Page 4

Angelica jumped up and put out her hands, a laugh in her voice. ‘Lord Latimer, of course! But just for a moment. You can help me with my final preparations.’

The young man was followed into the room by another and Charles Latimer, still holding Angelica’s hand, turned to introduce him. ‘Miss Leigh, may I introduce my friend, Dante Locke. He’s a poet y’know.’ This young romantic bowed very low over Angelica’s proffered hand. He was dark with soulful black eyes and unruly locks that curled to his shoulders. His full mouth looked as if it rarely smiled but instead had been formed specifically to effect a soulful pout.

‘A poet?’ Angelica asked, marvelling at just how influential Lord Byron was on the pretensions of the susceptible young.

‘Yes, Miss Leigh. My mother is a Venetian and from my birth had determined I would be a poet.’

‘Hence your name?’

‘Indeed. I’m working on an epic poem inspired by the tragedy of Ophelia. She will become my Beatrice.’ The young gallant tossed his head and smouldered into the middle distance then roused himself to utter in dramatic tones, ‘If I didn’t write, I think I would end up mad.’

Angelica was taken aback by the vehemence of his last words but Lord Latimer ignored his friend’s outburst, saying equably, ‘He’s been inspired by your performance, Miss Leigh. He was overcome with your interpretation of tormented delusion.’ Lord Latimer was in some awe of his friend’s romantic temperament.

Angelica bowed her head, a smile on her lips. ‘I am gratified that I may have helped you in your poetic vision. But, gentlemen, I have to prepare myself for tonight’s performance. Will you excuse me?’

‘Not before you allow me to place a patch on your lovely cheek,’ Lord Latimer said with unexpected boldness.

‘Ah, my lord, I may be in a costume that befits our grandmothers, but I do not wear the patches they wore. Ophelia is but a young girl and unsophisticated.’ Seeing his face fall, she added, ‘But of course, you may apply some of this pearl powder to my cheek before you go.’ She sat down in front of the looking-glass again and he bent across to pick up the pot, meeting her eyes in the reflection. He paused, mesmerised for a moment.

Angelica broke the spell by glancing away from the glass and up into the flushed face leaning over her. She murmured, ‘Have a care, Lord Latimer, this powder will spoil your coat.’

He dabbed the swansdown puff into the powder then delicately pressed it onto the curve of her cheek. Without permission, he moved the swansdown slowly down her slender neck and then across her collarbone. His face was very close, as if he longed to trace the same trajectory with his lips. His breathing was fast as his eyes glittered in the candlelight. She felt a disconcerting quiver of excitement pass between them as his dark gaze held hers for a moment.

‘Thank you, my lord, for your help.’ Her voice was matter of fact as she extracted the powder puff from his hand. ‘Now, I must prepare.’

‘Don’t forget, Miss Leigh, you promised to come with us afterwards to Lady Marwood’s rout. The whole town is full of rumour about the war. It’ll be quite a summer of parties and balls if we’re victorious.’ He gazed at her with the look of a man who could not believe his good fortune in having such beauty within his grasp.

‘Of course.’ She indicated the green dress hanging on the wall. ‘I’ve come prepared. But I will only be able to stay for a few dances. I have to get some sleep. Unlike you, my lord, I have work to do.’ She wrinkled her nose with a teasing smile.

Both men bowed. Dante Locke took Angelica’s hand. ‘Your craft is as mine, Miss Leigh. We are the rainbow in the storms of life.’ The young men then kissed their own finger tips in a theatrical farewell.

As Lord Latimer was pulling the door to behind them, he said, ‘We’ll be in the first box on the left. Good luck, Miss Leigh. Look after her, Mary.’ With this they were gone.

Mary tutted disapprovingly. ‘You shouldn’t lead the young lord on so, Miss Angelica.’

‘Oh, Mary! I don’t. It means nothing. He’s in love in the way young men fall in love, so easily, without meaning. It’s courtly, like the poet, Dante’s love for his Beatrice. It’s no more than that. It will pass.’

‘I don’t think you’re right. He looks at you in a hungry way.’

‘You fanciful goose. If I was a gambling woman I’d bet you ten guineas we would not see him again after the Season’s over. Thus it goes.’ Her voice was subdued. She gazed back at her reflection, her artificially pale face making her eyes seem all the larger and more striking. ‘We have fifteen minutes. Can you hear my lines in that difficult Scene V? And where is my lyre?’

* * *

Angelica was relieved to be back in the dressing room once more. The crowd had been as boisterous as usual but were mostly on Ophelia’s side. Knowing the play well, they shouted advice and encouragement, and abused Hamlet in a good-natured way for his crueller jibes. Her death scene never failed to quell their noise and the drowning scene on stage always shocked, as it did Angelica, sinking into the chill water.

With Mary’s help she was quick to clamber out of her cold wet clothes and into a dressing gown, shivering while her maid dried her hair with a towel. Mary had already timed her dash across the Piazza to Mistress Pastow’s tavern to collect the nightly cup of hot chocolate to restore and warm her mistress. She put the bowl into her cold hands.

‘Oh Mary, thank you. This is the thing.’

‘How was the audience tonight, Miss Angelica?’

‘Not so bad. And very affected by my last scenes. I’m tired and yet we have this party to attend.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘Can we be ready to leave as soon as Lord Latimer arrives?’

Mary had already hung up the dripping chemise to dry and returned the heavy gown, corset and wig to their frames for tomorrow’s dressing. She handed her mistress her under-chemise, stockings, stays and then helped lace them up. Angelica slipped quickly into her evening dress and pulled on her long satin gloves as Mary piled her still-damp hair into an unconventional but fetching style of burnished gold curls. Both women put on their pelisses and Mary picked up a small portmanteau.

By the external door they found a large, belligerent-looking man with a broken nose and a jaw like a gammon. ‘Oh, Mr Brunner, I’m so pleased you’re early. I’ve promised a friend I would go with him for a short while to a party in Lady Marwood’s house in Leicester Square.’ Angelica tucked her hand into the pugilist’s meaty arm and his other hand took the portmanteau from Mary. Usually it was he who escorted them on fine nights for the twenty minutes’ walk to her mother’s house in Berkeley Square, but tonight their destination was just a few minutes’ stroll away. They heard a shout and turned to see Lord Latimer and Dante Locke dashing up the road behind them. ‘Miss Leigh, another performance to touch the heart.’ The young lord grasped her free hand and brought it to his lips.

Angelica felt Brunner stiffen beside her, his protective hackles up. She disentangled her arm and turned to greet the young men. ‘Lord Latimer, this is Mr Brunner, my walking companion. Mr Brunner, Lord Latimer and his friend, Mr Locke.’ All three men bowed. Angelica continued, ‘I’ve told Mr Brunner I’m accompanying you to a party. Just for a short while. It’s on our way home anyway.’ The men bowed again and all five of them set off into the noisy night, pressing through the evening crowds that milled around the alehouses, brothels and gambling hells of Covent Garden.