Venus

by Jane Feather

  It seemed entirely reasonable to him that, Kincaid having served his purpose by introducing her to the stage, she should now be looking around for a more powerful protector, one who could perhaps offer her greater prospects of advancement. Such a beauty could do much better for herself than a Yorkshire baron of moderate wealth and influence. Perhaps it was time for one who could offer her almost anything she might desire to press his suit.

  Polly felt the duke’s approach as he came up behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to lift, her skin crawled, and she could barely repress a shudder. Why did the man continue to have this effect upon her? Nick had introduced her to him when he had come backstage after her debut at Moorfields, but he had been one of many and it had been easy enough to keep him at a distance. Since then, he had appeared at the Theatre Royal, watching rehearsals and attending every performance. But then, so had many others. On Wednesday, here at court, he had been the soul of politeness and consideration, showing her a smilingly attentive countenance; yet she could not bear his proximity.

  For some reason, Nick did not like to hear her talk of her aberrational reaction to a man universally known for his charm; indeed, when she had done so, he had accused her sharply of being fanciful. So now she kept her thoughts to herself, struggling for a neutral courtesy whenever she was in the duke’s ken. But it was some considerable struggle.

  “Your performance last night, Mistress Wyat, transcended anything I have seen upon the stage.” His Grace bowed low before her.

  “You do me too much honor, my lord duke.” Polly sank into her curtsy, eyes demurely lowered. “With such a character as Isabella, it would be a poor actor, indeed, who failed to do justice to the part.”

  “Mr. Dryden must be honored,” murmured the duke, taking her hand, raising her from the curtsy. “I can only hope you will grace my own poor efforts as dramatist. It must now be the ambition of all playwrights to produce a vehicle for your brilliance.”

  Polly tried to withdraw her hand, but his grip tightened. A smile played over the thin lips as he said softly, “Why would you run from me, bud? Do my compliments offend you?”

  Polly managed to produce a light laugh, a tiny shrug of her slender shoulders. “How should they, sir? An actor must needs have applause for survival. It is the very staff of life for us!” She let her hand lie, limp and unresponsive, in his, but her eyes sought escape. They met the steady regard of Richard De Winter, standing some ten paces away. Her gaze signaled him frantically; with a word of excuse to those around him, he sauntered casually across to her.

  “Why, Lord De Winter,” Polly said, as if surprised at his arrival. “I had not seen you here earlier.” She could not make her curtsy with her hand held fast in Buckingham’s grip, and this time her tug was rewarded.

  “I have but just arrived,” Richard said calmly, carrying her fingers to his lips in an elaborate salute. “I would congratulate you on your performance as Isabella. Never has the part been played with more wit and life.”

  “The credit is Mr. Killigrew’s,” Polly demurred, drawing imperceptibly closer to Richard, as if he would shield her from the duke. “I merely follow instruction.”

  “A man could only be gratified by such obedience,” murmured the duke, taking snuff. “I can find it in my heart to envy Thomas. Are you as submissive with your protector, Mistress Wyat? Lord Kincaid is, indeed, a fortunate man. I trust your compliance is amply rewarded? There are those who would be most eager to rectify any omissions.”

  Her skin crept, as if slugs trailed stickily down her spine, under his mocking gaze, the delicately taunting tone that nonetheless made no attempt to disguise the naked hunger of voice and expression. The offer was as clearly made as it was possible to be, without overt crudity, and her eyes flew to Richard, desperately seeking rescue.

  “I would add my own assurance of that fact, Buckingham,” he said affably, thus making of the particular a general pleasantry. “Mistress Wyat must grow fatigued with all the hearts laid before her feet. It becomes tedious, does it not?” He smiled blandly at Polly.

  “Ah, never tedious, sir,” she responded, once more in charge of herself. Her eyes sparkled roguishly as she dropped them both another curtsy. “I would have a carpet of hearts, had I my way.”

  “Cruel maiden!” De Winter threw his hands up in mock horror. “Will you offer no quarter, then?”

