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Once Angelica and her mother had moved into Edward Breville’s house, Mrs Leigh lost no time in persuading her generous cavaliere servente to spend a portion of his fortune on educating her beautiful young daughter in the ladylike arts. Angelica might be barred from entering the beau monde by the irregularity of her birth and her profession but Amabel Leigh was determined that should her beauty and gifts attract a noble suitor, as she deserved, her daughter would be able to acquit herself well in any company.

From their first meeting, Mr Brunner had taken the child under his bluff wing and taught her to ride. Angelica was blessed with natural balance and grace and this, allied with her devil-may-care courage, meant she was soon riding as well as anyone twice her age. Then Maestro Zampolli was engaged to teach her how to play the piano-forte with unshowy grace while singing a small repertoire of charming country songs, and an elderly dancing master, the famous Mr Cherry, taught her the steps of the minuet and the quadrille, and even the new and faintly shocking waltz, together with some country dances and Scottish reels for fun.

Edward Breville had given Angelica a special palfrey for her eighteenth birthday. As a particular treat he had arranged a private meeting with the great bloodstock trader, Richard Tattersall, for her to choose her own mount. They had gone early to the stables at Hyde Park Corner and she had been so excited to see the horses, stamping and whinnying, ready for their morning exercise, their breaths wreathing in the chill air.

Then came the moment when a grey mare was led into the courtyard and Angelica gasped at the sight of the beautiful creature. Gazing into the horse’s dark eyes, she fell in love. The early sun made the mare’s pale coat glisten as if frosted and as she began to trot everyone who saw her was transfixed by the elegance and refinement of her lines, the fluidity of her high-stepping movement and her beautiful mottled grey coat. Angelica immediately knew she would call her Storm; her name suggested an inclement day and her mane and tail, almost white and very long, flying behind her as attendant cirrus clouds.

The afternoon was sunny and Mr Breville’s groom, Robert, brought Angelica’s horse from the mews, fully saddled for her expedition to Green Park. Angelica had quickly slipped into her riding dress and asked Mary to help lace it. It was a flattering outfit with its full skirts of green batiste nipped into a small waist emphasised by a form-fitting jacket with a military air, corded and toggled with navy braiding. Mary quickly twisted her mistress’s mass of gold-red hair into a low bun so Angelica could wear the stylish shako that completed the fashionable hussar look. Angelica dashed down the stairs to find Martin opening the door to a visitor.

Isobel Fitzjames stood on the threshold looking a picture of elegance. Her riding habit had all the extra distinction of the finest dark blue cloth and a perfect line that declared it to be a garment made by someone of the highest skill. Angelica had been told by her mother that before the war, Parisian women would come to London to buy their riding clothes from the best of the men’s tailors in St James’s, so incomparable was the fabric and fit. She wondered if this exquisite garment had been created by Mr Meyer of Conduit Street, the military tailor par excellence, famous for making Beau Brummel’s uniform.

Martin had exclaimed and clapped his hands in delight at the sight of the two young women as they settled into their side-saddles with the help of their grooms, their skirts decorously arranged over their knees to show merely the barest glimpse of booted ankle. Isobel Fitzjames looked appraisingly at Angelica mounted on Storm. ‘She is such a striking horse you look like you’re riding Pegasus.’ Her own mount, Merry, was handsome enough but not showy. There was something about the grey mare paired with her beautiful Titian-haired owner that demanded attention from everyone who saw them.

Green Park was much less extensive than Hyde Park to the north but it was pretty in its smaller scale with naturalistic copses of trees and shrubs and a few grazing sheep in an enclosure. Its grassy avenues and gravelled walks led to the reservoir for St James’s Palace, a welcome expanse of water where ducks and waterfowl frolicked, much to the entertainment of dogs and children. There was still a light-hearted atmosphere of celebration and a group of young men, drunk from the night before, were playing bowls under the trees with two hussars, resplendent in their uniforms. Their shouts and laughter drifted on the breeze.

