Amber, who had been looking in another direction, now glanced at him in apparent surprise.
“Sir?”
The boy was flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry, your Ladyship. I meant no offense—hic—but I thought you might be lonely—”
“I’m waiting for someone, sir. I’m not lonely at all. And if you take me for a whore you’re quite mistaken. I think you’ll find your luck better with that lady over there.”
With her fan, which she held clasped in one hand as it lay on the table, she indicated an unmasked woman who had just come in and who stood surveying the room, her cloak open to show a pair of almost naked breasts. As he looked Amber noticed that he wore four rings, had gold buttons on his coat with tiny diamonds in the centers, that his sword case was silver and that he wore a large mink muff attached to a broad twisted satin girdle.
He gave her a bow, very stiff and dignified. “I beg your pardon, madame. That is not my game, I assure you. Your servant, madame.” He turned and would have gone off but she stopped him.
“Sir!” He looked around and she smiled up at him, her tawny eyes coaxing. “Forgive my rudeness. I fear the waiting has set me on edge. I’ll accept your offer of wine, and thanks.”
He smiled, forgiving her instantly, sat down and summoned the waiter to order champagne for her and brandy for himself. He told her that his name was Tom Butterfield and that he was a student at Lincoln’s Inn, but when he tried to find out who she was she grew cool and aloof, intimating that she was too well known to dare give her name. And she knew by the way he stared at her that he was trying to place her, wondering if she was Lady This or Countess That, and thinking that he was having a considerable adventure.
They sipped their drinks, chatting idly, and when a little herring-peddler came to the table to ask if she might sing a song for the lady they both agreed. The child was perhaps ten or eleven years old, a slovenly little waif with dirty fingers, snarled blonde curls and shoes worn through at the toes. But her voice was surprisingly clear and mature and there was about her a buoyant happy quality, refreshing as the taste of oranges on a stale tongue.
When she had done, Tom Butterfield munificently gave her several shillings, no doubt to impress her Ladyship. “You’ve a pretty voice, child. What’s your name, pray?”
“Nelly Gwynne, sir. And thank ye, sir.” She gave them both a grin, bobbed a curtsy, and was off through the crowd, stopping at another table across the room.
Amber now began to seem impatient. “What provoking creatures men are!” she exclaimed at last. “How the devil does he dare use me at this rate? I’ll see that he smokes for it, I warrant you!”
“He’s an ignorant blockhead that would keep your Ladyship awaiting,” agreed Tom Butterfield soberly, though his eyes no longer focused well and he looked half-asleep.
“Well, he’ll not do it again, you may be sure!” She began to gather up her belongings, muff, fan, and gloves. “Thank you for your drink, sir. I’ll go along now.”
She dropped one glove and bent slightly to pick it up. He stooped at the same time to get it for her and as he did so stared down into her bodice; he was weaving on his feet as he straightened, and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear it.
“Let me see you to your coach, madame.”
They went out the door, Tom Butterfield walking solemnly at her heels and ignoring the jocular hoots of his friends. “Where is your coach waiting, madame?”
“Why, I came in a hackney, sir,” she replied, implying that no lady going to an assignation would be so foolish as to ride in her own coach which might be seen and reported. “I believe there’s one for hire over there. Will you call it for me?”
“I protest, madame. So fine a person as yourself travelling about after nightfall in a hell-cart? Tush!” He waggled an admonitory finger at her. “I have my coach just around the corner. Pray, let me carry you to your home.” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.
They climbed in and the coach started off, jogging along Fleet Street to the Strand, and now Tom Butterfield sat in his own corner, hiccoughing gently from time to time and hanging onto the strap beside the window for support. Amber, afraid that he would fall asleep, finally said to him: “You still don’t know me, do you, Mr. Butterfield?”
“Why, no, madame.
“Well—you’ve smiled and bowed to me often enough at the play.”
“How now, have I then? Where were you sitting?”
“Where? In a box, of course!” No lady of quality sat elsewhere and her tone was indignant, but still teasing.
“When were you there last?”
“Oh, perhaps yesterday. Perhaps the day before. Don’t you recall a lady who smiled kindly on you? Lord, I never thought you’d forget me so quick—all those amorous tweers you cast.”
