Venus

Chapter 9

Iwill not be long absent, sweetheart," Nicholas said, lifting a honeyed lock from where it lay across her breast. "I must return home to discover how matters are progressing with Margaret, and to find clean raiment. It has been three days since I was last seen alive by anyone but Richard, yourself, and the good Bensons."

Polly reached up a finger to trace the line of the finedrawn mouth. "You did send the Bensons' lad with a message, so Margaret will not be afeard tor you." She smiled ruefully. "But I know it must come to an end, for all that I would it did not have to."

"I also." He bent to kiss her, tasting that sweetness that had become so wondrously familiar. "But think not of an ending, only of a beginning." Reluctantly, he pushed aside the bedcover, swinging his legs to the floor. "When I return I will take you shopping. You may harry the mercers like a plague in Egypt and set an army of sempstresses to work, for without a more alluring wardrobe, my flower, you will be ill equipped to face the world of your choosing."

Polly sat up, hugging her knees. Mercers and sempstresses conjured up a most heady image, one that she could not immediately grasp in all its magnificence. Mercers meant the buying of tafieta and velvet, damask and satin; embroidered

petticoats, lace collars and ruffs; girdles and gloves and hose. "I think you should begone, sir, in order that you may return the sooner."

Nicholas gave a shout of laughter to see such joyful calculation in those green-brown eyes. The Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard was looking upon Elysian fields. "Petticoats of sarcenet," he enticed gleefully. "Nightgowns of wool and velvet; a gown for every kirtle-"

"Oh, begone, do!" begged Polly. "In your absence, I will make some drawings of the gowns I would wish made."

That pulled him up short. "You know what you would like?"

"But of course," she said simply. "If there is paper and quill and inkhorn, I will show you." A smile touched her lips. "It is easier to draw than to write, my lord."

"It requires less learning, perhaps," he said doubtfully, wondering how she could possibly know enough about the elegancies of a lady's dress to have a sufficiently clear picture of her wants to present to a sempstress.

"I learned much when I was under your sister's roof," she explained, grasping with little difficulty the reason for his hesitancy. "And yet more when I could steal away for an hour or so to watch the gentlewomen walking in the Strand. And also the not-so-gentlewomen." An up-from-under look glimmering with mischief accompanied this addendum. "Since I belong to the realm of the latter, it may prove to have been a not unhelpful observation. Their finery appeared unexceptionable. But then, my tastes are but uninformed."

"Somehow, I doubt that," murmured his lordship. "I suspect that there is very little of importance about which you are truly uninformed."

"Oh, my lord, but I must protest. You do me too much honor," she simpered with the most grating titter, batting her eyelashes vigorously. "I feel sure you exaggerate."

Nick tucked his shirt into the waistband of his breeches. "Probably," he agreed, giving provocation its own again. "But you must learn to accept compliments without ques-

tioning, regardless of their sincerity." He fastened his doublet, shrugged into his coat, and adjusted the ruffs at his shirt sleeves. "I am heartily sick of these garments. I do not imagine I shall ever wish to wear them again."

Polly regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I cannot imagine what possible point there could be in paying compliments that are insincere."

"Oh, on occasion a very fine point can be made," he informed her. "It is possible to make a compliment sound like an insult, my love. As you will learn."

" 'Tis not an art I have the least interest in learning." Polly thumped back on the pillows, pulling the quilt up to her nose.

"In that case," declared Nick cheerfully, "there seems little point in a shopping expedition."

"Why do you always have the last word?" Polly wailed, sitting up again.

Nick could not help laughing. "Do not think to score against me, moppet. I have had many more years of experience than you, and my wits are fine-honed."

"But I may hone mine on your steel," she suggested, making an admirably speedy recovery. "I know full well how keen and upstanding that steel can be." Her eyes, gleaming suggestively, invested a seemingly innocent statement with a wealth of innuendo.

Kincaid whistled in soft appreciation. That look, that tone, employed when she delivered some of the deliriously wicked lines penned by the most popular playwrights, would bring the house down. "I predict a great career for you, Mistress Wyat. If someone does not wring your neck first." Crossing to the bed, he lifted her chin to plant a hard kiss on her mouth. "I must dine at home with Margaret, but I will return this afternoon, and we will visit the Exchange."

