Venus

by Jane Feather

  The duke’s mansion on the Strand was ablaze with light. Great flaming torches, set in metal sconces on either side of the imposing front door, threw illumination onto the flagway before the house. A linkboy ran to the carriage door as it drew up, holding up his torch as Polly descended, bending her head low as she stepped through the carriage door to avoid disturbing the high-piled artistry of her coiffure, carefully managing the weight of her skirts and train, which settled around her as she stood on the flagway, taking a moment to compose herself.

  A liveried footman stood bowing in the opened door as the linkboy lit the way. Polly passed through into a huge tiled hallway, where chandeliers swung from a domed ceiling and gilded moldings adorned the walls and doorways. A wide staircase curved upward, its steps shallow, its banisters elaborately carved. There was more grandeur here than in Whitehall Palace itself, Polly reflected. The immense wealth of the mansion’s owner was declared from every corner.

  The strains of lute and viol wafted down the stairs, a voice raised in laughter, the sound of hands clapping. Polly followed the footman up the staircase. At the head of the stairs, double doors stood open onto a salon, richly decorated and furnished. A group of musicians played at one end. Four men standing with their backs to the door were huddled over a long, low table, their laughter rising on a lubricious note. A cluster of women, painted and powdered, stood before the fire, fans fluttering, voices, light and artificial, drifting in the warm, scented air as they responded to the sallies of their male companions. Lady Castlemaine was one of their number, Polly noted, recognizing the others also as faces she had seen at court, but she could not put names to them all.

  “Mistress Polly Wyat,” intoned the footman, and the four men around the table straightened. The Duke of Buckingham, in peacock satin with gold lacing, his powdered periwig sweeping his shoulders, turned instantly to the door. The thin lips flickered in a smile as he came over.

  “Why, Mistress Wyat, I had begun to despair of you.” He made a magnificent leg, showing off his embroidered stockings and the high-heeled shoes where diamonds glinted, set into the heels and the gold buckles.

  “Am I late, my lord duke?” Polly swept into her curtsy, a stage curtsy from which not a nuance was missing. “I am desolated to have offered such discourtesy. Your invitation did not specify a time.”

  “That was remiss of me,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “In my eagerness to dispatch the invitation, I must have forgot such a trifling point.” The heavy lids drooped even lower. “I am devastated at the thought that my poor gift did not find favor, madame.”

  “On the contrary, Your Grace, it was exquisite. But far too valuable a present for me to accept.” She met his meager smile with one as blandly polite and unexpressive.

  Buckingham inclined his head. “’Twas but a trinket, madame. I had thought it pretty enough to please you.”

  “I am not in the habit of accepting … trinkets … of any value from those with whom I am but slightly acquainted,” Polly said carefully, still smiling.

  Buckingham pursed his lips. “Then I will keep the brooch until such time as we are become better acquainted, Mistress Wyat.”

  “A pleasing suggestion, sir.” Polly could feel the sweat breaking out upon her body under the strain of this loaded exchange. How long could she keep it up? Her gaze shifted with apparent naturalness to look around the room, reminding the duke of the presence of other company and his duties as host.

  “I am delighted you agreed to grace my little revels,” Buckingham said, turning back to the room. “You will be acquainted with some of my guests … but not all,” he added delicately, regarding her through his hooded eyes as she took in what had been occupying the gentlemen around the table. The girl spread upon it was quite naked.

  “Is she not a little chilly?” Polly asked carelessly.

  Villiers chuckled appreciatively. “A few guineas can be amazingly warming, my dear madame, for such a one as she.”

  A brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding, thought Polly. If Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, had not entered her life, she could have been earning her bread in such a manner … She banished the distracting thought; it only led to that other question, the one she must not dwell upon.

  “I see my Lord Arlington,” she said now, as if the matter of whores displayed upon tables was of no further interest. “Talking with Lady Castlemaine. I would have speech with him, sir. He was so kind as to send me a letter of compliment after the performance this afternoon, and I must thank him.”

  Buckingham bowed his acquiescence and escorted her to her goal. She accepted a glass of canary from a footman and set out to play the coquette.

