“Early? This isn’t early for me—it’s late. I’ve not yet been abed. Have you a glass of sack? I’m damned dry.”
Amber sent for some sharp white wine and anchovies and while they waited for it to be brought the Duke flung himself into a chair next the fireplace and began to talk.
“I’ve just come from Moor Fields. Gad, you never saw anything like it! The ’prentices have pulled down a couple of houses, Mother Cresswell is yowling like a woman run mad, and the whores are throwing chamber-pots at the ’prentices’ heads. They say they’re coming next to pull down the biggest whorehouse of ’em all.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Whitehall.”
Amber laughed and poured out a glass of wine for each of them. “And I doubt not they’ll uncover more strumpets here than they’d ever find in Moor Fields.”
Buckingham reached into a coat-pocket and took out a wrinkled sheet of paper. It was printed in careless uneven lines, the fresh black ink was smeared and several thumb-prints showed. He handed it to her.
“Have you seen this?”
Amber read it over hastily.
It bore the title, “Petition of the Poor Whores to my Lady Castlemaine”; and that was what it pretended to be, though judging by the spelling and satirical content it was almost certainly the work of some person living close to the Court. In coarse broad terms it called upon Barbara, as the chief whore in England, to come to the aid of the beleaguered profession she had helped to glorify. Amber realized at once that this must be another of the Duke’s whimsical inventions to plague his cousin, for she knew that they had been quarrelling again, and she was both pleased to have Barbara humiliated and relieved that she herself had escaped.
She smiled at him, handing it back. “Has she seen it yet?”
“If she hasn’t, she soon will. They’re all over London. Vendors are hawking ‘em outside the ’Change and on every street corner. I saw a tiler laugh to read it till he almost fell off the roof he was laying. Now, what kind of sorry devil would plague her Ladyship with such a libel as that?”
Amber gave him a wide-eyed look. “Lord, your Grace! Who, indeed? I can’t think—can you?” She sipped her wine, savouring the salt taste of the anchovies.
For a moment they looked at each other, and then both of them grinned. “Well,” said his Grace, “it’s no matter, now it’s been done. I suppose it’s come to your ears his Majesty is making her a present of Berkshire House?”
Amber’s black eyebrows twisted. “Yes, of course. She makes mighty sure it comes to everyone’s ears, I’ll warrant you. And what’s more, she says he’s going to create a duchy for her.”
“Your Ladyship seems annoyed.”
“Me—annoyed? Oh, no, my lord,” protested Amber with polite sarcasm. “Why should I be annoyed, pray?”
“No reason at all, madame. No reason at all.” He looked expansive and pleased with himself, enjoying the warmth from the fire, the good wine in his stomach, and some private knowledge of his own.
“I’d be much less annoyed if he was giving Berkshire House to me! And as for a duchy—there’s nothing on earth I want so much!”
“Don’t worry. One day you’ll have it—when he wants to get rid of you, as someday he will.”
She looked at him for a moment in silence. “Do you mean to say, my lord—” she began at last.
“I do, madame. She’s through here at Whitehall. She’s done for good and all. I wouldn’t give a fig for the interest she’s got left at Court.”
But Amber was still skeptical. For eight years Barbara had ruled the Palace, interfered in state business, bullied her friends and tormented her enemies. She seemed as permanent and inalterable as the very bricks of the buildings.
“Well,” said Amber. “I hope you’re right. But only last night I saw her in the Drawing-Room and she said that Berkshire House should be proof to all the world his Majesty still loves her.”
Buckingham gave a snort. “Still loves her! He doesn’t even lie with her any more. But of course she hopes we’ll all believe her tale. For if the world thinks the King still loves her—why, that’s as good as if he did, isn’t it? But I know better. I know a thing or two the rest of you don’t.”
Amber did not doubt that, for his Grace had incalculable means of keeping himself well-posted. Little passed at Whitehall, of small or great importance, which escaped his drag-net of spies and informers.
“Whatever your Grace knows,” said Amber, “I hope is true.”
“True? Of course it’s true! Let me tell you something, madame—I’ m the means by which her Ladyship’s complete and final downfall was accomplished.” He seemed smug now and satisfied with himself, as though he had performed an act of unselfish service to the nation.
Amber looked at him narrowly. “I don’t understand you, sir.”
“Then I’ll speak more plainly. I knew Old Rowley’s wish to be rid of her—but I knew also the kind of bargain she’d try to drive. It was very simple: I merely told him that the love-letters she’s been threatening to publish were burnt many years ago.”
“And he believed you?” Amber was now inclined to think that he had ruined Barbara, duped the King, and was maneuvering to take some advantage of her.
“He not only believed me—it’s the truth. I saw ’em burnt myself. In fact, I advised her to do it!” Suddenly he slapped his knee and laughed, but Amber continued to watch him carefully, not at all convinced. “She’s in a blazing fury. She says she’ll have my head for that one day. Well, she can have it if she can get it—but Old Rowley’s mighty well pleased with me just now—and I’ve got a mind to die with my head on. Let her scheme and plan how she may—her fangs have been drawn and she’s helpless. You’re looking somewhat cynical, madame. It can’t be you think I’m lying?”
“I can believe you told him about the letters—but I can’t believe he won’t take her back again; he always has before. Why should he give her that house and promise her a duchy if he had done with her? It runs through the galleries he even had to borrow money to buy Berkshire.”
“I’ll tell you why, madame. He did it because he’s softhearted. When he’s had all he wants of a woman he can never bring himself to throw her aside. Oh, no. He must always deal fairly with each of ‘em, recognize their brats whether they’re his or not, pay ’em off with great sums of money to keep ’em from being slighted by the malicious world. Well, madame—I should think this would be good news to you. It was never my opinion you and Barbara Palmer had overmuch fondness for each-other.”
“I hate her! But after all the years she’s been in power—I can scarce believe it—”
“She can scarce believe it herself. But she’ll get accustomed to it before long. I was tired of her vapourings—and so I took steps to be rid of her. She’ll hang on here at Whitehall, perhaps for years, but she’ll never count for anything again. For once Old Rowley is thoroughly tired of anyone, whether man or woman, he has no further use for ’em. It’s our best protection against the Chancellor. Now, madame, it’s occurred to me that this leaves a place wide open for some clever woman to step into—”
Amber returned his steady stare. No ally of Buckingham’s was much to be envied. The Duke engaged in politics for nothing but his own amusement. He had no principles and no serious purpose but followed only his temporary whims, rejecting friendship, honour, and morality. He was bound to no one and to nothing. But in spite of all that he had a great name, a fortune still one of the largest in England, and high popularity with the rich merchants, the Commons, and the people of London. Even more persuasive, he had a streak of vindictive malice which, though not always persistent, could do vast damage at one impulsive stroke. Amber had long ago made up her mind about him.