Venus

by Jane Feather

  Polly smiled, disclaimed prettily, flirted with accomplished ease, and gave them exactly what they wanted, except that she singled out no one for a special smile or unspoken promise. Suggestions were made, some overt invitations, but she deflected them all, conscious all the while of the unwinking scrutiny of Buckingham, who did not add his own voice to the chatter, but seemed to be watching her for something. It required every last effort to keep her voice from faltering, her smile from vanishing as if it had never been. It was as if he were deliberately trying to disconcert her, and when, involuntarily, her eyes met his, she saw there a cold satisfaction, a quiet calculation that pierced her facade as if it were gossamer, revealing the naked vulnerability of her love.

  He smiled lazily, drawing out an enameled snuffbox from the deep pocket of his gold-embroidered coat. “You will sup with me this evening, Mistress Wyat.” It was the first time he had spoken, and there was no question mark. He took a pinch of snuff on his wrist, not taking his eyes off Polly.

  Polly felt a great stillness fill her, a cool space surround her, as if she stood alone on the edge of an uncharted, horizonless sea. Richard had said she was to do nothing until he had had time to do what he could. But then, they had not expected the duke to move so quickly. She looked into the cold eyes, saw again the power of his lust and now the knowledge of its imminent satisfaction. Somehow she forced a smile as if she had not seen those things. “Nothing will give me greater pleasure, my lord duke.”

  He bowed. “I will send my carriage for you at nine o’clock.” Then he walked away, leaving Polly’s admiring court to exclaim at his good fortune and to complain at the lady’s hard heart that would not unbend for them.

  Polly walked alone back to her lodging. Richard had said he would spend the evening at court, where he would learn what he could. He would not wait upon her until the following day, by which time her assignation with Buckingham would be a thing of the past, and recriminations pointless. Richard never engaged in pointless exercises.

  Her apartments carried a desolate air, a bleak loneliness in the two rooms once so cozy, so redolent with love’s warmth and laughter. Susan appeared stunned, unable to comprehend the extent of the disaster that had come from the blue to shatter the orderly world to which she was accustomed. She could think only of how this would affect the plan to establish herself and Oliver in Yorkshire, and Polly was hard-pressed to bite her tongue. But she knew that Susan had to focus upon something in order to make some sense of things, and the matter that concerned her most nearly was the obvious choice. So she let the girl moan and bewail and speculate while she helped Polly with an elaborate toilet designed both to indicate to Buckingham that she was unbowed by events, and to convince herself of that fact.

  She wore a gown of ivory satin, looped up at the sides to reveal a rose damask petticoat edged with lace, stiffly encrusted with seed pearls. The long train of the gown swept behind her; her hair was piled artfully on top of her head, the knot contained by a delicate filigree coronet; this headdress and a pair of high-heeled satin pumps added to her stature—a prop sorely needed by the actor this night. The string of perfect pearls that Nicholas had given her as a belated eighteenth birthday present were clasped around her neck, and she drew strength from them as if from a talisman. They bore his spirit, and nothing that Buckingham could do or say would defile that.

  Yet when the carriage arrived at the door on the stroke of nine o’clock, the sweat of fear broke out on her brow, and nausea tugged at her belly, loosened her gut. She drew on lace-edged gloves over her clammy, shaking hands, and Sue draped her velvet-lined cloak about her shoulders.

  It was simply an attack of stage fright, she told herself, descending the stairs. She was accustomed to such attacks, knew just how to deal with them. She was about to go onstage; once there, all fear would disappear, because she would no longer be Polly Wyat, who could be afraid, but someone else for whom fear was a stranger and an irrelevancy. But while she sat in the carriage with the Buckingham arms emblazoned upon the panels, she was still Polly Wyat, miserably afraid, and there was no Master Killigrew waiting in the wings, sending out his support and encouragement.

