Venus (49 page)

“You are not unwilling, are you?” Nick asked softly, catching her face between his hands.

“But … but you cannot possibly wed a—”

“You
dare!”
A hard finger pressed against her lips. “Will you marry me, Mistress Wyat?”

Polly seized his hand, pulling him urgently into the shadows of the Lady Chapel. “I was going to say a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard,” she whispered, a little resentfully. “That is not a truth you have ever denied.”

“It is a truth known only to Richard and ourselves,” Nick said softly. “As far as the world knows, you are either some nobleman’s by-blow or the stagestruck daughter of a respectable bourgeois. Noble bastards abound at court, and no one will turn a hair at bourgeois gentility. Now,” he repeated patiently. “Will you marry me?”

“You are run mad, my lord.”

“Then will you take a madman to husband?”

Polly stood, for the moment silent, in the chill shadows of the chapel. What he had said was the perfect truth. And if no one knew her antecedents, and Nick was not concerned by them, then why should she not accept the conquering hand of love? The unquestionable, undeniable love that had fallen upon them with such unbidden force when they had first come together in the ways of passion. Slowly she nodded, returning his smile. “Aye, if that is truly what you wish, love.”

Nick sighed with relief, drawing her back into the dim light of the nave. “It seems we may begin, Master Parson.”

It was a short ceremony in the dank, winter-night cold of the drafty church. But Polly was quite unaware of her surroundings, or of any lack of magic in such a wedding—never having expected to have one at all. Her hand remained in Nick’s throughout; she said what was required at the required moments, and wondered when she would wake up. At the end, the witnesses duly signed the Parish register, the parson was paid his fee, and the four went into the night.

“John Coachman will take you home now,” Nick said, opening the carriage door for her.

Polly peered up at him, studying his expression in the faint starlight. “Take me home? But what of you?”

“I have some business to transact,” Nick said evenly. “I will be with you as soon as may be. You are in sore need of your supper, as you have been saying so vociferously.” He smiled, gently teasing, but Polly was not to be cajoled.

“Then I will come with you. I am not so hungry that my supper cannot wait.”

“No,” he said. “You may not accompany me.” The laughter had left his mouth and eyes, a certain grimness in its place. “Go home. I will come to you soon.”

Polly shook her head. “You would wed me in one breath and banish me in another. It makes no sense, my lord.”

Nick sighed. “I seem to recall that not so many minutes past you made some solemn vows. Would you break them so soon?”

“I was not aware, sir, that I promised obedience to commands I do not understand,” she said tartly.

“Rule a wife and have a wife,” Richard murmured in the darkness. “Have done with this, Nick. ’Tis cold as charity, and the night grows no younger.”

“A timely reminder,” Nick said grimly. He scooped up his wife, bundling her unceremoniously into the coach, closing the door firmly on her protests. “Drury Lane, John.” The coachman whipped up his horses and bore Lady Kincaid, cursing like any tavern-bred wench, back to her lodgings.

“’Tis no way to start a marriage,” sighed Nick.

“’Tis not a marriage you can start in good earnest till this business be done with,” Richard reminded him. “Let’s to it.”

The three men walked to Temple Stairs and took the water to Somerset Stairs. From there they walked in silence to the Duke of Buckingham’s mansion in the Strand.

Villiers was in his library when he was brought the information that Lord Kincaid, Lord De Winter, and Sir Peter Appleby were desirous of waiting upon him.

“At this hour?” Villiers frowned. “Bid them enter.” He
awaited their arrival in thoughtful silence. If this was a social call, it was a damned unsociable hour for it. And if it was not …

“Gentlemen.” Smiling, he greeted them. “This is a most unexpected pleasure, but nonetheless welcome. Ye’ll take wine?”

“I think not,” Nicholas said. “’Tis a matter of honor that brings us, Buckingham.”

All superficial bonhomie was wiped from the duke’s face. “You pleasant, Kincaid, surely.”

“Nay, ’tis no pleasantry.” Nick threw his gauntlet upon the table before the duke. “There’s an insult to be avenged.”

The duke’s lip curled in derision. “Y’are mad, man. There’s been no insult to honor that I know of. Don’t let passion go to your head. ’Twill only make you a jesting-stock.”

“Pick up the glove, Duke, else you’ll be the butt of more than jest,” Nick said quietly. “There’s witnesses to cowardice.

Buckingham went white about the lips, but scorn laced his voice as he said, “Pray tell me, just whose honor has been insulted?”

“My wife’s,” Nicholas replied. “And, therefore, my own.”

Shock leapt into the heavy-lidded eyes, then Buckingham recovered himself. “I see.” A twisted smile touched his lips. “Why did I not expect it? That were foolish in me.” He picked up the gauntlet. “Where and when, gentlemen?”

“Barn Elms, at dawn.” It was Richard who spoke. “As seconds, Sir Peter and I claim the right to fight beside our principal. You will choose your own seconds accordingly, Duke.” A polite smile accompanied the statement.

Buckingham merely bowed and pulled the bell rope beside the hearth. “You will excuse me, gentlemen. It appears I have much to accomplish in a few hours.”

Outside, the three men went their separate ways after a brief word about arrangements for the morning. Nicholas walked back to Drury Lane through the frosty night, preparing
himself for a most unenviable task. How the devil did a man break to his wife of a few hours that she had an even chance of being widowed on the morrow?

He found her curled up, asleep on the floor by the parlor fire. It took but the most cursory observation to realize that she slept the sleep of complete exhaustion, so far gone in unconsciousness that she barely breathed. Her face was deathly pale, the golden lashes forming dark crescents against her pallor, and Nick knew he must not wake her, even if he could.

She did not stir when he lifted her and put her into bed. Nick undressed and climbed in beside her; thus he passed his wedding night in wakeful reflection, holding the fragile figure against him as the memories crowded in.

