Venus v-8

by Jane Feather

  "But if I refuse, we might as well forget the plan," she pointed out. "For that would be giving him a most definite

  message in return. "Tis a supper party in a tavern, Nicholas, hardly a bawdy house. What could happen?"

  Nick frowned, chewing his lip. Then he sighed. "I suppose it is safe enough. You will enjoy your supper, at all events. The tavern is known for its cooking. I will send you, as usual, in my carriage, and John Coachman will wait for you. You will then be free to leave whenever you wish."

  "That will do well," she agreed matter-of-factly, tucking her hair beneath a round velvet hat. "If I arrive in your coach, the duke will realize at the outset that I am still not prepared to take the sport further tonight, for all that I will provoke in my breeches." She turned away from the mirror, offering a placatory smile. "It is no great matter, love. Indeed, there is some pleasure in making game of Buckingham. I must use my wits, and that in itself gives some satisfaction."

  "Aye." He picked up her cloak. "Put this on; it has begun to rain." He draped the garment around her shoulders, then said soberly, "Moppet, you must have a care. I am not saying that your wits are not as sharp as Buckingham's, but he's been using his a deal longer than you have yours. Do not become overconfident."

  "I am not, am I?" She frowned at him.

  "I do not know." Nick shook his head. "You are a deal more relaxed in the part than you were at the outset, and you might, therefore, underestimate the risks. You are crossing swords with a master duelist, and I would have you remember that at all times."

  There was a wickedness to the performance Polly gave that afternoon that did little for Kincaid's peace of mind. She missed no opportunity to flaunt the curves of hip and thigh, the neat turn of her ankle, the soft roundness of her calves- womanly attributes only ever seen in public on the stage. Her asides were delivered to the audience with a pert mischief that brought gales of delighted laughter ringing to the glazed cupola. At the uproarious conclusion, when the

  pretty young man was discovered to be endowed with a bosom of definitely female contours, Polly offered her bared breasts to the audience with a gesture of invitation that brought King Charles and his court to their feet on a shout of approval.

  "Something more than usual has bitten her this afternoon," Killigrew murmured to Nicholas as they stood in the wings, watching the play. "Not that I have any objections, you understand. It is a supreme performance. Even the king is on his feet."

  And George Villiers, thought Nick, realizing that it was for Buckingham that Polly was acting this afternoon. She was issuing an invitation that would entrap any man. If Buckingham already believed that she was well on the way to fulfilling her promises, he would now be convinced of it. He would be slavering this evening, and would meet a light coolness for his pains, even as her costume taunted him.

  Nick's unease blossomed into anxiety. Did she really understand how dangerous was this game she played? he thought with a sudden savage stab of anger. At the moment she was behaving as if she played with a harmless fool instead of one of the most powerful and deadly men in the land.

  "Methinks they have enjoyed the spectacle!" Laughing, Polly came off the stage, dancing up to the two men, her hair, released from the peruke that had provided part of her masculine disguise, tumbling down her back, adding spice to the wanton provocation of her costume.

  "They would need to be something less than men to fail to do so," Nick snapped, looking at her as she stood, bright-eyed with excitement, her shirt still open, revealing her breasts in all their creamy, rose-tipped beauty. She was still as unselfconscious as ever about her body. The thought did nothing to appease him.

  "Are you displeased?" Polly asked, puzzled at this unwarranted annoyance.

  "God's grace, why should I be?" he returned. "Do up your shirt. I realize such exposure was necessary onstage, but it is hardly necessary now."

  Polly gulped, drawing her shirt together. "You are become uncommon prudish, my Lord Kincaid." Her chin went up, and she met the anger in his eyes with her own.

  Thomas Killigrew stepped back into the shadows. It was a most interesting exchange, and he could feel some sympathy for Kincaid. It must be galling for a man to see his mistress become the common property of every man who cared to attend the king's theatre, particularly when the mistress in question took such obvious pleasure in the sensation.

  "Pray excuse me, my lord. His Grace of Buckingham awaits," Polly was saying frigidly. "I must put up my hair." With a perfectly executed bow, her plumed hat passing through the air in the elegant gesture of an accomplished gallant, she took a mocking leave of her teeth-gnashing lover.

