Venus (32 page)

Nick’s frown etched deep lines between his red-gold eyebrows. “I fear she has taken the bit between her teeth on
this, Richard, and she will run with it.” He paced restlessly for a minute, then stopped. “Did you hear a coach?”

Richard went to the window, flinging it wide, looking into the darkness. “You have sharp ears, my friend. A carriage has just rounded the corner.”

Nick came to stand beside him, and Richard felt the tension run from his friend as the carriage, the unmistakable figure of John Coachman upon the box, came to a halt before the door below.

Nick resisted the urge to run down to her. He wanted to see how she was when she thought herself unobserved. She might play a part for him—the part she thought he would want to see—and he was not confident that he would be able to distinguish acting from reality without some clues, so skillful had she become.

The coachman opened the door, let down the footstep, and Polly descended into the strip of light shining down from the upstairs casement. “My thanks, John Coachman. I trust ’twas not too tedious a wait for ye.” Her clear tones rose to the opened window. Then, as if magnetized, she looked up.

“Are ye still up, my lord?” There seemed to be a light, teasing note in her voice. “I made sure you would have been abed an hour since … and Lord De Winter, also.”

A window was flung open next door, and a protesting bellow rent the air. Polly put a guilty finger to her lips, her eyes widening in mock horror.

“Come in,” Nick instructed in a piercing whisper, wondering how she had made him want to laugh at such a moment. He went to the parlor door to wait for her.

She came up the stairs with swift step and tumbled instantly into his arms. She was shaking like a leaf, and all desire to laugh left him abruptly. He held her close, feeling the fragility beneath the elaborate dress, the armor of corset and layers of petticoats.

“What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?” The anguished questions whispered against her ear as he stroked her back and she shuddered against him.

“Nay … nay … not hurt,” she managed at last. “It is going to succeed, I think, but … but I did not realize how hard the work ’twould be, Nick. ’Tis a thousand times worse than the theatre.”

Nicholas drew her into the parlor, closing the door quietly. “Is that all that is the matter? That maintaining the part was hard work?”

“If it were just a matter of maintaining the part, ’twould not be so difficult,” she said, her voice a little quavery, although she had stopped shaking. “Oh, my thanks, Richard.” She took the glass of claret he handed her. “But I must also write the lines, Nick. I had not thought of that.”

The two men looked at each other. Somehow, they had not grappled with that complexity, either. “But you managed to do so?” Richard prompted.

Polly nodded, drinking deeply of the wine as if it were the elixir of the gods. “I think it was convincing. Nothing of moment was said of Lord Clarendon. However, there
was
talk of the Duke of Monmouth.” She told them what she had heard, moving around the room as she did so, pausing to refill her glass. Nick frowned at the speed with which that glass had been emptied, but for the moment held his peace.

“And how did you leave Villiers?” asked De Winter when the story seemed told.

“With an invitation to find my price,” Polly said bluntly, reaching again for the decanter.

“Nay, moppet, you have had sufficient.” Nick stayed her hand, and she turned on him with a flash of fury.

“By what right do you tell me that? I have barely touched a drop all evening for fear I would make an error. Surely now I may be permitted some relaxation!”

“As much as you need,” he said evenly. “But you are drinking too quickly.”

Polly glared at him. Richard got out of his chair, reaching for his cloak.

“I think ’tis time I left you.” He drew on his gloves. “My compliments, Polly. Not that I doubted you,” he added with a dry smile, bending to brush her forehead with his lips.
“But pay heed to Nick, now. He has more experience than you when it comes to the bottle.”

“Aye,” agreed Nick cheerfully. “A dreadful sot I was in my youth.”

Polly looked between them, saw the way they had drawn together implicitly, knew that her well-being was the reason. “I give you good night, Richard,” she said,

Nick saw Richard from the house, then came to the parlor, where Polly still stood as he had left her.

“I ask your pardon,” she said softly. “I did not mean to snap in that manner.”

“There is nothing to pardon.” He took her in his arms. “Let us go to bed now. Let me ease you in ways infinitely more pleasurable than those to be found in wine.”

“What in the world …” Nick stood staring around the parlor the following noon.

“’Tis His Grace of Buckingham,” Polly choked. She had returned from the theatre five minutes earlier to find the parlor turned into a veritable conservatory. Exotic blooms were massed in every corner, and Sue and the goodwife had been quite distracted by the shortage of containers in which to display this glory. “Where could he have procured them?” She gestured helplessly. “’Tis enough to decorate Westminster Abbey.”

“Buckingham’s conservatories are famed,” Nick told her. “Was there a message?”

“Aye.” She took a paper from the table, holding it out to him. “He desires me to wear orchids at my breast this evening when we go to court, that he may know
this
gift is acceptable.”

“And shall you?” Nick raised an eyebrow at her. She was looking her usual self, he thought, all traces of last night’s tension vanished.

Polly shook her head. “Nay. But I shall wear the freesias in the lace of my sleeve, and he may make what he can of that.”

Nick could not help chuckling. “Y’are a rogue, Polly. I begin to think you enjoy the prospect of this game.”

Some of the mischief faded from her eyes. “In a way, perhaps, I do. Tonight we shall be at court, and you will be there. I may play the elusive wanton on ground that is not the duke’s. ’Twill be less of a strain.”

“I had thought not to attend this evening,” Nick said. “Richard and I thought it sensible to reinforce my indifference to the duke’s pursuit. But if you need me, then of course I shall accompany you.”

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 yield, 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 …