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Isobel Fitzjames was naturally less expressive but even she let out a little cry of delight at the sight of Angelica in her Parisian gown of silvery, starry gauze over smoky blue satin, the magnificent necklace sparkling at her throat, and the Venetian mask a work of art in itself. Angelica caught sight of herself in the vast rococo looking-glass that lined one wall of the hall and she could hardly believe the image of romance and seduction that confronted her. Most gratifying of all, she knew that no one would recognise her for the flame-haired actress who, as Ophelia, had taken the theatre world by storm. She glanced around the crowd, hoping to see Lord Latimer or Dante Locke, and instead noticed the formidable Duchess of Arlington standing at the entrance to the ballroom, greeting her guests. She realised she had first to run that particular gauntlet.

The young women moved forward with the swell of the crowd and as they approached their hostess they saw she had not deigned to dress up or don a mask but was wearing a cherry-red evening dress, with the famous Arlington ruby necklace nestling in her ample décolletage. Angelica felt her anxiety rise. She extracted her fan from her reticule as extra protection and, as she was introduced as the Fairy Queen and her companion as Columbine, she fluttered it, trusting in its power of distraction. Both young women bowed in greeting while Lady Arlington’s fierce blue eyes appraised them so intently Angelica feared her mask would melt away under that penetrating gaze.

With relief, Angelica moved into the magnificent ballroom and gasped in wonder. The vast ceiling was painted as an evening sky with a rosy sunset suffusing the clouds, fires burned in the five mighty grates and massed candles lit the kaleidoscopic throng of every kind of fantasy and extravagance. A nymph in a dress of silk leaves barely covering her body drifted past, hanging on the arm of a satyr, complete with horns and boots fashioned to look like cloven hooves. Angelica was disconcerted; everyone was disguised and masked and therefore unrecognisable but there was also a sinister sense that their very humanity had been subsumed by something more primitive.

She was longing for a familiar sight to settle her nerves when out of the throng emerged the tall shapely figure of a man she did recognise; Lord Latimer in breeches patterned in harlequin diamonds, his jacket close-fitted and a surprising yellow. His black mask could not obscure his unruly brown hair and glittering, mischievous eyes. Beside him his friend, Mr Locke, cut a differently striking aspect, dressed as he had promised in blue as a Pierrot, in so far as he had a blue floppy ruff, loose pantaloons under one of his tailor’s immaculate jackets created not in broadcloth but blue satin. This aberration of his craft, Angelica thought, may well have made the fastidious creator shudder.

So relieved was Angelica to see them she wanted to rush forward to grasp their arms but, aware of the proximity of the Duchess, restrained herself. Lord Latimer took Miss Fitzjames’s hand and bowed low while Dante Locke brought Angelica’s to his lips with an elegant turn of his wrist. The young women laid their gloved hands on the gentlemen’s proffered arms and walked with them to the furthest point of the ballroom.

Here, Lord Latimer turned to Angelica, his face flushed with excitement. ‘You are the belle of my ball. Elinor told me privately you would be and she was right. You look astonishing, Miss Leigh. Quite takes my breath away, I hardly feel worthy of you.’ Then he turned to her friend. ‘And you, my Columbine, how lucky any Harlequin would be to have you in his arms. I hope you will honour me with the first dance?’ The orchestra struck up. He smiled and said, ‘I have requested we have mostly quadrilles and waltzes, despite Mama’s objections, but it’s my ball and I’m tired of the reels and cotillions of her youth.’

They made up a set for the opening quadrille. There was excitement in the room as this was a new version of the cotillion of their parents’ day and most dancers in the room had been practising the intricate steps for the balls of the new Season. Angelica and Isobel Fitzjames stood opposite Lord Latimer and Dante Locke while two other couples joined them to make up the rectangle formation. The music started and, as they danced into the centre in pairs to twirl then exchange partners, Angelica found herself dancing opposite a young man dressed as Pan in a revealing pair of gold tights with golden wings on the temples of his mask.

When it came to the twirl, he slipped his arm insistently around her waist, pulling her closer to his body than propriety allowed. He swung her around and then released her rather late so she had to skip to her next position facing Lord Latimer to repeat the same movement, but in a more decorous way. The young Pan’s eyes were on Angelica throughout and it made her uneasy. When the music came to a flourishing halt the couples wandered over to an adjoining room where refreshments were available. Lord Latimer and Mr Locke went in search of ratafia and lemonade for the women, ale for themselves.

Angelica met Isobel Fitzjames’s eyes and they laughed. ‘This is the most beautiful ball I have ever been to,’ her friend was breathless.

Angelica’s enthusiasm was more guarded. ‘It’s only the second I’ve attended and it’s much grander than the first. I don’t know that I care for the fact everyone is anonymous, except to their intimates. It makes me nervous.’ The clandestine nature of her own presence added to her unease.

‘I know. I saw that young Pan paying you too much attention. Could he have recognised you?’ Isobel Fitzjames looked across at Angelica. ‘I thought it presumptuous of him. You look far too imperious and beautiful for any young whippersnapper to think he had a chance of intimacy.’

Angelica glanced at her, surprised at such emphatic talk. Perhaps her usual diffidence was retreating as she realised just what power she held in her hands, now she was independently wealthy and beholden to no one. The men returned with their drinks and Lord Latimer was congratulated on the excellence of the orchestra and the beauty of the house. ‘Ah, as you know, the house, sadly, is not mine. The Arlington pile is in the distant wilds of Derbyshire and is dark and ruinously ancient with none of the conveniences of Uncle Ivor’s luxurious lair.’

