"Never mind, Amber. Don't try to explain yourself—I know more about it than you do, anyway. You're in love with three of us: the King, and Bruce—and me. And each one of us, I think, loves you. But you won't get much happiness from any of it—because you want more than we're willing to give. There's not one of us you can get hold of the way you got hold of that poor devil of a young captain—what was his name?—or the old dotard who willed you his money. And do you want to know why? I'll tell you. The King loves you—but no better than he's loved a dozen other women and will one day love a dozen more. No woman on earth can hurt him, because he depends on them for nothing but physical pleasure. His sister is the only woman he really loves—but that's neither here nor there so far as we're concerned. Bruce loves you— but there are other things he loves more. And now there's another woman he loves more. And last of all, darling—I love you too. But I've got no illusions about you. I know what you are and I don't care—so you'll never hurt me much either."
"Ye gods, Almsbury! Why should I want to hurt you—or anyone else? What the devil put that maggot into your head?"
"No woman's ever satisfied unless she knows she can hurt the man who loves her. Come, now, be honest—it's true, isn't it? You've always thought you could make me miserable, if you ever wanted to try, haven't you?" His eyes watched her steadily.
Amber smiled at him—the smile of a pretty woman who knows she is being admired. "Maybe I have," she admitted at last. "Are you sure I couldn't?"
For an instant he sat motionless, and then all at once he got to his feet; his white teeth were showing in a broad smile. "No, sweetheart, you couldn't." He stood and looked at her, his face serious again. "I'll tell you one thing, though—if there's any man on earth you could have married and been happy—it's me."
Amber stared at him, amazed, and then, with a little laugh, she stood up. "Almsbury! What in the devil are you talking about? If there's one man I could have married and been happy it's Bruce, and you know it—"
"You're wrong about that." But as she started to protest he began walking toward the door and she strolled along beside him. "I'll see you in the Drawing-Room tonight—and we'll raffle for that hundred pound you won from me yesterday."
She laughed. "We can't, Almsbury! I spent it this morning —for a new gown!" And then, just as he went out the door, she laughed again. "Imagine us married!"
He gave her a wave of his hand, without turning, but as he disappeared a thoughtful puzzled frown drew at her eyebrows. Almsbury and me—married. The idea had never occurred to her before. She had never wanted to be married to anyone but Bruce Carlton and it still seemed incredible that she could have been married happily to anyone else—even Almsbury. But how strange he should have said that—Almsbury, who thought no better of matrimony than did any other man of sense and wit.
Oh. well—she shrugged her shoulders and went back to complete her toilet. What use was it thinking about that now?
Besides, she had matters of importance to attend to. Durand would be there soon to dress her hair, and Madame Rouvière was coming to consult about her gown for the King's birthday ball. She must decide whom to invite to her next supper— whether she should ask the French or the Spanish ambassador, and which one was likely to prove more generous in his gratitude. Should she ask Castlemaine, and let her steam all evening with jealous envy, or should she merely ignore her? Charles certainly would not care—nor would he leave the party at Barbara's behest as he had been known to do, several years ago. It pleased Amber immeasurably to have in her own hands the settling of such issues—virtual life and death for the great or small of the Palace.
And now, since the day was evidently going to be a fine one, she decided to go driving in Hyde Park in her new calèche— a tiny two seated carriage, precarious to sit in, but nevertheless showing the rider at great advantage from head to foot. She had a new suit of gold velvet and mink-tails and she intended to handle the reins herself—the prospect was exciting, for there was no doubt she would create a great sensation.
When Frances Stewart, now Duchess of Richmond, arrived back in town there was wild excitement at Court. Once more the whole pattern of existence was broken into pieces and must be put together again—politicians, mistresses, even lackeys and footmen began to wonder and to scheme and juggle, hoping to save themselves no matter what happened. At the Groom Porter's Lodge they were betting that now Frances was a married woman she would have better sense than when she had been a virgin—they expected that she would soon occupy the place which had always been hers for the taking. And so, when she established herself at Somerset House and began to give vast entertainments, everyone went —not for Frances's sake, but for their own. The King, however, much to their surprise, was never present and seemed unaware even that she had returned.
