Venus v-8

by Jane Feather

  The morning was far advanced by the time Polly arrived back at Wilton House. She was hot, and the walk had done nothing to improve her bruised muscles and spine, and even less for her temper. Unwilling to be seen in her bedraggled, dusty state by any guests, she used the back stairs to reach the peace and privacy of her chamber.

  "Lor', Polly! Whatever's amiss?" exclaimed Susan. "Ye looks as if ye've been dragged through a hedge backward."

  "Just as I feel," Polly groaned, sitting gingerly on the bed to pull off her boots. "If you love me, Sue, contrive some hot water and a tub. I am one enormous bruise."

  "Whatever've you gone and done?" Susan, consternation wrinkling her round, placid countenance, bent to help with the boots.

  "Oh, everything has gone awry!" Polly sighed. "And what is so infuriating is that it was not my fault." Thoughts

  of Nicholas brought an alarmingly ferocious glint to her eye. "I need a bath, Sue. Can ye contrive it?"

  "Aye." Susan bustled to the door. "There's a footman who's monstrous willing to oblige." A flush deepened the already healthy coloring, and Polly forgot her own ills for a minute.

  "Willing to oblige you, is it, Sue?"

  "Well, I dunno about that," the other girl mumbled, and whisked herself out of the room.

  Polly took off her habit; mindful of the imminent arrival of Sue's swain with hot water and a tub, she put on a wrapper. She went to the door connecting her chamber with Kincaid's, pressing her ear to the keyhole. No sound came from within. He had probably returned to the hunt, sending his groom back to the stable with Tiny, thus advertising to all and sundry that the filly's rider had been unhorsed. She blinked away angry tears at the injustice.

  Susan and the footman appeared, laboring under the weight of a round wooden tub and steaming brass kettles. Polly observed the two with interest, looking for the signs of an understanding between them. Nick, she knew, would be more than generous with his wedding gift, if such an understanding existed and could be brought to fruition. Sue's heightened color and a certain complacent air of the footman's seemed to lend credence to the idea. She would sound out Nick, Polly decided, before remembering that she had no intention of ever again exchanging as much as two words with the odious man!

  "Thank 'ee, Oliver," Susan said with another fiery blush, holding the door for him. The footman grinned and chucked her beneath the chin as he went out.

  "So that's the way the land lies," Polly commented with a teasing chuckle.

  "Oh, give over," Sue said, still blushing. She hefted one of the jugs, pouring its contents into the tub. "Are ye gettin' in 'ere or not?"

  "I am." Polly tossed aside her wrapper and stepped into the tub.

  "Lawks!" squeaked Susan. "Ow d'ye get that bruise? 'Tis bigger than a saucer!"

  "It feels as big as a serving platter." Polly groaned, sinking into the hot water, arranging herself delicately on the bottom of the tub. "I fell off a horse with some considerable force onto very hard ground. Actually, I did not exactly fall; I was practically pushed," she amended with a resurgence of indignation, hugging her drawn-up knees, resting her chin upon them. "And if I had my way-"

  "You would see me drawn and quartered!" Nick's voice came laughing from the connecting door behind the occupant of the tub and her attendant. He lounged against the jamb, arms folded.

  "How long have you been there?" demanded Polly crossly, without turning her head.

  "Oh, long enough," he said cheerfully. "You were both far too busy complaining and exclaiming to notice me. However, Susan has the right of it. That is an enormous bruise."

  "And whose fault is that?"

  "Susan, I think you had better find something to do elsewhere. See if you cannot procure some witch hazel from the stillroom," suggested his lordship, pushing himself away from the door.

  Susan bobbed a curtsy, disappearing in short order. Nick crossed to the window seat, where he sat facing Polly in her bath. "And whose fault is it?" A red-gold eyebrow lifted in punctuation.

  "I would never have fallen if you had not pulled on the rein in that manner. It was quite unnecessary; I had matters well in hand. And then, to ride off and leave me…!" She glared at him over her knees, shifting slightly to take the weight off her bruise. "It was unkind and unjust-"

  "Now, there I take issue with you," Nick interrupted, raising a forefinger to halt the tirade that was bidding fair to assume majestic proportions. "You took my horse-a blood Arabian. You took her not only without my permission, but also in direct contravention of my wishes, intending to force

  me into a corner; and, I might add, succeeding. It was for that, that you had your walk."

