Jane Feather - Venus

"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.

"I trust she has not made another escape?" Nick queried with a dry smile when Margaret did not immediately answer his original question.

Margaret said frigidly, "As far as I am aware, brother, the girl is in the kitchen. The chapman is here."

"Make sure she is in the house when I return." Nick walked to the door. "I shall be dining with friends, but will be back by midafternoon." He contemplated telling his sister-in-law that she would soon be rid of the thorn in her side, then decided against it. He had no idea how soon he would find suitable lodgings for Polly, and there was no point stirring things up prematurely.

The scene in the kitchen at this point was one unlikely to please the lady of the house, there being for once little evidence of sober industry. Big Rob, the peddler, was paying his quarterly visit, and the contents of his pack-lace and pins and thread, combs and gaudy trinkets-were spread upon the table while the household crowded about like swarming bees, Polly as eager as the rest. The chapman's visits were always a high point in any household. Even the Dog tavern had been enlivened by them.

Big Rob was a mountain of a man, as his name implied. Bright eyes like raisins in a currant bun gleamed as he flirted with the chattering Susan, who bridled and blushed but showed no disinclination for the play, not even for the smacking kiss he gave her as he went on his way.

"Shame on you, Sue," Bridget scolded half-seriously. "You go on like that and ye'11 end with a swollen belly."

Susan giggled and her plump face pinkened. " 'Tis only a

bit o' fun. There's little enough of it around 'ere. I'll be careful, never ye fear. I'm no brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding. No man's goin' to 'ave 'is way with me, less'n 'e can offer me a ring."

Bridget clucked her approval, and Polly buried her head in the pantry, reflecting that these two probably would not draw any distinction between an actor in search of a noble protector and the Covent Garden prostitutes so scathingly described by Sue. It was not a comfortable thought.

But then she thought of those moments in Lord Kincaid's parlor last evening, before his visitors had arrived. If she closed her eyes, she could feel again the press of his lips, gentle yet so very much more than friendly, upon hers. What had it meant? What did it mean when he looked at her in that certain way? When his eyes took on that deep glow that seemed to penetrate to her very essence? And what did it mean when she felt this strange, hot confusion when he touched her with those caressing strokes of his finger, or looked at her as if he was seeing something of which she was unaware. Then, at other times, he was just briskly instructive, short with her when she moaned and complained about having to stay in this house, demanding, though always patient, in the tasks he would have her master. The contradictions must mean something. He had promised to teach her what she would need to know to impress Master Killigrew and to take her place in her chosen world. He was certainly fulfilling that promise. Surely he must want something in exchange? Indeed, he had said at the beginning that they might be of service to each other. But in what way? He had made it painfully clear that he was not interested in her offers of the only thing she could imagine she had to offer. He could have had her maidenhead at any time he chose outside this house. It was a conundrum.

Lady Margaret sailed into the kitchen at this point, effectively dampening the general exuberance left by Big Rob's visit. An hour's idleness had been granted but must now be paid for.

Polly, sent after dinner to polish the brass on the door knocker, and to scrub and hone the front step, shivered in the winter air, deciding that the lady of the house had assigned her this unfriendly task with some deliberation. It was not a day for outdoor work. The sky was leaden, threatening snow, and the wind flogged around the street corner, its rawness penetrating her cloak. The stone of the step was hard and icy beneath her knees. The holystone she was using to scour the step slipped from her numb fingers, and she cursed crossly.

"What in the devil's name do you do out here?" Nick's voice came from behind her, sharp with exasperation. He was astride a raking, long-tailed chestnut gelding.

"Nothing that pleases me," Polly snapped, all memory of kisses and softness vanished under an annoyance and misery now focused on the one who, at this moment, seemed entirely responsible for her present wretched occupation. "Or did you imagine that such a task was by my own choice?" Still kneeling, she twisted to glare up at him, resplendent and warm in his camelot cloak with its gold buttons, and his plumed beaver hat. She rubbed her bare hands together and blew on them, noting his gold-embroidered gloves.

Nick sighed. "In with you; you are like to catch your death of cold."

"But my task is not completed," she pointed out with an acid tongue. "The knocker is yet tarnished."

