Venus v-8 Read online

  Venus

  ( V - 8 )

  Jane Feather

  The last thing Lord Nicholas Kincaid expected to see in the gloom of a London tavern was a vision of loveliness. And when she led him to a bedchamber with a come-hither smile, there was no question of resisting—until he realized the lying wench meant to render him senseless so the landlord could rob him blind! That's how the handsome lord made the acquaintance of Miss Polly Wyat, a ravishing beauty he soon decided would make the perfect spy. Unwittingly, she would infiltrate the inner circle at the king's court. But when Nicholas sets out to bind Polly with chains of passion, he'll find himself hard-pressed not to be bewitched…or to fall in love.

  Jane Feather

  Venus

  Preface

  Gingerly, Polly lifted, a corner of the quilted coverlet, inserting herself between it and the feather mattress. She lay motionless, holding herself away from the large male body beside her as she tried to decide what to do next. Neglectfully, her planning had not taken her any further than this moment. Perhaps she should not do anything, simply wait and see what happened when her bedfellow awoke. Besides, it was wonderfully soft and warm in this enclosing darkness. Her body seemed to be sinking, heavy as lead, into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

  Nicholas became aware of something warm pressing into the small of his back. The sensation seemed to twine so inexplicably with the rich sensuousness of his dream that when he moved his hand to identify the object, and found the bare, silken curve of Polly's hip, he was not unduly surprised. Until reality exploded.

  "Lord of hell!" He yanked aside the bed curtain so that the pale light of the risen moon could offer some illumination. The golden eyelashes swept upward. Shock leapt from the deep hazel pools as Polly stared in utter bemusement into the sleepy, furious face hanging over hers. Then she remembered where she was and why. It clearly behooved her to do something. Instinctively she reached a hand up to touch his lips, her own mouth curving in a warm smile of invitation…

  Chapter 1

  Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, was in a morose mood-a state of mind not alleviated by his present surroundings. The Dog tavern was situated in a narrow, fetid alley off Botolph Lane and seemed to be frequented solely by oarsmen, scullers, and wherrymen foulmouthed and deep in drink for the most part.

  It was a Wednesday night, in the year of our Lord 1664, and beyond the door the late December fog swirled around the London streets, hung like a miasma over the River Thames running sluggishly a few yards down Botolph Lane. Kincaid could not blame the watermen for neglecting their work on such a night; customers needing passage along the river would be few and far between, and even the most knowledgeable ferryman would be afeard of losing his way in the impenetrable gloom. It was presumably that same murk that had prevented De Winter from making this secure if inhospitable rendezvous.

  The sea coal fire in the hearth belched greasy, noxious smoke, and Nicholas coughed in disgust. This smoke that poured from chimneys throughout the city added its own heavy canopy to nature's fog; but when there was a dearth of wood, and fire was a necessity, the townsfolk burnt what was available and affordable.

  The smoke haze cleared, and his lordship's watering eyes suddenly focused in incredulous astonishment. A vision had materialized in the dim, dirty, low-ceilinged room. He peered into his tankard of mulled white wine. He'd been drinking liberally enough in an effort to ward off both bodily chills and spiritual depression, but surely not sufficient to create devastating phantoms out of this thin, murky air.

  He looked up again. The specter had a definitely corporeal form. It moved toward him, a laden tray balanced easily on a flat palm held high above the throng. Hair like honey, he thought-rich, dark honey flowing over faultless shoulders, straying across the creamy swell of her bosom rising unconfmed from the tawdry scrap of lace at the neck of her gown. Exquisite breasts, their beauty not a whit diminished by the garish dress she wore-a costume that was deliberately designed to flaunt every one of her manifold attractions. A grubby petticoat showed beneath the hem of her scarlet skirt, hitched up to reveal the curve of knee and calf, the promise of thigh. The rough clogs could not hide the slen-derness of her ankle, the narrow length of her foot.

