The Dog and Partridge was a fashionable tavern located in Fleet Street, frequented for the most part by gallants and the well-dressed, overpainted harlots who tracked them to their habitat. On this night it was jammed full. Every table was crowded with men—those who brought women usually took them to a private room upstairs; waiters were going among them with trays of bottles and glasses and foaming mugs of ale; a tableful of young men were singing; over in one corner some fiddlers scratched away, unheard and ignored. And just as Amber enterèd the door four young men started out, drunk and excited, going to fight a duel over some petty disagreement or imagined slight. They jostled against her but went on, troubling neither to stop nor to apologize, though by their dress they were obviously gentlemen.
Amber, masked and with her hood up, drew her cloak disdainfully about her and stepped aside. When they had gone she stood in the doorway and looked over the smoke-filled room, as though to find someone, and presently the host approached her.
“Madame?”
She knew by his manner that he took her for what she was supposed to be: a lady—Covent Garden variety. And she felt like one herself. She had spent hours at her window, both at the Royal Saracen and the Rose and Crown, watching them get in and out of their coaches, stop to speak to an admirer, fling a beggar a shilling. She knew how they picked up their skirts, how they pulled on a glove, spoke to a footman, used their fans. They were confident careless ladies, sure of the world and of their position in it, ever so slightly scornful of those who lived apart. But it was not by mere mimicry that she could so successfully pretend to be one; it was an attitude toward life that seemed natural to her.
“I’m looking for a gentleman,” she said softly. “He was to meet me here.” She scarcely glanced at the host; her eyes were going over the room.
“Perhaps I can help you to find him, madame. What was he wearing? What is his appearance?”
“He’s very tall and his hair is black. I think he wears a black suit with a gold braid garniture.”
The host turned, looked over the room. “Can it be that gentleman? The one at the far right-hand table?”
“No, no. Not that one. Hang it, the rascal must be late!” She fluttered her fan in annoyance.
“I’m sorry, madame. Perhaps you would prefer to wait in some more private place?”
“I’d prefer it, but if I do he might miss me. I can’t tarry long —you understand.” He was to understand that she was a married woman come to an assignation with her lover and in some apprehension of being seen by her husband or an acquaintance. “Place me in some discreet corner then. I’ll wait on the wretch a few minutes or so.”
The host led her across the room, weaving his way through the hot, noisy crowd, and Amber was aware that for all she was concealed from top to toe several of the gallants turned and looked at her. Her perfume was alluring and her cloak—which Black Jack had stolen from some lady of quality—suggested wealth. He seated her at a table in the farthest corner, and though she declined to order anything to drink she put a silver coin into his hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
Sitting down Amber let her cloak fall open just enough to reveal something of her low neckline, flared her fan, gave a bored little sigh and then a quick casual glance around the room. She met several pairs of eyes, a few smiles and one broad grin, and instantly she dropped her lashes. They were not to take her for a prostitute.
She was glad now that she had come; a quick excitement flowed through her veins, and she only wished that this was real life, no mere part she was playing.
Within a quarter of an hour she had sorted them over and found at least one young man apparently well suited to her purposes. He sat at a table some seven or eight feet away playing cards with four companions, but his head turned persistently and his eyes looked back at her again and again. When most women went masked in public places a man had to learn to judge beauty by very little detail—the colour and sheen of a curl escaping from a hood, the sparkle of a pair of eyes seen between narrow slits, the curve of a pretty mouth.
Now, as she felt him looking at her again she glanced across and let the faintest smile touch her lips, a smile that scarcely existed at all, and then she looked away. Immediately he put down his cards, shoved back his chair and started toward her, walking unsteadily.
“Madame—” He paused politely to hiccough. “Madame, will you permit me the honour of buying you a glass of wine?”
Amber, who had been looking in another direction, now glanced at him in apparent surprise.
“Sir?”
The boy was flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry, your Ladyship. I meant no offense—hic—but I thought you might be lonely—”
“I’m waiting for someone, sir. I’m not lonely at all. And if you take me for a whore you’re quite mistaken. I think you’ll find your luck better with that lady over there.”
With her fan, which she held clasped in one hand as it lay on the table, she indicated an unmasked woman who had just come in and who stood surveying the room, her cloak open to show a pair of almost naked breasts. As he looked Amber noticed that he wore four rings, had gold buttons on his coat with tiny diamonds in the centers, that his sword case was silver and that he wore a large mink muff attached to a broad twisted satin girdle.
He gave her a bow, very stiff and dignified. “I beg your pardon, madame. That is not my game, I assure you. Your servant, madame.” He turned and would have gone off but she stopped him.
“Sir!” He looked around and she smiled up at him, her tawny eyes coaxing. “Forgive my rudeness. I fear the waiting has set me on edge. I’ll accept your offer of wine, and thanks.”
He smiled, forgiving her instantly, sat down and summoned the waiter to order champagne for her and brandy for himself. He told her that his name was Tom Butterfield and that he was a student at Lincoln’s Inn, but when he tried to find out who she was she grew cool and aloof, intimating that she was too well known to dare give her name. And she knew by the way he stared at her that he was trying to place her, wondering if she was Lady This or Countess That, and thinking that he was having a considerable adventure.
They sipped their drinks, chatting idly, and when a little herring-peddler came to the table to ask if she might sing a song for the lady they both agreed. The child was perhaps ten or eleven years old, a slovenly little waif with dirty fingers, snarled blonde curls and shoes worn through at the toes. But her voice was surprisingly clear and mature and there was about her a buoyant happy quality, refreshing as the taste of oranges on a stale tongue.
When she had done, Tom Butterfield munificently gave her several shillings, no doubt to impress her Ladyship. “You’ve a pretty voice, child. What’s your name, pray?”
“Nelly Gwynne, sir. And thank ye, sir.” She gave them both a grin, bobbed a curtsy, and was off through the crowd, stopping at another table across the room.
Amber now began to seem impatient. “What provoking creatures men are!” she exclaimed at last. “How the devil does he dare use me at this rate? I’ll see that he smokes for it, I warrant you!”
“He’s an ignorant blockhead that would keep your Ladyship awaiting,” agreed Tom Butterfield soberly, though his eyes no longer focused well and he looked half-asleep.
“Well, he’ll not do it again, you may be sure!” She began to gather up her belongings, muff, fan, and gloves. “Thank you for your drink, sir. I’ll go along now.”
She dropped one glove and bent slightly to pick it up. He stooped at the same time to get it for her and as he did so stared down into her bodice; he was weaving on his feet as he straightened, and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear it.