Venus (33 page)

“Mistress Wyat.” The coachman’s insistent voice parted the mists of sleep, and she struggled up, heavy-limbed, to climb out of the carriage, heedless in her fatigue of the correct management of skirts and train. She dragged herself up the stairs, thinking wishfully that maybe Sue had waited up for her and would help her with her clothes. But she had not asked her to do so. Wearily she pushed open the parlor door and was shocked by a stab of dismay at the sight of Nick drowsing by the fire. She wanted to be alone tonight, alone with her exhausted body and overstretched mind, alone to find oblivion for the both, out of which would come the strength necessary for the morrow.

Nick came awake the moment she stepped into the room. “Y’are late, sweetheart.” Smiling, he stood up, stretched, and came toward her.

“I had thought you intended staying at home this night.” She stepped away from him as he would have reached for her, and headed for the door to the bedchamber.

“I have had warmer welcomes,” Nick mused, following.

“Your pardon, but I am awearied beyond thought,” she said shortly, reaching to loosen her hair from its pins. “If I do not find my bed instantly, I will be asleep on my feet.”

“Then let me aid you.” He came up behind her, reaching over her shoulders for the creamy swell of her breasts, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

She pushed his hands away with an impatient gesture that stunned them both. “I do not wish for that, Nick.”

“Now, what the devil is this?” There was anger in his puzzlement, and he spun her round to face him, catching her chin, pushing her face up to meet his scrutiny.

“Oh, why will you not let me go to bed?” she cried, tears of frustration sparkling in her eyes. “I am just tired. I have been playing this wretched game all evening … I think you are right; it would be better if I surrendered to Buckingham—” Now, why had she said that? Why did words just say themselves sometimes?

“Nay,” Nick said fiercely. “I’ll not have that.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “Until recently, you were quite prepared for it.”

“That is true.” Nick released her chin and ran his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically distracted gesture. “But I made an error in assuming that I could tolerate it.”

“An error in assuming that we could be of service to each other?” Dear God, she had said it. She looked at him, aghast, searching his face for denial. But it was not there. He had gone very still, the emerald eyes shaded with the truth. The angry words of contradiction that she wanted to hear more than anything, this time did not come.

She turned away from him, cold and empty. “So it does
go back to the beginning, then. I did wonder.” She shrugged. “’Tis not important, I daresay. But I could wish you had been honest with me.” With careful concentration, she began to unthread the freesias from her sleeve lace.

Nicholas searched for words. Had he been less than honest with her? He had intended to be, certainly; had intended to use her as an unwitting tool; but so far back, it was surely no longer relevant. He had not wanted her to draw the correct conclusion, though, to remember that long-ago statement. Now he must somehow find the way to put all right, to repair the shattered trust.

“Look at me, Polly,” he said quietly.

Reluctantly, she did so. “Nick, I am too weary for this tonight. ’Tis not important.” But the bleak misery in those hazel eyes gave the lie to the words.

“I am sorry, but it
is
important, and we will resolve it before we sleep.” He knew now what had to be said and spoke with quiet determination. “It is true that in the very beginning I had thought—”

“That you had rescued a would-be whore who could be put to a whore’s work to your advantage,” she broke in flatly.

“That is the last time you will say such a thing with impunity,” Nicholas told her, his voice as quiet and determined as ever. “It was you, if you recall, who first propounded the plan to find your way to the theatre via
my
bed. After which, as I remember, you were kind enough to inform me that if I no longer wished to be your protector, you would find another one.” He noted her sudden confusion with some satisfaction. “It struck me at the time that your plan could very well mesh with my own. So yes, your present work with Buckingham was planned at the beginning of our association.”

“Why did you not tell me?” she asked in a low voice.

“Because I thought the truth would hurt you, as it has. I have been on the rack!” He spoke now fiercely. “I had promised you to my friends long before I came to love you. I had made a commitment, one I could not in honor renege
upon. To ask for your cooperation seemed the only possible way of resolving such a dilemma. But I have never pressed you, have I?”

Polly shook her head in silence as she struggled to make sense of the confused tangle of thoughts and emotions twisting in her weary brain.

“Now, I want you to answer me honestly.” Striding toward her, he took her chin again. “Loving you, I would never have asked this of you if I had not already, in another life, made the commitment. Is it not more unpleasant a thought that I might have decided you could serve our purpose
after
I came to love you? That, knowing your revulsion for Buckingham, I could callously demand of you that you share his bed?”

Polly swallowed. Why had she not thought of that? She had feared only manipulation from the beginning, had not questioned the kind of person who could cold-bloodedly conceive the use in such a fashion of one he purported to love.

“Answer me,” he insisted, his fingers tightening on her chin.

“Aye, ’tis a much more repugnant thought,” she murmured.

“Do you believe that I love you?” She nodded.

“And have we done with this now?” Again she nodded.

“And there’s to be no more talk of whores and a whore’s work.”

Polly shook her head.

Nick smiled suddenly. “Lost your tongue, moppet?” he teased gently.

Polly returned the smile tremulously. The relief she felt could not be described. It was as if the weight of the world had rolled from her shoulders. She knew now that she could manage this business with Buckingham, if not with a carefree heart, at least in businesslike fashion. It was simply a task that
she was supremely fitted to perform. That was all. It was perfectly simple.

She surrendered herself to the embrace that would provide shield and buckler against the hurts of the world, to the love that would render all arrows harmless, that would drain her of all but the promise of the morrow.

A
h, Buckingham, are you come to watch the thespians at work?” Lord Kincaid greeted the duke with a flourish of his plumed hat as the two men met at the front entrance of the Theatre Royal some two weeks later.

