Amber smiled slyly to herself, and after a moment tore the paper into little bits, tossed them up over her head and went on into the theatre. She had no intention of telling Beck about the note. Not, at least, until she was sure that he was captured; but she could not resist giving her a fleering little smile that annoyed the other girl even if it told her nothing.

She had no performance the next afternoon and spent the day washing her hair—in spite of the almanac, which said that the time was astrologically unfavourable—deciding what she would wear, and trying to think of an excuse to give Michael. She was still undecided when she took a hackney and rode to the Royal Exchange to buy some ribbons and gloves and a bottle of scent. Coming back with her arms full of parcels, her cloak and hood covered with raindrops, she opened the door and found Michael standing in conversation with another man.

He was much older than Michael and as he turned to look at her there was a stern scowl on his face. She knew instantly who he was: Michael’s father. For some time past Michael had been getting letters from his father, demanding to know why he had been expelled from the Middle Temple, insisting that he return home at once. Michael had read each one to her, laughing, saying gaily that his father was a formal old coxcomb, and had thrown them into the fire without ever sending an answer. Now, however, he wore a hang-dog expression and a look of cowed helplessness.

“Amber,” he said at last, “this is my father. Sir, may I present Mrs. St. Clare?”

Sir Michael Godfrey merely stared at her without speaking, and after a moment she crossed the room, laid down her packages, and spread her cloak on a chair before the fire. That done she turned to find both men still watching her, and Sir Michael’s hostile eyes made her aware that her neckline was cut very low and her face obviously painted. He turned away.

“Is this the woman you kept in the Temple?” As he said it Amber had an uncomfortable feeling that she was the commonest kind of whore.

“Yes, sir.”

Michael was not flippant with his father as he had been with Mr. Gripenstraw. The wild gay boy who had delighted in getting drunk every night and breaking the windows of sleeping citizens had quite disappeared in the chagrined, embarrassed dutiful son.

Sir Michael Godfrey turned to Amber. “Madame, I fear you shall have to cast about elsewhere for a young fool to meet your expenses. My son is returning with me into the country and you shall get not a farthing more by his misplaced generosity.”

Amber merely stared at him coolly and curbed her impulse to give him a tart answer because she remembered all that Michael had done for her, and all that he could still do, if he chose, to injure her. With a gesture of his hand Sir Michael signalled his son from the room. And though he hesitated for a moment he went, turning back once to give Amber a wistful pleading look of good-bye, which Sir Michael cut short by thrusting him sharply out and banging the door after them. Amber was sorry for Michael; evidently his life would now be sadly changed, but her pity soon gave way to relief—and then to eagerness for the night.

My stars are lucky! she thought exuberantly. Just when I had no more use for ’im—he’s gone!


Amber was only a little late, but as she was ushered upstairs to the private-room, Captain Morgan flung open the door and greeted her with happy enthusiasm. “At last you’re here! How kind of you to come!” His eyes glistened with pleasure as they looked down at her and he took her muff and cloak, tossed them over a chair, and turned her about by one hand. “You look wonderful! By God, you’re the most glorious creature I’ve ever seen!”

Amber laughed. “Come now, Captain Morgan! Beck Marshall tells me you’ve said kinder things to her by far.”

But she luxuriated in his admiration, feeling a warm glow of pleasure go through all her body at the expression on his face. It had been a long while since she had seen a man so infatuated —not, in fact, since she had left Marygreen. And she was glad that he had the sense to appreciate a pretty gown, for she had worn her best and newest one; too many of the young fops were so concerned with their own “garnitures” and “petite-oie” they scarcely knew what a woman was wearing. The dress was made of bright green velvet, with the skirt slit down the front and draped up over a black-satin sequin-spattered petticoat, and she had one pert black-satin bow tied at either temple.

He snapped his fingers. “The devil with Beck Marshall. She’s nothing to me, I assure you.”

“That’s what every man says about his old doxy when he has a mind to a new one.”

Rex Morgan laughed. “I see you have wit as well as beauty, madame. That makes you perfect.”