Polly pouted. "I do not care to dine alone."

"Then you must do without your dinner today," was the callous response. Kincaid was not about to be fooled by an aggrieved pout more suited to an overindulged damsel of society's upper echelons than to this hard-schooled wench,

for whom an adequate dinner must at times have been the summit of the day's ambition.

A smile nickered at the corners of her mouth as she accepted this further defeat without protest. "I think I shall go for a walk. I presume there is no one here of whom I must ask leave?" A hint of challenge lurked in her voice.

Nicholas shook his head. "You know full well that you are the mistress here. But I would have you take a care. The streets are not entirely safe."

"You forget perhaps that I am of the streets," Polly reminded. "I know well how to have a care."

Nick frowned. "You no longer look as if you are of the streets," he said. "Your present dress does not fit that part. Walking alone, you could well present an attractive prize to one on the lookout for such spoils."

"Then it is possible that they might be surprised," she countered. "I can employ the language and manners of the gutters as well as any, my lord, should the need arise."

"I cannot imagine why I thought you could not," said Kincaid, shaking his head in mock wonderment. "However, notwithstanding, I repeat: have a care."

"Yes, my Lord Kincaid," she responded meekly, folding her hands, giving him a look of anxious innocence. "I will do just as you say."

Nick paused, knowing he must go, yet utterly seduced by her mischief, and the sensual promise in the glowing eyes. But if he postponed his departure, he would not leave today, and there was a world beyond these four walls, commitments he had made and must honor. "Until this afternoon," he said, turning away from her disappointment before he yielded.

Polly heard the parlor door click on his departure, and sighed. There had been a moment when she had thought he would stay, and the idyll would have lasted one more day. But since it was not to be, she would be wise to make the best of things. It was time to test this new life that had been gifted to her. She was mistress of her own lodgings, answerable to no one, free to go wheresoever she pleased. A day

where there were no tasks to perform, no orders to obey, stretched before her; and the world outside awaited.

She dressed rapidly, putting her pantofles over her pumps to protect them from the slushy streets, wrapped herself in her thick cloak, and hurried down the stairs.

"What time will ye like to have dinner served, mistress?" Goodwife Benson came out of the kitchen as Polly reached the hall.

The question took Polly aback. It was not a matter on which she was accustomed to being consulted, and in the last three days Nicholas had naturally been the one deferred to in such subjects. "Whenever it is convenient," she said.

Goodwife Benson looked at her shrewdly. "It is for you to say when it will be convenient, m'dear."

Polly nibbled her lip. "At noon, perhaps?"

"At noon," agreed the goodwife. "I've a fine pullet for ye, well dressed though I say so myself." She turned back to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "Mind how you go, now. The ways are mighty treacherous after the snow."

"I will," promised Polly, in a warm glow at a caring attention hitherto unknown to her.

It did not take many minutes to convince her that walking was not a comfortable mode of progression in present conditions. Where the snow had melted, it rushed down the kennels, carrying filth with it to spill over onto the cobbles, leaving them thick with malodorous slime. Out of the sun, the snow remained in blackened and unsavory drifts, blocking the paths. There were few people on foot, and those there were were frequently bespattered by the mud and muck flung up from heedless horses' hooves and disdainful carriage wheels. But she pressed on doggedly, determined to attain her goal of the Theatre Royal. This time she had no ulterior motive except to look upon the king's playhouse and indulge in the daydreams that were now so close to fulfillment.

It was a short walk along Drury Lane. Just as she reached her destination, a coach, arms emblazoned upon its panels, swept past her to come to a dramatic halt at the theatre steps. A clod of mud flying up from the wheels landed on Polly's

arm, splattering her liberally. In a fury, she assailed the coachman, who was in the act of climbing down from his box, castigating him roundly on his careless driving. Since she chose to do this in language with which the coachman would be familiar, it was not surprising that he should enter the argument in spirited fashion.

"God's good grace! What is going on!" An elegant voice preceded its owner's head, appearing in the carriage window.

"You have a most discourteous coachman, sir," Polly said, switching her accent to one more suitable for discourse with so manifest a gentleman. "He drives his carriage in such a manner that no one is safe on the same street with him, and then has the impertinence to blame his victim!"