If Frances was troubled by this show of indifference she concealed it well. But she was by no means the only woman whose position depended upon the King's favour who had cause for worry.
When Barbara came back from the country at the end of the year she had found the Countess of Danforth occupying her old place and two actresses flaunting his Majesty's infatuation before all the Town. Moll Davis had left the stage and was occupying a handsome house he had furnished for her, and Nell Gwynne was not secretive about her frequent back stairs visits to the Palace. Barbara let it be known that the King begged her every day to take him back again, but that she scorned him as a man and would have nothing from him but money. In her heart, though, she was sick and afraid; she began to pay her young men great sums.
Charles, hearing of it, smiled a little sadly and shrugged his wide shoulders. "Poor Barbara. She's growing old."
But it was not only the women who furnished fodder for gossip. The Duke of Buckingham, too, continued to make himself conspicuous. Early in the new year the Earl of Shrewsbury was finally persuaded by his relatives that he must fight Buckingham and so he did, and was killed. After that the Duke took Lady Shrewsbury home with him to live, and when his patient little wife objected that such an arrangement was intolerable, he called a coach and sent her off to her father.
This amused Charles who said that his Grace could not possibly have devised a scheme to ruin him quicker with the Commons. But Buckingham had temporarily lost interest in the Commons and did not care what they thought of him— he could be faithful to his own plans no longer than to a woman.
Other events, less sensational but of more importance, were happening at the same time. Clarendon, though much against his will, had finally been forced by the King to flee the country, and all his daughter's enemies took gleeful advantage of his disgrace to slight her. But Anne bore their envious contempt with hauteur and indifference, and managed to hold her own court together by a superior cleverness and determination. She told herself that these fools and their jealous pettifogging could mean nothing to her, for one day a child of hers would sit upon England's throne—with every passing year the Queen's barrenness made it more sure that she was right.
When Clarendon had gone his government was replaced by the Cabal, so called because the first letters of their five names spelled the word. It was made up of Sir Thomas Clifford, the one honest gentleman among them and hence suspected of wearing a false front; Arlington, who was his friend but jealous of him; Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. They shared a common hatred of Clarendon and fear of his possible return to power, and an almost equal hatred of York. Otherwise they were divided among themselves. Each distrusted and was afraid of every other—and the King trusted none of them, but was satisfied that at last he had a government which was completely his tool. He was cleverer than any of them, or all of them together.
And so they set out to govern the nation.
England signed an alliance with Holland, by means of which Charles succeeded in compromising the Dutch so that when he was ready to fight them again they would have no chance of getting France to help them out. He intended, in fact, to have France on his side in the next war and his correspo
ndence with his sister was now directed toward that end. The Dutch pact, together with secret treaties signed recently with both France and Holland, had given England the balance of power in Europe—and though accomplished by the grossest political chicanery it was typical of the King's methods. For his charm and easy-going nature were a convenient shield, hiding from all but the most astute the fact that he was a cynical, selfish, and ruthlessly practical opportunist.
It was the Earl of Rochester who said that the three businesses of the age were politics, women, and drinking—and the first two, at least, were never quite separate.
Charles intensely disliked having a woman meddle in state affairs, but he found it impossible to keep them out. Accordingly he accepted, as he usually did, what he could not change. For as soon as a woman had attracted his attention or was known to be his mistress she was besieged on all sides—as the Queen never was—by petitions for help, offers of money in return for bespeaking a favour, proposals to ally herself with one or another of the Court factions. Amber had been involved in a dozen different projects before she was at Whitehall a fortnight. And as the months went by she wound herself tighter and closer into the web.
