From across the dozen or so feet that separated them they eyed each other. Amber had long felt sure that if once she could break through his coldness and composure she would have him at her mercy. If I ever hit him, she had told herself a dozen times, I’d never be afraid of him again. But she could not quite bring herself to do it. She knew well enough that he had a strong streak of cruelty, a malevolent savagery—highly refined, as were all his vices. But she had not found any restraining rein of conscience or compassion. Therefore she hesitated out of fear, and hated herself for the cowardice.
“No,” he agreed at last. “It didn’t keep me from marrying you—for you had other attractions which I found it impossible to resist.”
“Yes!” snapped Amber. “Sixty-six thousand of ’em!”
Radclyffe smiled. “How perceptive,” he said, “for a woman!”
For several seconds she glared at him, longing violently to smash her fist into his face. She had the feeling that it would crumble, like a mummy’s, beneath any hard and sudden blow, and she could picture his expression of horror as his face disintegrated. Suddenly she turned toward the book-shelves.
“Well, where are they! The plays!”
“On this shelf, madame. Take whatever you want.”
She picked out three or four at random, hastily, for she was anxious to get away from him. “Thank you, sir,” she said without looking at him, and started out. Just as she reached the door she heard his voice again.
“I have some very rare Italian books in which I believe you would be interested.”
“I don’t read Italian.” She did not glance around.
“These may be appreciated without a knowledge of the language. They make use of the universal language of pictures.”
She at once understood what he meant and paused, caught by her own strong interest in whatever was sensational or prurient. With a smile which clearly betrayed his cynical amusement at her curiosity he turned and took down from a shelf a hand-tooled leather-bound volume, laid it on the table, and stood waiting. She turned, and for a moment hesitated, watching him suspiciously as though this were some trap he had set for her. Then with a defiant lift of her chin she walked forward and opened the book, turned half-a-dozen pages on which was some unrecognizable printing and stopped with a gasp of surprise at the first picture. It was beautifully done, painted by hand, and showed a young man and woman, both of them naked, straining in an ecstasy.
For a moment Amber looked at it, fascinated. Suddenly she glanced up and found him watching her, carefully, with the same expression she had seen that day in Almsbury’s library. It disappeared again, as swiftly as the time before; and she picked up the book and started across the room.
“I thought you’d be interested,” she heard him saying, “but pray handle it carefully. It’s very old and very rare—a treasure of its kind.”
She did not answer or look around but went on out of the room. She felt bewildered and angry, both pleasantly excited and disgusted. It seemed, somehow, that he had taken an advantage of her.
THE QUEEN’S PRESENCE CHAMBER was packed with courtiers. The ladies were dressed in the full splendour of laces, spangled satins and velvets—garnet, carmine, primrose-yellow, dusky plum and flame—with shoulders and bosoms and forearms blazing with jewels. Hundreds of candles burnt in wall-sconces and torchères, and Yeomen of the Guard held smoking flambeaux. Their Majesties, seated on a dais canopied with crimson velvet swagged with gold and silver fringe, gave their hands to be kissed. At one end of the room waited the musicians, in varicoloured taffeta suits and with garlands about their heads, quietly tuning their instruments. There were no outsiders, no spectators thronging the gallery to watch, for the plague was persistent, the number of deaths fluctuating week by week. The women had only recently arrived from Hampton Court.
“Her Ladyship, the Countess of Castlemaine!” cried the usher.
“Baron Arlington! Lady Arlington!”
“Lord Denham! Lady Denham!”
“The Earl of Shrewsbury! The Countess of Shrewsbury!”
As each name was announced eyes swept toward the door, murmurs ran round the room behind raised fans, glances were exchanged; there were feminine giggles and sometimes the sound of a man’s low chuckle.
“Damn me,” remarked one young beau to another, “but I wonder my Lord Shrewsbury dares show his face in public. Her Ladyship has laid with half the men at Court and yet he’s never once so much as offered to defend his honour.”
“And why should he, pray?” retorted the other. “Any man who thinks his honour depends upon that of his wife is a fool.”
“Look!” whispered a twenty-year-old fop, stroking at his elaborate curled wig, arranging the profusion of ruffles at his wrist. “York’s ogling my Lady Denham again. I’ll bet a hundred pound he lies with her before St. George’s Day.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t. Her Ladyship’s honest.”
