by Jane Feather
The amusement in her voice told him that he need not react to this as to tragedy. He ran his hands through the bright locks pouring like molten honey over his knees. “Enlighten me, pray.”
“Why, ’tis Cupid’s dart,” Polly said solemnly. “Did you not mark Oliver at Wilton?”
Nick thought. “I do not think that I did,” he said.
“He is a footman, and most comely,” Polly went on. “And Sue is smitten with Oliver and Oliver is smitten with Sue. So you see, ’tis not at all convenient for the one to be here and t’other in Wiltshire.”
“No, I can see that it is not at all convenient,” Nick agreed. “It could well cause a permanent cold in the head. Well, what’s to be done?”
“It seems that Oliver is only an underfootman at present and cannot begin to think of marrying; but what he really would like is to be a gamekeeper in a little cottage, and Sue could have a tribe of babies, which would suit her very well—”
“Just a minute.” Nick tugged on a strand of hair to bring this vision of domestic bliss to a conclusion. “How is this ambition to be achieved?”
“Well, I do not see how it can be if you do not take a hand.” Polly turned ’round, kneeling up to rest her elbows on his lap. “I have been meaning to bring it up this age, but—”
“You have been somewhat occupied,” Nick finished for her.
“And you have been somewhat distracted,” Polly said quietly, examining his face with grave attention. “What is troubling you, Nick?”
“Nothing of any moment.” He shrugged. “To return to Sue and her headcold; in what fashion am I to take a hand?”
“It is obvious, is it not? You must employ Oliver as a gamekeeper on your estate in Yorkshire. Then they may marry and live happy ever after.”
Nick scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Yorkshire is a very long and arduous journey away. ’Tis a very different life from the one to which they are accustomed. Would you really be doing them a favor? Mayhap Oliver can find such work in Wiltshire. It is a softer life, and not so far removed from London for Susan.”
“You will not help, then?” Polly sounded as disappointed as she looked, and more than a little surprised.
“I did not say that. I suggest that you think about it, and consult further with Sue before we make any decisions.”
“But if she thinks it a good idea, you will agree?”
“I will write to my steward to see what work and accommodation are available,” he promised. “But do not be in such a hurry, moppet. You are not so anxious to lose Susan, are you?”
“No, of course not. I shall miss her most dreadfully. But I cannot be so selfish as to hinder her happiness for such a reason.”
Nick smiled at her very clear indignation at such an implication. He pinched her nose. “Your pardon, madame; I did not mean to cast aspersions on your character.”
Polly’s chuckle was swallowed in a yawn. Nicholas stood up, drawing her up with him. “’Tis past your bedtime, sweetheart. And I must away.”
“You will not stay?” She looked at him in that same searching way, but could see nothing more than weariness. “Where must you go at this time of the night?”
“To Sir Peter’s. There are some matters we must discuss.” He reached for his cloak. “But if it is not too late, I will come here afterward. Although I’d not wish to wake you.”
“Then I cannot imagine what point there would be.” Polly pouted in mock vexation, receiving an ungentlemanly swat for her pains. She skipped to the door and opened it for him. “Begone, sir. The sooner you are about your business, the sooner will it be done, and you may return.”
Nick pulled on his gloves, picked up his rapier stick, and turned up the fur collar of his cloak against the January winds. “I had better find you asleep on my return.” Tilting her chin with a gloved finger, he kissed her closed mouth, lingering on its soft, pliant sweetness for long minutes before reluctantly releasing her.
Polly stood at the head of the stairs, shivering at the cold blast of icy air as he opened the street door. Then it had closed behind him, and the draft set the fire in the parlor spurting orange. She went over to the warmth, hugging her arms across her breast, a small frown buckling her forehead. Whatever Nick might say, something was causing him powerful worry. Yet if he would not confide in her, how could she help him?
She sighed, staring down into the fire as if, within its constantly shifting pattern, she would see answers. But the pictures formed and dissolved, offering no enlightenment. Turning her attention to a matter in which she could be helpful, she strode to the door.