  Nicholas allowed his mesmerized gaze to drift upward again, to take in the wondrous line of her neck, the curve of her upraised arm, finally to rest in stupefaction upon her countenance. A perfect oval, ivory caressed with rose, a wide brow and straight, slim nose, arched eyebrows over glowing hazel eyes whose slight slant was somehow matched by the uptilted corners of a beautifully drawn mouth, the full lower lip promising a depth of sensuality that sent shivers down his spine.

  Lord of hell! What was such a jewel doing in this malodorous hole amongst louts and river rats? Even as he opened his mouth to articulate the thought, the vision smiled-a come-hither smile that rendered him momentarily breathless. Her arm brushed his sleeve as she passed his table, threading her way through the crowd toward the long plank table in the middle of the room. The noisy group of drinkers greeted her arrival with loud ribaldry and straying hands as she bent to

  place the tray on the table before handing out the foaming wooden tankards.

  Nicholas watched the display with a grimace of distaste. The girl was only receiving the usual treatment meted out to tavern wenches; normally he would hardly have noticed; she was dressed to invite it, after all. But the sight of dirty, raw-boned hands groping beneath her petticoats, pawing at that matchless bosom, turned his stomach. And across the small distance that separated them, he could sense the girl's unmistakable revulsion.

  Polly fought the usual battle for control, forcing herself to keep still under the pinches and pats, to master the urge to kick and spit and claw as her skin crept with disgust. She must smile and toss her head coquettishly and answer lewd-ness with its kind, or Josh would swing his studded belt with customary vigor. She could feel the gentleman's eyes on her; somehow that added another dimension to the normal misery, as if a witness to this degrading business could possibly make it worse, she thought bitterly.

  "Polly! Get over 'ere, you idle trollop!" The tavern keeper's bellow seemed to shiver the rafters, blasting through the cheery, liquor-fed cacophony of raised voices and laughter. It gave the girl an opportunity to make her escape. She grabbed up the now empty tray and turned to push her way back to the ale-stained counter at the rear of the room. The gentleman was still looking at her with unnerving intensity. Polly tossed her head and smiled at him again, just in ease Josh had his eyes on her and might accuse her of neglecting the chance to coax an extra coin or two out of a clearly well-to-do customer.

  Josh drained his tankard of porter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His little bloodshot eyes bore a look of satisfaction. He hadn't missed the gentleman's fascination with the wench. It was a look he'd seen on many a young gentleman's face when their eyes fell upon her. Josh could understand it well enough. Lust stirred his own loins with painful urgency whenever he thought of her, thought of her sleeping in the little cupboard under the stairs, her smock

  caught up… Odd's breath! If Prue wasn't such a sour-faced prig, he'd have had the girl long before now! It wasn't as if she was his blood kin.

  This remembered frustration brought a vicious twist to his mouth, an obscene glint in his eye as Polly came up to him. If he couldn't enjoy those charms for himself, he'd make damn sure they were put to good use. "Get to your aunt in the kitchen and tell her to prepare another tankard of the mulled white wine," he directed. "Prepare it special, understand!" Polly did understand and felt the familiar dread creep up her spine at the thought of the loathsome task ahead of her. "You give it to the gentleman and make sure 'e drinks it afore ye take 'im abovestairs. He'll 'ave a fat purse, I'll be bound, to say nothing of them
stones on his fingers." The obscene leer intensified. "Just you make the right promises, girl, and get 'im on the bed."

  "Not again, Josh," Polly heard herself plead, although she knew it was unwise. " 'Tis the second time this sennight."

  The back of his hand flashed, catching her across the side of the head. She bit back a cry, rubbing her ringing ear as she stumbled 'round the counter and into the kitchen, where an amazon of a woman with fleshy forearms and gnarled, liver-spotted hands was presiding over bubbling cauldrons. The hot, damp atmosphere was filled with heady fumes, coils of steam wreathing to coat the smoke-blackened beams on the low ceiling. The woman looked shrewdly at the girl, detecting the film of tears in the hazel eyes.

  "You angered yer uncle again?"

  "He's not my uncle," Polly spat, taking a tankard from a hook in the wall.

  "You watch yourself, my girl. If it wasn't for 'im, ye'd 'ave no bed and no food in your belly," Prue declared. "Looked after you, 'e 'as, just as if you was one of his own kin. Instead of a Newgate brat," she added in an undertone.

