and turned her to face him, the intensity of his manner demanding answers.

She took a deep breath. ‘She barely knew me, my lord. She’s so feverish, the doctor is returning to bleed her this afternoon. It reminded me of how my mother…’ Her voice faded away as she clutched at his hand.

Lord Latimer extricated himself from her grip and paced to the window again, his mind in turmoil. He turned and said with quiet despair, ‘That quacksalver Hapwood attended my aunt in her illness. All he does is bleed his patients and collect the lucre. And he bled her to death.’

Isobel Fitzjames was by his side in an instant. ‘But he’s an eminent doctor, Lord Latimer. We can’t go against his advice.’

‘Not while Miss Leigh is in this house, ruled over by the craven-hearted Martin.’

‘You cannot expect servants to counter medical nostrums.’

‘That is exactly why I owe it to Miss Leigh and my concern for her that I remove her to a house where she can be properly treated.’

‘But she cannot go anywhere else, surely?’ Isobel Fitzjames’s voice faltered.

‘Dammit! I have to get Miss Leigh away to save her life. I cannot allow her to be mistreated by a man who has already destroyed someone else I loved.’

‘But how? Where?’ Miss Fitzjames wrung her hands.