George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was bereft of words for a moment as he took in the ravishing beauty before him. Never had he beheld such a diamond. Indignation glittered in a pair of magnificent eyes-like forest pools, he thought-flushed a perfect complexion with a delicate pink, stood out in every line of a matchless form. At the same time, he noticed that she was well, if modestly, dressed, and she spoke with a lady's breeding. Except that if it had been she berating his coachman, then she knew well how to assume a different accent.

"Your pardon, madame," he managed, swinging open the carriage door, springing lightly to the ground. He bowed. "I pray you will permit me to make amends. If you would direct me to your lodging, I will convey you there myself."

Polly curtsied automatically as she examined the gentleman covertly. He was most magnificent, with three curling ostrich plumes to his hat, dyed red to match his wine-red velvet coat and breeches, a full-bottomed periwig upon his head, diamonds upon his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes. She raised her eyes to his face as she swam upward, and suffered a slight shock. It was not a pleasant face, although the expression was one of studied amiability-hard eyes under heavy, drooping lids; a thin mouth, with more than a hint of cruelty to it, beneath a long, pointed nose that

reminded her of a hawk's beak. It was the face of a cynic and a dissolute, and the examination to which she was being subjected was frankly calculating. Polly quite suddenly wished she were well away from his vicinity.

"There is no need, sir," she replied. "I live but a short distance and would prefer to walk."

"Oh, but you cannot do so," he protested. "Allow me to present myself. George Villiers at your service, madame."

The name meant nothing to Polly, who had never heard the Duke of Buckingham referred to by his family name. She responded with a polite murmur and another curtsy before turning abruptly, walking off down the street.

Buckingham stood motionless, his eyes riveted on the figure until she turned the corner from Drury Lane onto Long Acre. If she lived but a short distance from here, it should not be impossible to discover her address and identity. Such rare beauty would not go unremarked in the taverns and shops. He beckoned to his footboy.

Polly, finding unaccountably that all desire to continue her walk was vanished, returned home by way of Bow Street. The enticing aroma of roasting fowl and a mug of buttered ale before the crackling luxury of her own fireside offered some measure of compensation, and she was sitting before the fire, wriggling her toes in its warmth, feeling completely in charity with the world, when she heard De Winter's voice in the hall belowstairs.

Jumping up, she went to the parlor door, appearing on the small landing as his lordship mounted the stairs. "Why, sir, are you come to visit? Nicholas is gone to his house."

"Then may I be permitted the conceit of thinking you might be glad of my company?" He smiled, bowing as he reached the landing.

" 'Tis no conceit, sir, but the truth." She gestured to the parlor. "Pray come in and let me pour you wine."

"Y'are a most accomplished hostess, Mistress Wyat," Richard said, smiling, as she took his hat and cloak.

Polly hesitated, then said, "If you would care to join me for dinner, my lord, I would be very happy to have your

company. Goodwife Benson has gone to some trouble to dress a fine pullet."

"Prettily said!" Laughing, he flicked her cheek with a careless finger. "I should be delighted. The prospect of the goodwife's pullet quite sets my mouth to watering!"

Thus it was that when Nicholas came hotfoot up the stairs into his mistress's apartments, he found a cozy scene. The two diners were quite clearly upon the easiest of terms, and Nick was surprised by a most unjustified pang of what he could only recognize as jealousy. He knew that Richard would under no circumstances set up a flirtation with another man's protegee, and even more vital, he knew that Richard would never lose sight of the greater goal. De Winter was a dedicated politician, committed to his country's well-being; no personal whim would be permitted to intrude upon that commitment. Polly Wyat was necessary to the furtherance of that cause.

Nevertheless, the ripple of Polly's laughter, the provocative flash of her eyes as she responded to a sally, the flush of enjoyment painting her cheeks, twisted a malevolent skewer in his gut.

"Oh, you are well come, Nicholas!" Polly sprang from her chair, running to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "How is Lady Margaret?" An imp of mischief danced across her face before she schooled both expression and posture to those of a devout sobriety. "She has not, I trust, found too much to aid the devil's work in the past days?"

"Minx!" declared Nicholas with some satisfaction, finding his moment of unease now fled into the realm of irrelevancy. "You have been amusing yourself, I see."