  “None, sir,” she replied promptly. “I feed upon adulation, and without it will shrivel and die.”

  “Definitely a fate to be avoided.” The light tones were Kincaid’s. Polly controlled the impulse to whirl ’round, to greet his arrival with the warmth and relief that she felt. Instead, she merely looked over her shoulder at him with a cool smile. “We must all ensure that you have an ample diet,” he said, bowing gracefully.

  Polly’s mouth opened on a mischievous retort, but before it could be uttered, a footman appeared with the statement that His Majesty wished for the pleasure of Mistress Wyat’s company in his Presence chamber. It was not an unusual request. The king frequently withdrew from these large gatherings and had the company he chose brought to him. But Mistress Wyat had not quite managed to forget the Dog tavern, or her time as kitchen miad in the Kincaid household. Private audiences with the king were not consonant with those memories. Her eyes flew in momentary panic to Nicholas.

  He smiled lazily, as if he had not read her message. “It would seem that you are to receive adulation from the highest quarter in the land. Do not let the more humble of your admirers keep you, my dear Polly.”

  The panic faded. Beneath the level tones, the easy words, lay instruction, grounding her again. All feelings—including fear and unease—must be kept hidden beneath a light mockery, and she must expect no open assistance from Nick in public. Sincerity was a vice, overt expression of feelings the mark of the unsophisticated, trust the folly of the naive. The lesson had been drummed into her often enough, and she had promised to follow it.

  “Permit me to offer you my escort, Mistress Wyat.” Buckingham, who had been about to withdraw from the arena once Kincaid had appeared on the scene, now seized the opportunity afforded by his position as king’s favorite. He could accompany the lady without invitation—a privilege that neither Kincaid nor De Winter could assume.

  Polly put up her chin, smiled faintly, and laid her hand upon the duke’s brocaded sleeve. “How kind in you, my lord duke. I shall be eternally grateful. I am as yet unaccustomed to these august surroundings, so must depend upon the support and guidance of those who are.”

  Buckingham felt a disquieting stab. Could she possibly be making game of him? It was inconceivable; yet she was radiating something that did not sit easy with him. His eyes skimmed Kincaid’s expression; it was quite neutral. He looked down at Polly’s face, turned up to meet his scrutiny with a blandly inquiring smile. The huge forest pools of her eyes offered no clue as to the thoughts behind that wide, alabaster brow. But he was overwhelmed again by her beauty, catching his breath under the assault of a lusting desire greater than any he had yet experienced.

  Polly read the look in his eyes. Only with the greatest effort was she able to control her instinctive recoil, as revulsion crystallized into fear at the certainty that this was a man who took what he wanted—and he wanted her. Her fingers trembled slightly as they rested on his arm, her cheeks lost a little of their color, but her voice was clear and strong as she bade a polite farewell to Kincaid and De Winter, and went off on the duke’s arm.

  “Buckingham is hooked,” De Winter observed in quiet satisfaction. “’Tis time to play the line, my friend.”

  Nick fiddled with the lace at his sleeve, a somber look in his eye, his mouth set in a hard line. “She loathes him, Richard. Can ye not feel it?”

  De Winter said nothing for a minute. He could certainly feel Polly’s loathing of the duke; but he had also felt her fear. It was an irrational fear, surely. Buckingham would not harm her; he would have not the least reason to do so. “You have not encouraged
this dislike?”

  “Nay, I have been at pains to do the opposite.”

  “Matters worsen, Nick,” De Winter persisted softly. “We have been officially at war with the Dutch since the fourth of this month, yet nothing is done in preparation. The king does not attend council meetings, but leaves the management and direction of the affair to those whose main interest is in personal gain from this conflict.”

  “Aye.” Nick nodded, sighed heavily. “The king spends more care and pains making friends between Lady Castlemaine and Mrs. Stewart when they fall out than he ever does on matters of government. Such loveplay gives Buckingham a free hand—a hand he does not scruple to use for his own advancement and that of his friends and family.” Nick smiled bitterly. “There are lucrative government posts aplenty for those with the influence to acquire them. Buckingham has that influence with the king, and can put whomsoever he pleases into posts for which they are ill fitted. In exchange for his patronage, he can be certain that they will dance to his tune.”