  The duke rarely left her side, and it was clear to Polly, from the speculative looks sent her way from all and sundry, that the company had deduced the meaning of her presence at this private gathering. Carefully, she ensured that not just the duke was the object of her coquetry, even while her eyes, when they met those of His Grace, told him otherwise.

  “George, a game of macao, dear fellow. You owe me my revenge!” The laughing invitation came from a newcomer, John Maitland, Earl of Lauderdale, one of the Cabal.

  “Aye,” agreed Arlington. “’Tis the devil’s own luck ye have with the cards, George. Ye took a thousand guineas off me last time.”

  Buckingham laughed, nicking open his snuffbox to take a leisurely pinch. “’Tis like taking toffee from a babe, but if ye’ve a mind to be trounced again, then by all means let us repair to the card room.” He turned to Polly beside him. “I’d have ye with me, bud, if y’are willing. Such beauty can only bring a man good fortune.”

  The public endearment sealed the matter for all, as did the proprietorial hand cupping her elbow. If Mistress Wyat was not already gracing Buckingham’s bed, she soon would be, and her acceptance in this group was now assured.

  Assured for as long as she made no slips, Polly thought, accompanying the men into the card room leading off the main salon.

  “Nay, sir, I’ll stand at your shoulder,” she said, laughing, as he directed a footman to draw up a chair for her beside his own at the round table, gleaming mahogany under the candlelight. “’Tis the place of luck, is it not?”

  Buckingham raised her fingers to his lips, saying with soft meaning, “I trust my luck will hold beyond the cards.”

  Polly allowed an elusive smile to play across her lips, before raising her fan, concealing all but her eyes. Sweat trickled down her back under the strain of keeping her revulsion hidden.

  “What think you of the king’s hints about his marriage to Lucy Walter, George?” The question came from Arlington, and it brought Polly to prickly awareness. Lucy Walter was said to be the mother of the illegitimate Duke of Monmouth, the king’s sixteen-year-old son.

  Buckingham shrugged, gesturing to the boy who stood on his other side holding a heavy leather purse. He took out a hundred guineas and laid them upon the table. “I’ll see you, Henry.” He watched as Arlington laid his cards upon the table, then chuckled, exposing his own hand. “My twenty to your nineteen, Henry … No, I think the king is playing a lost cause here. If he claims marriage to the Walter woman, he must produce evidence, witnesses, documents. If he had them to produce, he would have done so by now.”

  “They could be found,” observed Lauderdale, sipping his claret, frowning as he examined his cards.

  Polly kept very still, praying that the sudden tension in her body would not be transmitted to the seated figure so close to her. This was what she was here to hear.

  “But think what a trouble,” drawled Villiers. “One can never be sure that a bought witness will stay bought, or that a document one happens to … to discover—” An elegant beringed hand passed through the air in graceful explanation”—will stand up to informed scrutiny.”

  “So ye’ll not encourage His Majesty in this?” inquired Arlington.

  Again Buckingham shrugged. “I’ve no objection to York’s succeeding to the throne. Monmouth’s a callow lad, overin
dulged and a trifle empty-headed.”

  “Vain and ambitious into the bargain,” chuckled Lauderdale. “’Twould not suit your purposes, George, I’ll be bound, to have such a one on the throne.”

  Buckingham’s lips moved in the semblance of a smile, and his eyelids drooped heavily. “I cannot imagine what you could mean, John. Why should it be a matter of moment to me who succeeds His Majesty?”

  A laugh rippled around the table, and the conversation turned to gossip.

  Polly drew her lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and surreptitiously wiped her clammy palms. She had done what she had come here to do, established her position in this circle, and heard something of importance to Nick and the others. Surely she could make her escape now, for this time at least. But how to extricate herself gracefully?

  She yawned delicately behind her fan. “La, my lord duke, but ’tis monstrous fatigued I am grown. I must ask you to excuse me. ’Tis to be hoped I have brought you sufficient luck for one night.” She smiled over her fan, yawned again.

