Venus

by Jane Feather

  It was calm good sense; the drowning of unwanted litters was an inescapable part of life. But it went with life in the Dog tavern, and somehow her sensibilities had become as refined as her present existence. Polly recognized this truth, and it helped her recover herself.

  “You are quite right, sir. ’Tis just that I had developed a fondness for the creature.” She went back to the stage. “Here, you may do what you can to revive him. I shall take him home with me.” She handed the puppy to one of the guilty men, brushed her hands off, and turned back to Thomas. “Shall we continue?”

  Buckingham sat in the pit, apparently watching the rehearsal, but in fact he took in little. Her voice: See what they have done, love. The way she had run to Kincaid: so naturally, as if this man who had gone to such pains to give the impression of studied indifference to his mistress were her only resource from pain; such confidence she had had until he had responded with that coldness. And the disbelieving shock with which she had jumped away from him … until she had seen Buckingham himself. There had been fear and dismay on her face then, just for a minute.

  What the devil did it mean? Buckingham’s expression took on a look that any who knew him would read with alarm. If Mistress Wyat was playing a deeper game than he had believed, then he would discover the truth without delay. Quietly, he rose and left the theatre.

  Nick registered the duke’s departure, but gave no sign. Instead he sat damning sexually incontinent dogs, Polly’s soft heart, and the callous pragmatism of the artisan who saw in an unwanted animal merely another mouth to feed. The rehearsal was not going well. Polly was tense, Edward Nestor overanxious after her scathing response to his attempt to ease the situation, and Thomas was exasperated. Secure in the knowledge that there was now no one but himself as audience in the theatre, Nicholas got up and went forward to the stage.

  “Your pardon, Thomas, but I think you’ll all be better for a recess.”

  “I daresay y’are right, Nick.” Thomas wiped his brow with a cambric handkerchief. “Everything is going awry. Take Polly and that damned puppy home. We must trust to luck and the gods this afternoon.”

  Polly came to the forefront of the stage. “The puppy could live in your stables, could he not, Nick?”

  “I do not see why not,” Nick said, then softly, “Say a kind word to Edward, moppet. He is looking most crestfallen, and it will not aid his performance this afternoon.”

  Polly glanced over to her hangdog colleague. She gave Nick a rueful smile and went over to Edward. “I do beg your pardon for being so sharp, Edward. ’Twas most unjust of me, but I was greatly distressed.”

  The young man’s face cleared like the sky after a storm. “Oh, pray, do not mention it, Polly. I spoke hastily. Shall we see how the puppy is now?” The two went backstage in perfect amity, and Thomas sighed with relief.

  “How was I to know she would take such a thing so much to heart?” he asked Nick, who still stood in the pit before the stage. “The wretched animal has been a complete nuisance, always underfoot. It could not possibly be allowed to stay here. Why would she react like that?” He shrugged at the unfathomable temperaments of actors, and female actors in particular.

  “He seems all right.” Polly reappeared, holding the dog. “A little subdued, but he is quite warm and breathing well.” She held him out for Nick’s inspection.

  It was quite the most unprepossessing creature, Nick thought dispassionately, scrawny, with overlarge ears and feet. But then, ugliness was hardly sufficient reason to be condemned to a watery grave. He reached up and lifted Polly and the puppy to the floor of the auditorium. “Come, let us go home. We’ll give the dog to John Coachman to take to the stables.”

  Outside the theatre, Polly said hesitantly, “Do you think Buckingham noticed anything strange, Nick?”

  “I do not know,” Nick replied honestly. “Let us hope that we both recovered quickly enough to allay suspicion.”

  For the next week, Buckingham played a waiting game. He issued no invitations, sent no little gifts, was agreeable when in Mistress Wyat’s company but singled her out for no special attentions; and he watched her.

  “I wonder if he thinks to pique me by this treatment,” Polly suggested to Nicholas and Richard. “It would be a logical tactic. So far I have been the one offering, withdrawing, tantalizing. Mayhap he thinks to play me at my own game.”

  “If so, how do you think you should react?” asked Richard. They were walking in St. James’s Park, in the company of the majority of the court enjoying the balmy April sunshine.

