It did not take many minutes to convince her that walking was not a comfortable mode of progression in present conditions. Where the snow had melted, it rushed down the kennels, carrying filth with it to spill over onto the cobbles, leaving them thick with malodorous slime. Out of the sun, the snow remained in blackened and unsavory drifts, blocking the paths. There were few people on foot, and those there were were frequently bespattered by the mud and muck flung up from heedless horses' hooves and disdainful carriage wheels. But she pressed on doggedly, determined to attain her goal of the Theatre Royal. This time she had no ulterior motive except to look upon the king's playhouse and indulge in the daydreams that were now so close to fulfillment.
It was a short walk along Drury Lane. Just as she reached her destination, a coach, arms emblazoned upon its panels, swept past her to come to a dramatic halt at the theatre steps. A clod of mud flying up from the wheels landed on Polly's
arm, splattering her liberally. In a fury, she assailed the coachman, who was in the act of climbing down from his box, castigating him roundly on his careless driving. Since she chose to do this in language with which the coachman would be familiar, it was not surprising that he should enter the argument in spirited fashion.
"God's good grace! What is going on!" An elegant voice preceded its owner's head, appearing in the carriage window.
"You have a most discourteous coachman, sir," Polly said, switching her accent to one more suitable for discourse with so manifest a gentleman. "He drives his carriage in such a manner that no one is safe on the same street with him, and then has the impertinence to blame his victim!"
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was bereft of words for a moment as he took in the ravishing beauty before him. Never had he beheld such a diamond. Indignation glittered in a pair of magnificent eyes-like forest pools, he thought-flushed a perfect complexion with a delicate pink, stood out in every line of a matchless form. At the same time, he noticed that she was well, if modestly, dressed, and she spoke with a lady's breeding. Except that if it had been she berating his coachman, then she knew well how to assume a different accent.
"Your pardon, madame," he managed, swinging open the carriage door, springing lightly to the ground. He bowed. "I pray you will permit me to make amends. If you would direct me to your lodging, I will convey you there myself."
Polly curtsied automatically as she examined the gentleman covertly. He was most magnificent, with three curling ostrich plumes to his hat, dyed red to match his wine-red velvet coat and breeches, a full-bottomed periwig upon his head, diamonds upon his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes. She raised her eyes to his face as she swam upward, and suffered a slight shock. It was not a pleasant face, although the expression was one of studied amiability-hard eyes under heavy, drooping lids; a thin mouth, with more than a hint of cruelty to it, beneath a long, pointed nose that
reminded her of a hawk's beak. It was the face of a cynic and a dissolute, and the examination to which she was being subjected was frankly calculating. Polly quite suddenly wished she were well away from his vicinity.
"There is no need, sir," she replied. "I live but a short distance and would prefer to walk."
"Oh, but you cannot do so," he protested. "Allow me to present myself. George Villiers at your service, madame."
The name meant nothing to Polly, who had never heard the Duke of Buckingham referred to by his family name. She responded with a polite murmur and another curtsy before turning abruptly, walking off down the street.
Buckingham stood motionless, his eyes riveted on the figure until she turned the corner from Drury Lane onto Long Acre. If she lived but a short distance from here, it should not be impossible to discover her address and identity. Such rare beauty would not go unremarked in the taverns and shops. He beckoned to his footboy.
Polly, finding unaccountably that all desire to continue her walk was vanished, returned home by way of Bow Street. The enticing aroma of roasting fowl and a mug of buttered ale before the crackling luxury of her own fireside offered some measure of compensation, and she was sitting before the fire, wriggling her toes in its warmth, feeling completely in charity with the world, when she heard De Winter's voice in the hall belowstairs.
Jumping up, she went to the parlor door, appearing on the small landing as his lordship mounted the stairs. "Why, sir, are you come to visit? Nicholas is gone to his house."
"Then may I be permitted the conceit of thinking you might be glad of my company?" He smiled, bowing as he reached the landing.
" 'Tis no conceit, sir, but the truth." She gestured to the parlor. "Pray come in and let me pour you wine."
"Y'are a most accomplished hostess, Mistress Wyat," Richard said, smiling, as she took his hat and cloak.
Polly hesitated, then said, "If you would care to join me for dinner, my lord, I would be very happy to have your
company. Goodwife Benson has gone to some trouble to dress a fine pullet."
"Prettily said!" Laughing, he flicked her cheek with a careless finger. "I should be delighted. The prospect of the goodwife's pullet quite sets my mouth to watering!"
Thus it was that when Nicholas came hotfoot up the stairs into his mistress's apartments, he found a cozy scene. The two diners were quite clearly upon the easiest of terms, and Nick was surprised by a most unjustified pang of what he could only recognize as jealousy. He knew that Richard would under no circumstances set up a flirtation with another man's protegee, and even more vital, he knew that Richard would never lose sight of the greater goal. De Winter was a dedicated politician, committed to his country's well-being; no personal whim would be permitted to intrude upon that commitment. Polly Wyat was necessary to the furtherance of that cause.
Nevertheless, the ripple of Polly's laughter, the provocative flash of her eyes as she responded to a sally, the flush of enjoyment painting her cheeks, twisted a malevolent skewer in his gut.
"Oh, you are well come, Nicholas!" Polly sprang from her chair, running to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "How is Lady Margaret?" An imp of mischief danced across her face before she schooled both expression and posture to those of a devout sobriety. "She has not, I trust, found too much to aid the devil's work in the past days?"
"Minx!" declared Nicholas with some satisfaction, finding his moment of unease now fled into the realm of irrelevancy. "You have been amusing yourself, I see."
"Oh, famously," she agreed, pulling him over to the fire. "Lord De Winter is a most entertaining companion." She poured wine for the newcomer. "He has been telling me about fox hunting. I should like to learn to ride a horse."
"Then so you shall," promised Nick, taking the proffered goblet with a smile of thanks. "When the weather improves."
"Oh, I should tell you: I had a most strange encounter this
morning," Polly said thoughtfully, remembering for the first time the man in wine-red velvet. A little shiver prickled her spine, but she could not really imagine why. There had been nothing sinister in his manner or words.
"Yes?" Nick prompted. "A strange encounter with whom?"
"It was outside the playhouse. His carriage splashed me!" The statement was underpinned with remembered resentment. "I was having a fight with his coachman…"
"You were what?" interrupted Nick at this somewhat horrifying image.
"Well, I was telling him exactly what I thought of him," Polly elucidated. "And in no uncertain terms, when this gentleman climbed out of the carriage."
"He might well," murmured Nick, picturing the scene. "I might have shown a degree of interest myself if my coachman was engaged on my time in a verbal brawl with a foul-mouthed wench."