"Oh, famously," she agreed, pulling him over to the fire. "Lord De Winter is a most entertaining companion." She poured wine for the newcomer. "He has been telling me about fox hunting. I should like to learn to ride a horse."

"Then so you shall," promised Nick, taking the proffered goblet with a smile of thanks. "When the weather improves."

"Oh, I should tell you: I had a most strange encounter this

morning," Polly said thoughtfully, remembering for the first time the man in wine-red velvet. A little shiver prickled her spine, but she could not really imagine why. There had been nothing sinister in his manner or words.

"Yes?" Nick prompted. "A strange encounter with whom?"

"It was outside the playhouse. His carriage splashed me!" The statement was underpinned with remembered resentment. "I was having a fight with his coachman…"

"You were what?" interrupted Nick at this somewhat horrifying image.

"Well, I was telling him exactly what I thought of him," Polly elucidated. "And in no uncertain terms, when this gentleman climbed out of the carriage."

"He might well," murmured Nick, picturing the scene. "I might have shown a degree of interest myself if my coachman was engaged on my time in a verbal brawl with a foul-mouthed wench."

"If he had driven with a little more consideration, he would not have smothered me with mud!" Polly retorted tartly. "Is one not entitled to object in such a circumstance?"

"There are ways… and ways… of doing so," Nick said, carefully circumspect. "So what did the gentleman say when he had climbed out of the carriage to find himself confronted by your outrage?"

Polly frowned. "He was most apologetic and desired to drive me home. He was most insistent." She shrugged. "Maybe that is not in itself strange, but there was something about the way he looked at me."

Nicholas felt himself stiffen. He could well imagine how the unknown would have looked at Polly-with unbridled lust. He had seen it often enough; but then, so had Polly, and she usually had little difficulty dealing with it. So what had disturbed her particularly this time? "You did not accept his offer?" It was a rhetorical question.

"I think that had I not been so close to home, I might have found it difficult to gainsay him," Polly said frankly, putting her finger at last on what had so disturbed her. The

gentleman had given the impression of one who possessed both the power and the inclination to take for himself what was not freely rendered.

"I told you to have a care," Nick said quietly.

"But this was not one of those of whom I was supposed to be careful," Polly pointed out. "There were arms emblazoned on the panels of his coach. He was no footpad or street rogue. I would not have been afeard of such as they."

"You did not discover his name?" De Winter put in.

"Yes… he offered an introduction in a most proper manner. I did not return the courtesy but walked away. I imagine he must have thought me sadly lacking in manners."

"If you were accosted, I do not think you were obliged to be mannerly." Nick offered reassurance.

"But you could say that it was I who did the accosting," Polly said with ruthless candor, this matter of manners seeming suddenly to assume an inordinate importance.

De Winter prompted again. "What name did he give you?"

"Oh, yes… Villiers," she said, still frowning. "George Villiers. I think that was it."

"Buckingham!" Nick's eyes met De Winter's over the honey-hued head, and read the warning. He mastered the mixed emotions of surprise, anger, and unease. "Well, it appears that you made the acquaintance of His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham, moppet." Tipping her off his knee, he stood up, sauntering over to the table to refill his goblet. "You will undoubtedly meet him again when you become one of the king's company. Indeed, you may well perform in one of his plays. He is considered an accomplished playwright."

"I did not care for him," Polly informed them bluntly. "I had liefer not meet him again."

"Oh, you are being fanciful," Nick said with a feigned easiness. "He has the king's ear, my dear, and is a most important gentleman. You should be flattered rather than alarmed to have caught his eye."

"I had somehow formed the impression that he is no friend of yours?" Polly gave him a searching look.

Nick shrugged. "He is an acquaintance with whom I am on good terms, as is Richard. Only a fool would make an enemy of Buckingham. Is it not so, Richard?"

"Most certainly," De Winter agreed, blandly smiling. "When you meet him in different circumstances, Polly, you will see him in a different light."

"But he will surely remember the manner in which I addressed his coachman, and the fact that I treated his introduction with less than courtesy." Polly nibbled her thumbnail worriedly. "And if he is so important a figure, it is surely a disadvantage to stand in his bad graces."

"If that were so, it would be a disadvantage. But I think you may safely assume that you have merely piqued Buckingham's interest." Nick put his goblet on the table and smiled reassuringly. "Fetch your cloak now. If we are to go shopping before sunset, we had best make a move."

