Venus (8 page)

L
ady Margaret, who had been waiting with barely suppressed impatience for her brother-in-law’s return, found herself balked of the opportunity to vent her anger by the presence of his companion. She was obliged to smile and curtsy as she greeted Lord De Winter, pressed a glass of sack upon him, and sent word to the kitchen to lay another place at the dinner table.

“I understand from John Coachman, brother, that you gave Susan and Polly leave to visit the Exchange,” she said, finally unable to contain herself, although she was careful to couch the statement in soft tones, accompanied by a smile. It was a smile that did not reach her eyes, but then, Lady Margaret’s smiles rarely did. “They have not yet returned, and the kitchen is hard-pressed to manage without them.” She plied her needle on her tambour frame with an air of great consideration, continuing casually, “I cannot help feeling, brother, that the granting of holidays should be in the purview of the mistress of the house. A man cannot expect to know when a servant can ill be spared.”

“Possibly not,” agreed Nick equably. “Pray accept my apologies if my indulgence has caused you trouble. However, the kitchen cannot be missing Polly’s services too greatly, since they have not yet had the benefit of them. But they
should both be at work shortly. I gave order that they return by dinnertime.” He smiled blandly. “May I fill your glass, Richard?”

“My thanks.” De Winter schooled his expression with admirable effort and offered the Lady Margaret a comment on the weather. Topics of conversation considered suitable by the Puritan were hard to come by since court gossip, politics, and fashion were all tarred with the devil’s brush. Religion, sacred music, and the weather were acceptable, but tended to be unabsorbing subjects.

A slight tap on the door relieved the awkward silence. Lady Margaret bade the knocker enter, and Polly, demure in apron and cap, appeared. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Richard De Winter struggled to capture his breath. Never had he beheld such a beauty. Aware of his gaze, Polly returned the look with a frank appraisal of her own, then she smiled and curtsied prettily, looking up at him in a way that one could only call provocative, through the luxuriant, curling forest of her eyelashes.

It was Lady Margaret’s turn to gasp at such an immodest display. She was still trying to recover from the effects of her instant, automatic assessment of Polly’s clothing. Her brother must have spent a small fortune on garments that no lady would object to having on her back. The effect of such a creature, dressed in such a fashion, on the discipline and smooth running of her household could only be catastrophic. And she had been forbidden to mend the girl’s manners. She glared her outrage at her brother, who seemed not to notice anything untoward in the wench’s deportment.

In fact, Nick was satisfied by De Winter’s reaction and amused by Polly’s response. She had learned the art of responding to such a reaction in the taproom of the Dog tavern, as he well knew, but there was nothing lewd or vulgar about her present demeanor—coquettish, certainly, but there was no harm in that. Indeed, it was an essential if she was to succeed in the life she had chosen.

Ignoring his sister’s glare, he said, “After dinner, Polly, I
would like you to come to my parlor. You shall have your first lesson.”

Polly’s eyes glowed with pleasure, and there was none of the coquette about her this time as she curtsied again. “Thank you, my lord.”

“What lesson?” demanded Margaret. “The girl cannot be spared from her duties again today.” She rounded on Polly, who still stood smiling in the doorway. “Have you nothing better to do, girl, than stand idling here?”

Polly, catching Nicholas’s warning glance, bit back the retort springing so easily to her lips. She knew she had a powerful enemy in the Lady Margaret, but she also knew that Lord Kincaid was an even more powerful friend. He would protect her from injustice, she was certain, having put her in this position in the first place. Although why he should have done that still escaped her. She did not think that, in general, patrons, or even protectors, kept their protégées as kitchen maids. They set them up in lodgings of their own, where they could learn things like reading and writing and cleanliness without interference.

She beat a rapid retreat from the drawing room. Of course, it was true that her adopted patron/protector had so far required from her none of the expected services of the protégée. He behaved simply as if he was accepting an obligation which he had the right to discharge as he saw fit. If he would make her his mistress, then surely matters would be conducted differently? Perhaps he required more encouragement. Mayhap, now that she was clean, he would find her more appealing.

