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Lord Latimer was speaking quietly, almost to himself, as his mind worked through the possibilities. ‘Certainly my mama would not even open the door to Miss Leigh. Her name cannot be mentioned in her presence. But I think I know where I could take her.’ He smiled for the first time since he had entered the house.

‘Where my lord? Where could Miss Angelica go until her mother returns?’

‘My uncle, Mr Asprey,’ Charles Latimer said with a certainty he did not feel.

She gasped, ‘No! How can he agree? He a widower without a wife to protect his and Miss Leigh’s reputation?’

‘I don’t see why he should not. Miss Leigh’s maid will go with her. Uncle Ivor has a mansion with so many rooms and even more servants. There’s a governess too, Miss Stafford, a sensible good woman, who could take charge of an invalid’s care.’

Miss Fitzjames still looked doubtful but Lord Latimer now had the bit between his teeth. With renewed vigour he walked to the door. ‘I will send a note to your address to let you know if my plan comes about and where you may be able to visit Miss Leigh. Good afternoon, Miss Fitzjames. Adieu!’ He was quickly out of the door and down the front steps heading towards St James’s Square.

Lord Latimer walked fast, his redingote billowing behind him as he strode down Berkeley Street, barely aware of the laughter of children with their nurses in the Square gardens. A pretty young woman wearing a veiled hat and riding a striking bay hunter, accompanied by her liveried groom, coquettishly glanced his way, appraising this tall young man, whose stylish clothing declared his wealth and breeding. But Lord Latimer was oblivious to her interest. His footsteps did not falter, determined as he was to see his uncle before he set off for the Houses of Parliament.

As he turned left into Piccadilly he was still lost in thought, working out the argument he would make for this unconventional arrangement. He crossed the busy thoroughfare to turn into the quieter St James’s Street where gentlemen on horseback, driving their carriages or on foot were busy visiting their tailors, and entering their clubs for the dice and card games that never ceased. Several friends and acquaintances hailed the popular young lord but he was in no mood for casual dalliance and merely tipped his hat in salute. They gazed after his fast-receding figure and shook their heads nonplussed; what business could be so urgent that he would pass the seductive bow window of his club, with the promise of pleasure, and not falter?

Lord Latimer reached the leafy grandeur of St James’s Square and for the first time slowed his step. There was an impressive ducal carriage slowly circling the central garden. For a moment he feared it was his mama’s Arlington equipage but then sighed with relief when he realised it was another duchess on her way home from a social call at the Castleton mansion next door. He sprinted up the front steps of number four and Mr Goodall opened the front door with aplomb.

On sight of his master’s scapegrace nephew the butler bowed low, exaggerating his usual punctilio in an attempt at instilling more of the propriety of things on the feckless younger generation. He took Lord Latimer’s hat and coat and in response to the young man’s impatience left him standing in the hall while he walked with deliberate pace to the library door, behind which Mr Asprey was at work.

Goodall knocked softly and asked in the kind of discreet voice that meant no visitor could hear a word, ‘Are you at home to Lord Latimer, sir?’

The young lord had been pacing the black and white marble floor counting the squares as he did as a child, but felt an unexpected calm descend as he was ushered at last into the library. Even though his uncle was forbidding and chilly in manner, the young man always felt safe when he placed a problem in his hands. He remained standing as the door was quietly closed behind him and watched Ivor Asprey finish writing a sentence, deliberately putting his quill down on the blotter on his large oak desk. Only then did he look up to appraise his nephew, his deep blue eyes seeming to miss little.

‘Well, my lord? To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Another scrape? More gambling debts?’ he drawled, a wry look on his face.

Lord Latimer read this softening of his uncle’s usual mien as a good sign. He flung himself into the chair by the fire and noticed the decanter of brandy and glasses glinting on the console table.

‘If you need anything to drink, Charles, you’ll have to help yourself. Don’t expect me to leap up to wait on you.’ Mr Asprey had turned his chair to face him. ‘And you could pour me one too,’ he added with a faint smile. ‘I suspect I’m going to need fortification.’

Confidence rose in Lord Latimer’s breast as he handed a glass to his uncle and sat down again, warming his own between his hands. ‘Sir, I have a particular favour to ask of you.’ He met Ivor Asprey’s narrowing eyes with a steadfast gaze. ‘I have come from Miss Leigh’s house and she is feverish with what appears to be a serious influenza which threatens to become pleuritic.’

His uncle looked down into his glass and after a few seconds murmured, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But what is it to do with me?’

Lord Latimer could not maintain his calm and said in a rush of emotion, ‘I’m so afraid, sir, that she will die as Aunt Emma did.’ He hung his head, regretting mentioning the painful subject of Mr Asprey’s wife, but his anxiety and panic at the thought of losing another young woman too soon drove him on. ‘Miss Leigh has to live. She is evidence that goodness is no mere word and happiness more than a dream.’

Ivor Asprey ignored the young man’s hyperbole and asked in a cool voice, ‘What makes you think she will not live?’

‘Because she’s being treated by that blackguard, Hapwood.’ His words were bitter. ‘And that quack’s returning this afternoon to bleed her!’ There was a catch in his voice.

His uncle gave an involuntary shudder. The grief of watching his wife grow weaker and paler, her suffering increasing daily and he unable to salve it, had been almost more than he could bear and he recoiled from any reminder of his powerlessness to save her. ‘I still don’t see what you expect me to do.’ His tone was harsh. ‘Miss Leigh has parents, has she not?’

‘That’s just my concern. Her father is long dead, as you know, and her mother’s in Paris. Miss Leigh is in the care of servants who have not the authority to gainsay her mother’s physician.’

Ivor Asprey’s austere face showed a dawning consternation. ‘Don’t tell me, young buck, that you intend taking the invalid to lodge with your mother?’ He seemed both aghast and amused by the idea.

‘Of course not! You know I cannot even mention her name in Grosvenor Square.’

Ivor Asprey’s eyes narrowed. ‘I presume you have not yet foresworn the beauteous actress?’

‘No! I have not! You know I love her and intend to marry her.’ Irritated by the levity he detected in his uncle’s voice, Lord Latimer glowered.

‘Ah, but does Miss Leigh know that? And has she agreed?’ He crossed his long legs, his free foot swinging, as he watched the emotions play out on his nephew’s handsome face.

Charles Latimer sprang to his feet in agitation. ‘This banter is beside the point. I have to save her life and I can only do that with your help. Can I bring her and her maid here? Until her mother returns.’ He extended his hands towards his uncle.

‘What! You’re madder than a hare, my lord. I’m a public figure whose probity is of concern. The seriousness of the issues I wish to reform cannot be deflected by scandal.’ Exasperated, Ivor Asprey also jumped to his feet and the two men stood facing each other.

‘Your house is large enough for her not to be seen by anyone. Miss Stafford is a competent and discreet woman who could take charge of her care. And you have the authority to resist the bleeding quack and his nostrums.’