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With some trepidation, Angelica recognised the strains of a waltz. This was a new continental dance that shocked the old but was embraced with delight by exuberant youth. Without saying a word, Lord Latimer encircled her waist and pulled her close. Taken by surprise, she gasped. She had only danced the waltz with her dancing master and her mother who had learned it from a Viennese gold trader. With them as partners it had been a practical enterprise without any sensual awareness of her own body and that of the person with whom she danced. She looked up into Lord Latimer’s eyes and realised how close their faces were, aware of his breath on her cheek, and her heart missed a beat.

‘My lord, I haven’t danced so in public before. I hope I don’t disgrace you.’

‘You could never do that, Miss Leigh.’ He seemed to be inhaling her scent, and continued with eyes half-closed, ‘I’m afraid this is the only way I can take you in my arms without creating a scandal. I’ve wanted to hold you from the moment I first saw you on stage as Ophelia.’

Angelica shivered. The excitement was unexpected and made all the more heady by being in the arms of a young man who could dance. So different from the distance and formality of the country dances and reels, this required a physical closeness that was thrilling. They were meant to dance with air between them, except for any fast turn, but she felt his hand insistent on her back, his free hand entwined with hers. He held her close, hip to hip, with enough contact for her to be acutely aware of the movement of his muscle and the hard contours of his body. So intimate was the embrace, Angelica felt quite breathless, amazed that such liberty was permitted in public.

Lord Latimer smiled down at her, a dreamy expression in his eyes. ‘I feel I was only half awake in the years before I met you. Now everything is sensation and possibility. I don’t think I can properly exist without you, Miss Leigh.’ The last words were said in a rush that seemed to surprise him as much as they did her. The music had come to an end but he did not release her; he stood at the edge of the ballroom floor with Angelica still in his arms.

‘My lord, take care to allay the worst of tittle-tattle.’

Lord Latimer released his hold on her and whispered fiercely, ‘The devil take ’em! I don’t give a tinker’s curse what anyone thinks. What my virago-mother thinks.’

Dante Locke had joined them and heard the last of the conversation. ‘Oh Charlie, you’re such a contrary son, you know. The Duchess ain’t so bad. You should meet my mother. Venetian mammas are proud and fierce as panthers. There’s no way she’d approve marriage for me to any woman less immaculate than the Virgin Mary.’

Angelica had forgotten her tiredness in the excitement of the dance but now a wave of fatigue overcame her. ‘Gentlemen, I fear I must take my leave. I’m suddenly in need of sleep. But I don’t want to spoil your night.’

The young men both decided to leave with her. ‘Without you, there’s no reason to stay. We’ll accompany you home and then go on to our club at St James’s.’

There were so many guests in constant flux, leaving and new ones arriving, that Angelica and the young men thought they could slip away unnoticed but Lady Marwood, her eyes bright as a robin’s, was suddenly at their elbow. ‘My dears, are you leaving so soon?’

Lord Latimer took her hand. ‘The orchestra is wonderful, but Miss Leigh is fatigued after this evening’s performance. She needs to rest and we will escort her home.’

Angelica took her other hand. ‘Lady Marwood, thank you for your hospitality.’

Their hostess smiled. ‘It’s always a treat to welcome youth and beauty to the rout. Join us next time. I try to have a monthly ball during the Season.’ Then she was gone, called away by two young beauties who had arrived on the arm of a disreputable-looking man who appeared to know her.

Angelica saw the sleek head of Lord Rackham bent over another young woman’s hand and was relieved to evade his attentions. They went to ask the butler to call Brunner and Mary from the servants’ party and were soon out in the cold air. Mr Brunner gazed up to the dark sky and said, ‘It’s a fine night and we’re only about fifteen minutes from Berkeley Square, it’s probably quicker to walk than wait to hail a Hackney.’ Everyone agreed and they set off west towards Piccadilly.

They walked in silence. Then in Prince’s Street their passage was blocked where a roof had collapsed into the road and Brunner led them on a detour into Rupert Street. They walked past the shuttered milliners and drapers’ shops and the small enclave of French goldsmiths. Angelica felt her pulse quicken. ‘My mother used to work for a gold trader here.’ She did not expect to be so immediately transported back to her earliest memories when she was six years old and the street was her playground.

She pointed to a ramshackle building and said in a small voice, ‘Mama and I used to live here.’

‘Well, ye be in a better place now, thank the Lord.’ Brunner hooked her arm tighter into his.

Dante Locke paused, seemingly rapt in thought. ‘A shining flame arose from these ashes.’

For Angelica, the neighbourhood aroused such powerful memories, long suppressed, and in a moment of insight she realised her mother’s harshness with her had come from a determination to ensure a better life for her daughter. Almost to herself she said, ‘How I longed for a father to whisk me away to some warm house with a bubbling pot on the range.’

Lord Latimer heard her words and took her other arm in sympathy. ‘You have that now?’ he asked, peering at her face in the gloomy light.

Angelica nodded. ‘And I even have father figures, in Mr Brunner and his employer, Mr Breville.’

As they walked down the street, she gazed with sadness at the shuttered shop fronts and the accumulated rubbish through which they picked their way. The jeweller and most of the goldsmiths had left, the milliners were now purveyors of cheap bonnets and the draper’s shop had become a drinking den and worse. Outside the Blue Posts tavern there was a hubbub and knots of pleasure-seekers and sots had spilled into the street, arguing loudly and flashing their fists. When Mr Brunner passed, the ex-pugilist warned fiercely, ‘Step aside, gentlemen!’ Even through the haze of alcohol he was recognised by his distinctive bulk and menacing expression as an ex-boxer, and most fell back in respect.

Lord Latimer took her arm. ‘You should not be exposed to such dangers, Miss Leigh.’ They all walked briskly towards the greater safety of Piccadilly with its flow of carriages, the pavements full of people on their way to or from their evening’s entertainment.

Brunner agreed. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Leigh we’ll use the carriage from now on.’

‘But on a fine night I enjoy the walk. It helps me leave Ophelia at the theatre, and I’m never afraid when I’m escorted by you, Mr Brunner.’ Angelica gazed up into his large, pugnacious face. ‘And you too, Lord Latimer,’ she added with a cheeky tilt of her head. ‘I like London at night. I’ve known it all my life.’

‘But there are hell-hatched things no young lady should see or hear.’ Mr Brunner’s face was grim and Angelica knew his abject childhood in the cotton mills of Manchester had left him with nightmare images of poverty and degradation. She squeezed his arm in recognition of his care.

‘I warrant you’re a handy practitioner of the art, Mr Brunner.’ Lord Latimer cocked his head.

‘Came to London as a boy; brawn and dancin’ feet helped in the ring.’

‘Then you met Mr Breville in the Daffy Club and we all were lucky that day.’ Angelica’s voice was warm with the memory.