Venus (30 page)

Sue looked uneasily at Polly. “Why’s His Grace sendin’ ye invitations and gifts, Polly? ’Tis not right when y’are livin’ under my lord’s protection.”

“’Tis something I must do for my lord and Lord De Winter,” Polly told her. “Rest easy. My lord knows all about it.”

“Doesn’t seem right to me,” muttered Sue, taking the package.

It wouldn’t, of course, Polly reflected as the door closed on the departing Susan. Sue could not begin to comprehend the hypocrisies and contradictions of court life, where a married woman could bear another man’s child and her husband would cheerfully claim the bastard as his own, where harlotry was practiced as openly as in the stews of Covent Garden, yet did not go by that name. Beauty, good manners, and the ability to play the game with discretion were the only virtues.

And Polly, who came from Sue’s world where no distinction was drawn between mistress and whore, frequently found herself unsure of where she fitted in the scheme of things. As far as the court was concerned, she was the mistress, open and acknowledged, of Lord Kincaid. If Prue and the other inhabitants of the Dog tavern knew of it, they
would call her his lordship’s whore. So which was she? And did it really matter, anyway? It was how Nick regarded her that mattered, and he had made that very clear … Yet he had been ready to ask a whore’s work of her …

When had they first thought to use her in this way? Who had thought of it?
It is possible we may be of service to each other
… Lord of hell! she thought in furious imitation of the man in question. What did it matter? She was now involved in this of her own free will.

She went to the window, looking down on the lane to see how the duke’s servant received her message. He did not look very comfortable as Sue pressed the package upon him; indeed, seemed to be putting up some kind of argument. Perhaps it would be considered that he had failed in his mission, Polly thought, and he would be judged culpable for her refusal. Well, there was little she could do about that.

“’E didn’t want to take it back,” Sue informed her, returning to the parlor. “Said as ow His Grace would be angry.”

“It is hardly the lad’s fault.” How angry would the duke be with
her?
Polly shrugged, dismissing the question. It was a bridge to be crossed when she reached it. “I must send a message to my lord … The Bensons’ lad can take it.” She pulled the bell rope, suddenly filled with a restless energy, as if, now that the business was launched, she would have it in full play without delay.

The Bensons’ lad did not have far to go, as it happened, to deliver his message. As he trotted down St. Martin’s Lane, he espied Lord Kincaid astride his raking chestnut gelding.

“M’lord … m’lord …” Breathlessly, the lad jumped into the middle of the cobbled street.

Sulayman came to a well-trained halt, and his rider peered down at the panting urchin, demanding sharply, “Is something amiss?”

“Don’ think so, m’lord.” The boy looked puzzled at the question. “Mistress Wyat jest sent me to fetch ye as soon as may be.”

“Which you proceeded to do at all speed.” Kincaid
laughed, reaching into his pocket for a coin. “For your speed and your trouble, lad.” He left the boy in the middle of the street, examining this unexpected bounty with the speculative eyes of one who could not decide what amongst a plethora of delights to purchase with his sixpence.

Nicholas found Polly pacing restlessly between the parlor and the bedchamber in a state of half undress. Sue had given up attempting to get her to stand still long enough to lace up her corset and had returned placidly to her earlier task of examining the contents of Polly’s wardrobe, exclaiming occasionally at its magnificence.

“Oh, Nick, you are come at last,” Polly greeted him as he stepped through the door.

“I cannot have been so very long,” he said with a smile, tossing his hat onto a chair and drawing off his gloves. “I was on the way here when your messenger came up with me in St. Martin’s Lane. What is all the hurry? Why are you not dressed at this hour?”

“I did try, m’lord,” Sue said hastily, as if Polly’s dishabille were due to some dereliction of duty on her part.

“Oh, ’tis not your fault, Sue,” Polly declared impatiently. “I am quite able to dress myself, you know. I have been doing so for almost the last seventeen years.”

“Then why have you not done so this morning?” inquired Kincaid. “Are you excused attendance at the rehearsal? ’Tis near ten of the clock, you know.”

“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.

Y
ou 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 you 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 décolletage. “’Tis perhaps time to begin this venture?” A delicate eyebrow arched.