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‘Is this the policy of gaming clubs, to get the clientele half-cut before they approach the tables?’

‘What a cynical thought, daughter of mine! All the best clubs offer the pleasures of fine food and wine. But a particular clever ploy of mine is to allow the young men who serve wine to the gamesters to lend money too. When a gentleman has cleared out his ready coin he does not have to stop gambling to collect more.’

‘That sounds immoral, but hazardous for the house too.’

‘Ah no. It’s productive of immense profit, for sure. If the borrower should win, he usually refunds the loan before leaving the room; and if unsuccessful, it remains for him to repay the waiters as “a debt of honour”. I will, of course, cover any outstanding waiters’ loans. Lending money to a losing gamester is like filling a leaky vessel. There is no end.’

‘Surely then, this will hasten their ruin?’ Angelica was aghast, thinking of Isobel Fitzjames’s father and the family tragedy that had ensued.

Prosper Crowe seemed unconcerned by any individual tragedies but instead chose to concentrate his thoughts on what a successful business he had built on this easy-loan principle. Oblivious to Angelica’s recoil, he explained, ‘There is a disposition in gamesters to pursue a run of ill luck, a sort of frenzy and spirit of revenge to regain what they feel unjustly deprived of.’

He gazed down at Angelica’s sceptical face. ‘What I do is within the law. It’s just the psychology of men that allows me to profit. Let a man win, and the gratification renders him incapable of leaving the tables.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘If he retires, it’s only to come again, so that he must lose the more he plays. Not edifying, I agree, but human and luckily to my benefit. I should engrave Ovid’s aperçu over the door: Quo plus sunt potae, plus sitiuntur aquae. You drink but then are forever thirsty.’

‘Terrible to consider it was ever thus.’ It distressed her to think of the thousands of lives that had been ruined by this addiction.

‘Don’t exercise yourself, darlin’ with the cares of others. Can’t take on the troubles of the world.’

‘Perhaps not, but we shouldn’t set out to profit from them.’ She had turned to face him with a darkened brow.

‘Come, come, Angelica. Let’s turn to something cheerier. Your next play. Tell me about it.’

‘It’s called The Child of Nature,’ Angelica said in a subdued voice.

Prosper Crowe’s buoyancy was undiminished. ‘I saw a production in Paris, in French of course, by Genlis. As you can imagine, I approve of the primacy of the father in his daughter’s affections.’

Being reminded of the plot irritated Angelica and she abruptly stopped walking to turn and look Prosper Crowe in the eye. ‘Yes. Mama and I thought it a farrago of nonsense. It doesn’t surprise me it’s based on a French play. Probably a popinjay of a playwright, a negligent father himself indulging fond fantasies of reconciliation.’

‘Woah there, Miss High and Mighty! The original author’s a woman, the Comtesse de Genlis.’

‘Well, then shame on her!’ Her irritation dissolved with the absurdity of it all and they both laughed. Just at that point they were interrupted by two young men cantering through the trees towards them. Lord Latimer dismounted before his horse had come to a proper halt and he ran forward to grasp Angelica’s hands. ‘Oh, Miss Leigh. I’m consoled to see you out taking the air.’ With fervid emotion he gazed into her eyes. ‘And looking so well too.’

Prosper Crowe had been watching this display of affection with interest. Lord Latimer only then realised Angelica was walking not only with Mary but also with a striking gentleman of middle years. Was this the prodigal father his uncle had warned him had returned from his watery grave? ‘I beg pardon, sir. I was just gratified to see Miss Leigh restored to health.’ He bowed.

Angelica stepped forward with a smile. ‘Lord Latimer, may I introduce Mr Crowe to you. He’s my father, visiting from France for a few days. Sir, these are my friends, Lord Latimer and Dante Locke, a poet you know.’ She indicated the young man still mounted on his black stallion, his dark hair worn long and dishevelled, his pallid face unsmiling.

‘How d’ye do?’ Prosper Crowe’s Irish-French lilt was pronounced as he set out to charm this new audience. Dante Locke then dismounted and wandered over, his horse’s reins looped over his arm. To no one in particular, he addressed the air, ‘My art cannot flourish in this stifling country. Like Lord Byron, I must flee these indifferent shores to find fame with the infidels. What hot-blooded poet can write of soft hills and daffodils when there are tales of Greece, wild Syria and the barbarous Albanese?’ He looked pained at the thought he had been deprived of such an exotic muse.

Prosper Crowe shook his hand in greeting. ‘Mr Locke, come to Paris by all means, but beyond that I fear the Plague is driving back your compatriots on their Grand Tours.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I assume you’ve been reading “The Giaour”? Now that Napoleon’s war is ended, Paris is full of young Englishmen set on romantic adventures in the Orient. That damned poetic lord has a lot to answer for.’

‘But to stay in England is to sentence oneself to a desert of ennui.’

‘Wouldn’t know ’bout that. Certainly Paris’ll chase off any ennui.’ Prosper Crowe laughed in his bluff way. They continued to expand their differing views on Byron’s works while Lord Latimer, leading his horse, offered his arm to Angelica. Lord Latimer sensed this unexpected resurrection of her father was not an unshadowed joy for Miss Leigh.

‘This dramatic turn in affairs must be quite an alteration for you, Miss Leigh?’

She took his arm with gratitude. ‘You’re right, my lord. I think I’m still recovering from the shock. I feel disinclined to overlook his or my mother’s deception.’

‘You will always have my sympathy, you know.’ He squeezed her hand.

‘I think I should be heading back to St James’s Square; I’m beginning to tire.’ Even her voice was losing its force.

‘Of course. You must be careful.’ Lord Latimer leant in closer. ‘Especially as I am determined you will accompany me to my masquerade ball.’ He whispered this, his lips almost touching her ear. Angelica sensed his warm breath on her neck and the unexpected intimacy took her by surprise and made her heart skip a beat.

‘I fear that it is unnecessarily provoking to your mother. And uncle.’ She smiled at him, suddenly shy.

But the spirited young man swept aside any reservations. ‘They will never know. It will add to my fun.’

‘I’m not so sure it will to mine.’