“Sue! Sue, are ye busy?”
The girl appeared from the kitchen quarters, coming to the foot of the stairs. “D’ye need summat?” she asked apathetically.
“Only some company,” Polly coaxed. “I have some news that might cheer you. And there’s chestnuts we can roast.”
Susan, looking as if she could not imagine being cheered by such offerings, came up to the parlor. “’is lordship gone out, then?”
“Aye, some business he had to attend to. But pray listen, Sue. I have talked to him about you and Oliver, and guess what he has said.” Eagerly, Polly expounded her plan and the positive part of Nick’s reaction. She could see no reason to depress Sue further by explicating possible drawbacks to the scheme.
“D’ye think he really means it?” Susan breathed, all evidence of tears vanished. “Why, t’would be the most wonderful thing.” Reaching into the coals, she hitched out a glowing, ashy chestnut, dropping it abruptly onto the hearth, licking her singed fingers.
“But Yorkshire’s a mighty long way.” Polly decided that in good conscience she should perhaps point out this fact, at least. Picking up the chestnut, she tossed it from hand to hand, in the hopes that the movement would cool it.
Susan, however, disregarded this disadvantage completely. “I’ve no family ’ere,” she said. “An’ Oliver’s folk’re in Cornwall, so ’e don’t pay them no mind as ’tis.”
“Well, perhaps you should write and ask him what he thinks,” suggested Polly, peeling the steaming nut. “Before my lord writes to his steward. Just in case Oliver does not care for the idea.”
“Oh, ’e will,” Sue said with confidence. She looked dreamily into the fire. “Just think on’t, Polly. To be married, with my own ’ouse, and babes, and a cow, and a chicken …” The thought of such plenty rendered her speechless for a minute, then she said curiously, “D’ye think of marrying, Polly?”
The question triggered the old unease, the uncertainty that she usually managed to suppress by refusing to think beyond the loving glories of the present. Now she lied. “I’ve never thought on it, Sue. I’m an actor, and there’s Nick. Why would I want to marry?” She smiled slightly, reaching into the fire for another chestnut so that Sue could not see her face. “There are wives and there are whores in the world you and I come from, Susan. You are made to be wife, and I to be whore.” She shrugged and made the lie complete. “I am content with my lot. Cottages and chickens and cows and babes would not please me half so much.”
“But what about when ’is lordship takes a wife?” Susan asked diffidently. “Will ’e keep you, d’ye think?”
That was the nub—the aspect of the future that Polly dared not dwell upon. Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, would need a wife—and it could not be a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard. Society might not frown too heavily on an actor’s becoming a baroness, but Polly Wyat had more than just the stage in her background, as she and Nick knew. Women with her dubious origins did not make the wives of noblemen and the mothers of their heirs, however much they were loved. So what would happen when Nick did take a wife? Would a wife look complacently upon an established mistress? Or would she demand he throw up his whore and devote his full attention to the marriage bed? In the shoes of this putative wife, Polly felt that she would most certainly insist. It was a desolate thought. “One day I must ask him,” she said with a light laugh, another shrug. She was not an actor for
nothing.
“Now, do you not think ye should discover Oliver’s views on this?” She returned briskly to the original subject, and Sue, fortunately, found it sufficiently absorbing to put the other matter out of her head.
“But ow am I to ask ’im?” Susan frowned, then her face cleared. “Ye’ll write the letter for me, won’t ye, Polly? Now y’are so book-learned.”
Polly looked a little doubtful. “I can read all right, anything at all now; but I’ve not a fair hand.” She grimaced. It was a subject on which Nick was inclined to be testy, maintaining quite correctly that if she bothered to apply herself to the task, she could manage to produce something that did not look as if it had been written by a rampant rabble of centipedes. “But I’ll try.”
Getting up from the floor, she went to the press for paper, sharpened a goose quill, and sat down at the table to com pose the missive. Sue came to stand behind her, exclaiming in admiration as Polly demonstrated this amazing art of writing. “Who’s to read it for him?” Polly asked, shaking the sand caster over the script.
