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Alick was rarely riled but he had had enough of this version of their story.

Colour flamed in his cheeks and he said, ‘Rav! Stop this romance. You know this is not how it was. We all loved Corinna, but you had no thought of her as your wife until I asked her to marry me. Your tale of thwarted love is an excuse for continued dalliances and lack of resolve.’ He slammed his hand against the wall to relieve his frustration.

Ferdinand Shilton did not care for raised voices and took Alick’s arm in a firm grasp.

‘Calm down, Al. We all know that you won Corinna’s love when you played Sir Galahad, protecting her from that carter’s assault.

None of us stood a chance after that.’ He still had hold of his friend’s arm as he looked across at Lord Purfoy and continued, ‘So, if not Corinna, who should Rav marry then?’

Alick’s good humour had returned. ‘Why, Miss Gray, of course.’

There was a stunned silence in the room as Lord Purfoy strode to the window, his back turned resolutely against his friends.

Alick’s voice softened. ‘Look at him. He’s a wreck of a man. In her company he became almost human.’

His lordship whirled round, his face haughty, eyes blazing.

‘What do you know of the anguish of loving someone you cannot trust? You have given your heart to a woman who’s as honourable as a man.

Miss Gray showed no such honour. Without a thought she betrayed me on a whim!

How can I ever trust her with my love, my life? ’

Ferdy Shilton said with a sly smile, ‘The clubs are abuzz with your reckless play the other night, staking your horses to win the Bathwick estate off Davenport. Risking your prancers, Rav! Nothing’s worth such a loss. Why risk so much, except for love of the chit?’

Without a word Lord Purfoy turned on his heel and swept out of the room. Ferdy Shilton and Alick looked at each other in silence as they heard the front door slam shut behind him.

* * *

Lord Purfoy’s spirit was so agitated he needed some remedy for a state of mind he abhorred.

He could either return to his mansion next door to drink, or go to his club to play hazard, lose money and drink.

Then the thought came to him how good it was for him to exhaust himself with hard physical activity; he turned and walked rapidly east down Brook Street towards Bond Street.

The best thing would be to spar in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing establishment or, if that was too busy, then to fence with the fencing masters in the academy next door.

As usual Jackson’s had a throng of fashionable young noblemen round its door.

They hailed Lord Purfoy and parted to let him through.

As he entered the building, Lord Purfoy was pleased to see the great man in attendance.

Gentleman Jackson was stripped to the waist, his magnificent physique glistening with sweat as he sparred with a portly young baronet, Sir Tufton Warren, who was lurching rather leadenly round the ring.

Both men’s hands were muffled with linen bandages to protect the noble flesh and knuckles from more brutal contact.

When he saw Raven Purfoy, Mr Jackson lifted a beefy arm in salutation.

‘How goes, my lord?’ Purfoy nodded in greeting and walked through to the changing room to strip off his coat, cravat, shirt and boots, until he too was naked to the waist and in his stockinged feet.

He emerged to have his hands bound by one of the young assistants and was shown to the chair by the ringside, named Lord Byron’s Seat now that the noble poet and aficionado of the manly art of boxing had left for Italy.

When Mr Jackson eventually ushered the gasping, red-faced Sir Tufton to the bar, Raven Purfoy stood up to greet the Prince of the Ring.

They touched fists and stood together, talking, drawing all eyes.

Remarkably well-matched physically, each was narrow-hipped with long athletic legs and an impressively broad set of shoulders from which the power of their right and left hooks derived.

‘How do, my lord? You ready for a bout?’

As they began to spar, other men collected ringside in twos and threes to watch and applaud any particularly good moves.

These were two men in the peak of fitness, their light-footed muscularity clear for all to see.

Occasional cheers and a few claps arose from the sidelines as spectators appreciated the grace of the dance, followed by the lightning strikes of jabbing, parrying punches, the ducking and weaving.

After half an hour of intense activity in the ring, both men held up each other’s right arms then stepped out to be offered towels by the assistants, and a tankard each of ale.

They unwound the linen mufflers from their knuckles and Gentleman Jackson said, ‘You know, my lord, if ever you needed a job as a prizefighter, I’d be honoured to add you to my stable.’

They both laughed, towelling the sweat from their chests and foreheads.

