Perdita: the life of Mary Robinson Paula Byrne HarperCollins, 477pp, £20 ISBN 0007164602

No, no. Not that Mary Robinson. This one lived roughly 200 years earlier than the former Irish president and was a high-class tart. And successful author. And remarkable woman, though for most of her life she was no lady.

We have met her before. She appears, briefly, in Amanda Foreman's Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, the book that started the vogue for "tart-hist" (that's the history of posh tarts to you). She flitted through Katie Hickman's Courtesans and featured in Anna Clark's Scandal. She popularised see-through muslin dresses and necklines cut so low that the breasts were on display. Indeed, cartoons of Robinson show her mostly with her skirt up, her bosoms out, and having a rare old time, usually with the Prince of Wales or Charles James Fox, or some other admirer.

In the days when "rake" and "womaniser" were regarded as natural epithets for any man about town, Robinson was kept busy. In return, she obtained a bond of £20,000 from the future George IV (equivalent to nearly £1m today), jewels, carriages, a house in Berkeley Square and Parisian fashions that dazzled society. George Romney, Thomas Gainsborough and Joshua Reynolds painted her portrait for free. Newspapers and scandal sheets reported her every move; ladies of the town rushed to ape her manners and her style.

The daughter of a failed businessman and the dupe of a lying hound of a husband, Robinson supported her family by going on the stage, aged 14, as a protegee of David Garrick. She must have been gorgeous, especially with her legs on show in the breeches parts so common in Shakespeare. Critics recognised her outstanding beauty, but also praised her acting ability in a number of roles. In 1779, the teenage Prince of Wales went to Drury Lane to see Garrick's adaptation of The Winter's Tale, and was smitten. She was the first of his many mistresses. His lovesick letters, signed "Florizel", named her as "Perdita" for life. They also provided her with ample opportunity for blackmail.

Then, as now, more sober voices were raised. A letter signed "Lover of Virtue" complained of the Morning Herald that

whole columns of it are filled with Mrs Robinson's green carriage. It is of little

consequence to the public whether [she]

drives four ponies or two coach-horses;

whether she paints her neck or her cheeks; whether she sports a phaeton or rides in a dung-cart; whether she is accompanied by a peer or a pimp . . .

The press invented euphemisms: Robinson and her cronies were the Cyprian Corps (Venus, goddess of love, was said to hail from Cyprus), or the frail sisterhood, the vestals "and 20 other pretty names".

The prince soon tired of her, but was replaced by "Butcher Tarleton" (who gave the Redcoat army a bloody reputation in America) and by Fox, who switched to her rival Mrs Armistead - his "dearest Liz" - whom he later married. Robinson, by now pregnant by the absconding Tarleton and short of funds, raced off to Brighton to pursue him to France. But she never arrived. At some point during the coach ride, she lost the baby and was stricken with what seems to have been rheumatic fever. She was never again able to walk properly. No more was she a fabulous actress and courtesan.

The rest of her life, until her death at the age of 43, is to some extent an anti-climax, and she must have felt it as such. She published poetry, much of it under the influence of laudanum and Coleridge. But in 1792 came her first novel, Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity. A Gothic romance, it contained thinly veiled references to the sexual predilections of the prince, and was a literary sensation. Mrs Robinson was off again.

Paula Byrne appears to have read everything written about or by Robinson, and analyses each paragraph at inordinate length, lifting the literary veils and showing who is who - not difficult, as her subject's outpourings were largely autobiographical. Heaven help anyone who, 200 years from now, tries it with my stuff. If Robinson was as intelligent as Byrne claims, she would be hugely amused at such industry, and might even feel it her due; but 430 pages is a great deal for someone whose main claim to fame - that she gave pleasure to famous men - was so fleeting.

Only in the 1990s was Robinson rediscovered by the feminists, who were trying to rewrite the history of Romantic literature, highlighting those female authors whom patriarchal history had airbrushed out. Yet given a choice between the working girl and the bluestocking, I'd far rather have the former. A feminist icon Robinson cannot be, and her poetry has deservedly bitten the dust. But her story - particularly the early, dazzling part - makes highly enjoyable entertainment for us today.

Edwina Currie's Diaries 1987-1992 are published by Time Warner Paperbacks

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