  Polly heard it nevertheless, but she had heard it so many times in her seventeen years that it had lost the power to hurt, if, indeed, it had ever had any. "Josh wants a special,"

  she said listlessly. "In mulled white wine." She handed Prue the tankard.

  Her aunt nodded. "The gentleman in the corner, I suppose. Thought 'e was waitin' for someone at first, but if he's on 'is own, 'tis safe enough." She dipped a ladle into one of the aromatic cauldrons and filled the tankard, then began to add spices from an array of little ceramic pots. Polly watched. One of those jars held a powder that was far from innocuous, and as her aunt, in stained apron and grimy cap, mixed and stirred the malevolent draft, to Polly's suddenly fanciful eyes, the bubbling, steamy room came to resemble a witch's kitchen.

  Moisture beaded her forehead, and she bent her head to wipe her face with her own far-from-clean apron. There had to be a world beyond these walls; there had to be a way to achieve the ambition that danced, glittering with promise, before her mind's eye during the long reaches of the night. One day she would act upon a very different stage, play a very different role from the one assigned to her in this sordid, circumscribed existence, where the exigencies of poverty were the only determinants, and the hangman's noose the only feared outcome. All she needed was a patron, some rich gentleman who could be persuaded of her talent and would introduce her to the people who managed the theatres. The trouble was that gentlemen with fat purses and possible influence in high places did not often frequent the Dog tavern, and when they did, as with the present prospective victim, Josh had another fate in store for them, one that effectively precluded their offering any assistance to Polly.

  She took the tankard from her aunt and returned to the taproom. She was now required to persuade the gentleman into the bedchamber abovestairs, where, thanks to Prue's potion, he would be rendered unconscious to await the thieving ministrations of Josh and his cronies. What happened to him after that was no concern of hers. Her task completed, she would be packed off to seek her pallet beneath the stairs, closing her ears to the thumps and creaks,

  the muttered imprecations, the scuffings and shufflings in the passage.

  Polly looked across the crowded taproom, trying to decide what approach would be best with this particular gentleman. Mostly the gulls were so boorish, so repulsive with their lewd suggestions, insulting in the way they handled her as if she were meat on the butcher's stall, that a delicate approach would be wasted. This gentleman seemed of a different order. He was a large man, certainly, with broad, powerful shoulders and thighs barely contained by his velvet coat and breeches. But the impression was of muscle rather than fat, and the sword at his hip was of plain design, instrument rather than ornament. In a fair fight, Polly decided, he would be a better than even match for Josh and his bully boys.

  He wore his own hair, curling richly to his shoulders, the candlelight catching auburn glints, and his eyes were a clear emerald green. She remembered the way they had been fixed upon her earlier, how he had witnessed the way she had been pawed by the revelers at the center table, and a ripple of self-directed disgust ran through her at the impression she would have given him. He was not to know it had all been pretense, necessary if she was to keep on the right side of Josh. Why should she imagine that he, so demonstra-bly a gentleman, would find anything appealing in the advances of a tavern whore? But then, she didn't have to play the part of a tavern slut, did she? She could be anything she chose as long as she achieved the desired end.

  Her chin went up. She would surprise the gull with this performance-intriguing him with the speech and manners of a gentlewoman, even while she made the whore's offer.

  Nicholas watched her come toward him. He had kept his seat with the greatest of difficulty earlier when that bullet-headed brute had struck her. Such a spectacle would not normally have interested him in the slightest-a man was entitled to keep order in his own establishment, and if the girl was not his daughter, she was certainly in his employ, as much subject to his authority. But there was something ut-

  terly repellent about the idea of such a man holding mastery over that beauteous creature-as repellent as had been the groping hands of the tavern's customers.

  "Will you take another tankard of mulled wine, sir?"

