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In this area round the theatre, Angelica was always recognised, despite her distinctive hair being twisted up into a loose chignon and covered by the hood on her cloak. She was addressed in a familiar manner by people who considered her one of their own, even though her talent and beauty had elevated her to fame and a little fortune.

‘Angelly, give us a kiss, wee lass,’ was a common cry from men and women alike. ‘Oh, chick-a-biddy, ye make us proud, our angel.’ She nodded and smiled and let them grasp her hand in passing. Lord Latimer looked startled at just how lacking in deference they were in their address, but Angelica seemed completely at ease, welcoming their good wishes. How shocked his mother would be to see this scene. He looked at the young actress with new interest and some concern.

She felt she should explain. ‘I’ve grown up amongst these people. I have known what it’s like to live precariously.’ This information, so casually imparted, would only have increased the Duchess’s disdain.

They entered the wide spaces of Leicester Square with its shops and mansions and were soon mounting the steps of a grand house, its windows ablaze with light. The sound of an orchestra drifted out onto the street. Carriages were still arriving, disgorging brightly plumed guests. Lord Latimer had leaned in to murmur in Angelica’s ear, ‘At the height of the Season, fashionables are like migrating birds, fluttering in one evening from soirée, to grand dinner, to a ball, as the whim takes them.’

They were met by a very smart butler, fully braided, bowing low in greeting before taking the men’s top coats and Angelica’s pelisse. Mary and Mr Brunner had already descended the basement steps at the front leading to the kitchens to join the other servants with their own drinks and merriment below stairs.

Divested of her outer garment, Lord Latimer saw Angelica for the first time in evening dress and his eyes widened in amazement. ‘Oh!’ It was more an intake of breath. ‘Miss Leigh, that dress so becomes you.’ At last he had managed to persuade her to accompany him to a party and could hardly believe this prize would be his for an hour.

‘I thank you, my lord. I hope it not improper that you appear so publicly in my company. Or improper that I’m here without my mama as chaperone.’

‘Never fear. My mama and her friends do not move in Lady Marwood’s circles. She’s not quite of the beau monde, you see. She welcomes a more raffish and amusing crowd.’ They were walking up the thronged stairs, Angelica between the two handsome young men, and many eyes were drawn their way. The young actress was known across all social strata from the costermonger in the market to the Prince Regent and his cronies. Wherever she went, she cut a striking figure and seeing her in the company of someone of such noble family as Lord Latimer fuelled speculation and gossip about the exact nature of her relationship with one of the most eligible young men about Town.

When they reached the ballroom, the throng parted to let them pass into a great gold-ceilinged room with four full-length windows giving views of the shadowy garden of Leicester Square. The light from thousands of candles in the chandeliers was reflected many times in the tall rococo looking-glasses filling the spaces between the windows and lining the opposite wall. The faces and dresses of the guests were reflected in brilliant fragments, gleaming in the soft light. Angelica gasped with the ever-shifting beauty of the scene as dancers swirled around the room and people preened, catching sight of their gorgeous reflections in the glass.

It was a more colourful and exuberant throng than was usually the case at society balls, for Lady Marwood’s liberal social policy allowed men to bring their mistresses and more informal paramours to the party and everything was made merrier with a great deal of alcohol and laughter. The orchestra was playing a lively reel and Angelica forgot her tiredness and longed to dance. A small middle-aged woman dressed in gold and wearing a plumed turban, its feather almost as tall as herself, dashed to Lord Latimer’s side. ‘My lord, what an honour.’ She took his hand.

‘Lady Marwood, the honour is mine.’ He bowed. ‘May I introduce to you Miss Leigh and Mr Locke?’ Angelica found herself being scrutinised by the wisest pair of dark eyes, sparkling with intelligence.

Their hostess took her hand. ‘Miss Leigh, I am honoured too to welcome the finest Ophelia I have seen.’

