"I can tell you, Sue, I want no truck with any of Lady Margaret's characters," Polly declared, sitting upon the bed with a mischievous smile. "Think how tedious 'twould be to be of a character to suit the Puritan."
"Oh, Polly, y'are awful. Ye shouldn't say such things. 'Tis so disrespectful!" gasped Sue, her hand over her mouth, although her eyes danced responsively.
1 'Twas not exactly respectful to throw a bucket of dirty water at her," Polly said airily. "Oh, you should have seen her face, Sue!" She went into a peal of laughter. "But I cannot tell you what I am going to do because you will be shocked." This morning's discussion about brazen hussies of Covent Garden breeding was not easily forgotten. For all that Polly knew that matters were not to be so conducted, she knew that Sue and her like would not draw the fine distinctions when it came to carnal pleasures enjoyed without the sanction of a wedding ring.
She herself was possessed of a feeling that she could not name-part excitement, part apprehension. Since that December night, she had been hovering on the edge of a wondrous unknown. On the surface she had gone about the tedious work of a maidservant, enlivened by the time she spent with Lord Kincaid. Beneath this apparently ordinary exterior existence had seethed a secret life of hidden desires, of unspoken promises, of visions of expanded horizons and dreams come true.
Now that secret life was to become the exterior life. Now she was about to break free truly, to leave behind her all that was dreary, brutal, exploitative-in short, all that had informed her practical existence until this afternoon. And the excitement was charged with the apprehension of what had only hitherto been known as dream and in imagination. Tonight she would lay her head upon some strange pillow, and she would have crossed into this new life through a physical experience that she longed for even as she feared it.
"Oh, Polly, I'm afeard for ye," Sue said. "Without a decent place and a character, ye'll be sent to Bridewell as a vagrant. They'll whip ye at the cart's tail. If ye steal-"
" 'Twill be Newgate and the common hangman," Polly finished for her. "Those are not in my destiny, Sue. Have no fear of that. But I cannot tell you what is." She put her arms around her friend's plump body and hugged her. "You watch out for yourself with Big Rob and his like! Somewhere there's a husband for you, and he'll take you away from this miserable place."
"I wish I could go with ye," Sue said dismally. "If n y'are really going to be all right."
"I am, but I must go alone." She turned back to her cot, where lay her bundle, pathetically small in this dim, drear chamber that exemplified every dim, drear aspect of the life she was leaving.
"Oh, Sue," she said suddenly, tears starting in her eyes, "I wish you could come." She hugged her fiercely once more, gathered up her bundle, and flew down the narrow wooden stairs to the landing. There she paused to compose herself before descending the main staircase with the deliberate grace of any young lady of breeding.
But there was one more trial in wait for her. In the stone-flagged hallway stood Lady Margaret, in clean gown and shoes, every inch of her radiating malevolence and outrage. Instead of throwing this abominable slut out into the snow to sink, as she surely would without references or money, into the mire of criminal vagrancy, her brother-in-law was actually taking the creature under his protection, was actually going to escort her from the house in his own carriage!
Beside her, his expression studiously neutral, stood Kin-caid.
"You would set up such a one as your whore?" Lady Margaret spoke with cold loathing, spite glistening in her eyes. "I had thought you more fastidious, brother."
Polly quivered, the color draining from her face. Nick moved beside her. "Say nothing," he insisted in clear tones. "That is no accusation for you to answer."
"I will answer-"
"For once you will do as you are bid!" Nick, recognizing that he must take charge of this ugliness without a moment's delay, made no attempt to moderate the harshness of the command. Polly bit her lip, falling silent in sudden confusion. It was as if she were being attacked on all sides.
"I daresay you will find life with your brother in Leicester infinitely more to your taste, Margaret," Nicholas was saying with deceptive sweetness, even as he gripped the back of Polly's neck with firm fingers that imparted reassurance as they demanded her silence. "I shall, of course, be desolated at your departure, but I do understand how one of your tastes and principles would find my roof quite unsuitable." He knew as well as did Margaret that her brother, an impoverished country divine, father of a hopeful family, could not possibly offer his sister a permanent home.
Margaret's realization that she had overstepped the line was painfully revealed on her face. She looked, Polly thought with glee, rather like a landed fish. For an instant, the temptation to take advantage of her enemy's discomfiture with a well-aimed thrust offered powerful vengeance for all the injustices and unkindnesses of the last weeks. Then came the thought that to do so could only show her in an ill light, would be a demonstration of the kind of behavior one would expect from a tavern-bred slut, would simply confirm Margaret's accusation. It was one thing to defend oneself from physical attack with whatever means came to hand, quite another to kick an enemy who was already down.
"I will await you in the carriage, sir," she said, her tone one of lofty dignity. She gathered up her skirts, moving in stately fashion to the door, which was instantly opened by the fascinated Tom. The lad followed her to open the door of the coach, to let down the footstep.
"My thanks," Polly said, as condescending as any duchess. But sadly, mischief got the better of her. "Old trout! She is well served," she whispered, grinning at Tom as she settled herself on the seat. He snorted with laughter, leaning in to exchange a further confidence, and then jumped backward
as Lord Kincaid came down the steps. His lordship regarded the footboy's suffused countenance, then looked sharply into the carriage. Polly's eyes were brimming with deviltry.
Kincaid climbed into the coach, told Tom that he might go to his bed when he pleased, then sat back in the darkness as the boy closed the door on them. Whatever exchange had taken place between those two, Polly had quite clearly recovered herself, he reflected with an inner chuckle. That had been a most impressive display for one in such an ambivalent position.
Polly glanced sideways at her companion, but could see nothing of his expression. "You are not vexed, are you, sir?"
"Vexed!" he exclaimed. "With you? God's grace, no!"
"Then may I ask where we are going, my lord?"
He could hear the mischief in the dulcet tone, and recog-nized that Mistress Polly was more than restored. "To Drury Lane," he informed her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "And I think it is time that you practiced using my name. There are times when 'sir' and 'my lord' are appropriate, and times when they are not. The latter time has arrived."
"Oh," Polly said a few minutes later, absorbing the demonstration of this fact with apparent interest. "When you do that, I should call you Nicholas, is it so?" That same dulcet tone, laced with wickedness, set his nerve endings tingling with the most delicious anticipation. Unless he much mistook the case, this young woman was eventually going to prove herself an inventive and playful lover.
"When I do that, and a great many other things," he declared, drawing her back into his embrace.
Chapter 7
The coach and four came to a halt. A strange surge, part terror, part exultation, shuddered through Polly's slender frame. Nick, feeling it, tightened his hold for an instant before leaning forward to swing open the door. The snow swirled thickly now, caught white and effervescent in the yellow light of the lantern held up by the coachman. Nick jumped out, disdaining the footstep, and reached up to catch Polly by the waist, swinging her down beside him.