Page 7

‘Yes, Miss Angelica. Ye were just a sprite when yer Mama moved into Berkeley Square. We helped each other out.’

Dante Locke had been quiet and pensive and when he spoke everyone turned to listen.

‘The exulting sense – the pulse’s maddening play

That thrills the wanderer of the trackless way?

That for itself can woo the approaching fight

And turn what some deem danger to delight.’

Lord Latimer clapped him on the back. ‘Damned good. One of yours?’

Mr Locke looked aghast. ‘No, no! It’s our own poetic Lord Byron, been reading The Corsair.’

‘Well, it’s as good as anything I’ve heard of yours, Dante,’ Lord Latimer said generously. ‘And truth indeed that a good fight turns danger to delight. What think you, Brunner?’ He was in a fine mood and glanced across at Mr Brunner with a sense of the comradeship of the ring.

Angelica took Mr Locke’s arm and he looked into her eyes with a smile. ‘It’s said in Persia that a beautiful face is balm for wounded hearts and the key to locked doors.’

Angelica chuckled. ‘That indeed is a nice thought, but not all doors, Mr Locke, I assure you.’ In the dim light her eyes gleamed.

Lord Latimer had not forgotten Mr Brunner’s words and the thought he had known Angelica as a child made him curious. ‘What was Miss Leigh like when you first met her?’

‘A fairy with a halo of golden hair.’

‘Tush! Mr Brunner. I was tougher than I looked. I had learned young how to care for myself.’

‘Miss Angelica, yer safety is my first care. Be no better than an unhanged blackguard if anything should befall ye.’ He spoke these words with so much force, Angelica peered into his face with some concern.

She said reassuringly, ‘I promise I’ll not give you cause for anxiety, Mr Brunner. Your care is much appreciated.’ They arrived at number seven, where she and her mother lived under the protection of Mr Breville, a big corner house that dominated Berkeley Square. Angelica turned to say farewell to the young friends. ‘Well, thanks to you, I’ve had enough excitement to last me a month.’ She laughed.

‘Good night, Miss Leigh, Mary. And Mr Brunner too.’ Lord Latimer bowed. ‘For us, the night is still young.’ They waved as they retraced their steps in the direction of St James’s.

As Angelica entered the house she smiled at Martin, the butler who had waited up to let them in. ‘Huzza! Mr Brunner, our Perseus has brought beautiful Andromeda safely home.’ A retired actor, Martin had been reluctant to relinquish his sooty eye make-up and rouge and managed the household with the informal flamboyance of the theatre.

‘Thank you, Martin. He is indeed a hero. Is Mama still up?’

‘The beauteous lady of the house retired an hour ago.’ With a dramatic flourish, he flung his arm towards the staircase. Bidding goodnight to Mary and Mr Brunner, Angelica walked up the stairs. Tiredness overcame her. The unexpected detour down the street where she and her mother once lived had stirred thoughts on which she did not care to dwell and she longed for bed. As she reached her door she heard Amabel Leigh’s lilting voice from across the landing. ‘Angel dearest, come in.’

She knocked on the door and entered to find her mother resplendent in lemon satin, sitting up amongst the banked linen pillows in her great four-poster bed. Her face was still pretty, her cheeks pink and shiny, her fair hair rolled in curling papers; Angelica knew she could not be expecting a visit that night from Mr Breville. Her mother patted the bed in invitation, then noticed her daughter was wearing an evening dress. ‘Angelica, where have you been? And at this hour too?’ She peered at her face with suspicion.

Angelica sighed. ‘Oh, Mama, there’s too much to tell you. And to ask. But I’m dog-tired. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She leant over and kissed her mother’s soft scented cheek and headed for the door before she could be recalled to explain herself.

Amabel Leigh’s face fell in disappointment, but she acquiesced and waved from the bed. ‘Sleep away all fatigue and sorrows, my darling.’

2

PRIDE COMES CALLING

Ivor Asprey was at breakfast, discussing the day’s Parliamentary work with Nicholas Digby. The room was at the back of the house overlooking the mews and painted a sea-green, the shadows from the beech tree in the garden flickering on the wall and across the oval table laden with sweet pastries, a pot of coffee and a jug of ale. In the centre was a baked gammon and a large loaf of bread. Both men were plainly dressed in dark navy coats, but Mr Asprey’s had a certain style to the immaculate cut and a lustre to the cloth that revealed its expensive provenance from one of the leading tailors of the day. Papers requiring signatures were arrayed on the table as Mr Digby poured out another cup of coffee for his employer. Just as they bent their heads, intent on business, there was a giggle at the door and Elinor skipped into the room.

‘Oh, Papa! I’m so glad you’re still here.’ She danced up to him, ignoring his forbidding look, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Good morning, Mr Digby,’ she said impishly and helped herself to a currant bun.

‘Good morning, Elinor. When do your lessons start?’ Her father gazed at her with a speculative expression.

‘You know they don’t start until nine. I still have ten minutes with you before you go.’ She sat down beside him and slipped her arm through his. Nicholas Digby watched this affectionate gesture with a smile. He had been in the Asprey household for the last five years and had seen this motherless child grow up from the age of six, remarkably sunny in nature and unconcerned with her father’s austere moods which could quell the spirits of grown men. He put much of the credit at the door of the girl’s governess, Miss Stafford, whom he considered to have brought intellectual rigour and a maternal sensibility to her job of educating Elinor Asprey.

His employer shifted in his chair and, turning to his daughter, said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘Well, Mr Digby and I have business to transact before I make my way to Westminster, you know.’