Amber gave Middleton- only a vague nod as she came up. “Almsbury, I’ve got to talk to you! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The Earl bowed to Mrs. Middleton. “Will you excuse me for a moment, madame?”
Jane looked bored. “Oh, lord, sir, you must excuse me! There’s Colonel Hamilton beckoning me now—I just recalled he asked me this morning to meet him here and I’d all but forgot, let me die.” With an airy wave of one small gloved hand she drifted off, not even glancing at Amber who seemed unaware she had ever been there.
“Come over here—I don’t want a dozen big ears listening to us.” They crossed the room to a quiet little corner near the windows. “Tell me what’s happened!” she cried without an instant’s hesitation. “I haven’t seen him alone for fourteen days! I write to him and he doesn’t answer! I talk to him in the Drawing-Room and he looks at me as if I’m a stranger! I ask him to visit me and he doesn’t come! Tell me what’s happened, Almsbury! I’m going stark staring mad!”
Almsbury gave a sigh. “My Lady Castlemaine showed his wife the satire that Rochester wrote about you—”
“Oh, I know that!” cried Amber scornfully, cutting him off. “But what’s happened to make him treat me like this!”
“That’s what’s happened.”
She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.” Both of them were silent, looking at each other, for a long moment and then Amber said: “But that can’t be the only reason. Just because his wife found out. It must be more than that.”
“It isn’t.”
“Do you mean to tell me, John Randolph, that he’s been using me like this because his wife told him to!”
“She didn’t tell him to. He decided it for himself. I may as well tell you the truth, Amber—he doesn’t intend to see you alone any more.”
“Did he tell you that?” Her voice spoke to him, just above a whisper.
“Yes. And he meant it.”
Amber stood helplessly. She put her drink down on the broad sill of the casemented window and stood staring out at the bare-branched trees. Then she looked up at him again. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. You do know! And you’ve got to tell me! Oh, Almsbury—please tell me! You know how much I love him! If only I can see him again and talk to him I can make him see how foolish this is! Please, Almsbury—please, please! He’s going away soon and then I might never see him again! I’ve got to see him while he’s here!”
For a long moment he hesitated, looking at her shrewdly, and then finally he gave a jerk of his head. “Come along.”
As they passed Jane Middleton he stopped to speak to her but she tossed her curls and turned him a haughty shoulder. Almsbury shrugged.
The afternoon was cold and the mud hard and slippery with a thin layer of ice. Together they got into Amber’s enormous crested gilt coach which was drawn by eight tawny horses, their manes and streaming tails braided with gold and green ribbons. The coachman and eight running footmen wore her emerald-velvet livery and there was another dressed all in white and carrying a white wand with an orange fastened to one end for his refreshment, who ran ahead to proclaim her coming. Some of the footmen hung onto the sides, while others jogged along in back or went ahead to order the rabble out of the way. Inside, the coach was upholstered with emerald velvet, deep-tufted on seat and sides and roof, festooned with gold swags and tassels.
Almsbury gave the coachman his directions and then climbed in beside Amber. “He’s at his stationer’s in Ave Maria Lane, I think, buying some books.” He looked around him, whistling softly. “Jesus Christ! When did you get this?”
“Last year. You’ve seen it before.”
She answered him abruptly and without paying much attention for she was absorbed in her own thoughts, trying to plan what she would say to Bruce, how she would convince him that he was wrong. It was several minutes before Almsbury spoke again.
Then he said: “You’ve never been sorry, have you?”
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry that you left the country and came to London.”
“Why should I be sorry? Look where I am!”
“And look how you got here. ‘All rising to great places is by a winding stair.’ Have you ever heard that?”
“No.”
“You’ve come by a winding stair, haven’t you?”
“What if I have! I’ve done some things I hated, but that’s over now and I’m where I want to be. I’m somebody, Almsbury! If I’d stayed in Marygreen and married some lout of a farmer and bred his brats and cooked his food and spun his linen—what would I be? Just another farmer’s wife and nobody would ever know I’d been alive. But now look at me—I’m rich and a duchess and one day my son will be a duke—Sorry!” she finished with scornful positiveness. “My God, Almsbury!”
He grinned. “Amber, my darling, I love you—But you’re an unprincipled calculating adventuress.”
“Well,” retorted Amber, “I didn’t have anything to start with—”
“But beauty and desirability.”
“There are other women aplenty who had that—hut they aren’t all duchesses today, I’ll warrant you.”
“No, sweetheart, they aren’t. The difference is that you were willing to make use of both to get what you wanted—and didn’t care too much what happened to you on your way.”
“Lord!” she cried impatiently. “You’re in a scurvy humour today!” Abruptly she leaned forward and rapped on the front wall, shouting at her coachman: “Drive faster!”
Ave Maria Lane was one of the tiny streets which formed a maze about the great burned pile of old St. Paul’s. When at last they arrived, Almsbury took her to the entrance of a new-built brick courtyard and pointed to one of the signs. “He should be in there—the ‘Three Bibles and Three Bottles of Ink.’ ” Too excited even to thank him, she picked up her skirts and ran into the court; he watched her go and, when she had disappeared into the building, turned about and left.
It was now dark outside and the shop was dim-lit; there was a thick dusty smell of ink, paper, leather and frying tallow. The walls were lined with book-shelves, all of them crowded, and piles of brown- or green- or red-bound volumes were stacked on the floor. In one corner, reading by a flickering light in the wall-sconce, stood a short plump young man. He had a pair of thick green spectacles on his nose, a hat on his head, and though it was close and too-warm in there he wore his cloak. No one else was in the room.
Amber looked about and was on the point of going through the door beyond when an old man came out, smiling, and inquired if he might help her. She crossed to him and asked, very softly so that if Bruce were there he would not hear her: “Js my Lord Carlton in there?”
“He is, madame.”
She put a cautioning finger to her lips. “He’s expecting me.” Reaching into her muff she took out a guinea and pressed it into his palm. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”
The man bowed, glancing surreptitiously at the coin in his hand, still smiling. “Certainly, madame. Certainly.” He grinned, pleased to be party to a rendezvous between his Lordship and this fine woman.
She went to the door, opened it, stepped inside and softly closed it. Bruce, wearing his cloak and plumed hat, stood several feet away examining a manuscript; his back was to her. Amber paused, leaning against the door, for her heart was pounding and she felt suddenly weak and breathless. She was almost afraid of what he might do or say when he saw her.