  Polly was silent for a minute, gazing beyond Nick, out of the window. Then she sighed, yielding with customary grace. "Indeed, it was wrong of me to take your property without leave, and I ask your pardon. But I could think of no other way to prove my point." The slender shoulders shrugged, the gesture accentuating their bare, rounded perfection. "However, you need have no further qualms. I'll not be riding again."

  "That bruise will not last forever," Nick pointed out, rising to his feet, tossing his coat onto the bed.

  "I was not referring to that," Polly said, attempting a dignified note, but Nick was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, and it was hard to sound stiff and distant when images of what his action might presage ran rampant in her head.

  "To what were you referring?" He knelt beside the tub, reaching a lazy hand over the edge to flick playfully at the water before delving beneath. " 'Tis to be assumed there's soap in here-"

  "Here!" Polly picked up the soap from the floor beside the tub, grabbed his questing hand, and slapped the precious cake into it. "I would not leave it in the water; t'would melt."

  "Such habits of thrift as you have," he said in wonderment. "Kneel up and let me wash your back."

  "I am not ready to wash my back yet," Polly objected. "I am still enjoying the hot water. It is beneficial for aches and bruises."

  "On which subject, if those aches and bruises are not going to prevent your riding, what is?" Finding one warm wet breast beneath the water, he lifted it clear, soaping the ivory mound with an air of great concentration.

  "I refuse to ride that sluggard ever again, with or without a leading rein," she told him. "So I will not ride."

  "I had not envisaged your riding the piebald again," Nick said, transferring his attention to the other breast. "I, too, was in error."

  "Oh." Polly could find nothing more to say for a moment, particularly when Nick had taken her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and was rolling it in the way that set butterflies of delight aflutter in her belly.

  "Tiny is yours," Nick said softly, tipping her chin with his unoccupied hand. "I gift you each to the other."

  "Oh," Polly said again, at the mercy of such a welter of emotions that she was quite unable to express herself.

  Nick kissed her, and there she could find expression, her lips melting against his, her tongue flirting with his in sensual promise. Drawing back, he smiled down at her face, flushed with the warmth of the bathwater and his kissing. "Am I forgiven for causing your fall, moppet?"

  "You would buy your pardon, sir?" Her eyes glowed; she reached up with wet hands to clasp his face, pulling it down to hers for renewed thanks. "In the face of such a birthday gift, who could be so mean-spirited as to deny pardon for any offense that stopped short of murder?"

  Nick frowned. "Birthday gift, Polly? What mean you?"

  She shrugged casually. "Why, 'twas my birthday on Wednesday."

  Nick sat back on his heels, regarding her gravely. "Why would you say nothing of it earlier?"

  She shrugged again. "It has never been a day of note. I do not regard it." A tiny smile touched her lips as she remembered. "Well, one year it was. It was my fifth birthday, as I recall. Prue had made me a rag doll." She laughed, quite unaware of the effect this revelation was having on Nicholas. "I kept that doll until it fell apart, then I had a scrap of the material that I talke
d to as if 'twere still Annie. But Prue threw it away eventually, when it became so dirty that she would not give it houseroom. It must have been very dirty," Polly reflected. "Prue was not overly scrupulous about such things."

  "That was the only birthday present you have received?" He spoke slowly, as if to be sure that he was understood.

  "Why, yes, I think so," she responded. "I would have remembered, I expect, if there had been others."

  "Yes, I imagine you would," Nick said, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was no point in expressing his feelings at this gulf of deprivation. It would hardly benefit Polly to be made aware of a loss that she did not consider in the least. However, he was resolved that never again would her birthday pass unremarked. "So you have attained the great age of eighteen." A finger ran over her lips, gently teasing. "I must learn to treat you with the respect due such maturity; or, at least, endeavor to do so."

