Venus

by Jane Feather

  Nick watched her over the lip of his own goblet, guessing at her thoughts, just as he knew what Richard was thinking. Not only would she jeopardize her own position at court in such an instance, but she would also destroy all possibility of their own plan’s coming to fruition.

  As if echoing his thoughts, Richard spoke again. “As an actor, Polly, it will be not in your interests to imply that you have eyes only for Lord Kincaid. You will receive many other offers, which you may or may not choose to accept; but if you wish to further your ambition, then you will not wish to give the impression of one who has lost her heart and cannot be approached. There are those who might offer you marriage.” His eyebrows lifted. “You would not be the first female actor to marry into the nobility.”

  Polly struggled to master the stab of dismay at these words. She could not imagine wishing for a protector other than the one she had. But then, it was always possible that Lord Kincaid would weary of her. Why would he not? She had said that first night, when he had put her into the truckle bed in his room and she had first propounded her plan, that once she was established under his aegis, if he no longer wished to be her protector, then she would be able to find another one. It was the way these matters were conducted, as she had always known.

  The idea of marriage was so far beyond her sights, whatever De Winter might say, that she did not trouble to dwell upon the notion. Even if the world was not to know she was a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard, she would always know.

  She raised her head, smiling, and neither of her companions had an inkling of the effort it cost her. “It is just possible, my lord, that I may be successful enough at my profession to support myself. In which case, I would have no need of a husband and may take only those lovers who appeal to me.”

  “Let us drink to such an admirable goal,” De Winter said easily, raising his glass, exchanging a quick glance with Nick, who merely quirked an eyebrow.

  Nick drank the toast, wrestling with his own quite unjustified resentment. Without so much as a word to himself, De Winter had appropriated the task of planting in Polly’s head the seeds of her future role. It was a task that Nick thought should lie at his own door, but De Winter was behaving as if Polly were common property.

  In a sense she was, he admitted grimly to himself—inasmuch as she was the tool the faction would employ in their conspiracy against Buckingham, she belonged to the group. Clearly, it behooved him to keep his eye on the ultimate goal and concentrate on germinating the seeds planted by De Winter. Becoming sidetracked by emotion would serve no purpose and could, indeed, endanger the lives of them all.

  Chapter 9

  I will not be long absent, sweetheart,” Nicholas said, lifting a honeyed lock from where it lay across her breast. “I must return home to discover how matters are progressing with Margaret, and to find clean raiment. It has been three days since I was last seen alive by anyone but Richard, yourself, and the good Bensons.”

  Polly reached up a finger to trace the line of the finedrawn mouth. “You did send the Bensons’ lad with a message, so Margaret will not be afeard for you.” She smiled ruefully. “But I know it must come to an end, for all that I would it did not have to.”

  “I also.” He bent to kiss her, tasting that sweetness that had become so wondrously familiar. “But think not of an ending, only of a beginning.” Reluctantly, he pushed aside the bedcover, swinging his legs to the floor. “When I return I will take you shopping. You may harry the mercers like a plague in Egypt and set an army of sempstresses to work, for without a more alluring wardrobe, my flower, you will be ill equipped to face the world of your choosing.”

  Polly sat up, hugging her knees. Mercers and sempstresses conjured up a most heady image, one that she could not immediately grasp in all its magnificence. Mercers meant the buying of taffeta and velvet, damask and satin; embroidered petticoats, lace collars and ruffs; girdles and gloves and hose. “I think you should begone, sir, in order that you may return the sooner.”

  Nicholas gave a shout of laughter to see such joyful calculation in those green-brown eyes. The Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard was looking upon Elysian fields. “Petticoats of sarcenet,” he enticed gleefully. “Nightgowns of wool and velvet; a gown for every kirtle—”

  “Oh, begone, do!” begged Polly. “In your absence, I will make some drawings of the gowns I would wish made.”

  That pulled him up short. “You know what you would like?”

