by Jane Feather
“Oh, I should tell you: I had a most strange encounter this morning,” Polly said thoughtfully, remembering for the first time the man in wine-red velvet. A little shiver prickled her spine, but she could not really imagine why. There had been nothing sinister in his manner or words.
“Yes?” Nick prompted. “A strange encounter with whom?”
“It was outside the playhouse. His carriage splashed me!” The statement was underpinned with remembered resentment. “I was having a fight with his coachman …”
“You were what?” interrupted Nick at this somewhat horrifying image.
“Well, I was telling him exactly what I thought of him,” Polly elucidated. “And in no uncertain terms, when this gentleman climbed out of the carriage.”
“He might well,” murmured Nick, picturing the scene. “I might have shown a degree of interest myself if my coachman was engaged on my time in a verbal brawl with a foul-mouthed wench.”
“If he had driven with a little more consideration, he would not have smothered me with mud!” Polly retorted tartly. “Is one not entitled to object in such a circumstance?”
“There are ways … and ways … of doing so,” Nick said, carefully circumspect. “So what did the gentleman say when he had climbed out of the carriage to find himself confronted by your outrage?”
Polly frowned. “He was most apologetic and desired to drive me home. He was most insistent.” She shrugged. “Maybe that is not in itself strange, but there was something about the way he looked at me.”
Nicholas felt himself stiffen. He could well imagine how the unknown would have looked at Polly—with unbridled lust. He had seen it often enough; but then, so had Polly, and she usually had little difficulty dealing with it. So what had disturbed her particularly this time? “You did not accept his offer?” It was a rhetorical question.
“I think that had I not been so close to home, I might have found it difficult to gainsay him,” Polly said frankly, putting her finger at last on what had so disturbed her. The gentleman had given the impression of one who possessed both the power and the inclination to take for himself what was not freely rendered.
“I told you to have a care,” Nick said quietly.
“But this was not one of those of whom I was supposed to be careful,” Polly pointed out. “There were arms emblazoned on the panels of his coach. He was no footpad or street rogue. I would not have been afeard of such as they.”
“You did not discover his name?” De Winter put in.
“Yes … he offered an introduction in a most proper manner. I did not return the courtesy but walked away. I imagine he must have thought me sadly lacking in manners.”
“If you were accosted, I do not think you were obliged to be mannerly.” Nick offered reassurance.
“But you could say that it was I who did the accosting,” Polly said with ruthless candor, this matter of manners seeming suddenly to assume an inordinate importance.
De Winter prompted again. “What name did he give you?”
“Oh, yes … Villiers,” she said, still frowning. “George Villiers. I think that was it.”
“Buckingham!” Nick’s eyes met De Winter’s over the honey-hued head, and read the warning. He mastered the mixed emotions of surprise, anger, and unease. “Well, it appears that you made the acquaintance of His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham, moppet.” Tipping her off his knee, he stood up, sauntering over to the table to refill his goblet. “You will undoubtedly meet him again when you become one of the king’s company. Indeed, you may well perform in one of his plays. He is considered an accomplished playwright.”
“I did not care for him,” Polly informed them bluntly. “I had liefer not meet him again.”
“Oh, you are being fanciful,” Nick said with a feigned easiness. “He has the king’s ear, my dear, and is a most important gentleman. You should be flattered rather than alarmed to have caught his eye.”
“I had somehow formed the impression that he is no friend of yours?” Polly gave him a searching look.
Nick shrugged. “He is an acquaintance with whom I am on good terms, as is Richard. Only a fool wouldjtnake an enemy of Buckingham. Is it not so, Richard?”
“Most certainly,” De Winter agreed, blandly smiling. “When you meet him in different circumstances, Polly, you will see him in a different light.”
“But he will surely remember the manner in which I addressed his coachman, and the fact that I treated his introduction with less than courtesy.” Polly nibbled her thumbnail worriedly. “And if he is so important a figure, it is surely a disadvantage to stand in his bad graces.”