“What lesson?” repeated Margaret, sweeping past her brother into the dining room. “I do think, Lord De Winter, that my brother is suffering some disorder of the mind. He finds an orphaned slut upon the streets, and proceeds to treat her as if she were his own kin.” A little unconvincing laugh was intended to make a joke of the public criticism, but it failed lamentably.

“I have promised to teach the girl her letters,” Nick said, in the same equable tone he had employed throughout. “She
has a quick mind, and I see no reason why she should not attempt to better herself if she is able.”

“But what will the rest of the household think if such decided preference is accorded one of their number? It is not decent to encourage the lower orders to step beyond their station.” Margaret passed a dish of stewed carp to her guest, her mouth small and pursed. “She is a brass-faced wench, overbold and with the deportment of a wanton. She stands in need of a round curbing, which it is to be hoped you will supply, since it appears that I may not.”

Nicholas exchanged a look with De Winter. His old friend was well accustomed to Margaret’s shrewishness, but she was overreaching herself this afternoon. “Perhaps you would save your scolding for when we are private, sister,” he said sharply. “I feel sure that our guest must find it tedious.”

Lady Margaret blushed fiercely. De Winter stepped into the breach with a deft compliment on the lavish and elegant table, but none of the three was sorry when the meal was over and her ladyship withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their wine and tobacco.

“Well?” asked Nick. “What think you?”

“That you have a peck of trouble upon your hands,” chuckled De Winter. “Your sister-in-law will not give the beauty houseroom for long. She will ply her shrew’s tongue until you are forced to remove the girl.”

“You think I am no match for Margaret?” A mobile eyebrow lifted quizzically as Nick set a taper to his long clay pipe.

“No man is match for a scold, my friend,” laughed De Winter. “And to speak truth, I cannot find it in my heart to blame your sister in this instance. Never have I seen such a paragon. She is not designed for the humble role, and she most assuredly lacks a Puritan’s demeanor.”

Nick chuckled in his turn. “Heaven forfend. She would not suit our purposes if she possessed such a thing.” His eyes narrowed, his laughter ceased. “Think you that she will serve our purpose?”

“Whether she has talent for the stage or not, Tom Killigrew
will not be able to resist her.” De Winter spoke thoughtfully. “She would decorate any production. And I grant you that she could well catch Buckingham’s eye. In which case, she will be in his bed in no time. I do not know a woman who has yet refused what he would offer.” He shrugged. “So long as she also stays close to you, I see no reason why your plan should not work. But as we said before, it is for you to make certain of her loyalty. If Buckingham buys her favors, you will have a high price to meet.”

“Such cynicism!” murmured Nick with a slight smile, although he knew his friend spoke only the truth. The Duke of Buckingham, with his immense wealth and influence, could offer a wench in search of fame and fortune a great deal more than could Lord Kincaid. “There are other currencies than mere money and position.” He rose in leisurely fashion. “Like love and gratitude, my friend, as we said before. Now let us see whether her wits match her beauty.”

The two men went into Kincaid’s private parlor. Richard reposed himself on a fine leather chair beside the fire while Nick perused his shelves for an appropriate book for a beginning reader. “Perhaps we should start with the Bible,” he said with a smile. “It might reconcile Margaret.” He pulled the bell rope beside the hearth, then opened the calf-bound book upon the table.

“Yes, my lord.” It was Susan who answered the bell, her sparkling eyes and eager smile ample evidence of her memories of the morning.

“Send Polly to me,” his lordship instructed, raising his head from the book.

Susan hesitated. “M’lady, sir, has set her to cleaning the silver,” she said.

Lord Kincaid frowned. “Well, she can surely finish it at some other time.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Susan bobbed a curtsy, and retreated.

“A peck of trouble,” mused Richard, tapping his teeth with a fingernail. “How’s she to explain the uncleaned silver?”

“Are you trying to tell me, my friend, that this scheme is not going to work?”

“I fear you may have to go about it differently,” was the reply.

Polly, on receiving the summons, had no scruples about abandoning her task. The amount of silver in the Kincaid household was daunting, to say the least, when one was expected to polish it. She entered Lord Kincaid’s parlor impetuously and without ceremony, well aware that the Lady Margaret was about her business in the stillroom abovestairs. “If I had wished to be a kitchen maid, sir, I could have remained at the Dog tavern. At least,” she added with scrupulous fairness, “I could have done so if Prue’s potion had worked.”