  Polly greeted the stolid figure of John Coachman before stepping into the carriage emblazoned with the Kincaid arms. She sat in the darkness, gnawing her lip, trying to find the equilibrium she knew she would need for the hours that lay ahead. Why had Nick snapped at her like that? It was unreasonable that at such a time he should become this acid-tongued stranger. He knew what lay ahead of her. For all that she seemed more relaxed in the part, she still had to overcome the deadly loathing, to rid herself of the slimy tendrils of apprehension whenever she was in Buckingham's orbit. While she laughed and flirted, promised and withheld, she was queasy with fear as she recognized the power of the man with whom she played her reckless game.

  George Villiers watched her arrival from the window of the upstairs parlor at the Half Moon tavern. Just what had her performance this afternoon meant? Well, he was about to find out. The time had come for Mistress Wyat to commit herself. He walked to the door, opening it, standing ready to greet his guest as she ascended the narrow staircase.

  "My lord duke." Polly greeted him with a bow similar to that she had given Kincaid a short while before-except that this salute was carefully engineered to entice, displaying her figure to best advantage. "I am not late, I trust."

  "By no means." Smiling, he invited her into the parlor. "I am honored that you did not stay to change your dress."

  "My haste was too great, Your Grace," she responded. "You will forgive such anxiety."

  "Rarely have I been more complimented." His gaze ran over her as she stood in the empty parlor, trying to conceal her surprised dismay at the absence of other guests. "A glass of wine? I am sure you are in need of refreshment after that stellar performance this afternoon. You won all hearts, bud."

  Polly accepted the compliment with an inclination of her head, the touch of a smile, and took the glass of wine he proffered. "I need not have been anxious about being late, it would seem," she observed carefully. "Your other guests have not yet arrived."

  "But did I not say that this was to be a private party?" The duke looked credibly discomposed. "I do beg your pardon if I led you to expect more amusing company than that my own poor wit can provide." He gestured to the supper table. "At least I can assure you that your palate will not go ungra-tified."

  Polly's thoughts whirled as she felt the trap closing. If Buckingham was going to force the issue in this private room in a tavern where all ears would have been paid to be closed, then there was nothing she would be able to do to prevent him.

  He came up behind her, and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. She started violently as his hand flattened against the curve of her hip outlined by the breeches. "My lord duke-"

  "Such formality, bud," he interrupted, his voice low and caressing. "I have a name."

  "And I, my lord duke, have no desire for a tete-a-tete," she said, finding that fear could be transmuted to anger with little difficulty under the prod of desperation. "I do not find trickery conducive to intimacy. You invited me to a small supper party, and it was that invitation I accepted. You will excuse me. My coachman is waiting."

  "Just as I thought," he said softly. "Let us have done with

  games. What do you want, Mistress Wyat? I am prepared to meet your price, if you will but declare it."

  "So crude, Your Grace." She lifted a disdainful eyebrow, trying to stiffen her knees as rage fla
med in his narrowed, hooded eyes. "Perhaps I am not to be bought."

  "Everyone has a price," he said, softly menacing. "I will find yours, make no mistake."

  Polly backed to the door. The duke watched her, knowing her fear. He made no attempt to stop her, but as she reached the door, he said gently, "I do not know what game you think to play, wench, but I am a poor sportsman unless it be a sport I enjoy. I do not appear to be enjoying this one, I should warn you."

  "I do not know what you mean, sir." Her hand on the latch, escape now secured, Polly's courage returned. "But I accept only those invitations that mean what they say. I do not care to be deceived." On that note of hauteur, she beat a retreat, the flash of Dutch courage carrying her as far as the interior of the coach. Once there, in the swaying darkness, hearing the reassuring pounding of Kincaid's cattle taking her home, fear swamped her anew so that she shook as if in the grip of an ague. Buckingham had declared his intent. Who was she, a puny, insignificant, Newgate-born bastard with a modicum of talent and beauty, to withstand that intent?

