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.

“Let me see you to your coach, madame.”

They went out the door, Tom Butterfield walking solemnly at her heels and ignoring the jocular hoots of his friends. “Where is your coach waiting, madame?”

“Why, I came in a hackney, sir,” she replied, implying that no lady going to an assignation would be so foolish as to ride in her own coach which might be seen and reported. “I believe there’s one for hire over there. Will you call it for me?”

“I protest, madame. So fine a person as yourself travelling about after nightfall in a hell-cart? Tush!” He waggled an admonitory finger at her. “I have my coach just around the corner. Pray, let me carry you to your home.” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

They climbed in and the coach started off, jogging along Fleet Street to the Strand, and now Tom Butterfield sat in his own corner, hiccoughing gently from time to time and hanging onto the strap beside the window for support. Amber, afraid that he would fall asleep, finally said to him: “You still don’t know me, do you, Mr. Butterfield?”

“Why, no, madame. Do I know you?” She could feel him lean toward her as though trying to see through the darkness.

“Well—you’ve smiled and bowed to me often enough at the play.”

“How now, have I then? Where were you sitting?”

“Where? In a box, of course!” No lady of quality sat elsewhere and her tone was indignant, but still teasing.

“When were you there last?”

“Oh, perhaps yesterday. Perhaps the day before. Don’t you recall a lady who smiled kindly on you? Lord, I never thought you’d forget me so quick—all those amorous tweers you cast.”

“I haven’t forgot. My mind’s been running on you ever since. You were in the fore of the King’s box three days ago, dressed in a pretty deshabille with your hair in a tour and your eyes had the most languishing gaze in all the world. Oh, gad, madame, I haven’t forgot—not I. I’m mightily smitten with you, I swear I am. I’m in love with you, madame!”

As his impetuosity mounted Amber grew more coy, moving as far away as she could get and giving a low giggle in the darkness so that he made a grab for her. They started to tussle, she yielding a little and then pushing him off as he tried to draw her against him, giving a cry of dismay as his hand went into her bodice and caught one breast. He was panting excitedly, blowing his sour breath in her face, and all at once she gave him a brisk slap.

“What the devil, sir! Is this the way you handle a person of quality?”

Suddenly abashed, sobered by the slap, he drew away. “Forgive me, madame. My ardour outran my breeding.”

“Indeed it did! I’m not accustomed to that kind of courtship!”

“My humblest apologies, madame. But I’ve admired you for a great while.”

“How do you know? Perhaps I’m not the lady you have in mind at all.”

“You must be the lady I have in mind. In fact, madame, I find myself so hot for you—” He reached for her again and they had begun to struggle once more, when the coach stopped. “Hell and furies!” he muttered, and she began to push him off.

“Sit up, sir, for God’s sake!” She was straightening her clothes, pulling up her bodice, smoothing her hair, and then the door opened and Tom Butterfield staggered out and offered his hand to help her down.

The house before which they were stopped was a new one in Bow Street just a block from Covent Garden Square. At the door he caught hold of her to kiss her again and as he did so she took the key from her muff and slipped it into the lock.

“My husband’s abroad tonight,” she murmured. “Will you come in, Mr. Butterfield—and drink a glass of wine with me?”

She pushed open the door and went in with him following close behind her. But when he would have detained her in the passage she disengaged herself and went on up the black staircase to another door, which she also opened. She went in first and turned to find him smiling, his eyes full of expectancy as he looked at her; a candle was burning and it gave just enough light to see by. And then as Black Jack’s heavy cudgel smashed down upon his skull the smile froze on his face, his eyes glazed over, and he dropped to the floor, folding up in sections like a carpenter’s rule. Amber gave an involuntary little scream, one hand to her mouth, for the look of accusation she had seen in his eyes filled her with guilt.

But Black Jack had already stuck the cudgel back into his pocket and was kneeling beside him, cutting the string of cat’s gut on which the buttons of his coat were strung. While she stood and stared he went efficiently about his work, rolling him over to get the buttons in back, pulling off the rings, unbuckling the sword and muff, searching through his pockets. And then, as a dark narrow streak of blood began to run out of his hair and over his temple, Amber moaned aloud.

“Oh! You’ve killed him!”

“Hush! He’s not hurt.” He looked up, giving her a broad grin. “What the hell, sweetheart! Scared by a little blood? A broken head may teach him better sense next time—if we hadn’t fibbed the young prigster somebody else would have. Look at this scout—” He held up a gold watch. “Fifteen pound if it’s worth a sice. It takes fine bait to catch a big fish. Now come along—let’s rub off.” He had the boy’s wrists and ankles tied and they started out. Amber paused to look back once more, but Black Jack hurried her down the backstairs and into a hackney that was waiting.


The night’s easy success was reassuring to Amber, who now believed that she might soon get money enough to leave the Friars. And she had enjoyed the adventure, too—all but the clouting of Tom Butterfield, for whose welfare she still felt a certain guilty concern. When she had drunk her morning draught of ale, brought to her by the shuffling Pall, she slipped into her dressing-gown and went downstairs. Mother Red-Cap and Black Jack were in the parlour, talking, and both of them seemed in high spirits.

Amber came in with a breezy greeting and wave of her hand —full of a vast self-confidence and ready to be congratulated. Mother Red-Cap gave her a warm smile.

“Good-morning, my dear! Black Jack’s been telling me how like a veteran you handled matters last night! He says it was worth a Jew’s eye to see the way you led the young cully into his trap. And now you’ve seen for yourself how easy it is, and how safe, haven’t you?”

Amber, thinking that now they had a need of her, was inclined to be independent. She shrugged. “I suppose so. Well—” She held out her hand. “Tip me my earnest.”

“Why, my dear, there’s nothing for you this time. I’ve applied your share on your bill.”

“On my bill!”

“Of course. Or did you think it costs nothing to eat and lodge and give birth to a baby?”

She unlocked the drawer where her ledger was kept, took out a neatly written sheet and handed it to Amber who stood for a moment staring at it, nonplussed. She did not know what it said, for she had never been taught to read or write, but she was horrified to think that none of the money she had helped to steal was hers. For those expenses Mother Red-Cap had mentioned were not ones she had ever expected to pay. She felt that she had been cheated, and it made her angry. After a moment she looked up, her mouth opened to speak, and saw Mother Red-Cap just removing her cloak from the peg where it hung beside the door; she put it on and went out.