  "I do not think I should care for that at all." Polly caught the teasing finger between her teeth, nipping with a degree of seriousness. "Respect sounds very dull. Except that I could wish you had shown me a little before pulling Tiny up short like that. I would not else have fallen."

  "Stop worrying that bone. I had thought it buried."

  "Indeed, it is."

  "Then kneel up and let me wash your back. I have a certain cure for bruises of both pride and flesh…"

  Chapter 18

  You have recovered from this morning's mishap, I trust, Mistress Wyat." Buckingham took snuff, smiling blandly at Polly. They were in one of the small drawing rooms that evening where card tables had been set up; voices rose around them in laughter and occasional exclamation.

  Polly looked at her interlocuter, and for a moment was deprived of the power of speech. The duke was regarding her with a look of contemptuous amusement, radiating menace. The cheerful buzz around her seemed to fade under the inescapable conviction that this man was going to hurt her. Without thought, her eyes darted in a desperate search for Nicholas, needing the certainty of his presence as shield.

  The duke's smile grew blander as he absorbed her confusion. "I appear to have said something to upset you," he murmured. " 'Twas but a polite inquiry."

  Polly licked her lips and found her voice. "I do beg your pardon, my lord duke. My mind was elsewhere. I am quite recovered, thank you. It was a most minor mishap."

  "Your… uh… protector seemed not to consider it minor."

  "I do not know what you mean, sir." Why did she feel as if she were dancing at the end of a string being manipulated

  by those long, beringed fingers? Her gaze raked the room again, wildly searching for Nicholas.

  "Why, I mean simply that Kincaid appeared monstrous disturbed," replied the duke casually. "Most flatteringly concerned for your safety."

  "I cannot imagine why that should surprise you, Duke." From somewhere came the strength to resist the creeping paralysis produced by those drooping, hooded eyes and the soft tones where some as yet undefined threat lurked, barely masked.

  He gave a little laugh. "Oh, it did not surprise me in the least, bud. Not in the least." He watched her as she struggled to make sense of this. "Love is a most demanding master," he murmured.

  Involuntarily, she gasped, her eyes widening in shock. "It is, of course, not at all a fashionable emotion," continued the soft voice dripping its honey-coated menace. "But we shall keep it as our little secret, shall we?" Seeing Polly for the moment incapable of response, he offered a mocking bow and sauntered over to a table where an intense game of three-handed Gleeke was in progress.

  Polly stood for a minute trying to shake herself free of the enveloping dread. What was going on? What had he seen? What did he mean? She must find Nicholas.

  Gathering up her skirts, she hastened from the room, then stopped. What was the point in describing that exchange to Nicholas? It could not possibly mean anything. Why should it matter that Buckingham now knew that Polly and Nick were not simply two individuals involved to their mutual benefit in a perfectly ordinary liaison? Her own association with the duke was over, so nothing was lost by his knowledge. What did matter was that she had betrayed her fear even as she had confirmed his words with her shocked silence.

  With determination, she returned to the card room, taking her place with a laughing group around the shuffleboard.

  • • •

  "Something appears to have pleased you mightily, duke," observed Lady Castlemaine, her eyes gleaming through the slits in her black silk mask.

  "Perhaps I, also, should adopt the fashion of the vizard," drawled His Grace. "I'd not have my every thought broadcast upon my countenance."

  "Only broadcast to those who have the code and can therefore read," responded her ladyship. "You are uncommon satisfied by something. Confess it."

  The duke smiled and reposed himself elegantly upon the scroll-ended chaise longue beside her. He straightened an imaginary wrinkle in his aquamarine hose, turning his calf for further inspection, thus offering his companion the opportunity to admire the fine shape of his leg.

  "Has Lord Kincaid's little actor at last come to appreciate your manifold attractions?" hazarded Lady Castlemaine, her baleful gaze wandering to where the subject under discussion sat at the shuffleboard. Polly wore no vizard, her own having been removed by the king himself, on the grounds that beauty such as hers had no right to be concealed beneath a mask. Such a statement had done little to improve Lady Cas-tlemaine's disposition, and her mouth thinned spitefully.

