by Jane Feather
"I have some news," Polly said, turning back to the bedchamber. "I thought it urgent."
"Then you shall tell me while you dress," Nick said in soothing tones. He followed her into the bedchamber, closing the door on Sue in the parlor. "What is it, sweetheart, that has so thrown you into such disarray?"
"Why, 'tis Buckingham, of course." Polly picked up her corset and gave him her back in mute request. He fastened the laces, listening as she told of the duke's gift and invitation, and of her response.
"Tomorrow night?" he mused. "I heard mention of the gathering at court last even. 'Tis to be one of Buckingham's
revels-the entertainments he puts on for his intimates." He frowned. "You will not be the only woman there, moppet."
"Women are part of the entertainment at these revels, then?" Polly stepped into her gown, under no illusions as to what Nick meant.
"Aye," he said slowly. "But there are also always women guests."
Those who would not find the prospect of such entertainment a matter of disgust. Polly nodded thoughtfully. There were plenty such at court. "Will there be opportunity for me to glean impressions of some import, think you?"
"Undoubtedly," Nick said. "These are the gatherings that are closed to all but his most intimate friends and those he provides for their entertainment, of course," he added. "But since the entertainers are unlikely to have any understanding, let alone interest in, the political undercurrents, on such an occasion there will be no dissembling. If you know what to look for, you will see it."
"And you will tell me what to look for?" She sat before the mirror, beginning to comb her hair, the automatic movements serving to calm her, to still the restless energy.
Nick came up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders. "You will be told exactly what to look for, Polly. But it is not too late to call a halt to this. You have but to say." She looked into the eyes fastened upon hers in the mirror. They were calm and matter-of-fact. How long had he contemplated this role for her? Since Buckingham had shown interest in her? Or before? The question would not lie down, yet she could not ask it for fear of the answer.
" 'Tis not unlike a part I played before," she said, dragging her eyes away from his. "I have played lure-"
"There is no similarity!" Nick exclaimed, anger chasing away his composure. "How can you talk such foolishness, draw such a stupid comparison?"
Polly shrugged, letting the question go by default. She could see the similarity, if Nick could not. She tucked her hair under a lace-trimmed cap and stood up. "I had best make haste if I am not to be late."
"I will accompany you to the theatre, then I must go and talk with Richard and the others." Nick spoke briskly. "And if you wish for there to be peace between us, you will not speak in that fashion again." He strode into the parlor, picking up his hat and gloves, waiting by the door for Polly, his lips set in an uncompromising line.
They walked in silence to the Theatre Royal. It was as if this shared conspiracy, this partnership that ought to have drawn them closer, had instead raised up a barrier between them, a prickly tension where before there had been laughter and love.
"Will you stay with me this night?" Polly asked as they reached their destination. She looked up at him, her face framed in the demure blue and white cap, and he was dazzled afresh by her beauty. Familiarity did not blunt its effect in the least.
"I would have this last night, before we begin in earnest, just for ourselves," she said softly.
Nick nodded. "After the performance we will go to supper at the French house that you are so fond of, and you shall have the finest Rhenish with lobsters and lamprey pie."
"And cheesecakes," added Polly, entering into the spirit of this effort to return matters between them to their customary humorous ease.
"And cheesecakes," he agreed with mock solemnity. "And afterward…"
"Having plied me shamelessly with all my favorite good things in my favorite eating house, you will have your way with me." Polly chuckled and gave an involuntary skip at the prospect.
"Exactly so."
"Shame on you, my lord!"
They stood for a moment enmeshed in the promise, with no need of words when their eyes were so articulate. Then Nick shook himself free of enchantment. "Be off," he said. "Thomas has a short way with the tardy."
"Aye." Polly turned to the door behind her. "Until this afternoon, my lord."
