He was well over six feet tall with wide, square shoulders, lean hips, and magnificent legs. Powerful and virile, in his red and blue uniform he was an exciting contrast to the pale effeminate young fops who talked incessantly of their claps and poxes and carried a box of turpentine-pills wherever they went. His face was crudely handsome, with well-defined features; he had waving brown hair and skin tanned to a tawny-gold. Amber stared at him in surprise and admiration, wondering who he was, and then as he smiled slowly the corners of her eyes went up and she gave him a faint answering smile.
At that moment there was a scream from Beck.
“Rex!”
And she rushed over to throw herself into his arms, took his hand, and led him to the opposite side of the room. She dressed hastily then and hurried him out, but as he went he gave Amber a backward glance.
“Well!” said Beck the next morning, as they sat in the pit watching a rehearsal. “What d’ye make of him?” But her eyes were slightly narrowed and she was more defiant than triumphant.
Amber smiled innocently and gave a little shrug. “Oh, no doubt he’s a very fine person. I don’t wonder you rushed ’im out as fast as if you were going for a midwife.” Her eyes took on a malicious sparkle. “It’d never do to let a fellow like that make the acquaintance of other ladies, would it?”
Beck flared. “I smoke your design, madame! But let me tell you this—if I find you spreading your nets for him I’ll make you sorry for it! I’ll carbonado you, I swear I will!”
“Pooh!” said Amber, and got up to leave her. “Your bellow-weathering doesn’t scare me!”
Still, Captain Morgan did not appear backstage again for several days, and when Amber gibed at her for not daring to show her prize not only Beck but her older sister Anne flew into a rage and threatened her with the wrath of God, as well as their own. “Just you dare meddling with Captain Morgan!” cried Anne dramatically, for she was the tragedienne of the company. “You’ll wish you hadn’t!”
But Amber was so little impressed by their threats that whenever she saw him in the pit, as she often did, she flirted openly with him. It would have pleased her a great deal to steal Beck Marshall’s admirer, even if he had been much less attractive than he was.
She was going into the theatre early one afternoon when a ragged little urchin came limping up, glanced hastily around, and thrust a wax-sealed paper into her hand. Curious, Amber tore it open. “For Madame St. Clare,” she read. (“Madame” was the title applied to all actresses.) “I must confess I am hopelessly smitten by you, for all that a lady known to us both has warned me you’re not to be trusted and already belong to another man. Still, I have made so bold as to reserve a table for us at the Fox-Urider-the-Hill at Ivy Bridge. I shall hope to see you there tomorrow evening at seven. Your most humble obliged servant, madame, I am, Captain Rex Morgan.” And he added a postscript: “May I ask you, madame, to have the kindness for me as not to mention this note to anyone?”
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.