  “A tune that does not have His Majesty’s interests at heart,” De Winter agreed. “Everyone but the king knows that his favorite has no interest in the affairs of the country, or the attitude of the people. Buckingham is ungovernable, drunk with power, but he cannot be satiated.” He sighed. “It is, of course, partly the fault of a system that encourages such corruption. When patronage is the chief method of advancement, and without advancement a man’s pockets remain thin, those with the patronage are those with the power.”

  Richard paused to acknowledge a greeting from a passing lady resplendent in puce satin over crimson. Both men had been talking in low voices, their expressions carefully schooled to ones suited to a light conversation of no particular moment.

  “We need to know what the duke intends, Nick. If Ciarendon falls, then the king will have no wise counselor. If the Duke of York takes command of the navy in this war, then who is to take over the vital post of Lord High Admiral of the Kingdom? If Buckingham and his cohorts persuade the king to leave the position and its responsibilities to be executed by them as a group, nothing will be done. They have too many other agendas to deal in timely fashion with the material needs of the navy that must fight this war. ’Tis said that Buckingham wished for such a division, however. If we have a friend in his most intimate circle, then we may hear the truth.” Richard waited patiently, respecting his friend’s struggle, even as he knew what the outcome would be.

  “And his mistress could have access to the secret conclaves …” Nick kept his voice muted with immense difficulty. “D’ye think I do not know that? ’Twas my idea, was it not? But hell and the devil, Richard! I will not ask it of her myself. Do you put it to her. You will be more objective than I. You may tell her that the scheme has my approval, but do not, if you can help it, tell her that the plan was originally my own. I’d not have her believe that this has lain behind—” He smiled with wry bitterness. “You understand me, Richard?”

  “Aye, I understand, and will put it to Polly tonight.” De Winter spoke now with brisk decision. “Your scruples may do you honor, my friend, but this is not the time for them. They are a luxury we cannot afford. She’ll not come to harm, and indeed, may do herself some good. The patronage of the Duke of Buckingham can only be to her advantage.”

  “More so than mine, I take it,” replied Nick with that same wry smile.

  “She is your mistress, not your wife, Nicholas,” De Winter reminded him.

  “I am aware of that,” Nick said in a tone that caused his friend to look at him sharply.

  “Is that your intention, Nick?”

  “Not even this court would accept with credulity a man’s lack of interest in his bride’s infidelity, my dear Richard. There are some elementary courtesies, after all. A delay of a few months, surely, would be needed before a bride and groom could openly look around for fresh adventures?” Sarcasm lay heavy in his voice. “If she’s to find her way to Buckingham’s bed soon, she must do so unencumbered.”

  “It is a necessary sacrifice you make, Nick,” Richard said quietly.

  “How right you are, Richard.” Self-mockery laced Kincaid’s voice. “I am in no danger of forgetting the realities for a moment.” He glanced around the room. “Perhaps I will go and amuse myself with Lady Fanshawe. She is always willing to play a little. I will leave you to take Polly back to her lodgings when the king dismisses her. You may tell her that I will come to her later.” He offered De Winter a small mock bow before sauntering across the room in the direction of the egregious Lady Fanshawe, who turned her powdered and painted countenance upon him with undisguised eagerness; the ostrich plumes in her headdress bobbed wildly as she curtsied; her breasts, lifted almost clear of her neckline, showed rouged nipples.

  “La, my Lord Kincaid! You have been neglecting us sorely, I swear it! You have barely shown your face at court since you found your pretty little actor.” Full, vermilion lips pouted; eyebrows, arched and lengthened with a black pencil, assumed an impossible quirk over the top of her vigorously fluttering fan.

  Nicholas smiled, allowing his gaze to travel with lascivious admiration over the charms thus displayed as he picked up his cards in the old, familiar game. At least while he was playing it, he could distance the inconvenient emotions that went with loving Polly.

