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‘It won’t have been from anyone in your employ, sir.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘A well-dressed pirate, sir.’ Goodall immediately regretted speaking out of turn and apologised.

His employer raised his eyebrows. ‘Very well, show him in.’

Prosper Crowe’s self-confident swagger was checked for a moment when he faced Ivor Asprey. Perhaps here was a man who saw beneath the surface of things? He approached with his hand outstretched. ‘Prosper Crowe, sir, just in from Paris.’

‘How d’ye do? Ivor Asprey.’ Mr Asprey gave a curt incline of his head as they shook hands.

‘Oh, I know who you are,’ Mr Crowe said with confidence. ‘I approve of what you are trying to do for Catholic emancipation.’ A little of his swagger had returned with his attempt at regaining the upper hand in this discourse.

‘Well, you’re the master of me, sir, for I have no idea who you are and what I can do for you.’ Ivor Asprey spoke with asperity.

‘My apologies. I am Angelica Leigh’s father and I would like to see her.’

Ivor was completely dumbfounded by this news but maintained his impassive expression. Not only had he no idea how the whereabouts of Miss Leigh had been discovered but, more importantly, he had been told by his nephew that her father was a naval hero who had died sixteen years ago in Aboukir Bay. ‘Have you any proof of this?’

The piratical man opposite him laughed. ‘Look at my hair!’ With a flamboyant gesture he brandished his queue where his hair was less streaked with white. It was indeed an unusually rich colour. ‘Isn’t Miss Leigh known for her beauty? And her Celtic colouring?’

Ivor Asprey was not as easily convinced. ‘I think it is Miss Leigh’s theatrical talent that marks her pre-eminence.’

‘Come now, sir, we are both men of the world,’ Prosper Crowe said with a conspiratorial smile. ‘We both know it is her beauty. The world is full of fine actresses, on the stage and off, but only those who are beautiful gain fame and notoriety.’

Mr Asprey felt himself bridle. He had no desire to be philosophically associated with this eccentric gentleman who appeared to consider himself the equal of anyone. ‘Forgive me, Mr Crowe, but I am late for a meeting in Westminster. Laws you may approve of nevertheless need to be debated.’ He picked up his case with his papers.

The visitor put out his hand. ‘Halt a while, sir. You have yet to tell me if my daughter is under this roof.’

‘You have yet to prove to me who you say you are and until then I have no inkling as to who your daughter might be.’ Ivor Asprey bowed and left the room. ‘Goodall, please show Mr Crowe out,’ he said peremptorily as he strode out of the front door and down the steps into the Square to head south. He would be late to the House of Commons. Walking fast, he was perturbed, distracted from the important issues that awaited him. Just a couple of weeks ago Miss Angelica Leigh was unknown to him, but now she had come to dominate his thoughts. She lay upstairs in his house suffering the same sort of alarming respiratory disease that had carried off his beloved Emma.

Responsibility for preserving the young actress’s life had been thrust upon him, and he had become somehow complicit in keeping this disreputable piece of information from his sister’s hearing. Ivor did not care to fall out with her but there was no safe way to impart to the Duchess the news that the young woman she abhorred as a future daughter-in-law was being nursed under his roof. Not least was his concern that his work as a radical lawmaker depended on his reputation remaining unimpeached. His equanimity had been further unsettled by this eccentric man bursting into his well-ordered life to claim he was Miss Leigh’s father. What unforeseen consequences would come from this: no longer the dead hero but a rogue by the looks of him, and very much alive?

Ivor Asprey’s pace did not slacken as he crossed St James’s Park. The more he thought of the change in his peaceful regime at home the more uneasy he became. Since his fateful meeting with Angelica Leigh he felt his life slipping from his control. This unhappy reverie was broken by a familiar voice, ‘Mr Asprey, sir!’ He turned to see the smiling face of his secretary.

‘Oh, Mr Digby, I’m indeed pleased to see you. When did you arrive?’ He had sent the young man to the cotton mills of Manchester to gather individual experiences of children’s lives there, to add force to his arguments in the House of Commons debate that evening.

So involved were Mr Asprey and his secretary in their conversation that they did not hear the approach of Lord Rackham who unexpectedly appeared walking beside them. ‘I can see your hearts upon your sleeves, gentlemen, for daws like me to peck at,’ he said with barely concealed disdain. ‘I shall vote against you, you know.’

Ivor turned to look at him and felt again an inward recoil that surprised him after all this time. ‘I would expect nothing less.’

He saluted his secretary who continued to walk on while Lord Rackham put a hand on Asprey’s arm to hold him back.

‘Sir, beware of being a traitor to your class. There are those who are born to servitude and those to rule. It’s dangerous to tamper with God’s design in the matter.’

‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the Gentleman? I think you’ll find, my lord, that such social hierarchies were not God’s intent.’

Lord Rackham gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, if you put yourselves on a par with the Peasants’ Revolt then you truly are a traitor to your class.’

They walked on a few more paces in silence. As they approached the entrance to the Chapel of St Stephen’s, Lord Rackham paused. ‘I forgot. Do you happen to know where Miss Leigh may be?’

Ivor Asprey kept on walking and said in a cold voice, ‘Is her whereabouts of concern to you?’

‘I do have some interests there, ’tis true, but I’m aware your nephew has a dunderheaded scheme to marry her and wondered if they’d absconded together?’

Ivor Asprey stopped dead. ‘My nephew’s business is his own.’ His contempt was ice cold.

‘That may well be, but perhaps it’s time to rein in your family, sir, exert some authority. We are both men of the world and we know that an actress is not a suitable wife for a gentleman. If that gentleman is heir to a dukedom, this is indubitably the case.’