“If that were so, it would be a disadvantage. But I think you may safely assume that you have merely piqued Buckingham’s interest.” Nick put his goblet on the table and smiled reassuringly. “Fetch your cloak now. If we are to go shopping before sunset, we had best make a move.”
The prospect diverted her, as he had hoped. She ran downstairs to retrieve her cloak from the kitchen, where Goodwife Benson had taken it for brushing.
“An unfortunate meeting,” De Winter observed.
“Damnably! If she has taken him in so much dislike, I fail to see how we are to achieve her cooperation.” Nick paced restlessly.
“Wait until she has embraced her ambition, my friend, and has become a member of those circles where Buckingham is so courted and adored. She will see him in a different light then. She will, I am certain, respond to his flattering advances, as all the other fair frailties have done, and continue to do so. He is too grand a prize to reject.”
Nicholas winced at this cynicism, but could not find it in his heart to disagree. There was no reason to suppose that Polly, once her enchanting ingenuousness had been superseded by the sophistication of the courtier, would prove to be any less worldly than any other lady of the stage with her sights set on an assured and comfortable future in the hands of a wealthy and influential protector. It was to this end, after all, that he was instructing her in the devious tricks of the world she would enter.
“And once she is safely ensconced in Buckingham’s bed,” De Winter continued with a calm that Nick found supremely irritating, “you will hold fast the chains of gratitude and pleasure, so that she is never far from your bed, where you may glean what you will. ’Tis not unusual, after all, for a lady to spread her favors.”
“Such a neat and pleasing plan,” Nick said. Richard did not miss the sardonic undertone, but he refrained from the obvious comment that the plan had been Nick’s originally.
“I am ready!” Polly bounced into the room. “Where did I put my drawings? Oh, there they are.” She scooped up the sheets from the sideboard. “You should know, sir, that Lord De Winter has been most helpful with the designs. Our morning was not spent entirely in idle pleasure.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Nick laughed, pushing away the sour taste of the last half hour. “D’ye care to accompany us, Richard?”
“If you think I might be useful, I should be glad to.”
As the afternoon wore on, Nick found himself immensely grateful for Richard’s support. Polly flitted from shop to shop in an ecstasy of indecision. One minute she would be fingering a bolt of white damask, the next had abandoned the eager mercer in favor of one of his competitors who had a flame satin on show. She stood ankle-deep in a river of unrolled bolts, exclaiming over the flowered sarcenet or the mulberry wool, before a tall black beaver hat with white plumes caught her eye in the milliner’s across the court and she was off again.
“Think you ’tis perhaps time to take charge?” De Winter asked Nick gently, after Polly, having discarded countless hats, had succeeded in reducing the milliner to a state of gibbering anxiety.
“I suppose so,” Nick replied with a regretful smile. “But seldom have I enjoyed another’s pleasure so. It is a shame to bring the play to an end.”
“But take pity on the poor mercers and milliners,” chuck led Richard. “They have given of their best, and so far not a single purch
ase has been made.”
Nick nodded, squared his shoulders, and entered the fray. “The felt copintank and the beaver,” he said with brisk decision. “The muslin headpiece with the satin ribbons, and the lace mantilla.”
“Yes, sir. A pleasure, sir.” The relieved milliner smiled radiantly. “If I may say so, an admirable choice.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Polly said doubtfully. “I had thought to purchase the gauze scarf rather than the mantilla.”
“Another time you shall do so,” Nick said. “Let us return to the mercer’s where you saw the damask.” After giving instructions for the delivery of the hats, he ushered the reluctant Polly out of the shop.
“Oh, only see those boots!” Polly exclaimed, just as they had reached his goal. “They are of the softest leather.” She turned toward the shoemaker.