“Oh, there’ll be someone.” Susan peered closely. “What’s that squiggle there?”
“’Tis just a squiggle,” Polly said regretfully. “I told you I have not a fair hand. But there’s fewer blots than usual. Shall I read it to you? Then you can say what else you want written.”
The task took them well into the night, as the fire died and the candles guttered, but so absorbed were they, they noticed nothing until Polly shivered suddenly. “Put more coals on the fire, Sue. We’re like to freeze to death.”
The sound of the front door made them both start. “’Tis Nick,” Polly said, relaxing at the familiar tread.
“What the deuce goes on here?” demanded Nick, coming into the parlor. “’Tis near two in the morning.”
“Oh, we have been writing a letter to Oliver,” Polly told him cheerfully, reaching up to kiss him in greeting. “At least, I have been writing.”
“Then heaven send Oliver uncommon powers.” Nick tossed his cloak onto the settle. “He’ll never be able to decipher it, else. You might just as well leave him in ignorance.”
“Oh, that is unjust,” Polly exclaimed. “I have made it fair. Only see.” She held out her handiwork.
Nick scrutinized the communication, returning it with a head shake of mock exasperation. “You spell most vilely, Polly. I swear I should have used the rod to teach you with.”
“Oh, I do not care a jot for your opinion,” Polly declared. “It says what Sue wished it to say.”
“Then it had best go to the carrier without delay.” Nick took his long clay pipe from the mantel. “Be off with you to your bed, Susan.”
He lit the pipe and stood, shoulders to the hearth, squinting through the fragrant blue smoke as if trying to decide on something.
Polly stood immobile, afraid that a movement would distract him, and she did not want him distracted because just possibly he was deciding to confide in her. A dreadful thought reared an ugly head, nurtured by her conversation with Sue. Perhaps he had resolved to take a wife, and was even now trying to think how best to break it to her.
Nicholas was thinking of the conversation he had just had with his friends. It was clear to them all that for some cause, Kincaid was regarded with deep disfavor by the king. While he had not been denied admittance to Whitehall since their return from Wilton, he was made to feel like a leper, ostracized by all but his special friends. It was a pattern familiar to all habitués of Whitehall in these days of favoritism and conspiracies, both real and imagined. In a society defined by a complete absence of trust, no one was really safe. A certain coolness would be noticed, an absence of attention if one approached the king; then came the frown, the turned shoulder that denied audience; then came the whispers that fed more whispers; and a man was on his way to outer darkness.
Matters had now reached this last stage for Nicholas, and he was no nearer to understanding the cause than he had been at Christmas. None of his friends could throw light on the matter, either. They knew only that Kincaid was persona non grata, that the king mistrusted him, and it was best not to be seen in his company if one was not to be tarred with the same brush.
His present dilemma was a difficult and a dangerous one. He had two choices: to brave it out, taking the risk that no more than mood and whim lay behind his present disfavor; or he could flee London, rusticate in Yorkshire until some other matter took the king’s attention, to put Kincaid out of sight, out of mind. The latter course would be the sensible one if he thought there was a concrete reason for King Charles’s anger and mistrust. Concrete reasons led to the Tower and the executioner’s block. But he could come up with nothing. And if he fled, what was to be done with Polly? As his mistress, she might also be endangered if he left her behind. Yet to take her away would take her from her beloved theatre at a high point in a career that depended upon being in the public eye. He did not think he had the right to do that—not without absolute certainty of danger. She was not his wife yet, when all was said and done. Fortunately for her, he thought mirthlessly. In his present anomalous position, the greater the perceived distance between them, the better.
“Are you going to leave me?” Polly heard herself whisper, quite without volition. The bleak look on his face frightened her more than anything she could have imagined, and the need to know what caused it had become invincible, regardless of what misery the knowledge might spell for her.