P
olly first heard the voices as part of her dream, then, as she crossed over into wakefulness, became aware of them as reality. She lay still, her head turned toward the crack of yellow light edging the doorway to the parlor. Richard’s voice came through the partly open door, low but clear.

“’Tis seven miles to Barn Elms, Nick; less than an hour’s ride.”

“The surgeon?”

“Will meet us there. As will Peter. What of Polly?”

“I have written a letter. I can think of no other way, Richard. She was dead to the world last night, and I could not bring myself to waken her with such news.”

“Be of good cheer.” Richard’s voice was bracing. “Ye’ll be back here, the business done, before she awakes, I’ll lay odds.”

“And you not a gambling man,” declared Nick dryly.

“Let us away.”

“Aye. Go you on; I’ll be but a minute.”

The edge of light broadened. Polly closed her eyes, breathing with deep regularity. She felt him come to the bed, standing over her. Then his lips brushed lightly across hers, and he whispered, “Fare you well, sweetheart.”

Polly held herself still while confused turmoil roiled in her head, then the light was extinguished as the door closed gently. She sat up, blinking in the dark, listening intently. There was no sound from the other room, only the silence of emptiness. Springing from the bed, she ran to the parlor door, opening it carefully. The chamber was in darkness except for the fire that had been newly kindled. She padded to the window, peering down into the dark street. The shadowy figures of two horsemen were disappearing rapidly in the gray-dark.

A letter. Nick had said he had left a letter. She lit the lamp with shaking fingers and saw the paper, folded on the table. It was explanation, and a farewell of searing sweetness; in postscript, sealed with his ring, the deeding of his entire estate to his wife.

Polly swallowed the threatening tears. This was no time for female maudling. Nicholas, having married her in order to avenge her, was now going to fight Buckingham, and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it. Dueling had been outlawed by proclamation repeatedly, but in reality no one would deny a gentleman the right to answer insult with the sword, to execute the laws of honor for himself.

Could she not prevent it? Had she not also the right to execute the laws of honor? The thought grew, dazzling in its daring and simplicity. It fathered instant action, and in the action was found surcease from dread anxiety.

She dressed in Florimell’s breeches and shirt, her own riding boots and riding cloak, slipped down the stairs, out into the street, and ’round to the stables. Tiny greeted her with a friendly whicker, holding still for the bridle, nostrils flaring at the prospect of exercise.

“I have only a sidesaddle, so we must go bareback,” Polly whispered, nuzzling the mare’s neck before swinging nimbly astride. It felt rather strange at first, but then wonderfully easy, and somehow much more natural. Men were the most fortunate of creatures, Polly decided, turning Tiny in the direction of Piccadilly.

Barn Elms was across the river, way the other side of
Knightsbridge and Chelsea, close to Putney. She knew the way because she and Nick had passed it when they had ridden to Richmond just after their return from Wilton.

Her head was as clear as the morning air. She knew only this crystalline dread that the man who had once done all he could to harm her would now succeed in destroying that which she loved more dearly than life itself. Nick’s love for her was without question, but if their precipitate marriage had been for the wrong reasons, he must not die for those reasons. She urged Tiny to increase her speed. She could be no more than fifteen minutes behind them, and there would surely be formalities that would take time; but to arrive too late would be the final irony.

The sun came up just as she crossed the river at Parson’s Green. She had but a mile to go, and now encouraged Tiny to give of her best. The common and coppice of Barn Elms glistened under the feeble light of the newly risen sun. Seven horses stood beneath the trees; the clash of steel upon steel carried on the frosty air. Tiny’s hooves pounded the mud-ridged frozen sod. The thin ice of puddles crackled, their exquisite patterns destroyed beneath the heedless hooves. Polly’s heart beat with a nauseating speed; the sweat started on her brow, ran down her back, dampening her shirt, despite the whistling cold air that numbed the tip of her nose and made her eyes water.

As they reached the group of horses, Polly drew back on the rein, careful as always, despite the spur of fear, to avoid the tug that would damage the sensitive mouth. She flung herself from the mare’s back, knotting the reins on Tiny’s neck so that she would not catch her foot if she dropped her head to graze.

Sulayman turned his head in recognition when she laid an alerting hand on his rump as she came up behind him. He, like his six fellows, was tethered to a tree branch. Nick’s cloak was slung across the saddle, and in the deep pocket, as she had known it would be, was the bulge pf his pistol.

Polly drew it forth. It was ready primed, since Nick maintained that there was little point in carrying a firearm that
could not be used without preparation when one might need urgent protection against footpads, highwaymen, and any other of the rogues plaguing the highways and byways.

Holding the pistol gingerly, Polly moved forward, for the moment hidden by the horses, until she had a clear view of the field. Six men, in riding breeches and shirt sleeves, were moving over the ground like dancers, paired in an elaborate deadly ballet with no score. The seventh man stood to one side, his breath steaming in the air, cloak drawn tightly about him, the leather bag at his feet proclaiming his profession.

Buckingham and Kincaid were closest to Polly. They wore their hair tied back, revealing emotionless faces, eyes fixed on the dancing blades, mouths set in grim concentration. The swords joined, parted, each ring of steel setting Polly’s heart to beating even faster until she could barely hear over the drumming in her ears. Slowly she raised the pistol, squinting along the barrel, which would not keep still in her shaking hands. She had never handled a pistol before, but surely it could not be so very difficult. One had but to pull the trigger, and the target was hardly small.

She did not think she should kill Buckingham. The fate of the murderer of the king’s favorite and one of the foremost peers of the realm was bound to be unpleasant. It would also effectively curtail her loving with Nick, which would be a rather pointless conclusion in the circumstances. But where should one aim in order to disable? Always supposing that one could aim.