“Later,” said Nicholas, holding on to her arm with viselike fingers. “First we are going in here.” De Winter, shoulders shaking, followed them inside, where the mercer greeted them in some trepidation, having only just managed to roll up all the bolts that had been previously inspected and found wanting.
On this occasion, however, he had no need to worry. The indecisive young lady was put in a chair, and the two gentlemen, on the basis of her earlier preferences and their own knowledge of prevailing fashion, proceeded to choose white damask and green taffeta to be made up into kirtles, and scarlet velvet and amber satin for the daygowns to be worn over them. Mulberry wool would make a warm nightgown to be worn within doors. Warm twilled saye was chosen for two of the three petticoats that would give fullness to the kirtles, silk sarcenet for the third petticoat, which would be displayed when she lifted her kirtle for walking.
Polly sat, listening as these matters were discussed and dispositions made. In truth, she was not sorry to be excused the final decision making, since the wealth of choice had set her head to reeling, and Nick and De Winter appeared remarkably well informed about the necessities of female attire, not excluding lace edgings for the sleeves of her smocks, which would be displayed beneath the loose, elbow-length sleeves of the gowns.
“That should suffice for the moment,” Nicholas said finally. “It is hardly a complete wardrobe, but we can decide on your further needs at leisure.”
Polly’s jaw dropped. It seemed impossible that one could possibly need more. The materials were packaged, handed to the coachman, and a visit was paid to the shoemaker, where she got, in addition to her boots of Spanish leather, a pair of the most elegant shoes she had ever seen. They had heels that were all of an inch and a half high, and real silver buckles.
“Is it possible to walk in such things?” Polly regarded them with some disfavor. Elegant they may be; practical they were not.
“You will learn,” Nick told her. “All that remains now is the corset.”
“Nay!” Polly exclaimed, stung at the last into mutiny. “I have no need of such a garment. They pinch most dreadfully, and one cannot breathe! The lady where Prue was in service was always swooning away, and the bones cut her skin to ribbons, Prue said.”
De Winter and Nicholas exchanged looks. While a lady might manage without a corset in private, she could not appear at any fashionable scene without them, and most definitely not on the stage. “I do not know how reliable an informant Prue may be on such matters,” Nick said dryly.
Polly’s eyes flashed defiance. “I will not wear it even if you buy it, so you will be wasting your money!”
“I see.” Nicholas shrugged. He would leave that battle to the combined forces of Thomas Killigrew and ambition. “There seems little more to say on the subject.”
Polly regarded him suspiciously. It had been a ready capitulation, but his expression was bland, and when she glanced at De Winter, she saw the expression mirrored there.
“Come, let us to the sempstress to put this work in hand,” Nick declared as if the preceding moment of potential awkwardness had not taken place.
It was as well to be as gracious in victory as Nick was in defeat, Polly decided, offering her bewitching smile. “I am quite overcome by your generosity, sir. I do not know what I have done to merit it.”
Nicholas looked down at her, his own smile a trifle twisted. “Do you not, Polly? That seems remarkably unperspicacious in you.”
Polly was accustomed now to the manifestations of desire, both Nick’s and her own, just as she was accustomed to the light tenor of their converse; but this that she saw in his face, and could feel reflected in her own, was quite different. She was aware of the familiar direct physical responses—the tightening in her belly, the sudden jarring in her loins—but much more powerful was the feeling that she was losing herself in his eyes, and his smile; that there was a secret he held that he would have her share, that he knew she did share but had not yet acknowledged. Her heart speeded. She took an involuntary step toward him as if the hustle and bustle of the Royal Exchange had vanished under a magician’s wand.
Richard De Winter silently cursed the vagaries of the human heart. It was as he had suspected. They were both bewitched, at this moment both inhabiting some charmed circle, rapt in the wondrous discovery of shared love’s benediction. “When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind.” Master John Dryden’s lines came to mind, troublingly apposite.