  The carriage came to a stop all too soon; the door opened, the footstep was lowered, and Polly stepped out. Only then did she realize where they were. This was not the Duke of Buckingham’s mansion in the Strand. It was Covent Garden, and she was standing at the door of one of the most notorious bawdy houses in the Piazza. That door was opened, and a servant stood there, clearly bidding her entrance. She could refuse, turn and walk away from here in her elegant gown of a lady of the court, behaving as if her costume were an accurate reflection of the person it clothed; or she could go inside to perform her whoring with the rest of the house’s occupants. She had come here to sell her body. How and where the buyer chose to conduct the purchase was up to him.

  Well, at least her role had been defined for her from the outset. There were to be no polite pretenses. She could play the harlot as well as any other character—probably better, since she had been bred to play it from puberty. With a cold detachment, Polly gathered up her skirt and entered the house.

  The servant closed the door. Polly stood for a minute as the sounds of the house enveloped her. There were giggles, and squeals, loud male laughter, the smack of flesh upon flesh, scurrying feet, slamming doors.

  The servant leered, looking in open speculation at her dress and bearing. Polly returned the look with one of haughty derision. “Is it too much to ask that ye cease your gaping and take me to my host?”

  The man’s jaw dropped, but he gestured toward a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the hall. “This-a-way.”

  Polly followed him to an upper landing. A man, wig askew above a face glistening and scarlet with drink, his clothing in a state of considerable disarray, emerged from a chamber, laughing as he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He, too, gawped at Polly as if he could not quite believe his eyes. Polly allowed her gaze to roam insolently down his body before she looked up in scorn, as if finding him wanting. His color heightened; he took a step toward her, whether in menace or interest, Polly did not stay to discover.

  Her escort led her down a narrow corridor to pause outside a door at the far end. It was quieter in this part of the house, the floor no longer bare but covered with a canvas carpet, the candles in the sconces wax, not tallow. The man tapped on the door, then opened it, standing aside for Polly to enter.

  “My lord duke, what novel surroundings,” she said, sweeping past the servant, allowing her train to swirl around her in a pool of ivory satin.

  Buckingham was standing beside the hearth, a glass of ruby claret in his hand, an expression of anticipated amusement on his face. At her crisp greeting, the amusement faded somewhat. “Brothels and whoring partner each other remarkably well,” he said, softly insulting. “I had thought you would find such surroundings more comfortable.”

  “Indeed?” Her eyebrows lifted. “How considerate of you, my lord duke.” She looked around the chamber with every appearance of interest. It reminded her of the room at the Dog tavern where she had taken the gulls and undressed for them. It was cleaner, certainly, more comfortable, but it reeked of its purpose, as had the other chamber. If it had not been for Nicholas, she would have been whoring for pennies in that room, when Josh was not taking payment in kind for her keep. And no doubt she would have died of the plague, and any misbegotten bastards with her.

  Life came full circle sometimes. She would do now what would have been forced from her, if fate had not intervened. The Polly of the Dog tavern had many strengths, and knew how to overcome the degradation, how to distance herself from assaults. All she had to do was to rediscover that Polly—the one Buckingham did not know had ever existed, the one Nicholas had spent so much loving care on obliterating.

  “Shall we discuss terms, Your Grace?” Her hands went to the clasp of her cloak, but Buckingham forstalled her.

  “Allow me.” He eased the manteau from
her shoulders, laying it with great care over a chair back. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “Thank you.” Her hand was perfectly steady as she took the glass, and she was aware of a distance between herself and this man who was going to torment her if he could. But he would not be able to, because he did not know that Nick’s Polly was not in this room. Here was a street-hardened tavern wench, accustomed to blows and curses, well able to hold her own in a world informed by brutality and degradation—a world in which such a place as this was utterly familiar. If he did but know it, His Grace had done her some considerable favor by this initial humiliation. It made the role much easier to carry.

  “Why should you imagine, Mistress Wyat, that you are in a position to discuss terms?” the duke now said, returning to the fire, leaning one arm negligently along the mantel, regarding her with that same air of amused interest, as one who waited for the entertaining antics of a creature in a circus, obliged to perform to his piping.