  It was a full hour before Polly was released from the king’s Presence chamber. When she reentered the Long Gallery her eyes instantly and automatically went in search of Nicholas in her eagerness to show him that she had survived the ordeal. In fact, it had not been that much of an ordeal. The king had been all condescension, and she had really quite enjoyed herself. But there was no sign of Nicholas.

  She scanned the brilliant, chattering throng. Dusk was falling beyond the long windows, and servants moved to light the flambeaux and many-branched candlesticks so that the room, already heated with so many bodies, grew rapidly stuffy, sweat and the ripe overlay of perfumes mingling, heavy in the air. Coiffures grew limp, and many a lady surreptitiously dabbed at her face, examining her handkerchief for signs that her paint was running.

  “You look weary, Polly. I will escort you home.” Richard De Winter spoke at her shoulder. She looked up at him with a start.

  “That is kind in you, Richard. But I will wait for Nick.”

  “Nicholas is somewhat occupied.” De Winter took snuff. “He has commissioned me to see you safe home, with the message that he will come to you later tonight.”

  “I suppose he is occupied with another of his painted dolls,” declared Polly, looking mischievously at Richard. “Perhaps I had better find him.”

  Richard gazed into the middle, distance, observing casually, “My aunt did enjoy your company on Wednesday. She has expressed the desire to introduce you to others of her friends. You would find their discourse most edifying, I assure you.”

  “It is not friendly in you to fail to see the jest,” Polly told him, somewhat aggrieved at this thinly veiled threat. “Why must you take me home, and not Nick?”

  De Winter sighed. “Let us achieve a degree of privacy and I will explain. This is not the place for argument. If you have no objection, we will go by water. ’Tis a pleasant evening, and I have need of the air.”

  For all that they had become fast friends, and she had been using his first name for several weeks now, Richard could on occasion be irritatingly dictatorial, Polly reflected with a grimace. She much preferred Nick’s methods of ensuring her compliance! However, she yielded to necessity without further objection, allowing De Winter to tuck her hand beneath his arm as he escorted her from the palace.

  “Well?” she requested, once they had attained Whitehall Stairs. “Where is Nick?”

  “Have a little patience, child,” her companion advised, gesturing to a wherryman on the lookout for passengers to bring his small riverboat up to the steps. “Let us enjoy the evening on the water.”

  Polly compressed her lips, stepping into the wherry, managing her skirts with considerable dexterity as
she sat down. De Winter took his place opposite her and instructed the wherryman to row to the Somerset Stairs. He smiled at Polly’s indignant expression but said nothing, gazing about him instead with every sign of pleasure in the fine spring evening, as he hummed a little tune.

  In fact, Richard was nowhere near as easy in his mind as he appeared. How best to broach the upcoming subject to Polly was exercising him considerably. He must somehow ensure that she did not feel betrayed by Kincaid; must somehow convince her of the vital political purpose that lay behind their request; must somehow couch the imperative in terms of a request, he amended to himself.

  The wherry scraped against the steps at Somerset Stairs. Richard paid the oarsman his sixpence before assisting Polly onto dry land. It was a short walk from the river to the Strand, and from thence to Drury Lane. Polly kept silence as they walked. She had the conviction that something of moment was about to take place, yet she did not know why she should have this belief, since there was nothing overt in Richard’s demeanor to encourage it. But intuition was a powerful persuader; and intuition was also telling her that she was not going to enjoy whatever this momentous happening would turn out to be. Why was Nicholas not here?

  The answer to that question was revealed in short order once they had reached her lodging. Politely, Polly offered her guest a glass of sherry before she sat upon the window seat beneath the diamond-paned casement, and waited. De Winter walked around the parlor with a restlessness most unusual in this generally suave and impassive aristocrat.

  “Why do you not make a clean breast, sir?” Polly prompted quietly. “I find myself growing apprehensive and would dearly like to make an end of this.”

  Very well. He placed his sherry glass upon the side table. “You have heard talk both here and in Nick’s house about-the way matters of government are conducted—”