Venus (3 page)

“Not I,” she corrected, as if it could possibly make any difference to her degree of guilt. “Josh and his friends.”

“And then what happens?” He began to pace the small chamber in an effort to keep the fog at bay. The girl did not reply. He swung ’round on her.
“And then what happens?”

She shook her head, eyes wide with appeal. “I do not know.”

“Liar!” He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You are a liar, a thief, an accomplice to murder.” And all that malefice was contained in a form so beautiful that it almost defied belief. He turned from her in disgust.

“No, you cannot go downstairs.” The urgent whisper arrested him as he put his hand on the latch. “They will not let you out of here alive.” Polly jumped from the bed, catching his arm. “There is a cupboard on the landing. If you hide there until they come up, then you can slip down the stairs when they come in here.”

“You expect me to hide from a pack of river rats?” he exclaimed, drawing his sword in one easy movement.

“There are six of them,” she said. “You may be brave as a lion, but against such odds—” She shrugged and turned from him, bending to pick up her smock from the floor.

Her buttocks and thighs were bruise-tinged, the deep purple of fresh contusions overlaying the yellow of old hurts. Nicholas saw again the vicious Josh, his great red hands raised against her, the obscene glint in his little eyes. The anger ran from him. What right had he to judge this girl for whom violence was an inextricable part of daily living? She did only what she was compelled to do, and life was cheap in these back slums.

“And what will happen to you?” he asked quietly. “I doubt you could take another beating so soon after the last.”

Polly flushed. She had forgotten about the welts. Hastily, she pulled on her smock. “He only does it ’cause he wants to do the other.” Amazingly, an imp of mischief danced suddenly in her eyes. “But Prue won’t let him. Says she’s not about to share her husband with a chit of a girl she’s brought up from babyhood, and she’ll cut it off if he tries anything
with me.” A tiny chuckle escaped her, despite the desperation of the moment. “She would, too. She’s bigger than he is.”

Nicholas could feel his own mouth curving in response. She did have the most infectious smile, even when, as now, it was one of pure mischief, with none of the come-hither quality of before. But then, that particular smile had been intended to deceive; this variety appeared to be without artifice.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all desire to laugh fled. Polly went as white as milk as Nicholas, sword drawn, whirled to face the door. The door was flung back on its hinges to reveal Josh and five burly men ranged behind him, all armed with cudgels.

Why would they need cudgels if their intended victim was supposed to be unconscious? Nicholas wondered with dispassion, moving backward to give himself maneuvering space. They’d probably enjoy bludgeoning him to death before dropping him in the river, he reflected, still dispassionate.

“Get out of here, girl,” rasped Josh. “I’ll deal with you later.” He advanced on Kincaid, the others fanning out behind him in the small chamber. Nicholas wouldn’t have a chance. His sword flashed, catching Josh’s arm as he raised the cudgel. Blood dripped from the cut; the tavern keeper roared like an enraged bull, bringing the cudgel down with full force. Nicholas jumped aside, and the club just missed shattering his arm; but he was almost against the wall now. There would be nowhere to jump the next time.

A sudden blast of freezing air filled the room, setting the sullen coals in the hearth to hiss and smoke. Someone had opened the casement at his back. “Quickly!” Polly’s anguished cry from behind told him who to thank for that piece of quick thinking. He relinquished all vainglorious thoughts of fighting to the death to preserve the honor of the Kincaids. There’d be no honor in the demise that awaited him here, beaten to a pulp like a rabbit in a harvested field. He leapt backward onto the broad stone sill,
keeping his assailants momentarily at bay with rapid thrust and parry of his sword, desperation lending him both speed and strength. Then he consigned himself to the air, jumping backward into the unknown.

He landed with a jarring thump. But he had landed on earth, not stone, and for that he could be grateful. The cold air, combined with the tension and excitement of the last few minutes, cleared his head miraculously. He blinked, trying to accustom himself to the darkness. The men would, know how to find him, and since he didn’t know where he was, he could not know how to remove himself from this insalubrious neighborhood.

“Catch me!” a now familiar voice called in a desperate plea. He looked up to see Polly in her white smock poised on the sill. A hand reached to seize her waist; with a wild shriek she kicked herself free before tumbling, unbalanced, from the window. Nicholas managed to break her fall, although she knocked him to the ground again, and he wasted desperate seconds trying to disentangle himself from her flailing limbs, swirling hair, and the folds of her smock.

The sounds of confused bellowing from above ceased abruptly. “Quick,” Polly said. “They are coming downstairs.” She grabbed his hand, tugging him into the shadowy darkness, away from the lamplight of the window. “This way.”

Nicholas opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. So he was going to run through the streets of London on a foggy, freezing December night in the company of a barefoot tavern wench wearing nothing but her smock! It seemed a fitting enough conclusion to such an evening.

