“You’re alone, madame?”
“Quite, my lord. Won’t you be seated and may I offer you something to drink?”
“Thank you, madame. It’s kind of your Ladyship to receive me at this inconvenient hour.”
“Oh, never speak of it, my lord,” protested Amber. “It’s I that am grateful for your Lordship’s condescension in paying me a visit.”
A servant came in then carrying a tray, with glasses and decanters, and set it down on a low table. Amber poured brandy for the Baron, clary-water for herself and he proposed her health. They sat there a few moments longer—in her great scarlet-and-silver and black-marble chamber where a hundred reflections of them showed in the Venetian mirrors—bandying compliments.
But at last the Baron got to the business of his visit. “All this privacy, madame, is merely a precaution against his Grace of Buckingham’s jealousy. Don’t misunderstand me, pray, for the Duke and I are good friends—”
They were, of course, desperate enemies, but Arlington was too cautious to admit it though Buckingham was usually ready to tell whoever would listen. Only a short while before he had snorted at Amber, when she had referred to the Baron as a dangerous foe: “Madame, I scorn to have a fool for an enemy!”
“It seems,” continued Arlington, “he doesn’t want you friendly with anyone but himself. The truth on it is, madame, it came to my ears today on very good authority that his Grace has told Colbert it’s useless to make you further gifts because you are already committed to the cause of Spain.”
“The devil he did!” cried Amber indignantly, for she was convinced that she had no more use for Buckingham or his tricky friendship. “He’s as meddlesome as an old bawd! The way he uses his friends it’s no wonder they soon wear out!”
“Oh, please, madame—not so hard on his Grace, I beg of you! It was never my intention to make you suspect his Grace’s friendship for you. But it seems he wants to keep you for himself, and I had hoped that you and I might be friends also.”
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t, my lord. Sure a woman may be allowed two friends—even at Whitehall.”
The Baron smiled. “You seem to be a woman of wit, madame —than which I admire nothing more.” She poured him another glass of brandy. He sat for a moment, staring into it reflectively, saying nothing. Then, finally: “I understand that your Ladyship is to be congratulated.”
“For what, pray?”
“It runs through the galleries your young son will inherit a dukedom.”
Amber suddenly sat forward in her chair, her eyes glittering and eager. “Did the King tell you—”
“No, madame—not the King. But it’s current gossip.”
She slumped back then and made a face. “Gossip. Gossip won’t get me a duchy.”
“It is what you want then?”
“What I want? My God! There’s nothing I want so much! I’d do anything to get it!’”
“If that’s true, madame, and you wished to do something for me—why, I might be able to help your case somehow.” He modestly lowered his eyes. “I think I may say without vanity that I have some small influence here at Whitehall.”
He had, of course, great influence. And what seemed even more important, he had a well-established reputation for always bettering the condition of those he took into favour.
“If you can help me to a duchy I swear I’ll do anything you ask!”
He told her what he wanted.
It was generally known in the Palace that Buckingham often met with a group of old Commonwealth men who had as their object the overthrow of Charles II’s government and the seizure of power into their own hands. Because the kingdom had so recently been split and disorganized it gave hope to others of inordinate ambition that the like could be accomplished again. Arlington wanted her to learn the time and place of their meetings, what occurred there and what steps were taken, and to report the information to him. There was no doubt he could have learned these things himself but it was a costly process involving numerous very large bribes, and in persuading her to pay them, he saved himself that much money and gave in return nothing but what he could very well spare—a few words in her behalf to the King. Amber understood all this but the money had no value to her, and Arlington’s support was worth a great deal.
Amber had already bought four acres of land in St. James’s Square, the town’s most aristocratic and exclusive district, and for several months she and Captain Wynne—who was designing many of the finest new homes in England—had been discussing plans for the house and gardens. She knew exactly what she wanted: the biggest and newest and most expensive of everything. Her house must be modern, lavish, spectacular; money was of no importance.
So long as they can’t send me to Newgate, what do I care? she thought, and her recklessness increased apace.
After her conversation with Arlington she was convinced that the duchy was all but in her lap, and she told Captain Wynne to begin construction. It would take almost two years to complete and would cost about sixty thousand pounds—far more even than Clarendon House. This vast new extravagance set all tongues gabbling at Court, whether with awe, indignation or envy, for everyone agreed that no one beneath the rank of duchess could or should live in such state. And most of them decided that the King had finally promised her a duchy. Charles, no doubt amused, neither confirmed nor denied that he had and Amber optimistically took his silence for consent. But the weeks went by and she was still only a countess.
There was no doubt Charles seemed as fond of her as of anyone else just then, but he had nothing to gain by giving her a duchy, and the King’s generosity was usually at least half self-interest. Furthermore, there were so many demands constantly made upon him that he had developed a habit of automatic procrastination. Discouraged though she became at times, Amber was determined to get the duchy someway—and by now she had convinced herself that by one means or another it would always be possible to get anything she wanted.
She made use of everyone she could, no matter how little influence he might have, and though she busied herself eternally doing favours for others, she saw to it that she always got a return. Barbara Palmer was furious to see her rival making headway and told everyone that if Charles dared give that lowbred slut such an honour she would make him sorry he had ever been born. Finally she got into a public argument with him about it and threatened to dash out his children’s brains before his face and set the Palace on fire.
Less than a fortnight later Charles, in a spirit of malicious vindictiveness, passed a patent creating Gerald Duke of Raven-spur, with the honour to devolve upon his wife’s son, Charles. And the look on Barbara’s face the first time she had to leave an arm-chair and take a stool because the new duchess had entered the room was something Amber expected to remember with satisfaction all the rest of her life.
Immediately her position at Whitehall took on greater importance.
She set the fashions. When she had a tiny pistol made to carry in her muff, most of the other Court ladies did likewise. Several apartments were being redecorated with mirrored walls, and a great deal of walnut furniture was sent out to be silver-plated. She pinned up the brim of her Cavalier’s hat at an angle one day and next day half the ladies in his Majesty’s hawking-party had done the same. She appeared at a ball with her hair undone and hanging down her back covered with a thick sprinkling of gold-dust, and for a week that was the rage. Everyone copied her beauty patches—little cupids drawing a bow, the initials CR (Charles Rex) intertwined, a prancing long-horned goat.
Amber racked her brain to think of something new, for it tickled her vanity to lead them about like so many pet monkeys fastened to a stick. Everything she did was talked about. Yet she pretended to be bored with the imitations and resentful she could never keep a fashion to herself.