At that moment there was a loud rap at the door. Morgan called out for them to enter, and in marched the host and three waiters, loaded down with covered pewter dishes, knives and spoons, napkins, glasses and salt-dishes, and two bottles of wine. They set the places, removed all covers with a flourish so that Captain Morgan might inspect the contents, and then marched out again. Amber and Rex sat down to eat.

There was a great steaming bowlful of crayfish bisque, a well-seasoned leg-of-mutton stuffed with oysters and chopped onion, a chicken-pie covered with a flaky golden crust, and a pudding made of thick pure cream and pounded chestnuts. They sat side by side, facing the fireplace where sea-coals burnt brightly, and as they ate they fell into easy comfortable talk, enjoying the good meal and admiring each other.

He told her that she had the most fascinating eyes in the world, the loveliest hair he had ever seen, the most beautiful breasts, and the prettiest legs. His voice had an authentic sincerity she did not even care to question, and he looked at her with frank adoration and desire. Why, he’s mad in love with me already! thought Amber delightedly, and had an image of herself parading him into the tiring-room tomorrow like a tame monkey on a chain.

“Is it true,” he asked her at last as they were beginning to eat the hot baked chestnut pudding, “that you’re in the keeping of someone from the Middle Temple?”

“Lord Almighty! Who told you that?”

“Everyone I asked about you. Is it true?”

“Certainly not! Lord, I swear a woman can be raped here in London without losing her maidenhead! I’ll admit I was occupying lodgings with a gentleman for a time—but he was my cousin, and he’s gone back to Yorkshire now. Heavens, I can’t think what my father would say, to hear the bawdy talk that goes on here—about nothing at all!” She gave him a look of wide-eyed indignation.

“Lucky for him he’s only your cousin. I’d have had to send him a challenge to get him out of my way. But I’m glad he’s gone anyway. Tell me, who are you? Where’d you come from? Everyone told me a different story.”

“I’m Mrs. St. Clare and I came from Essex. What else d’you want to know?”

“What are you doing on the stage? You don’t look as though you belong there.”

“Oh, don’t I? I’ve been told different.”

“That isn’t what I mean. You look like a person of quality.”

“Oh. Well—” She gave him a sidelong glance as he began to pour the champagne. “To tell you truly, I am.”

She took the glass as he handed it to her, leaned back in her chair and began to spin for him the story upon which she had been embroidering almost since she had first come to London, improving upon it whenever she got a new idea. “My family’s old and honourable and they had a good estate in Essex—but they sold everything to help his Majesty in the Wars. So, when an old ugly earl wanted to marry me my father was going to insist, to help repair his loss. I wouldn’t have the stinking old goat—my father said I should have him, and he locked me into the house. I broke out and came to London—Of course I changed my name—I’m not really Mrs. St. Clare.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, pleased to see that he apparently believed her.

He got up then, moved their chairs closer to the dying fire, and they sat down side by side. Amber lifted her legs, bracing her feet on one side of the narrow fireplace so that her skirts fell back above her knees and showed her legs in black silk stockings and lacy garters. He reached over to take her hand in his and they sat for several moments, perfectly still and silent, but with the tension mounting between them.

What shall I do? she was thinking. If I do, he’ll take me for a harlot—and if I don’t, maybe he won’t ever come back again.

At last she turned to face him and found his eyes on her, intense and serious, glowing with desire. One arm reached out and went around her waist, drawing her slowly toward him, and she slid over onto his lap. For a moment she hesitated, and then her face bent to his and she felt the pressure of his mouth, moist and warm and eager; his hand moved over her breasts, and she could feel the heavy beating of his heart against her own. Her blood began to rush, filling her with warmth and quick passion—she felt herself sliding toward surrender and had no inclination to stop.

But as he would have knelt before her she jumped up suddenly and left him, crossing the room to stand before the black windows, her head buried in her hands. Instantly he was behind her, his fingers taking hold of her shoulders, pressing her back against him. His voice whispered to her, pleading, and as his lips touched the back of her neck a thrill ran along her spine.

“Please, darling—don’t be angry. I’m in love with you, I swear I am. I want you, I’ve got to have you!” His fingers cut into her shoulders and his voice in her ear was hoarse with intensity. “Please—Amber, please! I won’t hurt you—I won’t let anything happen—Come here—” He swung her around to face him.