Angelica called over her shoulder, ‘Shall we canter to that oak tree by the lodge?’ She put a hand on Storm’s neck and felt her horse tremble with anticipation. Isobel Fitzjames nodded and their grooms followed as the young women gave their mares their heads. The speed and freedom were exhilarating and too soon Angelica had to rein her mount in, laughing with sheer enjoyment. They trotted over to the shade of the oak and let their horses graze while they surveyed the groups of revellers in the distance. Two horsemen were coming towards them at speed; one raised his arm in salutation. Angelica recognised Lord Latimer and waved.

‘What a pleasant discovery.’ He rode up on his handsome grey and inclined his head. His friend, Dante Locke, joined him in greeting, his dark eyes registering surprise at the sight of Isobel Fitzjames.

‘Good afternoon, my lord, and Mr Locke, how good to meet again.’ Angelica nodded towards the young bloods on their restless, snorting stallions. ‘May I introduce you to Miss Fitzjames.’ She looked towards her companion who brought her horse forward to offer her hand.

‘But we have met before,’ Dante Locke said and bowed low over her gloved hand.

The colour rose in Isobel Fitzjames’s cheek as she murmured shyly, ‘I think it was at Lady Lyon’s rout, was it not?’

‘No, that cannot be,’ Lord Latimer broke in with a mischievous gleam. ‘I was there with you, Dante, and I would have remembered such a charming encounter. Could you be mistaken, Miss Fitzjames?’ And he too bowed over her hand with an elaborate flourish.

She met his eyes fleetingly then turned her face away with embarrassment. ‘Perhaps so, it has been some time since I have been in company.’ Angelica was irritated by Lord Latimer’s teasing manner. The death of Isobel Fitzjames’s father would have been gossiped about in the gentlemen’s clubs both these young men frequented and they would have realised she was the daughter in this tragedy. Angelica was taken aback that he seemed to show so little concern for the young woman’s feelings. Luckily, his friend drew Miss Fitzjames aside and they seemed to be deep in conversation about horses.

Angelica turned to Lord Latimer. ‘You surprise me, my lord.’

‘Why the clouded brow, milady? It does not become you.’ He was still in a jaunty mood.

‘Why the unmannerly banter, Lord Latimer? It does not become the situation when a lady is in mourning for her father.’

Unused to being admonished, especially by a young woman whose beauty so disarmed him, he quickly changed the subject. ‘I was on my way to apologise to you for my relation’s visit to the theatre last night.’

Angelica looked at him with a question in her eyes. ‘And how did you know you’d find me here?’

‘I saw you crossing Piccadilly. You and your horse, Miss Leigh, are as dramatic a sight as a comet’s flaming flight.’

Such hyperbole made Angelica laugh, despite her mother’s entreaty to be less light-hearted. ‘Well, there is no need for apologies. I know what your family think of me.’

‘All but the Duke, who is very much in your favour.’

‘Ah, but has he more sway than your mama and stern uncle?’

Lord Latimer did not answer but turned in the saddle to look across to where his friend was still in soulful conversation with Angelica’s companion. ‘I am sorry for Miss Fitzjames. ’Tis indeed a woeful business. No noble gamester would deprive a man of everything, including his honour.’

‘Do you know Lord Fulsham?’

‘I know him by sight; he’s often in the club but I have never joined him in play. He’s known for being reckless in running his luck.’

Impetuously, Angelica confided to him her nascent plan. ‘I wondered if there was anyone who could win the Fitzjames patrimony back, playing him at his own game?’

Lord Latimer leaned forward in his saddle to catch Angelica’s arm. ‘That is a ruinous idea. How could you even consider it possible? The only person I know who’s as good at computing the odds in Hazard is my uncle and he gave up gaming when he went into Parliament. Why are you so interested in Miss Fitzjames’s fate?’