The prospect diverted her, as he had hoped. She ran downstairs to retrieve her cloak from the kitchen, where Goodwife Benson had taken it for brushing.

"An unfortunate meeting," De Winter observed.

"Damnably! If she has taken him in so much dislike, I fail to see how we are to achieve her cooperation." Nick paced restlessly.

"Wait until she has embraced her ambition, my friend, and has become a member of those circles where Buckingham is so courted and adored. She will see him in a different light then. She will, I am certain, respond to his flattering advances, as all the other fair frailties have done, and continue to do so. He is too grand a prize to reject."

Nicholas winced at this cynicism, but could not find it in his heart to disagree. There was no reason to suppose that Polly, once her enchanting ingenuousness had been superseded by the sophistication of the courtier, would prove to be any less worldly than any other lady of the stage with her sights set on an assured and comfortable future in the hands of a wealthy and influential protector. It was to this end, after

all, that he was instructing her in the devious tricks of the world she would enter.

"And once she is safely ensconced in Buckingham's bed," De Winter continued with a calm that Nick found supremely irritating, "you will hold fast the chains of gratitude and pleasure, so that she is never far from your bed, where you may glean what you will. 'Tis not unusual, after all, for a lady to spread her favors."

"Such a neat and pleasing plan," Nick said. Richard did not miss the sardonic undertone, but he refrained from the obvious comment that the plan had been Nick's originally.

"I am ready!" Polly bounced into the room. "Where did I put my drawings? Oh, there they are." She scooped up the sheets from the sideboard. "You should know, sir, that Lord De Winter has been most helpful with the designs. Our morning was not spent entirely in idle pleasure."

"I am glad to hear it." Nick laughed, pushing away the sour taste of the last half hour. "D'ye care to accompany us, Richard?"

"If you think I might be useful, I should be glad to."

As the afternoon wore on, Nick found himself immensely grateful for Richard's support. Polly flitted from shop to shop in an ecstasy of indecision. One minute she would be fingering a bolt of white damask, the next had abandoned the eager mercer in favor of one of his competitors who had a flame satin on show. She stood ankle-deep in a river of unrolled bolts, exclaiming over the flowered sarcenet or the mulberry wool, before a tall black beaver hat with white plumes caught her eye in the milliner's across the court and she was off again.

"Think you 'tis perhaps time to take charge?" De Winter asked Nick gently, after Polly, having discarded countless hats, had succeeded in reducing the milliner to a state of gibbering anxiety.

"I suppose so," Nick replied with a regretful smile. "But seldom have I enjoyed another's pleasure so. It is a shame to bring the play to an end."

"But take pity on the poor mercers and milliners," chuck-

led Richard. "They have given of their best, and so far not a single purchase has been made."

Nick nodded, squared his shoulders, and entered the fray. "The felt copintank and the beaver," he said with brisk decision. "The muslin headpiece with the satin ribbons, and the lace mantilla."

"Yes, sir. A pleasure, sir." The relieved milliner smiled radiantly. "If I may say so, an admirable choice."

"Oh, do you think so?" Polly said doubtfully. "I had thought to purchase the gauze scarf rather than the mantilla."

"Another time you shall do so," Nick said. "Let us return to the mercer's where you saw the damask." After giving instructions for the delivery of the hats, he ushered the reluctant Polly out of the shop.

"Oh, only see those boots!" Polly exclaimed, just as they had reached his goal. "They are of the softest leather." She turned toward the shoemaker.

"Later," said Nicholas, holding on to her arm with vise-like fingers. "First we are going in here." De Winter, shoulders shaking, followed them inside, where the mercer greeted them in some trepidation, having only just managed to roll up all the bolts that had been previously inspected and found wanting.

On this occasion, however, he had no need to worry. The indecisive young lady was put in a chair, and the two gentlemen, on the basis of her earlier preferences and their own knowledge of prevailing fashion, proceeded to choose white damask and green taffeta to be made up into kirtles, and scarlet velvet and amber satin for the daygowns to be worn over them. Mulberry wool would make a warm nightgown to be worn within doors. Warm twilled saye was chosen for two of the three petticoats that would give fullness to the kirtles, silk sarcenet for the third petticoat, which would be displayed when she lifted her kirtle for walking.