  “I think I must approach him,” Polly said. “If he’s to believe that my eventual surrender is inevitable, that I am merely negotiating the price with my advances and retreats, then in this instance I must advance, humble and anxious as to what I could have done to offend.”

  Nick tried to identify the unease he felt at the turn matters had taken. If Buckingham had sensed things were not as they were presented, it would explain his withdrawal. Polly, by the tactics she proposed, would put his mind at rest. Yet Nick could not like it. However, he had no concrete reasons for objecting, so gave the scheme his agreement.

  That evening His Grace of Buckingham found himself the object of the most flattering attentions from Mistress Polly Wyat. Those enormous soft eyes were fixed upon him, anxiously questioning. Her mouth quivered with unhappiness as she implored in a whisper to know her offense. A small hand rested upon his sleeve. Placing his own hand over hers, he assured her that there was no offense and begged that she would be his guest at a small supper party after the performance on the morrow. The invitation was accepted with alacrity and a show of pleasure that could not fail to gratify. And both participants in the game went home well satisfied with the outcome of their tactics.

  The following afternoon, however, Nicholas found a very thoughtful Polly preparing to go to the theatre for the afternoon’s performance.

  “I have received a note from Buckingham,” she told him without preamble. “A confirmation of the invitation to supper, at the Half Moon tavern, and the most fervent request that I not delay in order to change my costume after the performance.”

  Kincaid said nothing for a minute. He stood very still behind her as she sat before her mirror, his hands playing absently with her hair. He stared over her head at the wall beyond as if it might reveal some secret. “It is a breeches part you play today, is it not?”

  “Aye.” Twisting her head, she looked up at him over her shoulder. “Buckingham is aware of that, I am sure.”

  “Doubtless,” Nick agreed with a dry smile. “And like everyone else, finds the sight of your figure in such attire enough to inflame him to madness. I cannot fault his taste in wishing you to grace his party in such costume. But if you agree to do so, you are tacitly giving consent for whatever sport he may have in mind.”

  “I think, in this instance, I must do as he asks,” Polly said. “To refuse would make nonsense of my approach last evening.” Reaching behind her, she took his hands, smiling at him in the mirror. “I will pander to his taste in this matter, but will seem to fail to see an ulterior motive, and therefore will not respond. After all, have not some ladies of the court amused themselves on occasion by dressing as men?”

  “That was different. It was a piece of indecorous mischief undertaken by a group of ladies who wished to shock. Buckingham is giving you a most definite message with this request. He is asking for an overt display of a kind that could only have one meaning. I cannot like it, Polly.”

  “But if I refuse, we might as well forget the plan,” she pointed out. “For that would be giving him a most definite message in return. ’Tis a supper party in a tavern, Nicholas, hardly a bawdy house. What could happen?”

  Nick frowned, chewing his lip. Then he sighed. “I suppose it is safe enough. You will enjoy your supper, at all events. The tavern is known for its cooking. I will send you, as usual, in my carriage, and John Coachman will wait for you. You will then be free to leave whenever you wish.” />
  “That will do well,” she agreed matter-of-factly, tucking her hair beneath a round velvet hat. “If I arrive in your coach, the duke will realize at the outset that I am still not prepared to take the sport further tonight, for all that I will provoke in my breeches.” She turned away from the mirror, offering a placatory smile. “It is no great matter, love. Indeed, there is some pleasure in making game of Buckingham. I must use my wits, and that in itself gives some satisfaction.”

  “Aye.” He picked up her cloak. “Put this on; it has begun to rain.” He draped the garment around her shoulders, then said soberly, “Moppet, you must have a care. I am not saying that your wits are not as sharp as Buckingham’s, but he’s been using his a deal longer than you have yours. Do not become overconfident.”

  “I am not, am I?” She frowned at him.

  “I do not know.” Nick shook his head. “You are a deal more relaxed in the part than you were at the outset, and you might, therefore, underestimate the risks. You are crossing swords with a master duelist, and I would have you remember that at all times.”