Nick saw her into the theatre, then went back to the lodging for his horse. Why would Polly say something like that? Surely only if she suspected that he had had an ulterior motive all along. But Richard had said there was no suggestion of such a thing in the discussion he had had with her. And surely he himself had put the possibility of such a suspicion to rest with his angry responses. He must not allow these shadows to fall between them, must not allow his own apprehension to spill over to her. She needed all the strength he could impart; and her greatest strength would come from the rigorous, matter-of-fact preparation he and the others could give her.
Chapter 14
You understand what we want of you, Polly?" The question was posed by one of the four men crowding the parlor the following evening. Smoke from two clay pipes curled, drifting on the breeze through the open window.
Polly nodded at Sir Peter Appleby, resplendent in full periwig and scarlet satin-the veritable epitome of dandyism, except that the foppish exterior concealed a needlesharp wit. She had become familiar with these friends of Nick's since taking up her abode in Drury Lane, but only now did she know that beneath the friendship lay a stern commitment. "It seems clear enough, Sir Peter."
"Then perhaps you would run through it for us, so that we can be sure there are no misunderstandings," suggested Charles Conway.
Nick, leaning against the mantel above the empty hearth, puffing reflectively upon his pipe, was content to observe, leaving Polly's briefing to his colleagues. She would receive his instructions, of a more personal nature, before she left for Buckingham's revels.
"I am to pay particular attention to any conversations between the duke and the Earl of Arlington, noting any references to the Earl of Clarendon," Polly said readily.
"You do understand why this is important, Polly?" asked De Winter.
"Well, as I understand it," said Polly, "Lord Clarendon wishes to strengthen the alliance with France-an alliance which the king favors-but the Earl of Arlington, who is secretary of state, wishes to draw closer to Spain. Arlington and Buckingham are working together to undermine the chancellor's influence with the king, and will impeach him if they can produce just cause. Since you consider it would be dangerous for England to be at odds with France at this time, with the Dutch war going on, it is particularly important to know what plans Buckingham and his friends have for Clarendon." She smiled cheerfully as she completed this exposition. "Do I have it right?"
"You do," said Richard, chuckling. "Word-perfect, my dear. One other thing you might be alert to-any talk of the Duke of Monmouth's legitimacy. If Buckingham is encouraging the king in this, there will be a civil uproar. Parliament will not stand for it, and if we know how far Buckingham is prepared to go in his support of the idea, we will be better able to decide on our own moves."
"You think they will talk of these things?" Polly asked, tapping her closed fan against her palm. "They seem uncommon serious matters for a private party."
"It is because it is a private party that they will be discussed." Major Conway spoke with customary vigor, both voice and expression resonant with intensity. "We are closely acquainted with no one but you who might have access to these occasions, Polly. For that reason you must ensure that you do nothing to jeopardize your acceptance."
"In what way would I do so?" asked Polly.
The major regarded her with the burning eye of the committed. "You must not allow Buckingham to suspect that you do not intend fulfilling your promise eventually. Indeed, if such fulfillment becomes necessary, you must-"
"Such imperatives, Conway, are not for y
ou to declare." Lord Kincaid interrupted quietly, but with an unassailable authority. "Polly has agreed to lend us her assistance, but she
will do so in a manner that is comfortable for her. She will not be asked to do anything repugnant to her." His gaze drifted, seemingly casual, around the room. "That is understood, I trust."
Polly broke the silence that greeted this statement. "I understand what you want of me, gentlemen. I will do all I can to ensure that you have it." She smiled with a mischievous glee that chased the intensity from the room, and only she knew how much effort had gone into its production. "I find that I do not care for the duke, as I am sure you know. I shall enjoy the game of deception, and enjoy furnishing you with the information you require." She stood up, smoothing down the pleated folds of her embroidered damask petticoat, adjusting the Venetian lace at her decolletage. " 'Tis perhaps time to begin this venture?" A delicate eyebrow arched.
"Aye," Nick said, " 'tis time. But I would speak with you in private first… You will excuse us, gentlemen?"