Buckingham, from the night of her presentation at Court, had seemed friendly—at least he always sided with her against Lady Castlemaine. Amber still mistrusted and despised him, but she took care he should not know it, for though he would make only a dubious friend he was sure to be a dangerous enemy. And she thought it less to her disadvantage to have him as the former. But for several months they made no demands upon each other, and neither made any test of the other's good faith.
Then, one morning in late March, he paid her an unexpected call. "Well, my lord?" said Amber, somewhat surprised. "What brings you abroad so early?" It was not quite nine, and his Grace was seldom to be seen out of bed before midday.
"Early? This isn't early for me—it's late. I've not yet been abed. Have you a glass of sack? I'm damned dry."
Amber sent for some sharp white wine and anchovies and while they waited for it to be brought the Duke flung himself into a chair next the fireplace and began to talk.
"I've just come from Moor Fields. Gad, you never saw anything like it! The 'prentices have pulled down a couple of houses, Mother Cresswell is yowling like a woman run mad, and the whores are throwing chamber-pots at the 'prentices' heads. They say they're coming next to pull down the biggest whorehouse of 'em all." He gave a wave of his hand. "Whitehall."
Amber laughed and poured out a glass of wine for each of them. "And I doubt not they'll uncover more strumpets here than they'd ever find in Moor Fields."
Buckingham reached into a coat-pocket and took out a wrinkled sheet of paper. It was printed in careless uneven lines, the fresh black ink was smeared and several thumb-prints showed. He handed it to her.
"Have you seen this?"
Amber read it over hastily.
It bore the title, "Petition of the Poor Whores to my Lady Castlemaine"; and that was what it pretended to be, though judging by the spelling and satirical content it was almost certainly the work of some person living close to the Court. In coarse broad terms it called upon Barbara, as the chief whore in England, to come to the aid of the beleaguered profession she had helped to glorify. Amber realized at once that this must be another of the Duke's whimsical inventions to plague his cousin, for she knew that they had been quarreling again, and she was both pleased to have Barbara humiliated and relieved that she herself had escaped.
She smiled at him, handing it back. "Has she seen it yet?"
"If she hasn't, she soon will. They're all over London. Vendors are hawking 'em outside the 'Change and on every street corner. I saw a tiler laugh to read it till he almost fell off the roof he was laying. Now, what kind of sorry devil would plague her Ladyship with such a libel as that?"
Amber gave him a wide-eyed look. "Lord, your Grace! Who, indeed? I can't think—can you?" She sipped her wine, savouring the salt taste of the anchovies.
For a moment they looked at each other, and then both of them grinned. "Well," said his Grace, "it's no matter, now it's been done. I suppose it's come to your ears his Majesty is making her a present of Berkshire House?"
Amber's black eyebrows twisted. "Yes, of course. She makes mighty sure it comes to everyone's ears, I'll warrant you. And what's more, she says he's going to create a duchy for her."
"Your Ladyship seems annoyed."
"Me—annoyed? Oh, no, my lord," protested Amber with polite sarcasm. "Why should I be annoyed, pray?"
"No reason at all, madame. No reason at all." He looked expansive and pleased with himself, enjoying the warmth from the fire, the good wine in his stomach, and some private knowledge of his own.
"I'd be much less annoyed if he was giving Berkshire House to me! And as for a duchy—there's nothing on earth I want so much!"
"Don't worry. One day you'll have it—when he wants to get rid of you, as someday he will."
She looked at him for a moment in silence. "Do you mean to say, my lord—" she began at last.
"I do, madame. She's through here at Whitehall. She's done for good and all. I wouldn't give a fig for the interest she's got left at Court."
But Amber was still skeptical. For eight years Barbara had ruled the Palace, interfered in state business, bullied her friends and tormented her enemies. She seemed as permanent and inalterable as the very bricks of the building.
"Well," said Amber. "I hope you're right. But only last night I saw her in the Drawing-Room and she said that Berkshire House should be proof to all the world his Majesty still loves her."
