Venus (11 page)

The door opened to admit Polly, bearing a platter laden with bread, cheese, and a hefty wedge of pigeon pie. She whisked herself into the parlor, glancing guiltily over her shoulder as she closed the door. “There was no one in the kitchen, so I was able to take whatever pleased me,” she confided, coming quite unselfconsciously to sit on the floor before the fire, where he still knelt. She broke into the bread
with eager fingers, laughing up at him. “There was fat mutton and watery broth for supper.” Her nose wrinkled. “I have done well, I think.”

Nicholas regarded her platter with a degree of astonishment. Obviously she had not exaggerated her hunger. “If you really intend to consume such a quantity, you had best have something to help it down.” He got up and went over to the side table to pour wine.

Polly accepted the glass with a smile of thanks and took a hearty bite of bread and cheese. “I have forgotten. Is it a marquis who comes after a duke?”

“Do not talk with your mouth full, moppet,” he reproved automatically, sitting in the elbow chair beside the fire. “Aye, ’tis a duke, a marquis, an earl, a viscount, a baron.”

Polly conscientiously swallowed her mouthful. “And you are a baron, and Lord De Winter is a viscount.”

“Correct,” he said with a smile. “Humble members of the peerage. Can you remember who is secretary of state?”

Polly took a sip of wine. “The Earl of Arlington.” She became aware of his hand playing in her hair and, without undue thought, shuffled backward until she was leaning against his knees. “And the Earl of Arlington and the Earl of Clarendon are at outs, and the king prefers Arlington to Clarendon … I have it right, I think.” She bit into the wedge of pigeon pie, savoring it with great concentration.

Nick allowed his fingers to drift over the nape of her neck, beneath the luxuriant fall of honeyed hair. Her neck bent responsively beneath the caress, and he smiled in quiet satisfaction, scribbling a fingernail into the delicate groove at the base of her scalp.

“Tell me some more about Master Killigrew and Sir William Davenant,” Polly demanded. “If Master Killigrew manages the king’s company and Sir William the Duke of York’s company, then they must be some sort of rivals?” Suddenly, without knowing why she did, unless it had something to do with the strange, prickly warmth spreading through her body, emanating from those wonderfully busy fingers on her
neck, she looked over her shoulder at him, and suffered a slight shock. “Why are you smiling in that manner?”

“In what manner?” he asked softly.

Polly frowned in strange confusion. There was a glow in the emerald eyes, an intensity to his expression that set up a tingling response in her own. “It is a little hard to describe. I do not think anyone has ever smiled at me like that before.”

“Mayhap no one has seen before what I see now,” he said, moving a thumb beneath her chin to tilt her face as he brushed a pastry crumb from her lips with his forefinger and bent his head to bring his mouth to hers.

Polly had endured the assault of many a kiss over the last few years, on one occasion even from this man who was now so gently, so sweetly taking her mouth with his own, the tip of his tongue tantalizing her closed lips, the sensitive corners, so that the warmth bathed her like liquid sunshine and her toes curled in delight.

Very slowly, he raised his head, smiling down at the flushed surprised beauty of her. Then the hammering of the door knocker shattered the moment of quiet in which a wealth of meaning lay as yet unsaid but on the verge of articulation.

Nick got to his feet with an exclamation. Apart from the inopportune nature of such an interruption, it was late for passing visitors and the house had been locked up an hour since; he was coatless, wore only doublet and hose as befitted a man beside his own hearth; his sword was abovestairs. He stood listening as the knocker sounded again. Such ah imperative nighttime summons could have fell intent at a time when one could never be certain who one’s friends were, when lies and whispers abounded, conspiracies thrived, and a man could find himself in the Tower on a single word of an enemy who had the king’s ear.

“Hell and the devil, boy, what kept you?” a loud voice, unfamiliar to Polly, boomed from the hall as young Tom finally managed to draw the bolts on the door.

Nicholas smiled and relaxed, saying easily, “Charles can never be convinced that he is not on a parade ground.”

“Is your master at home, lad?” It was Richard’s voice this time. “Be good enough to tell him that he has visitors. Sir Peter Appleby, Major Conway, and myself.”

“I had better go abovestairs,” Polly said, unsure whether her dismay at the prospect had more to do with the abrupt cessation of that wonderful new activity to which Nick had just introduced her, or to abandoning her unfinished pigeon pie.

