De Winter, with a punctilious care, straightened the lace edging to his glove. Nicholas said, "Mistress Wyat, would you be so good as to request Goodwife Benson to supply me with the makings of a punch bowl? I should be forever in your debt." Polly tossed the snowball from hand to hand, debating.
"It is always wise to recognize when one has won a point," De Winter said softly. "Even in sport."
Polly cast him a sharp glance, met smiling gray eyes, and chuckled, tossing the snowball to the ground. "You give good counsel, sir. Come within and warm yourself. I will see what can be coaxed from our hosts." She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and the Bensons' apartments, and Nicholas ushered his friend to the parlor abovestairs.
"Some considerable transformation," remarked Richard, stepping over to the fire.
Nicholas did not assume that he was referring to Kincaid's new surroundings. He nodded. "She shows great ease at adapting. I do not think that Killigrew will find anything amiss."
"And the chains.-…?" Richard took snuff, discreetly avoiding his companion's eye.
"Are in place." Kincaid strolled to the window, looking down at the lively scene in the street. Was it possible for those chains to become mutual bonds? He had intended to lead an innocent along the paths of love, to kindle passion in her and teach her the infinite joys of fulfilling that passion. Thus would he forge the chains of love that would ensure her loyalty. For himself, he had intended to consummate a
desire he had felt since he had first laid eyes upon her. He had consummated that desire, and looked forward with intense pleasure to its continued satisfaction. But something was getting in the way of his clear thinking. It was Polly herself-that candid, mischievous, loving elf who seemed to be weaving chains of her own.
"Ye'll forgive a somewhat personal remark, Nick, but she'll be of little value to Killigrew, or to us, with a swollen belly." De Winter surveyed his friend's rigid back, remembering the play he had interrupted in the lane. It had a quality that had little place in the formalized relationship of keeper and mistress.
Nick turned slowly, offering a rueful smile. "You may rest assured that at the expense of a slight diminution in pleasure, I am taking the precaution that will prevent such a happenstance."
De Winter simply nodded. "I am come from the court, where I have been immured these last two days whilst you have been disporting yourself. It would appear that Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham are become fast confidants."
"That is hardly good tidings, my friend." Nicholas tossed another log onto the fire. "Had they been pulling against each other, the evil influence of each upon the king would be rendered less harmful. Together…" He shrugged.
"They will encourage him to incalculable foolishness," continued De Winter. "If they support Monmouth's legitimacy, and persuade the king to set himself up against Parliament, they will bring the country to the brink of another civil war. The people will not stand for it, Nick."
"I am aware of it."
"And you are still minded to avail yourself of any opportunities Mistress Wyat might afford for circumventing the duke?" De Winter spoke casually. "You are in a better position now to assess how skillful she might be in attracting and keeping Buckingham's attention."
"You may rest assured that she lacks none of those attributes that will appeal to Buckingham," Nick said, in a voice as dry as fallen leaves. Sensual, passionate, uninhibited…
What man could resist her? Why the devil was the thought so distasteful?
"So when do you intend effecting the introduction to Killigrew?"
"I see no reason to delay," Nick said. "Once she has a new wardrobe, one more suitable for an aspiring actor. What she has left to learn, she will learn rapidly enough under Tom's instruction."
The door opened at this point, and Goodwife Benson came energetically into the chamber, carrying a tray laden with brandy, hot water, lemons, and spices. She was followed by Polly, bearing a large punch bowl and ladle. "Is it a brandy punch ye'll be wantin', my lord? I've rum, if ye'd prefer it."
"Thank you, but brandy will serve admirably," Nick assured her, moving to take the heavy bowl and ladle from Polly. "If you'd set the tray beside the fire…" The woman did so, cast a critical eye around the room to ascertain that all was in order, before bobbing a curtsy and hastening out, her stuff gown swishing with the vigor of her stride.
Polly settled herself on a three-legged stool before the fire and drew the punch bowl toward her. "I was taught to mix a tolerable punch," she informed the two men with a serene smile, reaching for the brandy.
Nick regarded her quizzically. "I am not sure that is entirely wise. The last time I had drink of your mixing-"
"That is unjust!" protested Polly. "As it happens, the drink to which I assume you are referring was not of my mixing."
Nick smiled at her. "I spoke in jest, moppet."
"Aye, I am aware." Pushing the bowl aside with an impatient gesture, she came to put her arms around his neck, placing her mouth firmly on his. "And I would forgive you even if'twere not a jest."
"This is not going to get the punch mixed," observed Richard pensively, kneeling on the hearth to set about the task himself.
"No, you are right." Nick pulled Polly's arms from
around his neck. "Neither is it a practice to be conducted in public, I fear. Pleasant though it is for the recipient."
"I do not understand what you mean." Polly looked hurt. "I wished only to kiss you."
De Winter turned a choke of laughter into a cough and sprinkled nutmeg onto the contents of the punch bowl.
"Will you explain, Richard, or shall I?" Nick asked.
"You. I have my hands full with the punch," replied his friend.
"Sit down, Polly… No, not on my knee!" Nick put her firmly back on the stool she had abandoned. "Now, listen to me very carefully. 'Tis a lesson I have not yet imparted."
Polly, looking more than a little rebellious, kept her seat on the stool, folding her hands in her lap. "I do not think this is a lesson I am going to want to learn," she muttered suspiciously.
"Probably not," Nick responded, as equable as always. "But it is a vital one nevertheless." He stood up, reached for his clay pipe and the pouch of tobacco on the mantel, and began to fill the bowl as he talked. "I have told you that any overt discourtesy will put you beyond the social pale. The same applies to public displays of emotion of any description. Cool friendship is acceptable, but that is as far as you may go." He bent to light a taper in the fire, then set it to the pipe.
"I may not speak lovingly to you, or touch you, or-"
"No, you may not!" Nick broke in in vigorous confirmation. "In public, you will treat me with a careless indifference, as I will treat you-"
"Nay!" Polly jumped up, horrified at such an image. "I could not do such a thing, and if you treat me with a… with a careless indifference, I shall go home."
"Then you will never again be invited to show your face at court," Richard said coming to his friend's aid. "While it will be common knowledge that you live under Nick's protection, you will become an object of disgust if you parade your emotions."
"Why?"
Nick shrugged. "It is not done, sweetheart. That is the only answer I can give you. If you would achieve acceptance in that world, then you must abide by the rules."
De Winter tasted the concoction in the punch bowl with a critical frown before remarking casually, "Should you break the rules in such a fashion, you will make Nick a jestingstock, as well as yourself. 'Twould hardly be a convincing demonstration of affection." He ladled the drink into three pewter goblets. "The very reverse, I would have said."
Polly buried her nose in the fragrant steam curling from the goblet. She came from a world where every facet of emotional life was lived on the surface and in front of all eyes. Kisses, blows, endearments, and curses were administered whenever and wherever the need or desire arose. There was no privacy in the fetid, teeming lanes and houses of the city slums, and concealing emotion was a concept quite alien to her.