Angelica looked into the still charming face, so lively with sympathy and experience and recognised a fellow outsider making her way in the world. ‘I am delighted to be able to dance in your beautiful ballroom, surely one of the loveliest in London?’

Dante Locke seemed to be as struck as Angelica by this bird-like woman who had alighted in their midst and grasped his hand to pass it to Angelica. ‘Young man, I am loath to feed the gossips further about this young beauty. Would you partner her for her first dance?’ Dante Locke had long professed not to dance. What poetic young man who wished to be taken seriously in his melancholic reveries could ever be seen to caper and laugh like jokers and fools? But now in thrall to their hostess’s energetic force, who could demur? With grace he accepted defeat, bowed and held out his hand to lead Angelica onto the floor.

She was naturally light and graceful on her feet and had been well taught and he accomplished in all the social graces. They managed to join a set seamlessly, slipping into the figures of eight, weaving out and together and then looping round, with a clap and a skip, to repeat the geometry again. It was great fun and Angelica’s face was shining with delight. She was aware of Lord Latimer lounging against a sofa watching them, a peculiar expression in his eyes.

‘I thought poets don’t dance? Yet you dance so well, Mr Locke.’ Angelica could manage only a few words as they came together before parting again.

‘I don’t usually.’ His dark moodiness lightened with the ghost of a smile. ‘But it takes a more determined man than myself to resist your charms and Lady Marwood’s force of will.’

She laughed as the reel separated them again. When their hands met he continued, ‘I learnt in Venice where my mamma has a palazzo. We go in the winter.’

‘Where is your family in the summer?’

‘For the Season, we come to Town. To Duke Street.’ So their conversation continued in fragments. When he wasn’t smouldering in poetic distraction, Dante Locke had an attractive, mobile face with a mouth that curled with humour on the occasions he forgot to look disconsolate.

‘And you’ve known Lord Latimer since schooldays?’ she asked him as they came together again.

‘Yes. He was one of the popular boys who protected me from the bullies. Our friendship was forged in blood.’ He tossed this last sentence over his shoulder with dramatic emphasis, as the dance parted them again. Too soon for Angelica, the music stopped and the dancing couples drifted off to the refreshments on offer in the adjoining room.

Before Angelica could join the crowd, Charles Latimer grasped her hand and said with urgent fervour, ‘Miss Leigh, I insist on the next dance.’

She bowed her head in acceptance. ‘Of course. I shall look forward to it.’ Having been so quick to dismiss his romantic interest in her she was beginning to wonder if he was unlike all the other young men who fancied themselves in love after the barest acquaintance. His animal spirits aroused in her an occasional and disconcerting thrill.

In the corner of her eye she saw the dark figure of Cato Rackham approaching and held her breath. He was a habitué of the theatre and had a carnivorous look about him; her instinct in his presence was to become as still as a vole in the gaze of a hawk.

‘My dear, what a pleasant surprise.’ He bowed over her hand. ‘And Lord Latimer, too. Doubly delightful,’ he drawled, showing his teeth more in a grimace than a smile.

The young lord looked coldly at this interloper and gave him a brusque nod in greeting. ‘Lord Rackham, sir,’ he said as he turned to take Angelica’s arm.

‘Not too fast, my dear. May I request you as my partner for a dance?’

Angelica squeezed Charles Latimer’s arm in a mild panic. The previous week, Lord Rackham had arrived uninvited in her dressing room and she sensed he was a man who liked to hunt. She knew, however, she could not publicly refuse him. ‘I am promised for the next two dances, my lord. I fear I will have to leave soon after that.’ Her words drifted off lamely.

‘I’m sure you could manage one dance before fleeing like Cinderella at midnight.’ He gave her a mirthless smile. A few years ago, Cinderella had been a sensation at her theatre and his allusion to the gulf of social difference between the servant girl and the prince was not lost on her. Colour rose in her cheeks and she was grateful when the orchestra struck up again and Lord Latimer swept her off to the dance floor.