It was command, couched as polite request, and achieved the immediate departure of their guests. Richard paused in the doorway. "You have simply to perform, Polly. Y'are an actor of rare genius. Do not forget that." The door closed behind him, and Polly smiled tremulously.
" 'Tis unlike Richard to pay me compliments."
"He speaks only the truth," Nick said, turning toward her with quiet purpose. "Now, you are to listen to me. Your acting ability is not in question; your ability to hear and remember what is important is not in question; your ability to deceive such a one as Buckingham is not yet proven. You must remember that he and his friends are far from stupid, and you must remember above all else that they are very powerful." The emerald eyes held hers steadily, his voice was level, but Polly was in no doubt as to the utter seriousness of his words.
"I will not forget."
"And you will not forget this last thing I shall say. The very minute that you become uneasy, that you sense someone… anyone… might be looking at you with suspi-
cion, you will leave. Instantly! Is that quite understood, Polly?"
"And if I decide that the goal will be better achieved by my staying and allaying those suspicions in whatever manner seems necessary…?" She returned his look with her own, straight and candid.
"Nay, Polly, you will not. In such a circumstance, the goal will be sacrificed."
Polly shook her head. "That is a decision that I will make, Nicholas. You would have me involved in this, and I agreed to be so, of my own free will. How the game is played must now be up to me."
"And if I say that, if you take that stand, I will call a halt to the plan?"
"I would deny you the right to do so."
There was no anger in their words, no real sense of confrontation. It was simply the establishment of new ground.
"I will be careful, love," Polly said in soft reassurance, seeing his unease, feeling his discomfort as she took the reins into her own hands.
Nicholas looked at her for long minutes, then yielded. She was the chief player in the game. It was only reasonable that she should play by her own rules. "I will be waiting here for you," he said. "John Coachman will take you, and he will wait to bring you home."
The duke's mansion on the Strand was ablaze with light. Great flaming torches, set in metal sconces on either side of the imposing front door, threw illumination onto the flagway before the house. A linkboy ran to the carriage door as it drew up, holding up his torch as Polly descended, bending her head low as she stepped through the carriage door to avoid disturbing the high-piled artistry of her coiffure, carefully managing the weight of her skirts and train, which settled around her as she stood on the flagway, taking a moment to compose herself.
A liveried footman stood bowing in the opened door as
the linkboy lit the way. Polly passed through into a huge tiled hallway, where chandeliers swung from a domed ceiling and gilded moldings adorned the walls and doorways. A wide staircase curved upward, its steps shallow, its banisters elaborately carved. There was more grandeur here than in Whitehall Palace itself, Polly reflected. The immense wealth of the mansion's owner was declared from every corner.
The strains of lute and viol wafted down the stairs, a voice raised in laughter, the sound of hands clapping. Polly followed the footman up the staircase. At the head of the stairs, double doors stood open onto a salon, richly decorated and furnished. A group of musicians played at one end. Four men standing with their backs to the door were huddled over a long, low table, their laughter rising on a lubricious note. A cluster of women, painted and powdered, stood before the fire, fans fluttering, voices, light and artificial, drifting in the warm, scented air as they responded to the sallies of their male companions. Lady Castlemaine was one of their number, Polly noted, recognizing the others also as faces she had seen at court, but she could not put names to them all.
"Mistress Polly Wyat," intoned the footman, and the four men around the table straightened. The Duke of Buckingham, in peacock satin with gold lacing, his powdered periwig sweeping his shoulders, turned instantly to the door. The thin lips flickered in a smile as he came over.
"Why, Mistress Wyat, I had begun to despair of you." He made a magnificent leg, showing off his embroidered stockings and the high-heeled shoes where diamonds glinted, set into the heels and the gold buckles.
"Am I late, my lord duke?" Polly swept into her curtsy, a stage curtsy from which not a nuance was missing. "I am desolated to have offered such discourtesy. Your invitation did not specify a time."