Nicholas shook his head. “Nay, I would have you stay. You may demonstrate the fruits of my labors of the last weeks.” He strode to the parlor door, flinging it wide. “Richard, Charles, Peter, you are well come indeed. Come you in and feel the fire. There’s wine here. But Tom shall fetch you ale if ye’d prefer.”

“Ale, forsooth,” boomed the major’s parade ground voice. “Lord, but I’m as dry as lenten pease.”

Three men, wrapped in thick cloaks, strode into the parlor, bringing a waft of the cold January night with them in their wind-reddened cheeks and tossed hat plumes.

Polly, unsure what Nick meant by a demonstration of the fruits of his labors, had got to her feet and now stood to one side of the fire, neat and demure in her gray kirtle with its lace collar, hands clasped in front of her.

“Why, good even, Polly,” greeted Richard, smiling.

“Good even, Lord De Winter.” She curtsied gracefully, remembering what Nick had told her of the correct depth to be accorded different social ranks. It was not a kitchen maid’s bob, but the carefully executed obeisance of a young lady.

Nicholas smiled. “Polly, allow me to make known to you Sir Peter Appleby and Major Charles Conway. Gentlemen … Mistress Polly Wyat.”

Now Polly realized what he had meant about the fruits of his labor. He had introduced her to his friends as if she were not his kitchen maid, and clearly she was expected to play the part designated, as he had coached her. “I bid you welcome, gentlemen.” She offered another beautifully executed curtsy, this one meeting with responding bows. “May I pour you wine, Sir Peter? Lord De Winter?” Smiling graciously,
she moved to the side table. “Tom will bring ale for Major Conway directly.”

She was playing hostess as if she were born and bred to it, Richard observed, exchanging an appreciative smile with Nick. Polly, busy with her guests’ cloaks and the pouring of wine, did not notice that the cheery bonhomie of the major, and the more restrained courtesies of Sir Peter, concealed a sharp observation that took in every facet of her face, form, and deportment.

Cloaks doffed, refreshment in hand, the visitors took chairs. Polly wondered if it would be appropriate for her to finish her supper, still on the tray before the fire.

Nick, seeing her speculative gaze fixed on the pigeon pie, couldn’t help chuckling. “I am certain no one will mind if you finish your supper, Polly.”

“Indeed not, mistress. Desolated to have interrupted you,” boomed the major. “Shockin’ time to pay a call, I know, but we were passin’ the door and just thought to see if Nick was by his fireside. Pray forgive us.”

Polly murmured some suitable response and wondered whether to resume her position on the floor. The only available seat was a stool by the table, away from the fire and the circle of visitors. Ladies probably did not sit on the floor when consuming pigeon pie, but it was quite clear to everyone from the tray’s present position that that was where she
had
been sitting. She glanced at Nick, who had relit his pipe and was seated in his chair watching her cogitations with huge amusement.

He gave her a small nod, pointing to the floor at his feet. Relieved, she settled down, leaning naturally against his knees, and resumed her interrupted meal while the conversation went on over her head. It was clearly a familiar subject for the four men, she reflected, since they began talking with no preliminaries.

“It seems inconceivable that the Commons will vote such a monstrous sum, even to finance a war,” commented Richard. “Two and half millions! It is quite unprecedented.”

“Aye, but a commercial war with the Dutch could bring
in rich booty,” replied Sir Peter. “Expectations are high, even though Admiral Allin’s attack on their merchant fleet at Cadiz was disappointing.”

“Will the king ask the Commons for such a sum?” Polly put her empty platter on the tray and prepared to enter the discussion. “It would mean they would have to raise taxes, would it not?”

“It would,” concurred Nick, “which will do little to improve His Majesty’s popularity in the country.”

“A fact which His Grace of Buckingham and the others of the Cabal steadfastly refuse to admit,” declared the major.

Polly knew now that the Cabal was composed of Clifford, Ashley, Buckingham, Arlington, and Lauderdale. They were referred to as the Cabal for the obvious reason that their initials formed the word.

“’Tis to be hoped Clarendon will have a steadying influence,” mused Richard.

“If he’s not impeached first!” The major spoke with a surge of energy. “Since Bristol’s last attempt to oust him, he has been riding an uneasy mount. ’Tis imperative we discover—” He stopped suddenly, his gaze resting for a moment on Polly’s face, upturned toward him, alive with interest. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Enough of such gloom. I’ve a mind for a rubber of whist. ’Tis a devilish good game—become all the rage in the queen’s drawing room.”