N
icholas had no idea where Polly was guiding him, but she was fleet of foot, showing no hesitation about their direction, so he followed where she led and saved his breath for running. The sounds of pursuit, at first alarmingly loud behind them, finally faded; the racing figure beside him turned yet another corner onto another narrow alley and came to a fast-breathing halt under an archway.

“They’ll not find us now.” Her breath came on a sob; she shivered as the heat engendered by movement abated and the freezing air whipped her smock against her body.

“God’s good grace!” her companion exploded softly. “Are you crazed, girl? To come out like that!”

“Had I stayed for my clothes, I would not have come out at all,” was the tart rejoinder. “And had I not done so, they would have caught you easily. There is only one way out of that garden, and ye’d never have found it in the dark.” She hopped from one foot to the other. The mud in the alley was frozen in hard ridges, and her feet were rapidly becoming numb.

“Just what do you intend doing now?” demanded Nicholas, shrugging out of his coat. “Put this on.”

“Coming with you.” Polly went on to inform him blithely of the part he was to play in her life. The idea had
hit her with the blast of cold air from the opened casement, complete and perfect—the opportunity she had sometimes despaired of being given. It would require a little cooperation, of course, but surely he would be happy to take what she could offer in exchange. Men were not in general indifferent to her charms—an interest that so far had been nothing but a burden, but in this instance could be put to good use. Wrapping the coat around her shoulders, she stroked the sleeve, wonderingly. “I’ve never worn velvet before.”

“What do you mean, you’re coming with me?” He looked at her uneasily.

“Well, I can’t go back, can I?” she pointed out with impeccable logic. “Josh’ll kill me … if Prue doesn’t first.” Her dance on the frozen mud became more vigorous. “Besides, I saved your life, so now you can be my … my …” She searched for the right word, then found it. “Protector,” she finished triumphantly. “Or do I mean patron? Actors have patrons, don’t they? But I suppose, if I am to be your mistress, then you would also be my protector. Anyway, either will do.”

“Either will
not
do!” Nicholas, unable to make head or tail of this assured statement, stared at the prancing figure swathed in velvet. “May I remind you that it was you who made the saving of my life necessary in the first place?”

“Ah,” Polly bit her lip. “I suppose that is true. But what am I to do? I cannot become an actor without a patron. I have been waiting for one forever. And now you have turned up so fortuitously—” A violent sneeze brought an end to this confusing recitation, returning Nicholas to his senses. She was going to freeze to death if he left her here, if she had not already contracted an inflammation of the lungs. He didn’t want her death on his conscience—time enough when they found shelter to decide what to do with her.

“Where are we?” He peered into the murk, but could see nothing familiar.

“Near Gracechurch Street,” was the prompt reply. “Cornhill’s up that-a-way.” She pointed ahead.

“We’ll mayhap find a hackney there. If there’s a jarvey
willing to ply his trade on this filthy night.” He glanced down at her bare feet. “Can you walk that far?”

Polly shrugged. “Have to, won’t I?” She began to run up the lane—an extraordinary figure in underdress and a gentleman’s coat, that honey hair streaming in the wind. He’d be lucky to find a jarvey willing to take such a motley creature, Nicholas reflected gloomily. She looked as if she’d escaped from Bedlam! Mind you, he was beginning to feel as if
he
had done so. He set off at a brisk walk in her wake.

There were few people abroad to witness the strange pair, but Nicholas, alert for footpads, kept his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes peeled for a sight of the Watch, unsure how he would explain matters should he be challenged. They reached Cornhill, where Polly stopped. She dashed a hand across her eyes—a gesture that did not escape Nicholas, coming up beside her. It was too dark to see the extent of her distress, but her posture had lost its previous jauntiness. He looked anxiously up the street. Not even the lantern of a linkboy showed through the fog.

“Lord of hell! You could at least have brought your shoes!” The irritable mutter produced a gulping sound from his companion, but he was too worried about her physical state to care overmuch about wounded sensibilities. Then the sound of hooves pierced the dark. Nicholas stepped into the street. A coach lantern wavered, its light a will-o’-the-wisp in the fog-dark. He ran toward the vehicle, praying that it was a public hackney so that he would not be obliged to throw himself on the mercy of some late-night traveler, who would be justifiably suspicious of an apparently benighted gentleman and a half-clad female.

“Wha’ y’want, then, foin sir?” The muffled figure on the box swayed, his words slurred. “Foul night to be abroad.” He raised a bottle to his lips and drank deeply, hiccuping.

“Your services,” said Nicholas briskly, pulling open the coach door. He turned to yell for Polly before the jarvey could whip up his horses and take off without them, but she was right beside him. He bundled her inside. “A guinea for you if you can take us to Charing Cross, man.”

“Ah’m for me bed,” the coachman protested in spite of the promised largess. “Wrong direction.”

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.