"Then it must remain so, I fear." Nick ignored her tone. "Go inside straightway! Wait for me in my parlor. I shall be in as soon as I have taken Sulayman to the stables. Then I have some news for you that may not come amiss."

He rode off to the stables situated in the lane behind the house, leaving Polly staring after him. He had sounded vexed, but she knew it was not with her for all that he had ordered her inside in the tone he used for kitchen maids. But that look had been lurking in his eyes again, the one he had had last night, just before he kissed her.

Polly shivered under a frigid blast of wind, suddenly de-

ciding that she could not care in the least about Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, and his conundrums. She had had as much as she could endure of the Lady Margaret's household, and so she would tell him. And this time, he would listen! Picking up the bucket of cold, scummy water, the brush and holystone, she marched into the house, kicking the door shut behind her.

"You cannot have completed the task in such a short time." Lady Margaret emerged from the drawing room at the violent bang of the door. "How dare you slam the door in that manner!" An angry flush stained her cheeks, and she spoke through compressed lips.

"Go to hell!" Polly muttered, stomping across the hall with her burdens.

"What did you say?" Unable to believe her ears, the Puritan stared in slack-mouthed outrage.

Polly was cold and stiff, and at the end of her tether with confusion and vexation. "It seems to me that you would have a better chance of hindering the devil's work if you were to go and join him," she said, slowly and carefully.

"Why you insolent little whore!" Margaret hissed, her eyes blazing with all the fury of the violated fanatic, her body shaking as she stepped, hand upraised, toward Polly.

Without thought, Polly hurled the bucket of cold, dirty water at the Lady Margaret's feet.

Nick stepped into the hall just as the water hit the flagstones with a squelching slap, to slurp around the Puritan's ankles, soaking her shoes and the hem of her petticoat and gown. The tableau was for a second frozen as Lady Margaret stared down in disbelief, stunned by such an inconceivable happening, and Polly, hazel eyes still ablaze with fury, stood motionless, uncertain what to do next.

"Oh, Polly, you shrew!" Nick exclaimed, laughter lamentably quivering in his voice at this amazing spectacle.

"She was going to strike me," Polly said fiercely.

"I wonder why," Nick murmured, striding rapidly across

the hall as Lady Margaret returned to her senses with a scream of rage.

"Out ot this house!" She took another step toward Polly and slipped in a puddle. Nick's arm shot out just in time, yanking the enraged woman against him the instant she was about to fall in an undignified heap to the floor.

" 'Tis all right, Margaret," he said soothingly. "Why do you not go to your chamber and change your dress and shoes? Susan can clear up this mess."

Margaret stared at him, an almost feral look in her eyes. "Never, ever have I been subjected to-"

"No," he said, still soothing. "Of course you have not, and you shall not be again. I will deal with this, now."

"There is nothing to deal with!" Polly's voice shook, but it was clear and strong. "I am leaving." She marched toward the door.

Nick caught her with his free arm, thus finding himself in the ludicrous position of having both warring parties in his hands. Laughter was threatening to overwhelm him and required every last ounce of self-control to keep submerged. "Yes, you are leaving, Polly," he said. "But for the moment you will go into my parlor and wait for me."

"Why? There is nothing to stay for." Her chin went up, but the hazel eyes were overbright, sheened with tears she would not shed.

Nick spoke gently, realizing that she had as yet no reason to see the funny side of the situation. "As it happens, there is. Just go, moppet, please." Feeling some of the rigidity leave her, he released her.

Polly regarded him for a second. Then she turned and walked into his parlor, closing the door behind her.

"She's to be turned off without a character," Margaret said, trembling with outrage. "This instant!"

"Go to your chamber and change your dress," Nick said evenly. "You need concern yourself about her no longer. Shall I send Susan up to help you, or should she clean up this mess?"

The need to make a domestic decision of even that small

nature seemed to restore Margaret to some measure of herself. "I will manage, thank you, brother. Do get that… that creature off the premises."

"With pleasure," Nick murmured to her retreating back. A gleam in his eye, he turned toward the parlor and Polly.

In the name of grace, whatever caused that imbroglio?" He closed the door of the parlor and stood leaning against it, regarding Polly's still figure with laughing eyes. Amusement bubbled in his voice, no longer needing to be kept hidden.