Nick started at this uncanny reading of his thoughts. What could she know of this? “Why would you think such a thing?” he demanded, his voice harsh without intention.
Polly bit her lip, her fire-warmed cheeks cooling with the chill that seemed to enwrap her. “I do not know why; but you appear so distracted, and you will not tell me of the cause. I … I was thinking of marriage.” This last came out in a rush, and she dropped her eyes lest he read her panic.
“Marriage!” What sort of a mind reader was she? But now was not the moment for such a subject in all its complexities; not now when he was enmeshed in a web of an unknown’s spinning, and he must make immediate decisions that could well have far-reaching consequences for both their lives. “Do you know what o’clock it is?” he demanded irritably. “When I decide ’tis time to talk of marriage, I will apprise you of the fact in good order.”
“And I suppose that then I must find another protector,” Polly said, unable to help herself. Once the monster had risen, it would not return peaceably to its lair.
Nicholas closed his eyes on a weary sigh. Why on earth was she playing this silly game now? Had she no more understanding of his bone-deep exhaustion, his dreadful apprehension than to make ridiculous jests? He heard truculence in her voice, rather than the anxiety this was designed to mask. He saw her pallor and interpreted it as fatigue; the gaze that would not meet his, he interpreted as the petulance of an overtired child.
“Do not talk such arrant nonsense,” he said shortly. “It seems to me that you lack even common sense. You were exhausted four hours ago, but instead of seeking your bed like the rational grown woman you are supposed to be, you waste the night in idle chatter with the maid.”
“I had thought that was why Susan lived here,” Polly fired back, confused resentment overcoming anxiety. “So that I should have someone with whom to engage in idle chatter!”
“I do not always make the right decisions, particularly where you are concerned,” snapped his lordship. “Get you to bed straightway.”
“I will not on your say-so,” she declared, furious at this apparently unprovoked attack.
Nicholas sighed. “Polly, I am awearied, too much so to join battle. Go to bed or not, as you please.”
“I do please!” Polly banged into the bed chamber, there to crawl beneath the quilt, falling asleep with sticky lashes and tear-wet cheeks and salt upon her lips.
Nicholas remained beside the fire, tobacco and wine providing a measure of spurious ease. Eventually he went to bed, slipping an arm beneath the sleep
ing figure, rolling her into his embrace before finding his own uneasy oblivion.
Chapter 19
They came for Lord Kincaid that same night, in the hour before dawn when the spirit is at its lowest ebb and the night’s chill at its most pervasive.
The hammering at the street door, the bellowed “Open in the name of the king!” brought casements flung wide the length of Drury Lane, and Goodman Benson, in nightcap and gown, hurrying from his bed, shivering with fear and cold, to draw back the bolts.
The lieutenant pushed past him, a troop of six soldiers at his back. “We are come for Lord Kincaid. Where is he to be found?”
Benson, quivering like an aspen leaf, pointed abovestairs, unable to find his voice in the face of this terrifying visitation.
The lieutenant, hand on sword, mounted two steps at a time, flinging open the door to the darkened parlor. He crossed the empty room, threw wide the door to the bedchamber. “My Lord Kincaid?” he demanded into the darkness, his soldiers crowding at his back.
Nick had heard the banging, had had time to recognize what was about to happen, but not to prepare himself. Now he reached for flint and tinder, lighting the candle beside the bed. Polly had sat up, her eyes wide in incomprehension, her tumbled hair doing little to conceal her breasts as the quilt fell to her waist.
The intruders’ eyes, as one pair, became riveted upon that creamy, rose-tipped perfection. Nicholas took hold of the cover and drew it up. “You have need of this,” he said quietly. “To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?” An eyebrow quirked in sardonic question.
“You are Lord Kincaid?” The lieutenant approached the bed, one hand still on his sword hilt, although the man in the bed was both naked and unarmed.
“The very same,” Nicholas said with an ironic bow of his head.
“What is happening?” Polly found her voice at last, clutching the sheet to her neck as she stared at a scene that smacked of a Bedlamite’s lunacy.
