Venus

by Jane Feather

  Nicholas put his foot on the step to the box and sprang nimbly up. “Either you drive us, or I do!” The menace was so clear in both voice and stance that the jarvey, muttering ferociously, turned his horses.

  Polly sat in the pitch darkness of the frowsty interior, where the smell of onions and unwashed bodies mingled in a noxious bouquet with stale beer and fusty leather. She chafed her sore, frozen feet as the carriage swayed and jolted over the cobbles under the direction of its inebriated driver. There was a time when the vehicle lurched violently, and she fell onto the floor. An enraged yell came from the box, followed by a significant thump. She struggled back onto the seat, pulling aside the scrap of leather curtain that shielded the unglazed aperture serving as window.

  “Sir?” Her voice quavered as she craned her neck to peer up at the box. “Is everything all right?”

  “That rather depends upon how you define all right.” His voice drifted down through the darkness. “Our friend here has finally succumbed to persuasion to yield up the reins.”

  There was something infinitely reassuring about the dry tone, and Polly withdrew her head, wondering what form the persuasion had taken. At least the motion was rather less erratic now, but the pain in her feet, as sensation returned, brought tears to her eyes. Secure in her isolated darkness, she made no attempt to stop them, and they rolled down her cheeks as the events of the evening took their inevitable toll.

  Nicholas accorded the motionless figure of the jarvey, slumped on the box beside him, a brief glance now and again as he turned the horses from Fleet Street onto the Strand. It had required little more than a tap to render him unconscious, and he would be well paid for the indignity once Lord Kincaid had attained the comfort and security of home.

  Home was a large house in a quiet street off Charing Cross. Like its fellows on the street, the windows were in darkness at this hour of the night, although a lantern burned, hanging from an iron hook set into the stone pillar beside the door. Margaret would have been abed these past two hours, Nicholas knew, which, perhaps in the circumstances, was all to the good. He did not feel like explaining his unorthodox companion to his straight-laced sister-in-law, or indeed, to anyone at this juncture. Springing off the box, he opened the carriage door.

  “Are you still in there?”

  “I cannot imagine where else I would be.” It was a brave attempt at a light response, but tears were heavy in her voice. “Where are we?”

  “At my house,” he replied, holding the door. “Come.”

  Polly stepped out of the carriage, forgetting her sore feet for the moment in her fascinated contemplation of her surroundings. This was not the London she knew, which was a city of plaster and lath buildings on narrow, crooked streets, the gables protruding so far over the lower floors that they formed a roof across the lanes. Here, the light from the lantern showed her a broad, paved thoroughfare and a mansion of warm brick and white stone. Polly did not think she had ever seen so many windows in one building. The gentleman must be a very important man, as well as a rich one, to have a house with so many glazed windows. Her luck had certainly turned. On one thing she was resolved—this opportunity was not going to slip through her fingers. She was going to stick closer than his shadow to this influential gentleman until he had helped her to achieve her goal.

  Nicholas missed the speculative, determined look she gave him; he was too occupied with the insensible jarvey, who seemed to have lapsed into stertorous sleep and was like to freeze if left to sleep off his intoxication. A night standing still on the street would not do the horses much good, either. At last he managed to get some sense out of the man, although he appeared to have no recollection of the past hour or of what had led him so far from his usual beat. He pocketed the two guineas Nicholas, troubled by conscience, gave him, clicked his tongue at his horses, then slumped back against the seat as the carriage moved off. Trusting that the beasts would know their own way home, Nicholas turned back to his other, rather more bothersome, responsibility.

  She stood huddled in his coat, her face white and tear-streaked—a fact that did not appear to mar her beauty in the least, Nicholas thought distractedly; it simply aroused in him an overpowering desire to take her in his arms. She was rubbing one bare foot alternately against the other leg in a futile effort to reduce their exposure to the frozen ground. Nicholas swung her into his arms, telling himself that it was simply the practical solution to her problem.

