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 wine-glass 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?” Almsbury 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.
Amber stood and looked at him like a little girl getting a lesson in etiquette from her grown-up uncle. She was beginning to find that her suit of country morals was as much out of fashion here in London as her cotton petticoat and green woolen skirt had been. Now she held out her hand in an impulsive but still uncertain gesture, and took two or three steps toward him.
“My lord—don’t go. I’m sorry—Only—”
“Only you’re in love with Bruce.”
“Yes.”
“And so you think you shouldn’t lie with another man. Well, my dear, perhaps someday you’ll discover that it doesn’t make so very much difference after all. And if you do—Your servant, madame.” He made her another bow.