Buckingham gave a snort. "Still loves her! He doesn't even lie with her any more. But of course she hopes we'll all believe her tale. For if the world thinks the King still loves her—why, that's as good as if he did, isn't it? But I know better. I know a thing or two the rest of you don't."
Amber did not doubt that, for his Grace had incalculable means of keeping himself well-posted. Little passed at Whitehall, of small or great importance, which escaped his drag-net of spies and informers.
"Whatever your Grace knows," said Amber, "I hope is true."
"True? Of course it's true! Let me tell you something, madame—I'm the means by which her Ladyship's complete and final downfall was accomplished." He seemed smug now and satisfied with himself, as though he had performed an act of unselfish service to the nation.
Amber looked at him narrowly. "I don't understand you, sir."
"Then I'll speak more plainly. I knew Old Rowley's wish to be rid of her—but I knew also the kind of bargain she'd try to drive. It was very simple: I merely told him that the love-letters she's been threatening to publish were burnt many years ago."
"And he believed you?" Amber was now inclined to think that he had ruined Barbara, duped the King, and was maneuvering to take some advantage of her.
"He not only believed me—it's the truth. I saw 'em burnt myself. In fact, I advised her to do it!" Suddenly he slapped his knee and laughed, but Amber continued to watch him carefully, not at all convinced. "She's in a blazing fury. She says she'll have my head for that one day. Well, she can have it if she can get it—but Old Rowley's mighty well pleased with me just now—and I've got a mind to die with my head on. Let her scheme and plan how she may—her fangs have been drawn and she's helpless. You're looking somewhat cynical, madame. It can't be you think I'm lying?"
"I can believe you told him about the letters—but I can't believe he won't take her back again; he always has before. Why should he give her that house and promise her a duchy if he had done with her? It runs through the galleries he even had to borrow money to buy Berkshire."
"I'll tell you why, madame. He did it because he's softhearted. When he's had all he wants of a woman he can never bring himself to throw her aside. Oh, no. He must always deal fairly with each of 'em, recognize their brats whether they're his or not, pay 'em off with great sums of money to keep 'em from being slighted by the malicious world. Well, m
adame—I should think this would be good news to you. It was never my opinion you and Barbara Palmer had overmuch fondness for each other."
"I hate her! But after all the years she's been in power—I can scarce believe it—"
"She can scarce believe it herself. But she'll get accustomed to it before long. I was tired of her vapourings—and so I took steps to be rid of her. She'll hang on here at Whitehall, perhaps for years, but she'll never count for anything again. For once Old Rowley is thoroughly tired of anyone, whether man or woman, he has no further use for 'em. It's our best protection against the Chancellor. Now, madame, it's occurred to me that this leaves a place wide open for some clever woman to step into—"
Amber returned his steady stare. No ally of Buckingham's was much to be envied. The Duke engaged in politics for nothing but his own amusement. He had no principles and no serious purpose but followed only his temporary whims, rejecting friendship, honour, and morality. He was bound to no one and to nothing. But in spite of all that he had a great name, a fortune still one of the largest in England, and high popularity with the rich merchants, the Commons, and the people of London. Even more persuasive, he had a streak of vindictive malice which, though not always persistent, could do vast damage at one impulsive stroke. Amber had long ago made up her mind about him.
"And suppose someone does take her Ladyship's place?" she inquired softly.
"Someone will, I'll pass my word for that. Old Rowley's been governed by a woman since he first took suck from his wetnurse. And this time, madame, the woman might be you. There's no one in England just now with so happy an opportunity. Those gentlemen who are keeping company with the Duchess of Richmond these days are but washing the blackamoor. She'll never please his Majesty long—that empty-headed giggling baggage. I'll venture my neck on it. Now, I'm an old dog at this, madame, and understand these matters very well—and I've come to offer my services in your behalf."