This was a rare accolade from the master of the pugilist art, but it was an offer both knew Lord Purfoy was unlikely to take up.

‘You’re in fine fettle yourself, sir.’ Purfoy stood back to survey Jackson, already in his late forties but still muscled and elegant in his proportions, so much so that he was the subject of many an heroic painting when artists needed to portray the perfect physical specimen of manhood.

‘It’s what the love of a good woman can do. I recommend it, my lord.’

Lord Purfoy snorted. ‘Don’t you snare me too! My friends suggested the same thing this morning, but women and love just complicate things, don’t you think?’

Jackson’s meaty paw came down on his shoulder like a hammer blow as the pugilist chuckled.

‘Sure they do. But the rewards are worth every penny of pain. ’Tis the same with boxing, my lord, exertion and pain promise the pleasure.

And how sweet that is.’ He kissed his fingertips and raised them to the boxing gods above.

‘Each to his own, Jackson. I’ll have to believe you, but do not intend to find out. I’ll see you back here next week.’

Fully dressed and stepping back onto the street, Raven Purfoy felt his mind clarified and his spirit consoled.

As he walked, he planned how he could regain control of his life.

In a fit of unusual recklessness, he had won back Miss Gray’s Bathwick inheritance and at least could now present her with it, thus quietening his conscience.

Then to forget her and batten down his heart again; in this way he would have done more than his duty by her.

* * *

The crowds at Astley’s Amphitheatre were known for their boisterous good humour.

Much ale was drunk, and even the young noblemen, out for an evening’s entertainment away from their clubs in St James’s, or escaping the Season’s soirées and balls to carouse in the theatre’s boxes, were rowdy and drunk.

Ordinary Londoners had congregated in an exuberant mass in the pit and upper terraces, intent on a good time for not much expense, with their picnics and cheap alcohol to eat and drink throughout the show.

Into this chaotic melee of shouts, jostling and laughter, Marina Fairley led her mother who was accompanying her as chaperone.

She was excited to see her sister again, particularly performing on horseback, and she pushed through the crowd to find their box.

It was with some dismay she realised they were sharing the space with a crowd of young men, already half-cut before the performance had even begun.

‘Mama, here’s a seat by the door. Pay them no mind. ’

Mrs Fairley looked with some alarm at these bleary-eyed youths who, from their bluster, seemed just down from Oxford determined on merriment, and finding it amusing to spill the dregs of their tankards over the common crowd below.

Marina Fairley leaned across to say to her mother, in hope rather than expectation, ‘Everyone will calm down once the show begins.’ One of the young men had brought a bag of rock cakes and was lobbing them randomly into the pit, hitting people on the head or shoulder, occasionally having them lobbed back accompanied by swearing threats.

A more responsible youth in their party said sharply, ‘Say, Tufton, take care, you’ll start a riot!’

The red-faced young baronet laughed in a way that made Marina certain he was full of liquor, then slurring his words he said, ‘That would liven things up a bit. Like a chance to practice my right hook. Just come from Jackson’s Academy this afternoon.’ He was boastful and belligerent.

Across the roiling crowd came the clarion of a hunting horn as the horses entered the ring.

Rather than silencing the audience, this merely increased the cheering and catcalls, particularly when the evening’s star, Eliza as Clorinda the Winged Venus, entered standing on the back of her magnificent black horse.

‘Look, Mama, that’s Miss Gray!’

‘Looks very dangerous, my dear. She hasn’t got many clothes on!

Thank goodness she’s masked so no one will recognise her.

’ Both women gazed in some wonder at Eliza, dressed in blue silk pantaloons and an embroidered green jacket, tightly braided across her chest, a jewelled mask on her face.

Small silver wings were attached at her shoulders from which ribbons of diaphanous blue silk fluttered as she rode.

‘She couldn’t manage in long skirts, Mama. I think she looks magnificent and so graceful.’

‘And she and the horse have wings!’

The young men were leaning out of their box to see better.

Sir Tufton Warren turned to his companions to say in an over-loud voice, ‘It’s the only place outside a bordello or a museum of classical statues where you can actually see what a woman looks like.

’ He leered and looked across at Miss Fairley who wished she were a man and could wipe that salacious look off his face.