IN HYDE PARK there was a pretty half-timbered cottage set beside a tiny lake, where all the fashionable world liked to stop for a syllabub or, if the weather was cold, a mug of lambs’-wool or hot mulled wine. It was almost Christmas now and too late in the year to ride, but there were several crested gilt coaches waiting in the cold grey-and-scarlet sunset outside the Lodge. The drivers and footmen smoked their pipes, sometimes stamped their feet to keep warm as they stood about in groups, laughing and talking together—exchanging the newest back-stairs gossip on the lords and ladies who had gone inside.
A sea-coal fire was burning high in the oak-panelled great room. There was a cluster of periwigged and beribboned young fops about the long bar, drinking their ale or brandy, throwing dice and matching coins. Several ladies were seated at tables with their gallants. Waiters with balanced trays moved about among them and three or four fiddles were playing.
Amber—wearing an ermine-lined hooded cloak of scarlet velvet and holding a syllabub glass in one hand and her muff of dripping ermine tails in the other—stood near the fireplace talking to Colonel Hamilton, the Earl of Arran and George Etherege.
She chattered fluently and there was an ever-shifting, vivacious play of expression over her face. She seemed to be engrossed in the three of them. But all the while her eyes watched the door—it never opened that she did not know who came in or went out. And then, at last, the languid golden Mrs. Middleton sauntered in with Lord Almsbury at her elbow. Amber did not hesitate an instant. Excusing herself from the three men she wove her way across the room to where the newcomers were standing, Jane still pausing just within the doorway to give the crowd time to discover her.
Amber gave Middleton- only a vague nod as she came up. “Almsbury, I’ve got to talk to you! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The Earl bowed to Mrs. Middleton. “Will you excuse me for a moment, madame?”
Jane looked bored. “Oh, lord, sir,
“Come over here—I don’t want a dozen big ears listening to us.” They crossed the room to a quiet little corner near the windows. “Tell me what’s happened!” she cried without an instant’s hesitation. “I haven’t seen him alone for fourteen days! I write to him and he doesn’t answer! I talk to him in the Drawing-Room and he looks at me as if I’m a stranger! I ask him to visit me and he doesn’t come! Tell me what’s happened, Almsbury! I’m going stark staring mad!”
Almsbury gave a sigh. “My Lady Castlemaine showed his wife the satire that Rochester wrote about you—”
“Oh, I know
“That’s what’s happened.”
She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.” Both of them were silent, looking at each other, for a long moment and then Amber said: “But that can’t be the only reason. Just because his wife found out. It must be more than that.”
“It isn’t.”
“Do you mean to tell me, John Randolph, that he’s been using me like this because his
“She didn’t tell him to. He decided it for himself. I may as well tell you the truth, Amber—he doesn’t intend to see you alone any more.”
“Did he tell you that?” Her voice spoke to him, just above a whisper.
“Yes. And he meant it.”
Amber stood helplessly. She put her drink down on the broad sill of the casemented window and stood staring out at the bare-branched trees. Then she looked up at him again. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. You do know! And you’ve got to tell me! Oh, Almsbury—
For a long moment he hesitated, looking at her shrewdly, and then finally he gave a jerk of his head. “Come along.”
As they passed Jane Middleton he stopped to speak to her but she tossed her curls and turned him a haughty shoulder. Almsbury shrugged.