  “But of course,” she said simply. “If there is paper and quill and inkhorn, I will show you.” A smile touched her lips. “It is easier to draw than to write, my lord.”

  “It requires less learning, perhaps,” he said doubtfully, wondering how she could possibly know enough about the elegancies of a lady’s dress to have a sufficiently clear picture of her wants to present to a sempstress.

  “I learned much when I was under your sister’s roof,” she explained, grasping with little difficulty the reason for his hesitancy. “And yet more when I could steal away for an hour or so to watch the gentlewomen walking in the Strand. And also the not-so-gentle women.” An up-from-under look glimmering with mischief accompanied this addendum. “Since I belong to the realm of the latter, it may prove to have been a not unhelpful observation. Their finery appeared unexceptionable. But then, my tastes are but uninformed.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” murmured his lordship. “I suspect that there is very little of importance about which you are truly uninformed.”

  “Oh, my lord, but I must protest. You do me too much honor,” she simpered with the most grating titter, batting her eyelashes vigorously. “I feel sure you exaggerate.”

  Nick tucked his shirt into the waistband of his breeches. “Probably,” he agreed, giving provocation its own again. “But you must learn to accept compliments without questioning, regardless of their sincerity.” He fastened his doublet, shrugged into his coat, and adjusted the ruffs at his shirt sleeves. “I am heartily sick of these garments. I do not imagine I shall ever wish to wear them again.”

  Polly regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I cannot imagine what possible point there could be in paying compliments that are insincere.”

  “Oh, on occasion a very fine point can be made,” he informed her. “It is possible to make a compliment sound like an insult, my love. As you will learn.”

  “’Tis not an art I have the least interest in learning.” Polly thumped back on the pillows, pulling the quilt up to her nose.

  “In that case,” declared Nick cheerfully, “there seems little point in a shopping expedition.”

  “Why do you always have the last word?” Polly wailed, sitting up again.

  Nick could not help laughing. “Do not think to score against me, moppet. I have had many more years of experience than you, and my wits are fine-honed.”

  “But I may hone mine on your steel,” she suggested, making an admirably speedy recovery. “I know full well how keen and upstanding that steel can be.” Her eyes, gleaming suggestively, invested a seemingly innocent statement with a wealth of innuendo.

  Kincaid whistled in soft appreciation. That look, that tone, employed when she delivered some of the deliciously wicked lines penned by the most popular playwrights, would bring the house down. “I predict a great career for you, Mistress Wyat. If someone does not wring your neck first.” Crossing to the bed, he lifted her chin to plant a hard kiss on her mouth. “I must dine at home with Margaret, but I will return this afternoon, and we will visit the Exchange.”

  Polly pouted. “I do not care to dine alone.”

  “Then you must do without your dinner today,” was the callous response. Kincaid was not about to be fooled by an aggrieved pout more suited to an overindulged damsel of society’s upper echelons than to this hard-schooled wench, for whom an adequate dinner must at times have been the summit of the day’s ambition.

  A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth as she accepted this further defeat without protest. “I think I shall go fo
r a walk. I presume there is no one here of whom I must ask leave?” A hint of challenge lurked in her voice.

  Nicholas shook his head. “You know full well that you are the mistress here. But I would have you take a care. The streets are not entirely safe.”

  “You forget perhaps that I am of the streets,” Polly reminded. “I know well how to have a care.”

  Nick frowned. “You no longer look as if you are of the streets,” he said. “Your present dress does not fit that part. Walking alone, you could well present an attractive prize to one on the lookout for such spoils.”

  “Then it is possible that they might be surprised,” she countered. “I can employ the language and manners of the gutters as well as any, my lord, should the need arise.”

  “I cannot imagine why I thought you could hot,” said Kincaid, shaking his head in mock wonderment. “However, notwithstanding, I repeat: have a care.”

