Winsor, Kathleen (12 page)

Bruce
finally turned back, spoke to the driver and got in, sitting down beside her as
the coach gave a jog and started to move. He took one of her hands in his.
"You've set the town by its ears. That was my Lord Buckhurst and he says
you're far more beautiful than Barbara Palmer."

"You
mean the King's mistress?"

"Yes.
How the devil do you manage to get all the current gossip?" He looked down
at her, amused as though she were a pretty doll or a plaything.

"The
dressmaker told me about her. Bruce—who were those two ladies? The ones in the
next box that waved to you?"

"Wives
of friends of mine. Why?"

She
looked down at her fan, frowning, counting the sticks. "Did you see how
they looked at me? Like this—" She pulled her face into a sudden grimace,
a perfect though somewhat exaggerated and malicious imitation of the stares
they had given her. "They think I'm a harlot—I know they do!"

Bruce
gave her a look of surprise and then, to her astonishment, threw back his head
and laughed.

"Well!"
she cried, offended. "What the devil is there to laugh at, pray?"

She
was beginning already to pick up some of his expressions, words and phrases
Matt Goodegroome would never have allowed even his sons to use. It seemed to
Amber that all fine persons swore and that it was a mark of good breeding.

"I'm
sorry, Amber. I wasn't laughing at you. But to tell you the truth I think they
glared at you for another reason—jealousy, no doubt. Certainly neither of them
has any reason to
have an ill opinion of another woman's character. Between 'em I think they've
laid with most of the men who went to France."

"But
you said they're married!"

"So
they are. If they weren't they might have been more discreet."

She
was relieved, but at the same time a quick suspicion entered her mind. Could
he
have been one of those men? But she promptly decided that if he had been he
would never have mentioned the matter at all—and she thrust that thought aside.
She began to feel happy again, and eager for the next adventure.

"Where
are we going now?"

"I
thought you might like to have supper at a tavern."

Back
in the City they stopped in New Street before a building which bore the sign of
a great golden eagle. When she stepped down Amber lifted her skirts high to
show her black lace garters, just as she had seen several ladies do outside the
theatre. Then, as they were about to go in the door, they heard a loud shout in
a familiar masculine voice.

"Hey!
Carlton!"

Curiously
they looked around. It was Almsbury, riding by in a hackney jammed with several
other men, and as the coach pulled up he jumped out, waved his companions
goodbye and came toward them at a run. He blinked his eyes twice as he saw
Amber and then swept off his hat in a deep bow.

"Holy
Christ, sweetheart! Damn me if you aren't as beautiful as a Venetian
whore!"

The
delightful smile froze on Amber's face.

Well!
So that was what
he
thought of her too! Her eyebrows drew together in a
furious scowl, but at a glance from Bruce the Earl hastened to repair his
breach. He shrugged his shoulders and made a comical face.

"Well—after
all, you know, Venetian prostitutes are the prettiest women in Europe. But
then, I suppose if you—"

He
paused, watching her with an ingratiating grin and Amber slowly raised her eyes
to his again. She could not resist his friendliness and all of a sudden she
smiled. He took her arm. "Lord, sweetheart, you know I wouldn't offend you
for anything on earth." The three of them went inside and, at Bruce's
request, were shown upstairs to a private room.

After
the men had ordered, the waiter brought them a small barrelful of oysters and
they began cracking them open, eating them raw with a sprinkle of salt and a
few drops of lemon juice, scattering the shells on the table and floor.
Almsbury predicted that oysters would become the staple food at Court and when
Amber looked puzzled Bruce told her what he meant. She laughed heartily,
thinking it a very good joke.

By
the time they had finished the oysters the rest of the meal appeared: a roast
duck stuffed with oysters and onions, fried artichoke bottoms, and a rich
cheesecake baked in a crust. After
that there was Burgundy for the two
men, white Rhenish for Amber, fruit, and some nuts to crack. For a long while
they sat at the table talking, all of them warm and well-fed and content, and
Amber quite forgot her earlier chagrin.

The
wine was stronger than the ale to which she was accustomed and after a couple
of glasses she became quiet and drowsy, and sat with her eyes half closed
listening to the men talk. A sense of lightness pervaded her, as though her
head had become detached and floated somewhere far above her. She watched Bruce
admiringly, every expression that crossed his face, every gesture of his hands.
And when he would turn to smile at her or, as he did once or twice, lean over
to brush his lips across her cheek, her happiness soared dizzily.

At
last she whispered in his ear and, when he answered, got up and crossed the
room to a small closet. While she was in there she heard a knock at the outer
door, another voice speaking, and then the sound of the door closing again.

When
she came out, Almsbury was sitting at the table alone, pouring himself another
glassful of wine. He glanced around over his shoulder. "He's been called
out on business but he'll be back in a moment. Come here where I can look at
you."

Ten
minutes or more dragged slowly by with Amber watching the door, looking up with
swift eager expectancy at each slight sound, nervous and unhappy. It seemed as
though he had been gone an hour when the waiter came in. He bowed to Almsbury.

"Sir,
his Lordship regrets that he has been called away on a matter of important
business, and asks that you do him the kindness of carrying madame to her
lodging."

Almsbury,
who had been watching Amber while the man delivered his message, nodded his
head. And now Amber looked at him with her face white, her eyes as hurt as if
she had been struck.

"Business,"
she repeated softly. "Where can he go on business at this hour?"

Almsbury
shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sweetheart. Here, have another
drink."

But
though Amber took the wineglass he proffered she merely sat and held it. For a
month and a half she had looked forward to this night—and now he must go off
somewhere on business. Every time she asked him where he had been or where he
was going it was always the same answer—"business." But why tonight?
Why this one night for which she had planned so long and from which she had
hoped so much? She felt tired and discouraged and hung listlessly in her chair,
scarcely speaking, so that after a few minutes Almsbury got up and suggested
that they go.