Polly sat, listening as these matters were discussed and dispositions made. In truth, she was not sorry to be excused the final decision making, since the wealth of choice had set her

head to reeling, and Nick and De Winter appeared remarkably well informed about the necessities of female attire, not excluding lace edgings for the sleeves of her smocks, which would be displayed beneath the loose, elbow-length sleeves of the gowns.

"That should suffice for the moment," Nicholas said finally. "It is hardly a complete wardrobe, but we can decide on your further needs at leisure."

Polly's jaw dropped. It seemed impossible that one could possibly need more. The materials were packaged, handed to the coachman, and a visit was paid to the shoemaker, where she got, in addition to her boots of Spanish leather, a pair of the most elegant shoes she had ever seen. They had heels that were all of an inch and a half high, and real silver buckles.

"Is it possible to walk in such things?" Polly regarded them with some disfavor. Elegant they may be; practical they were not.

"You will learn," Nick told her. "All that remains now is the corset."

"Nay!" Polly exclaimed, stung at the last into mutiny. "I have no need of such a garment. They pinch most dreadfully, and one cannot breathe! The lady where Prue was in service was always swooning away, and the bones cut her skin to ribbons, Prue said."

De Winter and Nicholas exchanged looks. While a lady might manage without a corset in private, she could not appear at any fashionable scene without them, and most definitely not on the stage. "I do not know how reliable an informant Prue may be on such matters," Nick said dryly.

Polly's eyes flashed defiance. "I will not wear it even if you buy it, so you will be wasting your money!"

"I see." Nicholas shrugged. He would leave that battle to the combined forces of Thomas Killigrew and ambition. "There seems little more to say on the subject."

Polly regarded him suspiciously. It had been a ready capitulation, but his expression was bland, and when she glanced at De Winter, she saw the expression mirrored there.

"Come, let us to the sempstress to put this work in hand,"

Nick declared as if the preceding moment of potential awkwardness had not taken place.

It was as well to be as gracious in victory as Nick was in defeat, Polly decided, offering her bewitching smile. "I am quite overcome by your generosity, sir. I do not know what I have done to merit it."

Nicholas looked down at her, his own smile a trifle twisted. "Do you not, Polly? That seems remarkably unper-spicacious in you."

Polly was accustomed now to the manifestations of desire, both Nick's and her own, just as she was accustomed to the light tenor of their converse; but this that she saw in his face, and could feel reflected in her own, was quite different. She was aware of the familiar direct physical responses-the tightening in her belly, the sudden jarring in her loins-but much more powerful was the feeling that she was losing herself in his eyes, and his smile; that there was a secret he held that he would have her share, that he knew she did share but had not yet acknowledged. Her heart speeded. She took an involuntary step toward him as if the hustle and bustle of the Royal Exchange had vanished under a magician's wand.

Richard De Winter silently cursed the vagaries of the human heart. It was as he had suspected. They were both bewitched, at this moment both inhabiting some charmed circle, rapt in the wondrous discovery of shared love's benediction. "When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind." Master John Dryden's lines came to mind, troub-lingly apposite.

"It grows late," he said. "If the sempstress is to be visited and instructed before the day is done-"

"Aye." Nick shook his head as if to dispel confusion and took Polly's hand. "A timely reminder, Richard. Come, moppet. You must test your drawings on an expert." He bundled her up the carriage steps, into the dim interior, his voice briskly cheerful as if that moment had never occurred. But she knew that it had, just as she knew what it meant.

This was a relationship that had had its roots in expedi-

ency. She had intended to use Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, for her own ends-use without deception, certainly, since she had never been less than honest about what she wanted from him. He had brought her to the acknowledgment of desire, the understanding of the power of passion and the delight of its fulfillment. But she had still thought of him as fulfilling also the necessary role of the protector/patron without whom she could not achieve her ambition. The sensual joys of their love nest were a bonus.

Now, it seemed that the priorities were reversed. Any help he might offer her in the achievement of her ambition was the bonus-one that had nothing to do with this overwhelming surge of joyous love she felt when they had exchanged that look.

What she did not know was that Lord Kincaid had reached exactly the same conclusion, but from the different standpoint of his own planned deception.