by Jane Feather
Polly turned away abruptly, beginning to rearrange a bowl of tulips with apparent absorption. She had not expected the normal pattern of her life with Nick to be affected by this conspiracy, yet she should have done. He had his own part to play. So why did it feel as if, having prepared her and thrust her upon this stage of his choosing, he was now withdrawing, leaving her to play the part he considered of paramount importance? But if this spying was what he had intended for her all along, from the earliest moments of their meeting, then it was hardly surprising it should now take precedence over a loving companionship that had simply facilitated his original plan.
“No, of course I do not need you. I had just assumed that you would come, but I see that it will be best if you do not.” She heard her voice, cool and even in the small room where the mingled scents of hothouse blooms hung heavy like a stifling, exotic blanket. Paradoxically, instead of imparting the light freshness of spring flowers, they seemed to carry an aura of corruption. An involuntary shudder fingered its way down her back.
Nicholas frowned at her averted back. There was a stiffness about her suddenly, an almost forced neutrality in that normally expressive voice. “What is it, sweetheart?” he said, coming up behind her, placing his hand between her shoulder blades. “Is it that you are frightened?”
“No … no, I am not frightened,” she replied, moving away from the warm pressure of his hand. “There is nothing to be afeard of. I shall go to court and spin my web around the duke.” She turned to face him, smiling brightly. “Mayhap you will be here when I return. Or must you stay at your house this night?”
“I have invited some friends for supper and a card party,” he said carefully, watching her face. “But I will come here afterward.”
“There is no need,” she said with a shrug. “I expect ’twill be late when your friends leave.”
“What is it?” he repeated. “When I first came in, you were in great good humor. Something has upset you.”
“What could possibly have upset me?” Polly went to pull the bell rope. “The goodwife is waiting to bring up dinner. She has prepared a chine of beef especially for you, since she knows your fondness for it.”
Throughout the meal, she chattered in her customary fashion, and Nick put his unease behind him, reflecting that it would not be extraordinary for her moods to fluctuate at this trying time. The greatest service he could offer would be to follow her lead and avoid exacerbating her perfectly natural tension.
The Duke of Buckingham, on the watch for her arrival, was conscious of a most unusual emotion as Mistress Wyat made her entrance into the Long Gallery at Whitehall that evening. He was aware of chagrin. The orchids he had confidently expected to see adorning that matchless bosom were nowhere to be seen.
He moved casually through the throng toward her. “Mistress Wyat. How fortunate we are that you are come to grace us with your presence.” There was a sardonic undertone, and his bow was so deep that it could only be considered a mockery.
Polly remembered what Nick had once said about compliments being offered as insults. This was clearly an example. She smiled and curtsied with matching exaggerated depth. “My lord duke, how kind in you to say so.” Her fan unfurled, fluttered, then closed with a snap.
The duke’s eyes narrowed at these clear signs of her own annoyance. In general, people trembled when George Villiers was at odds with them; they did not return gestures of displeasure in kind. But then she smiled at him, that heart-stopping, radiant smile that made him catch his breath.
“Your Grace, I must thank you for such a pleasing gift.” She raised one hand, showing him where a cluster of freesias had been threaded into the lace of her smock sleeve. “As you see, I have put it to good use.”
“I am honored, madame,” he said, taking her hand and turning it, raising it to inhale of the delicate scent of the flowers. “But I had hoped—”
“Why, sir, you could not expect me to wear orchids with this gown,” she interrupted with a tinkling laugh. “Neither would show to advantage.”
The duke was obliged to concede that scarlet satin and orchids would not do. She could have chosen to wear another gown, of course, but he was beginning to suspect that the lady was playing a devious game. Well, for as long as it amused him, he would play it with her.
“Lord Kincaid does not accompany you this evening?” He took snuff, his eyes resting casually on that exquisite countenance. Not a flicker passed across it.
“It does not appear so, Your Grace,” she returned easily. “I understand he had another engagement.”
“I cannot imagine an engagement that could take precedence over escorting such beauty,” Buckingham murmured. Polly merely smiled. “D’ye care to listen to the music, madame?” The duke offered her his arm. “The king’s musicians are most talented.”
Polly acquiescing, they made their way into the music room, where were gathered Buckingham’s cronies, the king, and my Lady Castlemaine. The king greeted Polly with flattering attention; his mistress, after a speculative, all-encompassing assessment of Polly’s appearance, bade her a bored good evening and addressed Buckingham, pointedly excluding Polly from her conversation.
Polly, ingenuously, wondered what she could have done to offend this powerful lady. She moved closer to the musicians, seeming to give them her full attention while keeping her ears pricked for any useful morsels that might come her way, but it was not until the arrival of Lord Clarendon that anything of interest to the spy occurred.
“What is it, Clarendon?” the king inquired testily as the chancellor bowed before him. “We would not be troubled with business this night, and judging by your somber looks, ’tis business you have on your mind.”
This remark was greeted with laughter from those around the king. “Indeed, sir,” drawled Buckingham, “methinks you should instruct the musicians to play a dirge. ’Twould better suit the chancellor’s mien than their present merriment.” This unkind sally drew further amusement at the expense of the old man.