  “Oh!” Polly said in surprise. It was not at all an unpleasant sensation for one who had never before been offered a helping hand in the seventeen years of her existence. “Am I not heavy?”

  “Not excessively,” replied her bearer with credible insouciance. “Sound the knocker.”

  Polly grasped the heavy brass door knocker, banging it vigorously. The sound of bolts scraping followed almost immediately, and the door swung open at the hand of a young footboy whose sleep-filled eyes and crumpled livery bore witness to his inability to stay alert while waiting up for his master’s return.

  “You may go to bed, Tom,” Nicholas said, walking straight past him, ignoring the startled stare at the bundle in his arms.

  “Yes, m’lord,” the lad muttered as Nicholas strode to the stairs.

  “Are you a lord?” his burden asked, realizing with a slight shock that despite the intimacies they had shared, she did not know his name. If he was, indeed, a nobleman, then he would be even better placed to help her than she had hoped.

  “As it happens. Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, at your service.” She chuckled at the absurdity of this dry formula of introduction, and he looked down at her, recognizing that same infectious smile that had so entranced him earlier. He had intended sending her up to the attics to find a bed with the servants, but they would all be asleep, the place in darkness, and she was still chilled to the bone, not in a fit condition to explain herself to strangers—even if a reasonable explanation could be found. With a half shrug, he entered his own chamber, where a fire glowed in the hearth and the soft light of wax tapers in a many-branched candlestick offered a welcoming light.

  Polly gazed, awestruck, at the luxury of the huge feather bed with its embroidered hangings and carved bedposts. “The walls are painted!” she exclaimed as he set her on her feet. She ran across the smooth, waxed oak floor to examine the scenes and designs delicately worked in blue and gilt on the wooden paneling. “How pretty.” Suddenly the image of her straw pallet in the airless cubbyhole beneath the stairs at the Dog tavern rose vivid in her mind. How could there be such contrasts in the same city? The delight and excitement in her novel surroundings withered, and the cold, miserable exhaustion she had felt in the carriage returned.

  Nicholas saw the shiver and the quick turn of her head as if she would hide something from him. He went over to the bed, bending to pull a truckle bed from beneath. “You may sleep here tonight. Margaret will know what to do with you in the morning.”

  At that she swung round. “Who is Margaret?”

  “The lady of the house,” he responded.

  “Your … your wife.”

  “My brother’s widow. She keeps house for me.”

  Polly wondered why the information should be such balm. “I do not wish her to do anything with me in the morning,” she informed him. “With you as my patron, I will be introduced to Master Killigrew at the king’s playhouse, and he will see what a good actor I am.” She sat on the truckle bed, massaging her feet. “Then, if you do not wish to continue being my patron, once I am established I will find someone else. It is usually so, is it not?”

  Nicholas felt his jaw drop. It was not as if the plan was extraordinary. Since the king had decreed three years ago that only women should play female parts in the theatre, the young and attractive, talented and not so talented, had chosen the stage as offering the shortest path to a noble husband or a wealthy keeper. There were men aplenty, both rich and noble, eager to pay whatever was required, not excluding marriage, for the attentions of the most desirable of th
ese frail creatures. Nicholas was in little doubt, also, that one look at this ravishing girl, once she had acquired a measure of polish, and Thomas Killigrew, who managed the king’s company, would not care whether she was accomplished or not—and neither would the audience. Indeed, it was not inconceivable that if she played her cards aptly, this erstwhile tavern wench from Botolph’s Wharf could find her way, via some nobleman’s bed, into the intimate circles of the court of King Charles.

  And then the idea hit him—brilliant in its simplicity. What if she could be steered into one particular circle—into Buckingham’s circle, to be precise—where she would hear certain things, things that she could be encouraged to divulge to Nick’s own faction? Could they possibly make an unwitting spy out of this exquisite vision who had materialized so serendipitously out of the fetid fogs of the back slums? A frown buckled his forehead. He would need to tread very carefully. She would have to be groomed for the part and maneuvered in the right directions. He would put it to De Winter and the others, but in the meantime she could not be permitted to move prematurely.