  “Yes, my Lord Kincaid,” she responded meekly, folding her hands, giving him a look of anxious innocence. “I will do just as you say.”

  Nick paused, knowing he must go, yet utterly seduced by her mischief, and the sensual promise in the glowing eyes. But if he postponed his departure, he would not leave today, and there was a world beyond these four walls, commitments he had made and must honor. “Until this afternoon,” he said, turning away from her disappointment before he yielded.

  Polly heard the parlor door click on his departure, and sighed. There had been a moment when she had thought he would stay, and the idyll would have lasted one more day. But since it was not to be, she would be wise to make the best of things. It was time to test this new life that had been gifted to her. She was mistress of her own lodgings, answerable to no one, free to go wheresoever she pleased. A day where there were no tasks to perform, no orders to obey, stretched before her; and the world outside awaited.

  She dressed rapidly, putting her pantofles over her pumps to protect them from the slushy streets, wrapped herself in her thick cloak, and hurried down the stairs.

  “What time will ye like to have dinner served, mistress?” Goodwife Benson came out of the kitchen as Polly reached the hall.

  The question took Polly aback. It was not a matter on which she was accustomed to being consulted, and in the last three days Nicholas had naturally been the one deferred to in such subjects. “Whenever it is convenient,” she said.

  Goodwife Benson looked at her shrewdly. “It is for you to say when it will be convenient, m’dear.”

  Polly nibbled her lip. “At noon, perhaps?”

  “At noon,” agreed the goodwife. “I’ve a fine pullet for ye, well dressed though I say so myself.” She turned back to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “Mind how you go, now. The ways are mighty treacherous after the snow.”

  “I will,” promised Polly, in a warm glow at a caring attention hitherto unknown to her.

  It did not take many minutes to convince her that walking was not a comfortable mode of progression in present conditions. Where the snow had melted, it rushed down the kennels, carrying filth with it to spill over onto the cobbles, leaving them thick with malodorous slime. Out of the sun, the snow remained in blackened and unsavory drifts, blocking the paths. There were few people on foot, and those there were were frequently bespattered by the mud and muck flung up from heedless horses’ hooves and disdainful carriage wheels. But she pressed on doggedly, determined to attain her goal of the Theatre Royal. This time she had no ulterior motive except to look upon the king’s playhouse and indulge in the daydreams that were now so close to fulfillment.

  It was a short walk along Drury Lane. Just as she reached her destination, a coach, arms emblazoned upon its panels, swept past her to come to a dramatic halt at the theatre steps. A clod of mud flying up from the wheels landed on Polly’s arm, splattering her liberally. In a fury, she assailed the coachman, who was in the act of climbing down from his box, castigating him roundly on his careless driving. Since she chose to do this in language with which the coachman would be familiar, it was not surprising that he should enter the argument in spirited fashion.

  “God’s good grace! What is going on!” An elegant voice preceded its owner’s head, appearing in the carriage window.

  “You have a most discourteous coachman, sir,” Polly said, switching her accent to one more suitable for discourse with so manifest a gentleman. “He drives his carriage in such a manner that no one is safe on the same street with him, and then has the impertinence to blame his victim!”

  George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was bereft of words for a moment as he took in the ravishing beauty before him. Never had he beheld such a diamond. Indignation glittered in a pair of magnificent eyes—like forest pools, he thought—flushed a perfect complexion with a delicate pink, stood out in every line of a matchless form. At the same time, he noticed that she was well, if modestly, dressed, and she spoke with a lady’s breeding. Except that if it had been she berating his coachman, then she knew well how to assume a different accent.

  “Your pardon, madame,” he managed, swinging open the carriage door, springing lightly to the ground. He bowed. “I pray you will permit me to make amends. If you would direct me to your lodging, I will convey you there myself.”