"That was remiss of me," he murmured, kissing her hand. "In my eagerness to dispatch the invitation, I must have forgot such a trifling point." The heavy lids drooped even
lower. "I am devastated at the thought that my poor gift did not find favor, madame."
"On the contrary, Your Grace, it was exquisite. But far too valuable a present for me to accept." She met his meager smile with one as blandly polite and unexpressive.
Buckingham inclined his head. " 'Twas but a trinket, madame. I had thought it pretty enough to please you."
"I am not in the habit of accepting… trinkets… of any value from those with whom I am but slightly acquainted," Polly said carefully, still smiling.
Buckingham pursed his lips. "Then I will keep the brooch until such time as we are become better acquainted, Mistress Wyat."
"A pleasing suggestion, sir." Polly could feel the sweat breaking out upon her body under the strain of this loaded exchange. How long could she keep it up? Her gaze shifted with apparent naturalness to look around the room, reminding the duke of the presence of other company and his duties as host.
"I am delighted you agreed to grace my little revels," Buckingham said, turning back to the room. "You will be acquainted with some of my guests… but not all," he added delicately, regarding her through his hooded eyes as she took in what had been occupying the gentlemen around the table. The girl spread upon it was quite naked.
"Is she not a little chilly?" Polly asked carelessly.
Villiers chuckled appreciatively. "A few guineas can be amazingly warming, my dear madame, for such a one as she."
A brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding, thought Polly. If Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, had not entered her life, she could have been earning her bread in such a manner… She banished the distracting thought; it only led to that other question, the one she must not dwell upon.
"I see my Lord Arlington," she said now, as if the matter of whores displayed upon tables was of no further interest. "Talking with Lady Castlemaine. I would have speech with
him, sir. He was so kind as to send me a letter of compliment after the performance this afternoon, and I must thank him."
Buckingham bowed his acquiescence and escorted her to her goal. She accepted a glass of canary from a footman and set out to play the coquette.
The duke rarely left her side, and it was clear to Polly, from the speculative looks sent her way from all and sundry,
that the company had deduced the meaning of her presence at this private gathering. Carefully, she ensured that not just the duke was the object of her coquetry, even while her eyes, when they met those of His Grace, told him otherwise.
"George, a game of macao, dear fellow. You owe me my revenge!" The laughing invitation came from a newcomer, John Maitland, Earl of Lauderdale, one of the Cabal.
"Aye," agreed Arlington. " 'Tis the devil's own luck ye have with the cards, George. Ye took a thousand guineas off me last time."
Buckingham laughed, flicking open his snuffbox to take a leisurely pinch. " 'Tis like taking toffee from a babe, but if ye've a mind to be trounced again, then by all means let us repair to the card room." He turned to Polly beside him. "I'd have ye with me, bud, if y'are willing. Such beauty can only bring a man good fortune."
The public endearment sealed the matter for all, as did the proprietorial hand cupping her elbow. If Mistress Wyat was not already gracing Buckingham's bed, she soon would be, and her acceptance in this group was now assured.
Assured for as long as she made no slips, Polly thought, accompanying the men into the card room leading off the main salon.
"Nay, sir, I'll stand at your shoulder," she said, laughing, as he directed a footman to draw up a chair for her beside his own at the round table, gleaming mahogany under the candlelight. " 'Tis the place of luck, is it not?"
Buckingham raised her fingers to his lips, saying with soft meaning, "I trust my luck will hold beyond the cards."
Polly allowed an elusive smile to play across her lips, before raising her fan, concealing all but her eyes. Sweat trick-
led down her back under the strain of keeping her revulsion hidden.
"What think you of the king's hints about his marriage to Lucy Walter, George?" The question came from Arlington, and it brought Polly to prickly awareness. Lucy Walter was said to be the mother of the illegitimate Duke of Mon-mouth, the king's sixteen-year-old son.