  Polly tumbled out of the carriage almost before John Coachman could let down the footstep. The street door was unlocked. She whisked inside, drawing breath with a wash of relief in the dim light of the tiny hall. Once safe behind her own door, the surge of panic ebbed, to be replaced by a bitter, self-directed anger. She marched upstairs, banging open the door of the parlor, expecting to see Nicholas and not sure whether she wished to or not. But the chamber contained only Susan, who turned from the table where she was arranging-a dish of sturgeon and a bowl of figs, presumably for Nick's supper.

  "Why, Polly." Sue's round eyes opened even wider as she

  took in the other's astonishingly daring costume. "We wasn't expectin' ye 'till later."

  "I did not expect to be back," Polly said shortly. "My lord is not here?"

  "Said as 'ow he'd return for supper at ten," Susan informed her. " 'Ave ye been out dressed like that? I never seen nothin' like it."

  "Then you should pay a visit to the theatre," Polly said between compressed lips. She threw her plumed hat into the corner of the room, dragged off the heavily embroidered coat, tossing it to follow the hat, and tore at the buttons of the satin waistcoat, her fingers as vicious as the furious thoughts roiling in her head. For some reason, her costume seemed to symbolize the humiliation of the evening's debacle. A wanton in a whore's costume, she had revealed her fear to Buckingham and had thus ruined everything. The plan lay in tatters because her courage had failed her. She had offered a harlot's tawdry provocation, then had turned and run like a child who found her challenge taken up and the consequences greater than she had bargained for.

  The waistcoat flew across the room as Susan stood, stunned into immobility by this extraordinary divesting. The high-heeled pumps, under the influence of a vicious kick, arced through the air to crash against the far wall. Polly yanked off her satin breeches and the silk shirt, dropping both to the floor and stamping on them, before pulling off her stockings.

  Polly was well aware that the violence she was doing to her clothes was sacrilege. Her richly elaborate costume represented a substantial financial investment for the king's company; technically it was the king's property, and it was a property to be treated with the greatest care. If an actor was required to lie upon the stage boards, sheeting was placed over the bare floor to protect the garments, and mock battles were always undertaken with the greatest caution. However, such considerations carried no weight under a flood tide of temper designed to wash from her the bitter taste of anger and disgust.

  "God's good grace!" Nick stood in the doorway, staring at the sight of Polly, stripped to her skin, poised in a rich, vibrant sea of satin and embroidery. Heedless of this ejaculation, she kicked at the discarded breeches.

  "Pick those clothes up!" Nicholas closed the door smartly behind him, trying to sort out this astonishing scene.

  "I hate 'em!" Polly spat, catching the breeches on a toe, lifting her foot clear of the floor. "I'll not wear 'ern again!" An agile high kick sent the garment soaring through the air.

  "That is a matter you may discuss with Killigrew," Nicholas declared. "Pick them up at once! No, not you!" He spun round on Susan, who, with a frightened whimper, had run to the corner of the room, bending to gather up the fallen coat. "Leave it where it is and go downstairs."

  The girl dropped the coat to the floor, scurrying from the room like a scared hedgehog.

  Nicholas had no idea what could have caused this amazing tantrum, but decided that explanations would have to wait. For the moment, he would deal with the fact itself. "Pick up the clothes, Polly," he repeated quietly, walking over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  "No," said Polly, with another disdainful kick.

  Nick turned to face her as she stood, sublimely indifferent to her nakedness, hands planted on hips, head thrown back, defiance and something else lurking in the topaz depths of her eyes. It was the something else that interested him, but he could not get at it until he had dealt with the defiance. "Pick them up, Polly."

  It was at this moment that Richard De Winter stepped through the street door to come face-to-face with the panicked Sue at the foot of the stairs. "Good even, Susan," he greeted pleasantly, moving to set one foot on the stairs. "Lord Kincaid is above?"

  "Yes… yes, please, m'lord," stammered Susan, the image of the stark naked Polly filling her internal vision. "But I don't think as 'ow 'es receivin'," she gasped, stepping on the bottom stair, barring his progress with her stubby body.