  Polly curtsied automatically as she examined the gentleman covertly. He was most magnificent, with three curling ostrich plumes to his hat, dyed red to match his wine-red velvet coat and breeches, a full-bottomed periwig upon his head, diamonds upon his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes. She raised her eyes to his face as she swam upward, and suffered a slight shock. It was not a pleasant face, although the expression was one of studied amiability—hard eyes under heavy, drooping lids; a thin mouth, with more than a hint of cruelty to it, beneath a long, pointed nose that reminded her of a hawk’s beak. It was the face of a cynic and a dissolute, and the examination to which she was being subjected was frankly calculating. Polly quite suddenly wished she were well away from his vicinity.

  “There is no need, sir,” she replied. “I live but a short distance and would prefer to walk.”

  “Oh, but you cannot do so,” he protested. “Allow me to present myself. George Villiers at your service, madame.”

  The name meant nothing to Polly, who had never heard the Duke of Buckingham referred to by his family name. She responded with a polite murmur and another curtsy before turning abruptly, walking off down the street.

  Buckingham stood motionless, his eyes riveted on the figure until she turned the corner from Drury Lane onto Long Acre. If she lived but a short distance from here, it should not be impossible to discover her address and identity. Such rare beauty would not go unremarked in the taverns and shops. He beckoned to his footboy.

  Polly, finding unaccountably that all desire to continue her walk was vanished, returned home by way of Bow Street. The enticing aroma of roasting fowl and a mug of buttered ale before the crackling luxury of her own fireside offered some measure of compensation, and she was sitting before the fire, wriggling her toes in its warmth, feeling completely in charity with the world, when she heard De Winter’s voice in the hall belowstairs.

  Jumping up, she went to the parlor door, appearing on the small landing as his lordship mounted the stairs. “Why, sir, are you come to visit? Nicholas is gone to his house.”

  “Then may I be permitted the conceit of thinking you might be glad of my company?” He smiled, bowing as he reached the landing.

  “’Tis no conceit, sir, but the truth.” She gestured to the parlor. “Pray come in and let me pour you wine.”

  “Y’are a most accomplished hostess, Mistress Wyat,” Richard said, smiling, as she took his hat and cloak.

  Polly hesitated, then said, “If you would care to join me for dinner, my lord, I would be very happy to have your company. Goodwife Benson has gone to some trouble to dress a fine pullet.”

  “Prettily said!” Laughing, he flicked her cheek with a careless finger. “I should be delighted. The prospect of the goodwife�
��s pullet quite sets my mouth to watering!”

  Thus it was that when Nicholas came hotfoot up the stairs into his mistress’s apartments, he found a cozy scene. The two diners were quite clearly upon the easiest of terms, and Nick was surprised by a most unjustified pang of what he could only recognize as jealousy. He knew that Richard would under no circumstances set up a flirtation with another man’s protégée, and even more vital, he knew that Richard would never lose sight of the greater goal. De Winter was a dedicated politician, committed to his country’s well-being; no personal whim would be permitted to intrude upon that commitment. Polly Wyat was necessary to the furtherance of that cause.

  Nevertheless, the ripple of Polly’s laughter, the provocative flash of her eyes as she responded to a sally, the flush of enjoyment painting her cheeks, twisted a malevolent skewer in his gut.

  “Oh, you are well come, Nicholas!” Polly sprang from her chair, running to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “How is Lady Margaret?” An imp of mischief danced across her face before she schooled both expression and posture to those of a devout sobriety. “She has not, I trust, found too much to aid the devil’s work in the past days?”

  “Minx!” declared Nicholas with some satisfaction, finding his moment of unease now fled into the realm of irrelevancy. “You have been amusing yourself, I see.”

  “Oh, famously,” she agreed, pulling him over to the fire. “Lord De Winter is a most entertaining companion.” She poured wine for the newcomer. “He has been telling me about fox hunting. I should like to learn to ride a horse.”

  “Then so you shall,” promised Nick, taking the proffered goblet with a smile of thanks. “When the weather improves.”