  The duke’s expression was not encouraging. His eyes hardened. “Why, bud, ’tis early yet.”

  “But you forget, sir, I am a working woman and must be at the theatre at ten of the morning.”

  Buckingham pushed back his chair, rising fluidly. Polly, taking this to mean that he would escort her from the room, curtsied to the men at the table. “I bid you good night, sirs,” she said, and moved away toward the salon.

  “Come now, you would not be so unkind as to run away, madame,” the duke protested softly as they entered the still-crowded salon.

  “Run away from what, duke?” inquired Polly sweetly. “I have enjoyed myself most wonderfully, but, indeed, I must seek my bed if I am to satisfy Master Killigrew tomorrow.”

  His fingers circled her wrist, lightly, yet Polly felt her skin jump with alarm. “You would not have me disappoint my audience, would you, sir?”

  “But you disappoint me,” he said gently, still holding her wrist.

  It was time for the withdrawal. “Then I am sorry for it, sir, but I was not aware I was under an obligation.” She met his gaze directly and saw the flash of puzzlement cross that generally impassive countenance, a flicker of uncertainty lurking in the eyes. The duke had thought the game and its rules understood. Now he was not so sure.

  Then he released her wrist, bowed deeply, and said, “I am desolated at your departure, madame, but I realize I have no claims, much as I would wish for them.”

  “They have to be earned, sir,” she said. It could not be much plainer. If he went about it the right way, he could have what he wished for. It was up to him to discover the right way.

  The duke bowed again. “Then I shall endeavor to do so, bud.” He beckoned to a footman. “Summon a chair for Mistress Wyat.”

  “There is no need, sir. My coachman awaits.”

  If that surprised him, it did not show on his face. “Then permit me to escort you to your carriage.”

  He saw her into the elegant, well-kept interior of Kincaid’s coach and stood upon the flagway, staring after the conveyance. This one was not going to be easily or cheaply bought. She had clearly a very firm idea of her own worth, and would not sell herself for less. Well, His Grace of Buckingham could respect that. He must set about wooing her. It was a novel game, and there was no reason why he should not take pleasure in it. With a little smile, he turned back to the house.

  “Standing staring out of the window is not going to hasten her return, Nick,” remarked De Winter.

  “Aye, I am aware.” Nick turned from the window, reaching for his wineglass on the sideboard. “But I cannot rest, Richard.”

  “She’ll not come to harm,” Richard reassured. “’Tis a gathering; Buckingham cannot compel anything from her in such a situation. If she finds she cannot perform the part, then she may leave at any time she pleases. While nothing will be gained, by the same token, nothing is lost.”

  Nick’s frown etched deep lines between his red-gold eyebrows. “I fear she has taken the bit between her teeth on this, Richard, and she will run with it.” He paced restlessly for a minute, then stopped. “Did you hear a coach?”

  Richard went to the window, flinging it wide, looking into the darkness. “You have sharp ears, my friend. A carriage has just rounded the corner.”

  Nick came to stand beside him, and Richard felt the tension run from his friend as the carriage, the unmistakable figure of John Coachman upon the box, came to a halt before the door below.

  Nick resisted the urge to run down to her. He wanted to see how she was when she thought herself unobserved. She might play a part for him—the part she thought he would want to see—and he was not confident that he would be able to distinguish acting from reality without some clues, so skillful had she become.

  The coachman opened the door, let down the footstep, and Polly descended into the strip of light shining down from the upstairs casement. “My thanks, John Coachman. I trust ’twas not too tedious a wait for ye.” Her clear tones rose to the opened window. Then, as if magnetized, she looked up.

  “Are ye still up, my lord?” There seemed to be a light, teasing note in her voice. “I made sure you would have been abed an hour since … and Lord De Winter, also.”

  A window was flung open next door, and a protesting bellow rent the air. Polly put a guilty finger to her lips, her eyes widening in mock horror.

  “Come in,” Nick instructed in a piercing whisper, wondering how she had made him want to laugh at such a moment. He went to the parlor door to wait for her.