“In my humble capacity as playwright, I think to see how Master Killigrew will have my lines spoken,” Buckingham responded with a politely self-deprecating smile. “’Tis an irresistible curiosity, I fear. Or mayhap I mean an irresistible conceit.”

Nick laughingly demurred, and the two entered the building, going directly into the auditorium—to be confronted with tumult. The small stage was packed with a milling crowd of actors, scene-setters, painters, and carpenters. Thomas was bellowing in an effort to restore order, but his words were drowned in the general cacophony. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, and Mistress Polly Wyat’s voice rose above them all. She was clutching something to her bosom; tears stood out in her eyes and trembled in the distraught tones.

“They have nearly drowned it, Thomas! How could you have let them do such a thing?”

“Polly, I did not give permission. It was never asked of
me,” Killigrew said in exasperation. “Such incidents are not my concern.”

“Oh, how can you say that? This is your theatre. Everything that happens in it is your concern. These … these brutes are in your employ. What they do
is
your responsibility!” Impassioned, she turned on the group of artisans. “You are murdering louts, every one of you!”

“Polly, please calm yourself. ’Tis only a puppy, and besides, ’tis not drowned.” Edward Nestor, Polly’s leading man and utterly devoted admirer, attempted to step into the breach. It was an error, since she swung on him, holding her burden beneath his nose in fervent accusation.

“Only a puppy! How could you say such a thing? You have been feeding it like the rest of us.” Her voice became choked with angry tears, and Nick, unthinking, stepped quickly toward the stage.

“Nicholas! Thank God!” exclaimed Thomas, seeing him in the gloom of the pit. “Perhaps you can calm her.”

Polly swung ’round, crying distressfully, “Oh, Nick … Nick, they were drowning the puppy in a bucket, and it was crying so piteously. ’Tis more than half-dead.” She tumbled from the stage, still clutching her burden. She did not immediately see Buckingham standing in the shadows as she ran weeping to Nicholas. “See what they have done, love.” She held out the sodden scrap in her arms, then fell against Nick’s chest.

“What an extraordinary fuss about nothing,” Nick said coolly, making no attempt to hold her.

Polly jumped back from him as if she had been burned, her eyes wide with shock and outrage. Then she saw Buckingham behind him, watching her from beneath those drooping lids. There was a moment when her face registered utter dismay as she realized what she might have revealed, then she was saying coldly to Nicholas, “You are as unfeeling as the rest.”

“Come now, Mistress Wyat,” the duke said, stepping out of the shadows. “I daresay they assumed that the animal would have suffered less by such a death than by being left to
roam the streets, starving, a prey to every young bully with his sticks and stones.”

It was calm good sense; the drowning of unwanted litters was an inescapable part of life. But it went with life in the Dog tavern, and somehow her sensibilities had become as refined as her present existence. Polly recognized this truth, and it helped her recover herself.

“You are quite right, sir. ’Tis just that I had developed a fondness for the creature.” She went back to the stage. “Here, you may do what you can to revive him. I shall take him home with me.” She handed the puppy to one of the guilty men, brushed her hands off, and turned back to Thomas. “Shall we continue?”

Buckingham sat in the pit, apparently watching the rehearsal, but in fact he took in little. Her voice:
See what they have done, love.
The way she had run to Kincaid: so naturally, as if this man who had gone to such pains to give the impression of studied indifference to his mistress were her only resource from pain; such confidence she had had until he had responded with that coldness. And the disbelieving shock with which she had jumped away from him … until she had seen Buckingham himself. There had been fear and dismay on her face then, just for a minute.

What the devil did it mean? Buckingham’s expression took on a look that any who knew him would read with alarm. If Mistress Wyat was playing a deeper game than he had believed, then he would discover the truth without delay. Quietly, he rose and left the theatre.

Nick registered the duke’s departure, but gave no sign. Instead he sat damning sexually incontinent dogs, Polly’s soft heart, and the callous pragmatism of the artisan who saw in an unwanted animal merely another mouth to feed. The rehearsal was not going well. Polly was tense, Edward Nestor overanxious after her scathing response to his attempt to ease the situation, and Thomas was exasperated. Secure in the knowledge that there was now no one but himself as audience in the theatre, Nicholas got up and went forward to the stage.

“Your pardon, Thomas, but I think you’ll all be better for a recess.”

“I daresay y’are right, Nick.” Thomas wiped his brow with a cambric handkerchief. “Everything is going awry. Take Polly and that damned puppy home. We must trust to luck and the gods this afternoon.”

Polly came to the forefront of the stage. “The puppy could live in your stables, could he not, Nick?”

“I do not see why not,” Nick said, then softly, “Say a kind word to Edward, moppet. He is looking most crestfallen, and it will not aid his performance this afternoon.”

Polly glanced over to her hangdog colleague. She gave Nick a rueful smile and went over to Edward. “I do beg your pardon for being so sharp, Edward. ’Twas most unjust of me, but I was greatly distressed.”

The young man’s face cleared like the sky after a storm. “Oh, pray, do not mention it, Polly. I spoke hastily. Shall we see how the puppy is now?” The two went backstage in perfect amity, and Thomas sighed with relief.

“How was I to know she would take such a thing so much to heart?” he asked Nick, who still stood in the pit before the stage. “The wretched animal has been a complete nuisance, always underfoot. It could not possibly be allowed to stay here. Why would she react like that?” He shrugged at the unfathomable temperaments of actors, and female actors in particular.

“He seems all right.” Polly reappeared, holding the dog. “A little subdued, but he is quite warm and breathing well.” She held him out for Nick’s inspection.