  Polly sipped her claret. “Indeed, Your Grace, should you choose to take from me whatever you wish without my consent, there is none to say you nay.” She looked around the room. “The door is not locked, but I am sure that if I chose to run from you, there would be those to stop me.” She walked over to the window, drawing aside the curtain to look down onto the bustling Piazza, where the full gamut of fleshly pleasures and perversions was for sale. “I did not have to enter this house. But you knew that I would, since you appear to have discovered my price.” She turned and smiled at him over her glass. “Rape might appeal to you in some instances, my lord duke, but I’d hazard that you want more than that from me.”

  Buckingham pulled at his chin, regarding her now thoughtfully, quite without amusement. He had expected abject fear, pleading for her lover, and finally the desperate acceptance of the terms he would dictate. Instead, she was standing there telling him that she understood the game and was prepared to play it.

  “No,” he said, pushing himself away from the mantel. “Rape has limited appeal, although I might choose to fabricate it at some point in our acquaintanceship.”

  “Your terms, duke.”

  “Can you not guess, mistress? You seem remarkably perspicacious.” He strolled over to the long deal table against the far wall and tore off a chicken leg from the bird resting on a humble pewter platter. “Will you not sup?”

  “I find I have no appetite.” She took his vacated place at the fire. “Perhaps I should tell you my own terms.” She waited for a response, but Buckingham gnawed on his chicken leg, offering neither invitation nor denial. “You may have me, Duke. In exchange, I will have, now, the order for Lord Kincaid’s release from the Tower, and the dismissal of all charges, either stated or predicated, against him; the document to be written by you, signed and sealed, and given to me before we commence whatever play you have in mind.”

  Buckingham smiled. “The play I have in mind, bud, will be of seven nights duration, here in this chamber. I will have from you your willing—nay, eager—participation.” The smile broadened, and the banked fires of lust flared for a second in the eyes resting upon her face. “Any hesitancy to comply with my wishes, the hint of a refusal to accede to my demands, will nullify the bargain. You will come at this time every evening for seven days, returning to your lodgings in the morning.”

  So there it was. Polly forced herself to meet his searching gaze without flinching. She must lend herself to whatever quirks this man’s notoriously dark lust might produce. A whore’s work—no more than that. “What guarantee do I have that you will keep your side of the bargain?”

  For some strange reason such an aspersion seemed to catch him on the raw. “You have the word of a Villiers!” he snapped, losing his equilibrium for a second.

  Polly raised an ironic eyebrow. “Your pardon, my lord duke, I meant no slur upon your honor. How should I, indeed?” She paused for a minute, but the duke had himself well in hand again, so she continued calmly. “I would have your word, also, that you will do me no serious hurt, and that you will not spill your seed within.” She was negotiating like a whore, Polly thought distantly. A whore’s terms, for one must keep intact the goods with which one had to bargain in the future.

  Buckingham suddenly laughed. “By God, but y’are more than I reckoned on! As consummate a courtesan as my Lady Castlemaine or any. Know your value and keep it! Well, the sport will be the better for it, I swear.” He strode to the door, flung it wide, and bellowed for the servant. “Bring me paper, quill, and sand caster.”

  They were produced, the order written, the charges declared dismissed. Buckingham, dropped hot wax from the candle, sealing the document with the impress of his signet ring. “This will be delivered to the governor of the Tower in seven days time, on condition that you have fulfilled your side of the agreement.”

  “You’ll not find me wanting,” Polly said.

  George Villiers refilled his wineglass, selected two walnuts with some deliberation from a bowl, then leaned against the table, looking at her. He held the walnuts against each other between his hands and squeezed slowly. The shells cracked in the sudden stillness. Smiling, he turned his attention to peeling away the husks cupped in his hands before looking up at her as she stood, immobile by the fire. His eyes narrowed as he said softly, “I’d have you show me what I’ve bought.”

  No different in essence, Polly thought, than the little chamber in the Dog tavern. She began to unhook her gown.