‘Is he here?’ Angelica heard herself ask the question that was on her mind but she had not meant to voice.

‘I think he’s working. Anyway, that reproachful puss who, dammit, is determined to become my aunt, thoroughly disapproves of such licentiousness.’ He then looked to where his mother was holding court at the far side of the room. Despite being such a stickler for propriety, the Duchess, with her weakness for the wild masquerade balls of her youth, had not needed too much persuasion to host this one. Lord Latimer took his friend’s arm. ‘Talking of a different kind of termagant, I have to pay respects to Mama and dance with her friend’s wall-eyed daughter. Come on, Dante, you can offer your respects to the Duchess and then we’re free for the night.’ They set off together. The harlequin lord said over his shoulder, ‘We’ll be back for the dance after that. Let’s hope it’s a waltz.’

At that moment a young man dressed as a hussar asked Isobel Fitzjames if she would join the reel that was about to start. She looked across at Angelica who smiled and said, ‘I’m happy to sit this one out.’ She turned her back on the merry throng of dancers and gazed out on the dark garden lit by flaming torches making little inroad into the inky night. Her thoughts were with her father, wondering if he was safe but also straying to the absent honourable Member of Parliament who unexpectedly had become the key to so much in her life.

Angelica felt a hand on her elbow. ‘Do I know you, oh beauteous queen?’ Startled, she turned. Already tense, she shuddered at finding the winged mask of Pan leaning in towards her face and could smell the ale heavy on his breath.

She pulled her arm away. ‘No, sir, you must be mistaken.’

‘Come now, madam, I know you’re Lady Fenton and we know each other very well indeed. Don’t trifle with me.’

Angelica recognised the name of a famous aristocratic coquette and she was suddenly angered at the presumption of the young man. She had suffered as an actress from just this kind of lèse-majesté from privileged young men who thought any woman should be grateful for their attentions. She whirled round to face him. ‘Sir, I am not Lady Fenton and, even should I be, I think she and I deserve more respect than you are currently displaying. You are a gentleman after all.’

He leaned closer and there was an air of menace in his stance. Angelica noticed his dark eyes were bloodshot and his hair more dishevelled than fashion dictated. She hoped he would just go away. He was obviously in his cups and with his face so close to hers he hissed, his noisome breath assaulting her with spittle, ‘You may not be Lady Fenton, but you are no better than that high-flyin’ harlot.’ He grasped her wrist. ‘Dressed like that you have little cause for complaint if you attract attention from a red-blooded blade like me. Flaunting your beauty comes at a price.’ He bent his head as if to kiss her and quick as a flash her other hand flew up to slap him. He blazed, ‘God damn you!’ and with that profanity turned and stalked off, a slightly ridiculous figure in his sagging gold tights.

Angelica was shaken by the encounter. She was reluctant to think that perhaps Lady Linus had a point about masquerades inviting licentious behaviour. She certainly had long thought that beauty was both a gift and a curse. She walked from the ballroom into the orangery where the scent of orange blossom was thrilling. Some of the foreboding she had felt dispersed in the scented air. Taking deep breaths restored her spirits.

She stretched up to touch a small orange hanging just beyond her fingertips and saw a hand from behind her reach up to pull the branch closer. She turned, her heart speeding. Was this another importuning young man? With a sob of relief she looked up into the face of Ivor Asprey. He was dressed in a dark coat but had changed his trousers for pale knee breeches in deference to the formality of the ball, and had donned a plain black mask, but his stature and intense blue eyes were unmistakeable to her. Excitement radiated outwards from her heart.

‘Oh, Mr Asprey! I’m so pleased to see you.’ She had this overwhelming desire to be enclosed in his arms but with more decorum grasped his hand.

‘I am gratified that my presence causes you such pleasure, Miss Leigh. I came especially to give you some news.’

‘Yes, yes! I’ve been on tenterhooks since leaving your office two days ago.’

‘This is a secret only you and I can know.’ He paused for the import to sink in. ‘I am pleased to tell you your father has safely disembarked in France.’ A sense of relief so overcame her she felt her knees buckle. He caught her by both elbows and led her to a bench. ‘Sit here and restore yourself. I know what a strain this must have been for you.’

‘Oh, I have been much concerned. And guilty that I have implicated you too in something so dangerous.’

Ivor Asprey sat beside her. ‘We will not speak of it again. I have many enemies in Parliament who are against my reforms and I do not want to give them any ammunition.’ He had crossed his legs and looked down at his dancing shoes. ‘But know this, Miss Leigh, I would do anything to help you and you are never to hesitate in coming to me should the occasion arise.’ He spoke in a low voice that was nevertheless emphatic with feeling.

Angelica looked at him, so upright and honourable and yet offering his help to her in any enterprise and she was pierced to the heart. In that moment she had the confirmation she’d sought; it was he who had risked his own reputation and fortune to gamble against Lord Fulsham, because she had asked him. It was he who had saved her father, because she had asked him. Gratitude and love washed over her in a wave that threatened to sink her. She put her gloved hand on his; they sat there saying nothing but feeling everything.

Angelica turned to him, wishing she could tear off their masks and see each other’s faces free of disguise. But she could not risk the exposure, for his sake and her own. Shyly she asked, ‘How did you recognise me? I thought I was proof against anyone’s detection.’