“It grows late,” he said. “If the sempstress is to be visited and instructed before the day is done—”
“Aye.” Nick shook his head as if to dispel confusion and took Polly’s hand. “A timely reminder, Richard. Come, moppet. You must test your drawings on an expert.” He bundled her up the carriage steps, into the dim interior, his voice briskly cheerful as if that moment had never occurred. But she knew that it had, just as she knew what it meant.
This was a relationship that had had its roots in expediency. She had intended to use Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, for her own ends—use without deception, certainly, since she had never been less than honest about what she wanted from him. He had brought her to the acknowledgment of desire, the understanding of the power of passion and the delight of its fulfillment. But she had still thought of him as fulfilling also the necessary role of the protector/patron without whom she could not achieve her ambition. The sensual joys of their love nest were a bonus.
Now, it seemed that the priorities were reversed. Any help he might offer her in the achievement of her ambition was the bonus—one that had nothing to do with this overwhelming surge of joyous love she felt when they had exchanged that look.
What she did not know was that Lord Kincaid had reached exactly the same conclusion, but from the different standpoint of his own planned deception.
Chapter 10
Thomas Killigrew received Lord Kincaid’s message while he was at his breakfast, some three days after the shopping expedition at the Royal Exchange. It was a message not unlike many the manager of the king’s company had received in the past: A nobleman had under his protection a girl desirous of gracing the stage. Would Master Killigrew do him the kindness of seeing the aspirant and judging for himself whether she could be so employed? Lord Kincaid himself ventured to suggest that once Killigrew laid eyes upon her, he would be captivated. This message offered a choice of meeting place—either at the young lady’s lodgings, or at the playhouse, where Lord Kincaid would bring Mistress Wyat at a time convenient for Master Killigrew.
Master Killigrew drank deep of his ale. He was on friendly terms with Kincaid, who had a lively wit and, while he eschewed the ultimate extravagancies of the court, could never be labeled a dull dog. The king held him in esteem, although he was by no means one of the favorites—did not put himself out to be so, Killigrew reflected. Not one for the groveling and simpering that marked the truly obsequious courtier. He took pleasure in the play, also; was fast friends with John Dryden, and was presumably well aware of what qualities were indispensable in a female actor. They were not qualities possessed by all mistresses, although they were the qualities that made a woman a superlative mistress, Tom thought on a s
ardonic chuckle. Those qualities had led their owners into many a noble bedchamber; in more than a few instances, to the altar and a countess’s coronet.
He pondered his response before deciding that he would see the girl on her own ground first. The stage could terrify a novice initially. If he saw any promise in her, then he would try her out on the boards. A message to the effect that Master Killigrew would do himself the honor of waiting upon Lord Kincaid and his protégée at three in that afternoon was dispatched to the address at Drury Lane.
Nicholas had not told Polly that he had at last taken the long-awaited step. It seemed to him that the less time she had for nervous anticipation, the calmer she would be when the moment came. For reasons based, as he was reluctantly obliged to accept, upon a mixture of pride and love, he would have her appear at her very best. The white damask kirtle and scarlet velvet gown had been delivered with a speed that said much for the skill and application of the sempstress and her apprentices. It was no great work, that afternoon, to persuade Polly into her new finery, although she offered halfhearted protest that, since there was no one to see and admire, it seemed rather a waste.
“And am I no one?” queried Nick, leaning his shoulders against the mantel, watching her preening antics with both amusement and satisfaction.
“Do not be foolish,” Polly chided, frowning into the crystal mirror on the tiring table. “Is the collar pinned aright? It is not easy to do for oneself.”
“I shall have to hire a maid for you,” Nick commented, standing back to give proper attention to the matter of the collar. “If I just move this pin … like so … There, perfect.”
“You are a more than accomplished maid, my lord,” Polly said easily, assuming that he had spoken in jest. She adjusted the lace frills at the wrists of her smock and smoothed down the fluted pleats of the damask kirtle revealed by the velvet gown, which hung open at the front, the two halves caught up at the sides.