  Richard surveyed this courageous stance with a quirked

  eyebrow. "If that is so, he may tell me himself, may he not?" he observed equably.

  Susan's jaw dropped as she struggled to find some unarguable reason to prevent his lordship's progress. But he was not to be prevented. Taking the girl by the shoulders, he calmly moved her out of his way, saying good-humoredly, "Be off, wench. I'll not intrude where I'm not welcomed, so ye need have no fears." Then he ascended the stairs. At the top, he knocked hard on the parlor door.

  Within, impasse still held. Polly started at the knock, but other than that, made no move. Nicholas continued to look at her over the lip of his wineglass. "Who is it?" he called.

  "Richard."

  "Your pardon, but I crave a moment's indulgence, Richard," Kincaid answered, not taking his eyes off Polly. "Now," he said softly. "Whether you pick up those clothes and put on your nightgown before I bid Richard entrance is a matter for your choice. But pick them up, you will. Make no mistake."

  Pride and common sense warred, every engagement played out visibly on the mobile countenance. Nicholas was obliged to school his features with the utmost severity as he watched the battle. The least indication of his inner amusement, and he would lose.

  Common sense won. With a muttered "Lord of hell!" Polly bent to scoop up the abused garments, stalking to the bedchamber, her arms full. "You have missed a stocking," Nick pointed out affably. "In the far corner."

  Polly flung a Billingsgate oath at him, grabbed up the stocking, and stormed into the bedchamber, the door shivering on its hinges under the ferocity of its closing.

  "Pray come in, Richard." Nick went to open the parlor door. "My apologies for the discourtesy in keeping you without."

  "Not at all, dear fellow." Richard raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

  "It would appear so." Nick frowned. "Wine?"

  "Thank you. I thought Polly was to be with Buckingham."

  "She was. But something has occurred to put her in the devil of a temper."

  "If it is anger rather than distress, my friend, it will be the more easily mended," observed Richard, sipping his wine.

  "I have the feeling the two are intertwined," Nick said gravely. "But she was in no mood for any kind of reasonable converse. It was necessary to get her attention first."

  Richard smiled, spreading the wide tails of his coat as he sat down. "I see. And now you have it…?"

  "We may endeavor to dig fo
r the cause," Nick said briskly. He strode to the bedchamber door, calling with clipped authority, "Polly, come out here. I wish to talk to you."

  She came out immediately, respectably clad in her nightgown, her hair braided demurely over one shoulder; it was very clear from both expression and posture that the tantrum was over. Indeed, she appeared subdued, if anything.

  "Now, what lay behind that unseemly display?" Nick demanded, keeping his tone unconciliatory. "I would not be in your shoes if Killigrew finds that those garments have suffered from such treatment."

  Two spots of color pricked on Polly's cheekbones. "Will you tell him?"

  She looked very young and vulnerable suddenly, as if defeated by events. Nicholas dropped the pose. "What has happened, sweetheart?" Taking her in his arms, he stroked her back, holding her tightly against him.

  "I am so angry with myself!" Polly exclaimed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I have ruined everything, and I do not know how to tell you how stupid I have been." Pushing herself away from him, she began to pace the room, rubbing her hands together in angry frustration as she poured out the tale of the evening's events to a silent and attentive audience.

  "I ran away," she finished on a note of despair. "I could not carry the play through. Buckingham knew I was afraid.

  He knew then I had never had any intention of willingly yielding him what he wanted. So now the plan is destroyed. I am sorry." She looked at the two men, twisting her hands into impossible knots. "I thought I was a better actor than I am, and now we must all pay the price of my conceit."

  "There is no need for self-reproach, Polly." De Winter stood up, crossing to the sideboard to refill his glass. "You could not expect to best Buckingham in such a situation."

  "But I was overconfident," Polly murmured, glancing at Nick, who still had said nothing. "I deliberately made the invitation irresistible." She bit her lip. "That was why you were so vexed this afternoon, wasn't it?"

  "I suppose so," Nick said. "I became afeard suddenly that perhaps you did not fully realize what you were doing."