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‘Because her stepmother is insisting she marry Lord Fulsham in order to restore the family’s wealth, specifically for the benefit of her son. It is shameful.’ Angelica could feel her cheeks growing warm with her frustration at the unfairness of things.

Lord Latimer sat back in the saddle and whistled softly. ‘Sad chit.’

Angelica looked across at Isobel Fitzjames and Dante Locke whose conversation had come to a natural halt. She nodded at Lord Latimer. ‘I think we should be heading home. I have to get ready for tonight’s performance.’

‘If you want to avoid the self-important Uncle Asprey, don’t go via Hyde Park. He said he would tool around the Serpentine with Lady Linus, before heading off to Westminster.’

Angelica was surprised by her own curiosity in the matter and blurted out, ‘Pray, who is Lady Linus?’

Lord Latimer snorted with some derision. ‘She’s the lady my mama thinks should become the next Mrs Asprey. She frequents the public lectures at the Royal Institution, useful only for those who know little and aspire to less.’

‘That’s rather dismissive, my lord. Professor Davy is a great hit with his chemical and galvanic experiments. I think such interest admirable in Lady Linus.’

‘Admirable indeed. She is a very superior woman, but rather encumbered by virtue.’ He emphasised the last word with a smirk and Angelica had to stop herself joining in with his mirth. She wheeled her horse round and Isobel Fitzjames joined her. They saluted the two young blades and set off towards Piccadilly.

The women were trotting side by side, their smartly dressed grooms following, and their appearance drew many interested glances from the other horsemen and carriage drivers. Miss Fitzjames said, ‘Talking to Mr Locke I realised I met him at a musical evening at Lady Sefton’s.’

Angelica was interested to hear that one of the patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, the gateway to all young ladies’ entrance to London Society, had invited her to a private social event.

‘Have you been admitted to the Assemblies?’

‘Before my father died I was rather well-courted and attended a few of the evenings. But lately I have been in mourning. Also, I fear now that scandal is attached to my family name…’ Isobel Fitzjames’s voice was lacking in expression and tailed off, as if she saw no alternative to her fate. Glancing across at Angelica, who had eased Storm into a slower trot, she asked in a shy voice, ‘Are you fortunate enough to still have your papa?’

‘No. I never knew him. He was killed while under Admiral Nelson’s command at the Battle of Aboukir Bay. I was about five years old at the time.’

‘I am sorry. Perhaps I was favoured in having my father’s protection for nineteen years of my life. It was just such an ignominious end. Unlike your father, who died a hero’s death.’

‘I don’t know how much of a hero he was. My mother evades any talk of him, which makes me wonder.’

‘Of course he was a hero. He was fighting to protect his country.’ Isobel Fitzjames’s face glowed with romantic fervour. ‘I like your friends, Lord Latimer and Mr Locke. Mr Locke says he’s writing an epic poem on an alternative fate for Ophelia. Isn’t that clever?’

‘It all depends.’ Angelica looked across at her friend and smiled. ‘I’m sorry Lord Latimer was rather tiresome when he first met you. He’s young and has had every praise and opportunity placed upon his table. And is the heir to a mighty Dukedom.’

‘And has a certain tendresse for you?’

Angelica swung around in the saddle to meet her eyes. ‘Is that what Mr Locke told you? Well, his lordship may think thus about me but I recognise it merely as youthful fancy. ’Twill last a season, if that. There’ll be another more suitable lady to catch his interest.’

‘But how could anyone compare to you, Miss Angelica?’

Angelica put her gloved hand on her friend’s. ‘That’s very kind of you, but you forget the small fact of my lack of fortune, not to mention my disreputable profession.’ As Isobel Fitzjames demurred, Angelica continued, ‘I really don’t mind. I know we women are often denied the liberty of choice, but I still have an unreasonable optimism about life.’

‘Oh Miss Angelica, if only I could share your hope.’ They had dismounted and grasped each other’s hands. ‘I fear my future looks bleak indeed.’

‘Come, come, my dear. Who knows what life has in store for us?’ She so wished she could share some of her blithe spirit with her wilting friend. ‘Just think how fortunate we both are. We have our health, some education, you have good breeding, we both are warm at night and don’t go hungry.’ She glanced up at the bright spring sky and thought of the unfair advantages of beauty, saying, ‘Above all, we both have our good looks. Such privileges open many doors.’ Angelica released her friend’s hands and smiled at her. ‘We have every reason to be optimistic, don’t you think?’

‘It’s hard to be so when one’s heart is heavy and one’s spirit fails.’

Angelica tried another tack. ‘I so enjoyed our ride. Shall we meet again in two days’ time? At three?’ Isobel Fitzjames smiled and Angelica quickly embraced her and ran up the steps of Mr Breville’s house while Robert took Storm back to her stable in the mews. Miss Fitzjames and her groom, with the horses’ reins in his hands, walked the short journey to her stepmother’s house in Hill Street.

* * *

Elinor Asprey was dressed for her trip to the theatre hours before she and her father were due to depart. She was pleased with her new velvet spencer, the colour of cornflowers which matched her eyes. Pretending to read at the window seat in the morning room, she watched the road. She had informally borrowed her governess’s set of the Forest of Montalbano hoping for an exciting historical tale but found volume one heavy going and was unlikely to struggle through the next three. She put it down and with impatience gazed out on the few horses and carriages that circled St James’s Square, longing to see her father’s distinctive figure with his cane and curly beaver hat walking up from Pall Mall. Then he was there. She leapt up to tap on the window and wave. Ivor Asprey’s expression softened as he caught sight of his daughter’s eager face.

‘Papa!’ Elinor bounded into his arms as he came through the front door. ‘I’m so glad you’re home early.’ Her expressive nature seldom failed to penetrate his long-practised reserve as she usually ignored his admonishments, her blithe spirit percolating through his sang-froid. He could not resist her smile.

Mr Asprey divested himself of hat and coat and followed his daughter into the library. He poured himself a whisky and sat by the fire while his daughter perched on the sofa facing him. ‘Well, young lady. You look delightful. Have you and Miss Stafford discussed the play?’

‘Yes, Papa. But it’s so gloomy and confusing. Is the ghost real?’