  Chapter 20

  The seventh morning after the seventh night dawned, its cold gray light filling the square casement. Polly lay wide-awake, stiff and chilled, as she had done since her bedfellow had finally fallen asleep. Her wrists were bound beneath her, and Buckingham had neglected to share the quilt before he had slept, so she could do nothing about her exposure to the ice-tipped air.

  There was an eerie silence. She had noticed in the last seven nights that this silence fell for no more than a couple of hours, just before profound night yielded to the dawn. It fell very suddenly, as if the wildness of the Piazza had run its course, its inhabitants stopped dead in the tracks of debauchery. The house slept in the same way, screams, giggles, footsteps, cries, all ceased as if at a signal, and it was as if Polly were the only person awake in this squalid corner of the universe.

  She shivered convulsively, but nothing would persuade her to edge closer to the warmth of her companion’s body—not when it was not required of her, and her revulsion could not be detected.

  “Are you cold?” Buckingham spoke into the gray light, sleepily matter-of-fact.

  “You neglected to untie my hands,” she said, as matter-of-fact as he. “And I have no quilt.”

  “Careless of me,” he said, his voice arid as the desert. “D’ye find no pleasure in the sensation of helplessness, bud?”

  “Had I done so, my lord duke, I venture to suggest that your pleasure would have been diminished,” she responded with acid-tongued truth,

  Buckingham chuckled. He had no objection to her tartness so long as she entered his sport without physical reservation; and she had certainly done that. Indeed, it had been a most rewarding seven nights; he was sorry that they were over. But he would have tired of her eventually, and there was a certain sweetness in an ending that came before one was truly ready. Rolling her onto her belly, he unfastened the silk scarf that bound her wrists.

  “My thanks, sir,” Polly said formally, sitting up and shaking the life back into her numbed arms, chafing her wrists. “Our bargain is completed, I believe.”

  “Aye.” Villiers sighed regretfully. “But I’d as lief continue it for a while longer. If I’d known what a joy you would be, I’d have fixed upon a month.” He got out of bed, stretched and yawned, then went to throw coals upon the fire’s embers.

  Polly made no response, merely huddled beneath the quilt, which still retained his body warmth, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. She watched him dress, thinking dispassionately that it was for the last time. She would go home, and Su
san would have the tub of hot water waiting before the blazing fire, and she would scrub the night’s violations from her body, and the memory from her mind for the last time. And Nicholas would return, and would replace those grimy memories with his own fresh, present reality.

  Dressed, the duke went to the mantel, where he took up the sealed document that had lain there for the last seven nights. He tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of his hand, regarding the figure on the bed. “Extraordinary!” he murmured, shaking his head. “That one would voluntarily expose oneself to such a fatiguing emotion as love.” He crossed to the bed, thrusting the document into the deep pocket of his coat. “A farewell kiss, sweet bud. ’Tis the last demand.”

  Eventually, the door closed on his departure. Polly flew from the bed, scrambling into her clothes, drawing her hooded cloak tight about her. The house reeked of stale liquor and tobacco smoke, and many other less savory remnants. A ragged, skinny girl, her chapped hands blue with cold, her nose dripping, was sloshing cold water over a pool of vomit in the corner of the landing. Polly drew her skirts aside and stepped quickly past. The doorkeeper, grumbling and mumbling, spat phlegm onto the sawdust-covered floor as he pulled back the bolts on the street door.

  “It’d ’elp a body if n ye’d come down t’gether!”

  It had been the same complaint for the last six mornings. Buckingham always left before Polly—-just another client leaving his whore in the brothel, where she belonged—and the doorkeeper always bolted the door after him, then grumbled mightily at having to open up again five minutes later. Polly ignored him today, as she had done every previous day. Out in the street, where the night’s debris still littered, she took a deep breath of freedom. She would cleanse both mind and body of the soil of those nights. She was no delicately nurtured flower, no piece of porcelain to be cracked and broken by such doings. She had seen worse, had known as bad. For many, such sordid degradations informed their lives from birth until death. For her it was over.