Clarendon bowed again stiffly. “I would ask for a moment’s private talk, Your Majesty.”
“We are in no mood for your pessimism and strictures, Chancellor. We had thought to have made that clear,” snapped His Majesty, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “This is a private gathering we would have in this room, with those disposed to listen to pleasant music and engage in agreeable conversation.”
There was nothing for the discomfited Clarendon to do but accept this humiliating dismissal. No sooner had he left than Buckingham said with a contemptuous curl of his lip, “I do not know why Your Majesty continues to tolerate such a dullard. It says much for Your Majesty’s generosity that you continue to honor him. But he has outgrown his usefulness.”
The king sighed. “I know it, George, I know it. But short of impeachment, what’s to be done? He has the support of Parliament.”
“He is your minister, sir,” reminded Buckingham softly. “Not Parliament’s. He holds office at your behest.”
The king shrugged. “We will talk no more of it.” He gestured toward the musicians. “Let them play a galliard and we will dance.”
Polly spent the entire evening in this select company, and she was under no illusions but that she was invited at Buckingham’s request. He danced with her, plied her with refreshment, made every effort to ensure her comfort. She, in turn, trod the razor’s edge between coquetry and commitment, so that he could never be sure exactly what she was promising. At the end of the evening, she refused his escort home, and he accepted the refusal with apparent grace.
“You would have me dance to an intricate tune, bud,” he said with a wry smile, kissing her hand. “But I’ll endeavor to learn the steps.”
“You talk in mysteries, sir,” Polly said as he handed her into her carriage. “But I must thank you for making my evening so enjoyable.”
The carriage lurched forward, and she sank back against the squabs under a wash of exhaustion. Perhaps it would be simpler just to yie
ld, play the part as it had originally been written for her. The thought made her shudder with revulsion. She closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if she were already in bed, if she did not have to go through the tiresome business of leaving this soothing, swaying darkness, of climbing the stairs, of undressing herself …
“Mistress Wyat.” The coachman’s insistent voice parted the mists of sleep, and she struggled up, heavy-limbed, to climb out of the carriage, heedless in her fatigue of the correct management of skirts and train. She dragged herself up the stairs, thinking wishfully that maybe Sue had waited up for her and would help her with her clothes. But she had not asked her to do so. Wearily she pushed open the parlor door and was shocked by a stab of dismay at the sight of Nick drowsing by the fire. She wanted to be alone tonight, alone with her exhausted body and overstretched mind, alone to find oblivion for the both, out of which would come the strength necessary for the morrow.
Nick came awake the moment she stepped into the room. “Y’are late, sweetheart.” Smiling, he stood up, stretched, and came toward her.
“I had thought you intended staying at home this night.” She stepped away from him as he would have reached for her, and headed for the door to the bedchamber.
“I have had warmer welcomes,” Nick mused, following.
“Your pardon, but I am awearied beyond thought,” she said shortly, reaching to loosen her hair from its pins. “If I do not find my bed instantly, I will be asleep on my feet.”
“Then let me aid you.” He came up behind her, reaching over her shoulders for the creamy swell of her breasts, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
She pushed his hands away with an impatient gesture that stunned them both. “I do not wish for that, Nick.”
“Now, what the devil is this?” There was anger in his puzzlement, and he spun her round to face him, catching her chin, pushing her face up to meet his scrutiny.
“Oh, why will you not let me go to bed?” she cried, tears of frustration sparkling in her eyes. “I am just tired. I have been playing this wretched game all evening … I think you are right; it would be better if I surrendered to Buckingham—” Now, why had she said that? Why did words just say themselves sometimes?
“Nay,” Nick said fiercely. “I’ll not have that.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “Until recently, you were quite prepared for it.”
“That is true.” Nick released her chin and ran his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically distracted gesture. “But I made an error in assuming that I could tolerate it.”
“An error in assuming that we could be of service to each other?” Dear God, she had said it. She looked at him, aghast, searching his face for denial. But it was not there. He had gone very still, the emerald eyes shaded with the truth. The angry words of contradiction that she wanted to hear more than anything, this time did not come.
She turned away from him, cold and empty. “So it does go back to the beginning, then. I did wonder.” She shrugged. “’Tis not important, I daresay. But I could wish you had been honest with me.” With careful concentration, she began to unthread the freesias from her sleeve lace.
Nicholas searched for words. Had he been less than honest with her? He had intended to be, certainly; had intended to use her as an unwitting tool; but so far back, it was surely no longer relevant. He had not wanted her to draw the correct conclusion, though, to remember that long-ago statement. Now he must somehow find the way to put all right, to repair the shattered trust.
“Look at me, Polly,” he said quietly.
Reluctantly, she did so. “Nick, I am too weary for this tonight. ’Tis not important.” But the bleak misery in those hazel eyes gave the lie to the words.
“I am sorry, but it is important, and we will resolve it before we sleep.” He knew now what had to be said and spoke with quiet determination. “It is true that in the very beginning I had thought—”
“That you had rescued a would-be whore who could be put to a whore’s work to your advantage,” she broke in flatly.