During
the ride back she did not trouble herself to make conversation with the Earl,
but when they reached the Royal Saracen she asked him if he would care to come
upstairs, half hoping that he would refuse. But he accepted readily and,
while she went
on ahead to take off her gown, stopped in the taproom for a couple of bottles
of sack. Coming out of the bedroom in a pair of clopping mules and a gold satin
dressing-gown—another recent acquirement—she found him stretched comfortably on
a cushion-piled settle before the fire. He gave a wave of his arm, signalling
her to come to him and, when she sat down beside him, took hold of one of her
hands, looked at it reflectively for a moment and then touched it to his lips.
Frowning, Amber stared off into space, scarcely conscious of him.

"Where
d'you think he went?" she asked at last.

Almsbury
shrugged, tilted the bottle again.

"What
the devil is this 'business' he's always about? Do
you
know what it
is?"

"Every
Royalist in England has business nowadays. One wants his property back. Another
wants a sinecure that'll pay a thousand a year for helping the King on and off
with his drawers. The galleries are full of 'em—country squires and old
soldiers and doting mamas who've heard the King has an eye for pretty women.
They all want something—including me. I want Almsbury House back again and my
lands in Herefordshire. His Majesty couldn't please all of us if he were King
Midas and high Jupiter rolled into one."

"What
does Bruce want? Carlton Hall?"

"No,
I don't think so. It was sold, not confiscated, and I don't believe they'll
give back property that was sold." He finished the bottle and leaned over
to pick up another one.

The
Earl could drink more with less effect to himself than any man she had ever
seen, and Bruce had told her that it was because he had lived so long in
taverns that his blood had turned to alcohol. She still was not sure whether he
had meant it as a joke or the solemn truth.

"I
don't see what he can want," she said. "As rich as
he
is."

"Rich?"
Alsmbury seemed surprised.

"Well—isn't
he?"

Amber
knew very little about money for she had never had in her possession more than
a few shillings at a time and could scarcely tell the value of one coin from
another. But it seemed to her that Lord Carlton must have fabulous wealth to
own a coach-and-four, to wear the clothes he did, to buy such wonderful things
for her.

"By
no means. His family sold everything they had to help the King and what they
didn't sell was taken from them in the decimations. That jewellery he found at
Carlton Hall was just about everything that was left. No—he's not rich. In
fact, he's damned near as poor as I am."

"But
what about the coach—and my clothes—"

"Oh.
Well—he has that much. A man who knows what he's about can sit down for a few
hours at cards or dice and come away several hundred pounds to the good."

"Cheating?"
She was rather shocked, almost inclined to think that Almsbury was lying.

But
he smiled. "Well, perhaps he plays a little upon advantage But then, we
all do. Of course some of us are clever at it and some not so clever— Bruce can
slur and knap with any man in Europe. He made his living for most of fifteen
years with a pair of dice and a pack of cards—and he lived a damned sight
better than most of us did. In fact, the other night I saw him win twenty-five
hundred in four hours at the Groom Porter's Lodge."

"Is
that what all this business is he goes upon—gambling?"

"Partly.
He needs money."

"Then
why doesn't he ask the King for it—since everyone else does?"

"My
dear, you don't know Bruce."

At
that moment she heard a coach come banging down the street and left him to rush
to the window—but to her disappointment it continued on by and rounded the next
corner. She stayed there, looking out into the darkness, for there were no
street lights of any sort but only the pale gleam from the new moon and the
stars. The streets were deserted, not a person was in sight. London citizens stayed
home at night unless they had a very good reason to go abroad, and then they
took with them an escort of linkboys or footmen.

In
the distance she saw the glow of the bellman's lantern and could hear his
monotonous refrain: "Past ten o'clock of a fine warm summer's night and
all's well. Past ten o'clock—"

Completely
absorbed in her worries about Bruce, she had forgotten that Almsbury was there
at all. But now she felt his arms go around her, one hand sliding into her
dressing-gown, and with the other he turned her about and kissed her on the
mouth. Astonished, she gave a little gasp and then suddenly shoved him away,
slapping him resoundingly across the face.

"Marry
come up, sir!" she cried. "A fine friend you are! When his Lordship
hears about this he'll run you through!"

He
stared at her for an instant in surprise, and then threw back his head and
laughed. "Run me through! Jesus, sweetheart, but you've a droll wit! Come,
now—surely you don't think Bruce would give a damn if I borrowed his whore for
a night?"

Amber's
eyes blazed in violent anger. Then in a fury she kicked out at his shins,
beginning to pound his chest with her clenched fists. "I'm
not
a
whore, you damned dog! Get out of here— Get out of here or I'll tear you to
pieces!"

"Hey!"
He grabbed her wrists, giving her a shake. "Stop it, you little vixen!
What are you trying to do? I'm sorry. I apologize. I didn't—"

"Get
out, you varlet!" she yelled.

"I'm
going. I'm going— Hold your bawling."

Picking
up his hat, which she had knocked off, he crossed to the door. There, with his
hand on the knob, he turned to
face her. She was still glaring at him, fists
planted on her hips, but tears glistened in her eyes and it was all she could
do to keep from crying. His flippancy vanished.

"Just
one thing, sweetheart, before I go. Contrary to what your Aunt Sarah may have
told you—a man's not insulting you when he invites you to bed. And if you'd be
honest you'd admit yourself you're flattered that I did. For if there's one
thing a woman will never forgive a man—it's not wanting to lie with her. Now
I'll trouble you no more. Good-night." He made her a bow and opened the
door.