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Angelica struggled to sit up. Through pauses to gasp for air she said, ‘Good morning, Miss Stafford. It’s hard to know as I seem to slip in and out of sleep. But I do feel more rested.’

‘It’s your coughing that I’m here to address.’ There was a calm competence about this young woman with her pleasing oval face and kind brown eyes. ‘I have been taught by Mr Asprey a technique of gentle drumming on your back which will help bring up the mucus trapped in your lungs.’

Angelica looked surprised and Miss Stafford explained, ‘I’ll make a bank of your pillows and if you can lie forward so I can reach your back you’ll find that it will make you cough. Here’s a spittoon for you to spit in.’ She placed the bowl next to Angelica’s head as she began to rhythmically rap on her back with cupped hands. Angelica felt the vibration spread through her torso; her lungs which had seemed so heavy and solid began to give up some of the phlegm. She coughed and spat and coughed some more.

After about fifteen minutes Miss Stafford stopped, rearranged the pillows and settled Angelica again. She smiled. ‘That was quite productive. I’m pleased.’ Mary brought in a bowl of coffee for them both and Miss Stafford sat at Angelica’s bedside while the patient closed her eyes, exhausted by the procedure.

Catching her breath, Angelica asked, ‘Was this technique used on Mrs Asprey?’

Miss Stafford’s face was serious. ‘Sadly not. A Swiss doctor Mr Asprey contacted told him about it. But it was too late to save his wife’s life.’ She looked across at Angelica’s pale face and put her hand on her arm. ‘Don’t concern yourself with the past. You will get better. That is why Lord Latimer brought you here.’

‘But how did he get Mr Asprey to agree?’

Miss Stafford let out a little laugh. ‘That young man can be an irresistible force.’

‘It sounds rather like the mountain meeting Mahomet.’ Angelica tried to laugh but was overtaken by a gasping cough.

‘Indeed, they’re as self-willed as each other, but I reckon Mr Asprey has the upper hand.’ Her expression softened. ‘He’s not as harsh as he appears, Miss Leigh. Perhaps he did not want to think you might be treated by Dr Hapwood as he had treated Mrs Asprey.’ She noticed Angelica sink back against the pillows and close her eyes. ‘I will see you again before night time. Rest now.’

Miss Stafford walked down the stairs to collect her charge for the day’s teaching and found Ivor Asprey sitting with his daughter in the morning room.

The child jumped to her feet. ‘How is Miss Leigh? Papa’s just told me she’s ill upstairs. And it’s a secret. But I’m so excited she’s here. Can I see her?’

Miss Stafford took her hand. ‘Not yet, my dear.’

Ivor Asprey looked up from The Times. ‘Tell me, Miss Stafford, how is the invalid?’ His light-hearted tone of voice belied the anxiety in his face.

Miss Stafford sat down and she too looked serious. ‘I don’t think she’s over the worst.’

‘That’s concerning,’ he said almost to himself then remembered his daughter and made an effort to sound more positive. ‘I’m sure your care will secure her health. Come to me for anything you may need, Miss Stafford.’ He folded his paper and got to his feet, bending to kiss his daughter on the cheek.

Elinor Asprey had been bursting to find out more and as her father departed turned to her governess. ‘Miss Stafford, does she look like Ophelia?’

‘Well, Miss Leigh is very pale and beautiful but cannot speak without gasping for breath or coughing, so she’s not really up to playing Ophelia at present, I fear.’

Clutching Miss Stafford’s arm, the young girl looked scared. ‘She’s not got Mama’s disease, has she?’

The young woman shared with Mr Asprey’s secretary, Nicholas Digby, an idealistic liberalism and she did not believe in shielding children from the truth. She took her pupil’s hand and said simply, ‘Your mama had an inflammation in her lungs. A kind of pleuritic fever overtook her which she was too weakened to withstand. Miss Leigh may have the same condition but she is stronger and your Papa and I will do all we can to help her get better.’

‘Oh, please. I can’t bear it if she dies too.’ The girl buried her curly head in her governess’s lap.

Miss Stafford lifted Elinor’s chin and met her blue eyes with her reassuringly calm gaze. ‘We must do all we can and hope for the best. Now to your lessons, my dear. You have the Kings and Queens of England to recite.’

Upstairs, Mary continued to minister to her mistress who seemed to slip in and out of consciousness. It was her job to keep the room warm and to make sure Angelica drank liquid throughout the day: a little broth, some watered milk and honeyed whisky that made her cough but helped her to sleep. Angelica’s earlier panic had subsided although she still felt deathly weak and each breath was a labour. There was a peacefulness in the house that her mother’s lacked. Angelica could close her eyes and give up the weight of responsibility she had felt since she was a child.

There was a rap on the front door of number four that barely penetrated her drowsing state. Goodall walked at a stately pace from the back of the house and opened it to a figure of dramatic appearance. Before him stood a man in middle age, tall and dressed in the French manner, his coat a little too exaggerated in the shoulder, the pantaloons tighter and embellished with ribbons at the knee. His hair was a striking russet streaked with white, worn longer than current English fashion and tied back in the old-fashioned way in a queue. He removed his tricorne with a flourish.

Goodall’s unperturbed face showed no surprise or curiosity. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?’

‘My name is Prosper Crowe. I am visiting from Paris and would like to have a word with your master.’ Mr Crowe spoke with the distinctive ending of ‘master’ that suggested to Goodall he was more familiar with the French or Irish language than with English.

With cool formality, the butler asked the stranger to wait in the hall while he checked if his master was at home. Prosper Crowe was uncowed by the grandeur or this unenthusiastic reception and gazed at the palatial proportions of the house, noting with interest the grand staircase and the enormous chandelier that hung over the marble chequerboard floor. Hands behind his back, he strolled to gaze at an imposing portrait of a man in eighteenth-century court clothes, his face the image of aristocratic hauteur. ‘Vive La Révolution,’ he muttered. ‘À bas les aristos,’ and made as if to run his rapier through some unsuspecting member of the ancien regime, as Goodall glided back to his side.

‘The master is busy but asks your business.’

‘Would you tell him I’ve come about Miss Leigh.’

Goodall’s eye gave an almost imperceptible twitch. He knew that all the Asprey servants had been sworn to secrecy about the young actress’s presence but returned to the library to pass on in some trepidation this latest piece of news. Ivor Asprey was about to leave for Westminster and was busy collecting his governmental papers together when his butler knocked again and entered. His head rose and as Goodall spoke he looked piercingly at him. ‘How does he know she’s here?’ The chill in his voice made his butler blanch.