  There was a wickedness to the performance Polly gave that afternoon that did little for Kincaid’s peace of mind. She missed no opportunity to flaunt the curves of hip and thigh, the neat turn of her ankle, the soft roundness of her calves—womanly attributes only ever seen in public on the stage. Her asides were delivered to the audience with a pert mischief that brought gales of delighted laughter ringing to the glazed cupola. At the uproarious conclusion, when the pretty young man was discovered to be endowed with a bosom of definitely female contours, Polly offered her bared breasts to the audience with a gesture of invitation that brought King Charles and his court to their feet on a shout of approval.

  “Something more than usual has bitten her this afternoon,” Killigrew murmured to Nicholas as they stood in the wings, watching the play. “Not that I have any objections, you understand. It is a supreme performance. Even the king is on his feet.”

  And George Villiers, thought Nick, realizing that it was for Buckingham that Polly was acting this afternoon. She was issuing an invitation that would entrap any man. If Buckingham already believed that she was well on the way to fulfilling her promises, he would now be convinced of it. He would be slavering this evening, and would meet a light coolness for his pains, even as her costume taunted him.

  Nick’s unease blossomed into anxiety. Did she really understand how dangerous was this game she played? he thought with a sudden savage stab of anger. At the moment she was behaving as if she played with a harmless fool instead of one of the most powerful and deadly men in the land.

  “Methinks they have enjoyed the spectacle!” Laughing, Polly came off the stage, dancing up to the two men, her hair, released from the peruke that had provided part of her masculine disguise, tumbling down her back, adding spice to the wanton provocation of her costume.

  “They would need to be something less than men to fail to do so,” Nick snapped, looking at her as she stood, bright-eyed with excitement, her shirt still open, revealing her breasts in all their creamy, rose-tipped beauty. She was still as unselfconscious as ever about her body. The thought did nothing to appease him.

  “Are you displeased?” Polly asked, puzzled at this unwarranted annoyance.

  “God’s grace, why should I be?” he returned. “Do up your shirt. I realize such exposure was necessary onstage, but it is hardly necessary now.”

  Polly gulped, drawing her shirt together. “You are become uncommon prudish, my Lord Kincaid.” Her chin went up, and she met the anger in his eyes with her own.

  Thomas Killigrew stepped back into the shadows. It was a most interesting exchange, and he could feel some sympathy for Kincaid. It must be galling for a man to see his mistress become the common property of every man who cared to attend the king’s theatre, particularly when the mistress in question took such obvious pleasure in the sensation.

  “Pray excuse me, my lord. His Grace of Buckingham awaits,” Polly was saying frigidly. “I must put up my hair.” With a perfectly executed bow, her plumed hat passing through the air in the elegant gesture of an accomplished gallant, she took a mocking leave of her teeth-gnashing lover.

  Polly greeted the stolid figure of John Coachman before stepping into the carriage emblazoned with the Kincaid arms. She sat in the darkness, gnawing her lip, trying to find the equilibrium she knew she would need for the hours that lay ahead. Why had Nick snapped at her like that? It was unreasonable that at such a time he should become this acid-tongued stranger. He knew what lay ahead of her. For all that she seemed more relaxed in the part, she still had to overcome the deadly loathing, to rid herself of the slimy tendrils of apprehension whenever she was in Buckingham’s orbit. While she laughed and flirted, promised and withheld, she was queasy with fear as she recognized the power of the man with whom she played her reckless game.

  George Villiers watched her arrival from the window of the upstairs parlor at the Half Moon tavern. Just what had her performance this afternoon meant? Well, he was about to find out. The time had come for Mistress Wyat to commit herself. He walked to the door, opening it, standing ready to greet his guest as she ascended the narrow staircase.

  “My lord duke.” Polly greeted him with a bow similar to that she had given Kincaid a short while before—except that this salute was carefully engineered to entice, displaying her figure to best advantage. “I am not late, I trust.”

  “By no means.” Smiling, he invited her into the parlor. “I am honored that you did not stay to change your dress.”

  “My haste was too great, Your Grace,” she responded. “You will forgive such anxiety.”