  “It is possible that we may be of service to each other,” he said carefully. “However, if you wish for my assistance, you must agree to put yourself in my hands. You may have to do things that you do not care to, at first, but you must promise to trust me, and do as I bid.”

  Polly looked puzzled. “I do not understand why there should be difficulties. You have only to introduce me to Master Killigrew in the morning. I will do the rest myself.”

  “No,” he said, firmly and decisively. “It is not as simple as that.” His eyes narrowed as he saw that beautiful, sensuous mouth harden. “Do you know your letters?”

  A tinge of color touched the high cheekbones. She shook her head, dropping her eyes to her lap, “Books and teachers have not come my way, sir.”

  “Hardly surprising,” he replied matter-of-factly. Learning was an unusual accomplishment for most women, and unheard of for either sex in the world where she had dwelt hitherto. “But how can you expect to become an actor if you cannot read a part?”

  “I have a good memory,” she said a little truculently. “If someone reads the lines to me, I will remember them.”

  “And you imagine that someone is going to be prepared to devote that amount of time to an inexperienced slip of a wench?” He allowed a faint note of derision to creep into his voice and saw her flush deepen.

  “Then I will teach myself. If you will lend me a book, I am sure I will be able to learn.” The note of confidence rang true, and Nicholas wondered if this was another of the actor’s tricks, or if she genuinely believed it.

  “It will be quicker and easier if you have a tutor,” he pointed out mildly. “I will undertake the task in exchange for your agreement to abide by my decisions.” It would also give him the opportunity to assess the quickness of her wit, he reflected. If she was as intelligent as he suspected, the task ahead of them, in all its manifestations, would be greatly facilitated.

  “What is it that you wish me to do for you in return?” Polly asked with slightly unnerving directness. “You said we would be of service to each other.” Slipping his coat from her shoulders, she stood up and began to open her smock. Her fingers shook slightly, but he had seen her naked already, so any embarrassment was surely ridiculous. “Do you wish to lie with me now?” This was the exchange she had expected—her virtue for his patronage. And she would count her fiercely protected innocence well lost, the currency that would buy her access to ambition.

  Nicholas knew that he did want her—very much. And that if she removed her smock again, revealing that peerless body, he would be lost. Circumstances had intervened the last time, but there would be no disturbances in his own house, his own bed, and the task he had assigned himself was sufficiently complicated without added entanglements. “No, I do not for the moment,” he denied, his voice a trifle thick. “I think you should get into your own bed quickly.” He wrenched his eyes away from the temptation of her breasts and walked over to a low table where reposed a decanter of brandy.

  “Do you not find me desirable?” She sounded surprised, and a little disconsolate. “It is not the case, in general.”

  He whirled on her. It was a mistake since she now stood quite naked, glowing and perfect in the lamplight. “You said you were a maid?” he rasped.

  Slowly she nodded, the honeyed river of her hair pouring over her shoulders. “I am, but many men have wished … have tried—” Her shoulders lifted in an expressive movement. “Prue stood my friend in that, else I’d have succumbed to rape long since. When I have taken the gulls abovestairs, they have always fallen asleep almost straightway.”

  Gulls! Nicholas winced at the appropriate term. He had been gull enough to fall for that beauty and the accomplished performance. He tried to look at her dispassionately as she stood before him and found that he could not. He tried to find anger, but there was none. This exquisite creature, who talked so matter-of-factly about her narrow escape from rapine brutality, had been sufficiently bruised and battered by life’s ferocity.

  It was an effort, but he managed to turn back to the brandy decanter. He filled two glasses. “Put on your smock and get into bed.” He waited with averted back until a rustle and a creak indicated that he had been obeyed, then he turned and brought one of the glasses over to the truckle bed. “This will warm you.”

  Polly took the glass of Venetian crystal; never before had she handled anything so delicate or so precious.