  Her voice was amazingly sweet, carrying none of the harshness he had expected. The vowels were softly rounded, each word carefully articulated, her speech wildly at odds with the tawdry vulgarity of her dress; but not with the perfection of face and form. She placed the fresh tankard at his elbow. "May I bear you company, sir?" That come-hither smile drew him like a lodestone, and he half rose from his seat as he gestured in invitation to the bench beside him.

  "I should be honored." Both the words and the gesture were out of keeping when a man was simply accepting the company of a tavern wench who, it was to be presumed, was as much harlot as serving maid. Nicholas was aware of the absurdity of his courtesy, just as he was aware of the dirt beneath her fingernails, the grubbiness of her dress and apron, her uncombed hair, and the chapped skin of her hands. Yet none of these things seemed to matter, transcended as they were by her amazing beauty, and by her own manner, which seemed to deny such disadvantages utterly. Nicholas Kincaid felt himself bewitched.

  "Will you not drink with me?" he asked, smiling. "I hate to drink alone." He put sixpence on the table.

  Polly picked up the coin. "My thanks, sir." She went to the counter and drew herself a mug of ale. Josh's sharp eyes had not missed the flash of the coin, and he snapped his fingers imperatively. She handed over the sixpence without protest, although her spirit rebelled. Sometimes she was able to secrete a few coins if they were slipped to her in the throng, but it was a rare occurrence, and her chances of amassing sufficient funds to enable her to make an escape from this hellhole without assistance were minuscule. But such gloomy thoughts were not appropriate to the part she was playing at present.

  Polly returned to the gentleman, sitting down close beside him, her eyes glowing with invitation over the rim of her

  tankard while she waited for him to fondle the breasts pressed so temptingly against his velvet-suited arm, to put a hand on her knee, pushing up her skirt to reach the softness of bared flesh. These preliminaries were not usually long acoming; then the suggestion that they should continue matters abovestairs would follow naturally.

  What a crying waste of such perfection, thought Nicholas, drinking deeply of his mulled wine, wondering through his enchantment if he dared risk accepting the invitation. Young though she was, disease was the inevitable concomitant of this life that she led, and he had no wish for a case of the pox. She moved sinuously against him, her fingers whispering across his thigh as her wonderful, sensuous mouth hovered too close to his own for refusal. He yielded with a tiny sigh, his arm encircling her, enclosing the peerless body that melted instantly into his embrace, her lips parting sweetly for his kiss. There was no further question of r
esisting temptation.

  "If you've a mind for a little privacy, sir, we could repair to a chamber abovestairs," the temptress whispered, a delicate blush mantling the ivory complexion as if she were overcome with embarrassment at her temerity in making such an improper suggestion.

  Baggage! Nicholas thought, a flash of amusement bringing him back to earth for a moment. A consummate little whore who would play at the innocent maiden! And did so with great skill, he was obliged to admit as a small hand found its way into his with a tentative squeeze. Such pretense of sweet innocence and modesty yielding under pressure added another dimension of entrancement, he found-no ordinary whore, this one; not in face, form, speech, or manner.

  Polly glanced covertly into his tankard as she stood up, her fingers twining tightly around his. It was not quite empty, but he had surely taken sufficient for Josh's purposes. Prue laced with a heavy hand.

  Nicholas's head buzzed, and he wondered uneasily if he could be overgone with wine. The taproom seemed very hot suddenly, the innkeeper's raddled face, rearing up in front of

  him, was fuzzed at the edges. But the girl held his hand fast as she led him toward a narrow staircase at the rear of the room, so he shook his head as if to dispel the fuzziness and concentrated on keeping his footing on the stairs.

  Polly unlatched the door of the single chamber on the tiny landing. "In here, if you please, sir," she murmured in dulcet tones, curtsying for all the world as if she were ushering him into some palatial apartment. He walked past her into a mean, ill-furnished room, where a tiny fire smoldered sullenly in the grate and the wind whistled through the cracks in the poorly fitting casement. The coverlet on the bed was crumpled and stained; something scurried under a lopsided dresser propped against the far wall. His head swam, and he decided abruptly that he did not feel strong enough for whatever games he had contracted to play in this unsavory place, however desirable his prospective playmate. He reached into his pocket for his purse. She was entitled to payment.