  “Rarely have I been more complimented.” His gaze ran over her as she stood in the empty parlor, trying to conceal her surprised dismay at the absence of other guests. “A glass of wine? I am sure you are in need of refreshment after that stellar performance this afternoon. You won all hearts, bud.”

  Polly accepted the compliment with an inclination of her head, the touch of a smile, and took the glass of wine he proffered. “I need not have been anxious about being late, it would seem,” she observed carefully. “Your other guests have not yet arrived.”

  “But did I not say that this was to be a private party?” The duke looked credibly discomposed. “I do beg your pardon if I led you to expect more amusing company than that my own poor wit can provide.” He gestured to the supper table. “At least I can assure you that your palate will not go ungratified.”

  Polly’s thoughts whirled as she felt the trap closing. If Buckingham was going to force the issue in this private room in a tavern where all ears would have been paid to be closed, then there was nothing she would be able to do to prevent him.

  He came up behind her, and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. She started violently as his hand flattened against the curve of her hip outlined by the breeches. “My lord duke—”

  “Such formality, bud,” he interrupted, his voice low and caressing. “I have a name.”

  “And I, my lord duke, have no desire for a tête-à-tête,” she said, finding that fear could be transmuted to anger with little difficulty under the prod of desperation. “I do not find trickery conducive to intimacy. You invited me to a small supper party, and it was that invitation I accepted. You will excuse me. My coachman is waiting.”

  “Just as I thought,” he said softly. “Let us have done with games. What do you want, Mistress Wyat? I am prepared to meet your price, if you wall but declare it.”

  “So crude, Your Grace.” She lifted a disdainful eyebrow, trying to stiffen her knees as rage flamed in his narrowed, hooded eyes. “Perhaps I am not to be bought.”

  “Everyone has a price,” he said, softly menacing. “I will find yours, make no mistake.”

  Polly backed to the door. The duke watched her, knowing her fear. He made no attempt to stop her, but as she reached the door, he said gently, “I do not know what game you think to play, wench, but I am a poor sports
man unless it be a sport I enjoy. I do not appear to be enjoying this one, I should warn you.”

  “I do not know what you mean, sir.” Her hand on the latch, escape now secured, Polly’s courage returned. “But I accept only those invitations that mean what they say. I do not care to be deceived.” On that note of hauteur, she beat a retreat, the flash of Dutch courage carrying her as far as the interior of the coach. Once there, in the swaying darkness, hearing the reassuring pounding of Kincaid’s cattle taking her home, fear swamped her anew so that she shook as if in the grip of an ague. Buckingham had declared his intent. Who was she, a puny, insignificant, Newgate-born bastard with a modicum of talent and beauty, to withstand that intent?

  Polly tumbled out of the carriage almost before John Coachman could let down the footstep. The street door was unlocked. She whisked inside, drawing breath with a wash of relief in the dim light of the tiny hall. Once safe behind her own door, the surge of panic ebbed, to be replaced by a bitter, self-directed anger. She marched upstairs, banging open the door of the parlor, expecting to see Nicholas and not sure whether she wished to or not. But the chamber contained only Susan, who turned from the table where she was arranging a dish of sturgeon and a howl of figs, presumably for Nick’s supper.

  “Why, Polly.” Sue’s round eyes opened even wider as she took in the other’s astonishingly daring costume. “We wasn’t expectin’ ye ’till later.”

  “I did not expect to be back,” Polly said shortly. “My lord is not here?”

  “Said as ’Ow he’d return for supper at ten,” Susan informed her. “’Ave ye been out dressed like that? I never seen nothin’ like it.”

  “Then you should pay a visit to the theatre,” Polly said between compressed lips. She threw her plumed hat into the corner of the room, dragged off the heavily embroidered coat, tossing it to follow the hat, and tore at the buttons of the satin waistcoat, her fingers as vicious as the furious thoughts roiling in her head. For some reason, her costume seemed to symbolize the humiliation of the evening’s debacle. A wanton in a whore’s costume, she had revealed her fear to Buckingham and had thus ruined everything. The plan lay in tatters because her courage had failed her. She had offered a harlot’s tawdry provocation, then had turned and run like a child who found her challenge taken up and the consequences greater than she had bargained for.