  “Where did you learn to speak as you do?” Nicholas asked casually. It was a question that had puzzled him, but he also hoped that a change of topic would deflect the awkward intensity that had sprung up between them.

  Polly sipped her brandy, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Speak like ’ow? Oi speaks awrigh’, dun Oi?”

  Nicholas laughed, and she smiled mischievously over the lip of her glass. “You are an impertinent jade, Polly. Answer my question.”

  “Prue used to be in service with a parson in the country. Long time ago, before she married Josh. They let her keep me with her, although I was too young to work. No one really noticed me much. I used to hide in the corners and listen to the gentry talking. Then I’d practice to make the same sounds.” She chuckled. “I’d make the folk in the kitchen laugh when I mimicked the master and mistress, and then I’d get an apple tart or something, so I learned to do it all the time. The family, and any visitors … I’d just listen for a bit, then I’d have it perfect.” Her shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “Then, of course, Prue had to go and wed Josh. We came back to London, and no one thought it at all funny that I could speak like that—quite the opposite. It used to make Josh madder than a cornered fox. So I stopped.”

  A perfectly simple explanation, Nick thought, seeing in his mind’s eye a lonely little girl of whom no one took any notice, slipping in and out of shadows, listening and observing, performing party tricks for attention and an apple tart. It was not a happy picture. “Prue is your kin?”

  “My aunt.” Polly drained her glass, holding it out to him. Her eyes closed, and she swayed a little. “I seem to be falling asleep.” She slid down the bed, drawing the covers up to her chin. “I was born in Newgate. They were going to hang my mother, but she pleaded her belly, so she was sentenced to transportation instead. Prue took me as soon as I was born, and my mother was sent to the colonies.”

  There was silence, broken only by the hiss and pop of the fire. Kincaid replaced the Venetian glasses on the tray. It seemed an eon since he had walked into the Dog tavern for his rendezvous with Richard De Winter. It would be dawn in another hour; before then he had to concoct an explanation for the presence in his chamber of this ravishing Newgate brat—an explanation that would satisfy Margaret, who ruled her household with a now unfashionable Puritan’s severity.

  The Lady Margaret first heard of the night’s strange doings from her maid, when she brought her mistress her morning draft of chocolate. “A wench?” she demanded, sitting
up in bed and straightening her nightcap. “Lord Kincaid brought a wench to the house?”

  “So young Tom says, m’lady.” Susan bobbed a curtsy, her demure expression hiding the inner excitement. There would be a mighty explosion over this, and the entire household was waiting with bated breath. The master did not share his sister-in-law’s Puritan inclinations, and indeed, was known to mind his lust and his pleasure with the best at the court at Whitehall Palace. But he had some consideration for the Lady Margaret and, in general, kept those activities of which she would disapprove out of the house. Although undisputed master of the house and all within it, he had been hitherto content to leave the management entirely in his sister-in-law’s hands, as long as a fair table was kept and matters ran in decent order so that he need never be afraid for the hospitality he would offer his guests.

  Margaret sipped her chocolate, torn between the desire to hear all that the maid had to tell her and the knowledge that listening to servants’ gossip was bad for household discipline. “And where is the girl now?” she asked, with an assumption of casualness.

  There was an instant’s silence as Susan bent to poke the fire. “No one’s seen her, m’lady.” She hesitated, then continued boldly, “But Tom says that his lordship carried her into his bedchamber.” Susan kept her back to the bed, afraid that if there was an explosion of wrath, she might receive the overspill. Her statement could be considered insolent in its forwardness, and Lady Margaret corrected insolence with a supple hazel stick.

  “I will rise,” announced her ladyship, sending Susan bustling to the armoire.

  Since it would never occur to Lady Margaret to show herself outside her chamber in even the most respectable undress, it was an hour later before she deemed herself ready. Her graying hair, free of curl, was confined beneath a lace coif. A wide lace collar adorned the kirtle of black saye that she wore beneath a sober gray silk day gown. Not a touch of color lightened the Puritan severity; the unimpeachable lace was her only decoration.