The next day Radclyffe was gone. Three days later a letter came for Amber. She showed it to Almsbury that same morning when he came in to talk to her as Nan was brushing her hair. The ebony blackamoor stood beside the dressing-table.
Almsbury grinned. “So the old goat finds that his thoughts return to you as to any creation of perfect beauty.”
Amber stuck a patch at the left side of her mouth. “Since I’ve become a rich widow I find my attractions have increased a hundredfold.”
“Only on the score of marriage, sweetheart. You’ve always had attractions enough for a dozen other women—but in the way of the world a pretty face without money must go abegging for honest suitors. Now you’re rich, you can take your pick from a dozen.” He stood up and leaned close enough so that his next words could not be overheard by the maids in the room. “If I weren’t married I’d make you a proposal myself.” Amber laughed gaily, thinking that he was joking.
He bent down then and as he kissed her cheek he whispered in her ear. She murmured an answer, they exchanged a wink in the mirror and he went out. Lord Carlton formed the pivotal point for their mutual affection: Amber liked Almsbury better for being Bruce’s friend; he liked her better for being his Lordship’s mistress and mother of his children. But not one of the three considered it either strange or disloyal that in Carlton’s absence the Earl sometimes made love to her.
Only a few days later she heard from Radclyffe again. He sent her a gilded Florentine mirror with a very wide frame, carved in lavish scrolls like the swirl of ostrich plumes. The accompanying note said that this mirror had once reflected the image of the loveliest woman in Italy, but he hoped it might now reflect the most beautiful face in Europe. In less than a week there arrived a basket of oranges—a great rarity now with the war and intense cold—and hidden among them was a topaz necklace.
“He must intend marrying me,” said Amber to the Earl. “No man makes such valuable presents unless he expects to get ’em back again.”
Almsbury laughed. “I think you’re right. And if he does make you a proposal—what about you? Will you accept?”
Amber gave a sigh and a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s no use being rich, unless you’ve got a title too.” She made a face. “But I hate that stinking old buck-fitch.”
“Then marry a young man.”
She gave him a glance of indignation. “Why, I’d rather be buried alive than marry one of your hectoring Frenchified Covent Garden fops! I know well enough what that means. They get you with child and send you off to the country to breed—while
The Earl burst into hearty laughter. Amber looked at him in surprise and some annoyance. “Well—my lord? What makes you so hysterical, pray?”
“You do, sweetheart. I swear no one would ever guess to hear you talk that six years ago you were a simple country-wench and so virtuous you slapped my face for making you an honest offer of my affections. I wonder what’s happened to her —that innocent pretty girl I saw on the Marygreen common?” His voice and eyes turned a little wistful at the last.
Amber was petulant; why shouldn’t he be satisfied with the way she was now? She liked to think of Almsbury as one man who accepted her exactly as she was, liked her and approved of everything she said and did. “I don’t know,” she said crossly. “She’s gone now—if she ever existed at all. She couldn’t last long in London.”
He gave her hand a quick friendly grasp. “No, darling, she couldn’t. But seriously, I think it would be a mistake for you to marry Radclyffe.”
“Why? You suggested it yourself to begin with.”
“I know. But I only wanted to make you think about something besides Bruce. In the first place, he’s deep in debt. It might take half your inheritance to get him out.”
“Oh, I’ve got that all planned. I’ll have the contract drawn to let me retain management of my own funds.”
Almsbury shook his head. “That’ll never do. He wouldn’t marry you with any such arrangement as that—any more than you’d marry him if he was to retain sole use of his title. No, if you marry Radclyffe you’ve got to sign over your money to him. But do you think you could tolerate living in the same house with him—not to mention sleeping in the same bed?”
“Oh, as for that! In London I won’t know he’s about. I’ll spend all my days at Court—and maybe some of my nights, too.” Her mouth turned up significantly at one corner; she had never completely abandoned her earlier ambition of being his Majesty’s mistress—and whenever Bruce Carlton was gone the prospect glittered.