“That is the last time you will say such a thing with impunity,” Nicholas told her, his voice as quiet and determined as ever. “It was you, if you recall, who first propounded the plan to find your way to the theatre via my bed. After which, as I remember, you were kind enough to inform me that if I no longer wished to be your protector, you would find another one.” He noted her sudden confusion with some satisfaction. “It struck me at the time that your plan could very well mesh with my own. So yes, your present work with Buckingham was planned at the beginning of our association.”
“Why did you not tell me?” she asked in a low voice.
“Because I thought the truth would hurt you, as it has. I have been on the rack!” He spoke now fiercely. “I had promised you to my friends long before I came to love you. I had made a commitment, one I could not in honor renege upon. To ask for your cooperation seemed the only possible way of resolving such a dilemma. But I have never pressed you, have I?”
Polly shook her head in silence as she struggled to make sense of the confused tangle of thoughts and emotions twisting in her weary brain.
“Now, I want you to answer me honestly.” Striding toward her, he took her chin again. “Loving you, I would never have asked this of you if I had not already, in another life, made the commitment. Is it not more unpleasant a thought that I might have decided you could serve our purpose after I came to love you? That, knowing your revulsion for Buckingham, I could callously demand of you that you share his bed?”
Polly swallowed. Why had she not thought of that? She had feared only manipulation from the beginning, had not questioned the kind of person who could cold-bloodedly conceive the use in such a fashion of one he purported to love.
“Answer me,” he insisted, his fingers tightening on her chin.
“Aye, ’tis a much more repugnant thought,” she murmured.
“Do you believe that I love you?” She nodded.
“And have we done with this now?” Again she nodded.
“And there’s to be no more talk of whores and a whore’s work.”
Polly shook her head.
Nick smiled suddenly. “Lost your tongue, moppet?” he teased gently.
Polly returned the smile tremulously. The relief she felt could not be described. It was as if the weight of the world had rolled from her shoulders. She knew now that she could manage this business with Buckingham, if not with a carefree heart, at least in businesslike fashion. It was simply a task that she was supremely fitted to perform. That was all. It was perfectly simple.
She surrendered herself to the embrace that would provide shield and buckler against the hurts of the world, to the love that would render all arrows harmless, that would drain her of all but the promise of the morrow.
Chapter 15
Ah, Buckingham, are you come to watch the thespians at work?” Lord Kincaid greeted the duke with a flourish of his plumed hat as the two men met at the front entrance of the Theatre Royal some two weeks later.
“In my humble capacity as playwright, I think to see how Master Killigrew will have my lines spoken,” Buckingham responded with a politely self-deprecating smile. “’Tis an irresistible curiosity, I fear. Or mayhap I mean an irresistible conceit.”
Nick laughingly demurred, and the two entered the building, going directly into the auditorium—to be confronted with tumult. The small stage was packed with a milling crowd of actors, scene-setters, painters, and carpenters. Thomas was bellowing in an effort to restore order, but his words were drowned in the general cacophony. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and Mistress Polly Wyat’s voice rose above them all. She was clutching something to her bosom; tears stood out in her eyes and trembled in the distraught tones.
“They have nearly drowned it, Thomas! How could you have let them do such a thing?”
“Polly, I did not give permission. It was never asked of me,” Killigrew said in exasperation. “Such inci
dents are not my concern.”
“Oh, how can you say that? This is your theatre. Everything that happens in it is your concern. These … these brutes are in your employ. What they do is your responsibility!” Impassioned, she turned on the group of artisans. “You are murdering louts, every one of you!”
“Polly, please calm yourself. ’Tis only a puppy, and besides, ’tis not drowned.” Edward Nestor, Polly’s leading man and utterly devoted admirer, attempted to step into the breach. It was an error, since she swung on him, holding her burden beneath his nose in fervent accusation.
“Only a puppy! How could you say such a thing? You have been feeding it like the rest of us.” Her voice became choked with angry tears, and Nick, unthinking, stepped quickly toward the stage.
“Nicholas! Thank God!” exclaimed Thomas, seeing him in the gloom of the pit. “Perhaps you can calm her.”
Polly swung ’round, crying distressfully, “Oh, Nick … Nick, they were drowning the puppy in a bucket, and it was crying so piteously. ’Tis more than half-dead.” She tumbled from the stage, still clutching her burden. She did not immediately see Buckingham standing in the shadows as she ran weeping to Nicholas. “See what they have done, love.” She held out the sodden scrap in her arms, then fell against Nick’s chest.
“What an extraordinary fuss about nothing,” Nick said coolly, making no attempt to hold her.
Polly jumped back from him as if she had been burned, her eyes wide with shock and outrage. Then she saw Buckingham behind him, watching her from beneath those drooping lids. There was a moment when her face registered utter dismay as she realized what she might have revealed, then she was saying coldly to Nicholas, “You are as unfeeling as the rest.”
“Come now, Mistress Wyat,” the duke said, stepping out of the shadows. “I daresay they assumed that the animal would have suffered less by such a death than by being left to roam the streets, starving, a prey to every young bully with his sticks and stones.”
