Venus (35 page)

“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 He 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 ’em 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 for 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.”

“And you were right,” she said miserably.

“Your performance this afternoon could certainly have been construed as most definite invitation if one felt it were directed at oneself,” Richard agreed with a smile. “But you have committed only the faults of youth and inexperience, child. There is nothing to be gained in bewailing.”

“Aye,” Kincaid agreed with reassuring firmness. “Wisdom is acquired with years, my love. And few mistakes are irretrievable. You must behave publicly with Buckingham as if the incident had never happened. You may rest assured that he will respond in kind.”

Polly walked to the window. She had not told them of the duke’s threat, and now decided that she would not. It would alarm Nicholas, and she had already caused him sufficient upset. “The game is over, is it not?” Slowly she turned back to the room, scanning their faces.

“I think so,” Richard said. “But we have been able to win the support of the Duke of York as a result of your findings. He will not willingly see his father-in-law ousted as chancellor. He has also said that he will appoint the Duke of Albermarle to act alone as Lord High Admiral in his own absence with the navy. That will ensure that Buckingham and his friends do not divide the responsibilities and the spoils of the post.” He smiled, coming to lay a hand on her
shoulder. “You have done well, my dear. One cannot expect to achieve miracles. We advance slowly over rough terrain. But we
have
advanced … Besides—” He walked over to the table, selecting an apple from the copper fruit bowl, tossing it thoughtfully between his hands”—I do not think there will be inclination or opportunity for plotting on either side for a while. It was for that reason that I came this evening.”

“Oh?” Nick looked at him inquiringly. “You have news?”

“Aye.” Richard bit into the apple. “There is talk of the royal family’s moving to Hampton Court within the month.”

There was a long, considering silence. A candle spluttered under a breeze from the open window. “The plague?” Nick said eventually.

Richard nodded. “A dozen houses have been shut up in the city already. ’Tis to be hoped it will contain the outbreak, but there are those who advise greater caution. It is feared that this may be more than a few isolated incidents, as occurred in December.”

Polly had heard the rumors in the last week or two, but had thought them no more than the tales of alarmists. True, the shutting up of afflicted households was a drastic move on the part of the city aldermans and justices, but she had thought little of it, so wrapped up was she in the excitements, strains, and joys of her present existence. But now, the thought that the king and court were planning to leave a city where the sickness lurked put a different complexion on the matter. Perhaps there was real cause for fear? She looked into the eyes of De Winter, then turned to Nick. The answer was clearly to be read as they both returned her gaze in grave silence.

She turned again to the window, looking down on the familiar bustle of Drury Lane, where links flickered, lighting a walker home, carriages rolled, lamps shone yellow behind casement windows, witness to the warmth and life within. It was an ordinary London street where the business of birthing
and dying went on in ageless fashion, according to social ritual and at nature’s pace. What would happen if a wrench were thrown to alter that pace, to destroy the rituals?

A gray specter filled her vision, and her scalp contracted as a graveyard shiver ran down her spine. She looked again at her companions; and saw that the specter had touched them, also.

I
will
not
travel with Lady Margaret!” Polly repeated fiercely, for the tenth time in the last hour.

Nicholas struggled to hang on to the remaining threads of temper and patience. “You cannot expect me to make two journeys, Polly. Do you really imagine I should leave you here, escort Margaret and the household to her brother in Leicestershire, then come back to take you to Wilton House?”

“I do not expect you to do anything,” Polly said, her mouth stubborn. “I have asked nothing of you, have I? I understand that you have a duty to your family, but I am not a member of your family. Look after Lady Margaret, and I will make my own way to Wiltshire. I can go on the public stage.” Turning her back to him, she looked out of the tight-shut window onto Drury Lane, languishing under a May heat wave fiercer than any other in living memory…

There were few people about; those there were walked in the middle of the street, well away from doorways and side streets where they might find themselves suddenly in contact with a fellow human being—one who might be distempered, even without his knowing it. They carried handkerchiefs soaked in vinegar pressed to mouths and noses, for it was said that one drew in death when one breathed.