"Come, it is time we went home. I have wasted the greater part of my morning already."
Polly, torn between resentment at his callously matter-of-fact manner and pleasure in the combined sensations of cleanliness and the feel of fine linen against her skin, followed him a little crossly. "But you promised that we might stop again at the Exchange." She gathered up her skirts with unconscious elegance to mount gracefully into the coach.
Now, where had she learned to do that? Nicholas wondered. It was as if she had been born and bred to the gracious management of skirts and petticoats. "I will let you and Susan off at the Exchange. You may walk home afterward."
"Oh, but please, my lord. My lady…" Susan stammered, leaning over the side of the box in her anxiety.
"I will make it all right with her ladyship," Nicholas
promised, accepting that he was going to have an unpleasant scene on his hands when Margaret discovered that he had blithely given her maid a holiday.
Polly's excitement when she was finally permitted to set foot in the magic world of commerce was so innocently, childishly at odds with that mature beauty that Kincaid was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. Bethinking himself that wandering around stalls lacked something essential if one was not in a position to purchase, he handed her a sovereign.
" Tis hardly riches," he said, laughing, as she looked at him, dumbfounded. "But you might see some trifle that takes your eye." He was aware that Susan was also staring. "To hell and the devil," he muttered. Why should a generous impulse have such an effect?
He knew perfectly well why, of course. One did not hand out sovereigns to servant wenches except in payment for services rendered-services, in general, of a certain kind. It would not do for Margaret to draw such a conclusion. Nothing would prevail upon her to share houseroom with one she would call whore. There seemed only one solution. He handed Susan the sovereign's mate, with the injunction to enjoy themselves but to ensure that they were home for dinner. Then he gave the coachman instructions to drive to Whitehall, and left two blissfully happy girls, with untold riches burning a hole in their pockets, to enjoy a brief holiday.
The Long Gallery at Whitehall was thronged. It was here that gossip was created and exchanged, factions developed and broken, reputations made and ruined. His eye sought for the tall, slender figure of Richard De Winter, Viscount En-derby. Nick's oldest friend, the man with whom he had shared the brutal hells of their boyhood years at Westminster School, was lounging beside one of the long windows overlooking the bowling green, his indolent posture belying the taut power and decision that Nick knew so well. An elaborate periwig fell to his brocade shoulders; diamond buttons on his coat sleeves winked in the light from the window. His eyelids drooped slightly, concealing the razor sharpness of
the gray eyes beneath. A lace-edged handkerchief fluttered from his beringed fingers, and a burst of laughter rose from the admiring group of ladies clustered around him. De Winter was a wit with a notoriously sharp tongue, and no scruples as to where and to whom he directed that sharpness. He was feared by many, but no one would show it, any more than they would fail to listen when he pronounced.
Nicholas strolled over to the group, pausing to acknowledge greetings, exchange a word of news, a light remark. He learned that again the king had not left his privy chamber this morning, where he was closeted with the Duke of Buckingham and two other favorites, my Lords Bristol and Ashley. Increasingly, His Majesty was cutting himself off from the conversation and opinions of the majority of the court.
"Why, Nick, my dear fellow, how goes the world with you?" De Winter hailed him.
"Indifferent well, Richard," replied Nicholas airily, bowing with great ceremony to the ladies, his plumed hat sweeping the floor. "I fear I caught cold last night."
De Winter's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Indeed, I am sorry to hear it, but 'twas a foul night. I was kept withindoors, myself, by some unexpected visitors."
"A fortunate occurrence," Kincaid said with a degree of dryness. "I should have been glad to have been so prevented from making my own journey."
"Lord De Winter has been telling us the most outrageous story," a lady in orange taffeta informed Nicholas with a trilling laugh. "It is said that during a ball at Lord Lindsey's last week, a babe was born in the middle of the coranto. The infant was caught in a handkerchief, but no one knows who is the mother, no lady acknowledging the child, and everyone continuing with the dance."
"Ah," said Nicholas thoughtfully. "But I understand that my Lady Fawcett has since been confined to her bed."
"Nick, you have outdone me!" cried De Winter. "I must retreat in shame." With a sweeping bow, he removed himself from the circle, leaving Nicholas to entertain the ladies with
further scurrilous tales before he, too, made his excuses and sauntered along the matted gallery to take the stairs to the Privy Garden.
De Winter was waiting for him at the King Street Gate, at the far end of the garden. "My apologies for last night," he said without preamble. "You had difficulties?"
" 'Tis a long story, Richard." Nick told the tale as they walked toward the Strand, then proceeded to expound his proposition to his rapt companion. "When you see her, you will see what I mean," he finished. "Such extraordinary beauty. Never have I seen its like."
De Winter looked at his friend, wondering if perhaps something had addled his senses. "Is she, indeed, a maid? It seems unlikely, my friend, although I would not doubt your word."
"I have no empirical evidence," Nick said with a slight shrug. "But I would stake my honor upon it. She is quite the most unusual wench."
"Desirable enough for Buckingham? He has more interest in flesh and blood than in the fey."
Nicholas gave a short laugh. "Desirable enough, Richard! I know not how to keep my own hands from her at times. And she is most definitely of this world."
"And Killigrew will take to her?"
"When she is groomed," Nick said with absolute certainty.
"And you can rely upon her cooperation?"
"Her only desire is to tread the boards," Nicholas said. "And I am convinced she has no small talent. Indeed, I am often hard-pressed to tell the performance from the genuine emotion."
"But with such a creature-a Newgate brat who has grown from the slums-you will not be able to trust in her loyalty. It will be given to the highest bidder. For that reason, you may be able to encourage her into Buckingham's bed-there are few higher-but how can you be sure she will remain sufficiently attached to you to enable you to milk her of any information? It will have to be done very casually
if she is not to suspect. It seems to me, my friend, that that predicates a certain intimacy." His eyebrows lifted. "Should she begin to suspect the truth, she may well see financial advantage in playing turncoat. Then we will both lose our heads."
Nicholas was silent for a minute. He did not resent this hard catechism. Richard spoke only the truth, and the stakes would be of the highest. Finally he said, "If I may bind her to me…"
"She will remain loyal," De Winter finished on a low whistle. "Will you bind her with the chains of gratitude or of love, my friend?"
Nicholas shrugged. "Of the first, certainly. Of the second…" He smiled. "We will wait and see. I find I have a powerful desire for her, Richard, one I would consummate; but I must kindle her own first. She is still an innocent in matters of passion, in spite of her background." He paused thoughtfully, then said, "Maybe because of it. Passion and desire are not necessarily synonymous with lust, and she is certainly familiar with the latter in its ugliest manifestations. But we will leave that in abeyance. While she remains beneath my roof, she remains virgin. She must be taught certain things, and in the teaching I will forge some chains."