“But just think what a fate that would have condemned me to,” protested his lordship. “Bludgeoned to death, and my body thrown into the Thames.”

A roguish smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Indeed, I would not have wished that. But why can I not meet Master Killigrew, and then learn to read? Or I could sell oranges. I would much prefer it to cleaning silver.”

“Orange girls do not just sell oranges,” Nick pointed out. “Do they, De Winter?”

Polly noticed the other occupant of the parlor for the first time. She looked askance at Kincaid. “Lord De Winter knows your history and your ambition, Polly,” he told her. “It is always useful to have friends.”

“Indeed, it is,” Richard spoke up. “Particularly in the theatre. But Nick is right, you know. If you wish to sell oranges as a means of introduction to the stage, you will be expected to offer your customers more personal services after the performance. You will not else make a living. If you are setting your sights on loftier patrons when you become an actor, you will not want to have sullied yourself with the gentlemen from the pit.”

“I had not thought of that,” Polly said with a sigh. “And now I am so clean and unsullied, ’twould be a pity to spoil
it.” Her eyes, mischievously inviting, sought Nick’s, hoping for some responsive spark.

“Aye, it would,” he said, disappointingly matter-of-fact, even as he wondered uneasily what lay behind that enchanting look. It was not one he’d seen before; it was neither the blatant come-hither invitation of the tavern wench nor the artlessly impish smile of Polly being herself. “I am certainly not prepared to endure a repetition of this morning’s fuss to get you clean again.” He offered the remark partly in jest, and partly in the hopes that it would cause Polly to change her expression to one a little less beguiling. It did.

“Then I suppose I had best polish silver.” Polly pulled a comical face that drew an involuntary smile from both men. “How long will it take for me to learn my letters?”

“That depends on how quick your wits, and how hard you are prepared to work,” Nick said. “Come, let us start.” He sat down at the table, gesturing to the stool beside his elbow chair.

With her toe, Polly edged the stool closer to Nick’s chair so that when she sat down, his knees were very close to hers. Nonchalantly, she rested her own elbow on the arm of his chair, smiling up at him with an expression of alert eagerness.

Nick drew in his breath sharply. Unless he much mistook the matter, young Polly was playing coquette with him, for some doubtless dubious reasons of her own. He took her arm and placed it firmly in her lap, observing coolly, “You will not learn to read from my face, Polly. The book is on the table.” He tapped the open page with a forefinger.

She didn’t seem very adept at issuing invitations, Polly thought with a disconsolate flash. It was a novel situation for her, of course, having never before found herself in the position of wanting to invite masculine attentions; more often than not she was struggling to escape them. There seemed to be a great many things she had to learn in this new life. She turned her attention to the jumble of hieroglyphics on the opened page, her frown deepening as she struggled to follow
the pointing finger, concentrating on the quiet, patient voice.

At the close of an hour, it was very clear to both gentlemen that they had an apt pupil upon their hands. Nick glanced over the bent, honeyed head at Richard, who nodded, then sat up, the languid posture vanishing under a decisive air that Nick recognized well. “Polly, what do you know of the court?”

Richard’s question took her quite by surprise. It also struck her as a rather stupid one. What could she possibly know of the court? She looked up from the paper where she was painfully copying the letters of the alphabet from Nick’s original. “We didn’t see too much of the court in Botolph Lane,” she said, her dimples peeping. “For some reason, the king didn’t frequent the Dog tavern.”

There was a short silence. Nick bent to the fire, lighting a taper to kindle his pipe. He regarded her gravely through a fragrant, curling wisp of smoke. “That was a fine piece of impertinence, you rag-mannered brat. You’re going to have to learn more than your letters if you wish to take your place in the world you have chosen. And one thing you must learn is that overt rudeness is inexcusable. You will
never ever
hear anyone offering the least apparent discourtesy, however much they might feel it warranted. You will hear elaborate compliments that mean nothing. You will hear insults conveyed by soft words and smiles. You will hear gossip spread and reputations destroyed by a seeming kind word, but
never
will you hear an impolite observation. If you transgress that rule, you might as well return to the Dog tavern, because there will be no place for you in the theatre or at court.”