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Angelica hugged her mother, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Mama, you are to go to Paris with Mr Breville and enjoy yourself. You’ll soon be back and I will be full of spirit again.’

* * *

After a restless night, Angelica crawled late from her bed. The birds in Berkeley Square gardens were not singing as insistently as at dawn and the delivery carts were still rumbling over the cobbles, the tradesmen’s harsh cries floating up to her window. She dressed with little care, dragged a comb through her mane of hair and piled it haphazardly on her head. She intended to spend the morning on the sofa reading.

There were not many books in Mr Breville’s house but Mrs Leigh had insisted on buying her own copy of the sensationally successful novel, The Heroine, and had enjoyed it so much she had recommended it to her daughter. Angelica remembered her mother chuckling over the tale and felt this was just what she needed to lift her spirits. Her breathing was laboured as she climbed the stairs and went into Mrs Leigh’s bedroom where she sat with relief on the bed. Clothes were still scattered everywhere and the under-maid was slowly folding, hanging and putting away.

‘Sara, I’m looking for a book Mama has been reading called The Heroine. It’s three volumes in green calf covers.’ Both women turned to the tables beside the bed where pots and bottles of lotion were lined up with a swansdown puff, fine scissors from the etui case and a small hand mirror in a silver frame. Angelica was interested to see that in pride of place was the White Imperial Powder she had given her mother from the cosmetical stores at the theatre, together with small bottles of Milk of Roses, Pear’s Almond Bloom and a blue glass pot of zinc oxide. Angelica opened one of the bottles to sniff the contents and the scent of jasmine and roses drifted into the room. Glancing at the floor, she glimpsed the corner of a volume half obscured by the bedclothes. ‘This might be it. I hope it’s volume one.’

Angelica took the book to the sofa at the window in the morning room. She opened it to find the title page inscribed in Mr Breville’s bold hand. To my own dear Heroine, with Warmest Esteem. The author was a poet born in County Cork and she was sure that had been part of the attraction for her mother. Despite the common disparagement of the Irish, Amabel Leigh was proud of her forebears. Angelica was quickly drawn into the story by the bright, witty character of Cherry, a young woman determined to live as the star of her own gothic novel, bemoaning her unsuitable name, preferring Cherubina.

As Angelica turned the page, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and, with an uneasy feeling that she was intruding, opened it. She read in a hand she did not recognise:

My Bella,

I long to see you again. After all these years can you forgive me?

I will be in the country for a few days. England means nothing to me but that you and young Angel are there. And the sea is nothing but that which separates me from those I love. Don’t tell anyone I am to return to those shores.

Yours ever, P

There was no date and Angelica wondered if it was a recent note, or one her mother had kept for sentimental reasons. It made her feel unsettled. Who was it who needed forgiveness, and what needed forgiving? The paper was not yellowed enough to have come from her father who had died more than fifteen years ago. But the writer seemed to have affection for ‘Angel’ who could only be herself. She realised she had never asked her father’s given name, she knew him just as Mr Leigh. But if not him, who? In this troubled frame of mind she returned to the book. She had never before encountered such a brightness of tone in any fictional character and was soon engrossed, feeling her spirits revive.

One passage was heavily underlined, she presumed by her mother. ‘Have I not far greater merit in getting a husband by sentiment, adventure and melancholy, than by dressing, gadding, dancing and singing?’

Angelica laughed out loud. So that was why her mother was always impressing on her the need to curb her lightness of spirit and amusement at the world. Heroines of gothic novels had to suffer and languish and certainly did not laugh. She could never be such an enervated heroine and so obviously would never attract the right kind of husband. Angelica read on, diverted. But her eyes started to flutter and finally close. She dozed in a fitful sleep to be woken by Mary with just ten minutes to get herself ready. Then both women bundled into the chaise and Mr Brunner delivered them to Covent Garden Theatre for the last performance of the run.

* * *

The last night of Hamlet had brought all of Angelica’s and Mr Kean’s admirers to the performance. The pit was rowdier than usual with alcohol and food liberally consumed throughout the evening and missiles rained down from the upper boxes. Before the lights were dimmed Angelica walked to the side of the stage and through a slight gap in the curtain, glimpsed one of the larger boxes filled with young bucks. Among them, she recognised Lord Latimer and Dante Locke, and the faces of a couple of other young men she had previously met. She could see glasses and bottles of champagne glinting in the low light and knew they had already begun drinking.

In a quick perusal of the auditorium, another of the more expensive boxes close to the stage was very noticeable for the colourful ladies in bold dresses and rouged lips who laughed, leaning over the front and waving, accompanied by Lord Rackham and an older crowd of dissolute rakes and dandies who sought their sport at the theatre, local bordellos and gentlemen’s clubs.

All eyes, however, were drawn to the Royal Box, where the well-upholstered, red-faced Prince Regent was holding court surrounded by over-dressed cronies and a couple of exquisite young women, expertly coquetting with their fans and casting provocative glances at the tumultuous scene below, where many a gaze and bawdy comment was directed their way. The Prince was unpopular and as the night wore on and more alcohol was imbibed, the ribald comments became more markedly addressed to him. Angelica knew it would be a noisy night.

Mary helped dress her one last time in the heavy brocade dress, adjusting the wig to show a suitable expanse of pale forehead. Angelica’s cheeks had lost whatever colour they had and did not need such a liberal dusting of the white powder but extra rouge on her cheeks and lips ensured her appearance was not entirely spectral. She knew that to get through this final performance would take all her willpower. Her chest was heavy and tight, her voice breathy, and she was afraid she would be ambushed by a fit of coughing.

Angelica was so cold she asked Mary to collect her an early cup of hot chocolate from Mistress Pastow just to fortify her a little. She was sitting pensively in the chair in front of the speckled looking-glass when a slight knock at the door roused her and she looked up to see the manager slide into the room. David Dunbar had the unhealthy pallor of a man who lived by night and an insinuating manner that made Angelica bridle at the best of times. Now feeling weakened, she could barely summon the energy to protect her spirit from his baleful presence. ‘How now, Mr Dunbar?’ she queried in a quiet voice.

‘You don’t look too prime, Miss Leigh,’ he said, peering at her with anxiety in his eyes. But the concern was not for her health but for his box office receipts. ‘You’re not going to cry off this last moment?’

‘Never fear, Mr Dunbar. I’m a professional. I’ll get through it.’

‘And you’re willing to be my lead actress in The Child of Nature?’

‘I am. But I thought you were going to give the role to a more complaisant actress.’ Angelica could not stop herself from reminding him of his threat.

David Dunbar was proof against embarrassment but his brow clouded with irritation for a moment, before saying with an airy dismissal, ‘I don’t know what ye mean. It was always your part in my plan.’

Angelica was watching him closely and knew he had something else to impart. ‘Are you troubled by anything, Mr Dunbar? I’m sure you did not come here to enquire about my well-being.’

He paused by the door, his puffy features animated with the possibility of gossip. ‘Well, Miss Leigh, you had a visitor earlier. A gentleman from France.’

Angelica met his slippery glance. ‘Is this gentleman still here?’ she asked neutrally.

‘No. That was the suspicious thing. He seemed most agitated and when he heard a door slam in the distance he jumped, made his excuses and left.’

‘Did he give you his name?’ When the manager shook his head, she sighed. ‘Perhaps you can tell me something more of this gentleman’s business with me?’ Angelica knew no one in France, but was aware she was known by repute to some Parisian theatregoers.