“I will fetch the cards,” Polly offered with alacrity.

“Nay, moppet, I will fetch them.” Nick forestalled her. “Get you to bed now.”

“But I am not in the least awearied,” Polly protested. “I would watch your play.”

“You will be tired enough in the morning,” he told her.

“I would not be if I did not have to rise—” She stopped. Nick’s expression was not encouraging. Kitchen maids did not argue with their masters, and neither was this public protest in the least ladylike. She appeared to have forgotten her lines in both parts.

“Bid us good night,” Nicholas instructed softly. “In proper fashion.”

“I give you good night, my lord.” Polly curtsied to him, then went scrupulously around the room bidding each one farewell with another courteous salute, although her face and voice were expressionless. She left the parlor, trailing an aura of hurt disappointment.

Richard chuckled as the door closed behind her. “You certainly have your hands full, Nick.”

“Aye.” Nick grinned. “But I’d not have it otherwise. What think you, gentlemen?” He raised an eyebrow at Sir Peter and the major.

“Amazing beauty. You did not exaggerate, Richard,” Sir Peter said. “We had hoped our unexpected visit would afford us a glimpse, I confess. Where does she come from, Nick?”

Nick puffed on his pipe and shook his head. “That is the one secret I shall keep, Peter. It lies between Polly and myself.” Richard knew, of course, but the confidence was as safe with him as if he had never heard it. “D’ye think she will captivate Buckingham?” Nick asked.

“And anyone else she chooses,” declared Major Conway, taking snuff. “My apologies for slipping like that earlier. I realize she mustn’t have an inkling that we’ve an intention to do more than bewail the king’s foolishness and the Cabal’s manipulation.”

“No harm was done,” Nick said easily. “You recovered readily enough. But your visit was timely.” In one sense, at least, he amended with a rueful inner smile. “I wished you to see her and judge for yourselves before I took the next step.” He looked around at the gravely attentive group. “If everyone is agreed, I think the time has come to begin to put the plan into action.”

“You will move her out of here?”

“As soon as I can find suitable lodgings, Richard.”

“And you will make her your mistress?” The major spoke matter-of-factly. “Before bringing her to Killigrew’s notice, presumably?”

“That is my intention,” Nick responded in like fashion.

“To bind her securely with the chains of love,” murmured
Richard, casting a shrewd look at him. “Those of gratitude seem well in place.”

“They will be when I remove her from Margaret’s supervision,” Nick said with an indulgent chuckle. “She is not inclined to thank me for her present situation, for all that she relishes her instruction.” He sipped his wine. “Do you have any suggestions about lodgings?”

“Not Covent Garden,” pronounced Richard. “You want no taint of the harlot attached to her. To be under your protection is one thing, but to inhabit the Grand Seraglio will not do.”

“Indeed, not,” agreed Sir Peter. “But Drury Lane might serve. It has decent houses and respectable landlords for all its proximity to Covent Garden.”

“Aye, and ’tis close to the theatre,” put in the major. “She’ll not be conspicuous there.”

“And you may come and go as you please without drawing undue attention.” Richard smiled. “There is so much hustle and bustle on the lane, the houses so well occupied by the busy and the popular. It is always difficult to remember whose house one saw a person enter.” The smile faded. “That could be to all our advantages later, when we wish to glean unobtrusively what she has to offer for harvest.”

Nicholas simply nodded. “I will look for a suitable lodging run by a fitting landlady on the morrow. D’ye care to bear me company on the business, Richard?”

“Gladly. Now, how about that rubber of whist?”

“You are early from bed, brother,” Margaret greeted Kincaid the following morning as he crossed the hall, dressed for riding in buckskin breeches and high boots, a camelot cloak with gold buttons slung across his shoulders.

“I have some business to transact,” Nick said easily. “Where is Polly this morning?”

Lady Margaret’s lips thinned, as they always did at the mention of the girl and the consonant inevitable reminder that in this instance she did not hold the reins. Apart from
anything else, she did not understand what her brother-in-law was about. The wench did not share his bed—of that Margaret was convinced—but whenever he was in the house, the girl was at his side, and the voices and laughter coming from Kincaid’s parlor corroded her soul like acid. She was convinced that he never so much as took the wench to task for the faults of which his sister-in-law kept him so religiously apprised.