  She came up the stairs with swift step and tumbled instantly into his arms. She was shaking like a leaf, and all desire to laugh left him abruptly. He held her close, feeling the fragility beneath the elaborate dress, the armor of corset and layers of petticoats.

  “What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?” The anguished questions whispered against her ear as he stroked her back and she shuddered against him.

  “Nay … nay … not hurt,” she managed at last. “It is going to succeed, I think, but … but I did not realize how hard the work ’twould be, Nick. ’Tis a thousand times worse than the theatre.”

  Nicholas drew her into the parlor, closing the door quietly. “Is that all that is the matter? That maintaining the part was hard work?”

  “If it were just a matter of maintaining the part, ’twould not be so difficult,” she said, her voice a little quavery, although she had stopped shaking. “Oh, my thanks, Richard.” She took the glass of claret he handed her. “But I must also write the lines, Nick. I had not thought of that.”

  The two men looked at each other. Somehow, they had not grappled with that complexity, either. “But you managed to do so?” Richard prompted.

  Polly nodded, drinking deeply of the wine as if it were the elixir of the gods. “I think it was convincing. Nothing of moment was said of Lord Clarendon. However, there was talk of the Duke of Monmouth.” She told them what she had heard, moving around the room as she did so, pausing to refill her glass. Nick frowned at the speed with which that glass had been emptied, but for the moment held his peace.

  “And how did you leave Villiers?” asked De Winter when the story seemed told.

  “With an invitation to find my price,” Polly said bluntly, reaching again for the decanter.

  “Nay, moppet, you have had sufficient.” Nick stayed her hand, and she turned on him with a flash of fury.

  “By what right do you tell me that? I have barely touched a drop all evening for fear I would make an error. Surely now I may be permitted some relaxation!”

  “As much as you need,” he said evenly. “But you are drinking too quickly.”

  Polly glared at him. Richard got out of his chair, reaching for his cloak.

  “I think ’tis time I left you.” He drew on his gloves. “My compliments, Polly. Not that I doubted you,” he added with a dry smile, bending to brush her forehead with his lips. “But pay heed to Nick, now. He has more experience than you when i
t comes to the bottle.”

  “Aye,” agreed Nick cheerfully. “A dreadful sot I was in my youth.”

  Polly looked between them, saw the way they had drawn together implicitly, knew that her well-being was the reason. “I give you good night, Richard,” she said,

  Nick saw Richard from the house, then came to the parlor, where Polly still stood as he had left her.

  “I ask your pardon,” she said softly. “I did not mean to snap in that manner.”

  “There is nothing to pardon.” He took her in his arms. “Let us go to bed now. Let me ease you in ways infinitely more pleasurable than those to be found in wine.”

  “What in the world …” Nick stood staring around the parlor the following noon.

  “’Tis His Grace of Buckingham,” Polly choked. She had returned from the theatre five minutes earlier to find the parlor turned into a veritable conservatory. Exotic blooms were massed in every corner, and Sue and the goodwife had been quite distracted by the shortage of containers in which to display this glory. “Where could he have procured them?” She gestured helplessly. “’Tis enough to decorate Westminster Abbey.”

  “Buckingham’s conservatories are famed,” Nick told her. “Was there a message?”

  “Aye.” She took a paper from the table, holding it out to him. “He desires me to wear orchids at my breast this evening when we go to court, that he may know this gift is acceptable.”

  “And shall you?” Nick raised an eyebrow at her. She was looking her usual self, he thought, all traces of last night’s tension vanished.

  Polly shook her head. “Nay. But I shall wear the freesias in the lace of my sleeve, and he may make what he can of that.”

  Nick could not help chuckling. “Y’are a rogue, Polly. I begin to think you enjoy the prospect of this game.”

  Some of the mischief faded from her eyes. “In a way, perhaps, I do. Tonight we shall be at court, and you will be there. I may play the elusive wanton on ground that is not the duke’s. ’Twill be less of a strain.”

  “I had thought not to attend this evening,” Nick said. “Richard and I thought it sensible to reinforce my indifference to the duke’s pursuit. But if you need me, then of course I shall accompany you.”