  Buckingham read her expression correctly, despite the mask. He chuckled. "Do not let your ill will show, my dear. Malice is not a pretty emotion. Its manifestation wreaks havoc with the complexion; such hard lines as it produces."

  Lady Castlemaine managed a wan smile. "I am indebted to you, my lord duke, for your advice. I will make certain to heed it. But, pray, will you not answer me? Does your present complacence have aught to do with the actor?"

  "Well," the duke murmured, "I think you could say that I have justification for feeling satisfaction." His eyes rested on Polly, and he nodded pleasantly to himself. "I have found both the currency and the price, my lady."

  The countess closed her fan, tapping the ivory sticks against the palm of her hand. "Will you say no more, sir?"

  "If I may count upon your assistance," the duke replied, "you shall be a party to the entire plan."

  "Gladly," the lady agreed. "I will render whatever assistance I may."

  "I shall need you to plant a few seeds in the king's ear," Buckingham explained, his voice low, a smile on his lips, his eyes still upon Mistress Wyat. "Easily done in the privacy of the bed curtains."

  "On what subject?"

  "Why, treason, my dear, and my Lord Kincaid."

  "You talk in riddles." Barbara momentarily forgot the need for caution, and her voice rose above an undertone. "What has Kincaid to do with treason?"

  Buckingham shrugged, smiled. "I am sure I can find a connection if I look hard enough, madame; sufficient to impeach him and lodge him in the Tower."

  "But how would such a manufacture assist your cause with the actor? She does not appear to hold him in ill will, for all that they do not live in each other's pockets."

  "Ahhh, now there is the nub," the duke said, his smile broadening. "The facade they present for public consumption is precisely that-a facade presenting the complacent protector and the kept woman with an eye to the main chance. In fact, matters run much deeper." He shook his head in mock wonder. "So beautifully they play it, too. But I tell you, Barbara, if aught were to be amiss with my Lord Kincaid, I'll lay any odds you choose to name that his mistress will make whatever sacrifice demanded of her to buy his safety."

  "And you will name the price," said Lady Castlemaine, her eyes brightening as comprehension dawned. " 'Twill be a high one, I imagine."

  "By the time I have finished with the little whore, she will never want to show that glorious countenance at court again." The vicious words, spoken in a soft, pleasant tone, fell
from smiling lips. Barbara Palmer shivered in sudden chill. "She will know herself for what she is-a slut whose place is on her back in Mother Wilkinson's brothel."

  Indeed, reflected Barbara with a renewed shiver, one did not refuse the patronage of the Duke of Buckingham with

  impunity. The wench would suffer well for such presumption; for imagining that a creature coming from nowhere, with a little talent and a moderately pretty face, could dare to play fast and loose with the most powerful man in the land.

  "When do you begin?" she asked, taking a cheese tartlet from a tray presented by a bowing page.

  "There is no time like the present." Buckingham waved the tray away and took snuff. "You will begin to make little murmurs about Kincaid, which I will follow up with graver doubts. By the time we are returned to Whitehall, the crop should be ripe for harvesting."

  It was not until after Christmas, however, that the metropolis was considered sufficiently plague-free for the court's return. Polly did what she could to overcome her fear of Buckingham, to regain her pleasure in the sojourn in Wiltshire. Her efforts were assisted by the duke, who seemed to lose interest in her altogether, and eventually she was lulled into a sense of security, able to believe that he had enjoyed tormenting her in revenge for her rejection of his advances, but had now found other interests.

  He had, indeed, found other, related interests, and the quiet work of discrediting Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, went on behind the scenes, and in the privacy of the king's bed.

  The twelve days of Christmas at the court of King Charles II surpassed Polly's wildest dreams of that pleasure-oriented celebration.

  Christmas at the Dog tavern had, in latter years, been celebrated with less than Puritan severity, certainly, but Polly had been kept far too hard at work to glean much amusement from the mummers and the musicians; the mistletoe hung upon the rafters had merely served to add to her burdens. There had been Christmas fare, and she had eaten her fill of goose and mince pies, but nothing in that experience had led her to expect the magnificence of this Christmas.