"Just what do you intend doing now?" demanded Nicholas, shrugging out of his coat. "Put this on."
"Coming with you." Polly went on to inform him blithely of the part he was to play in her life. The idea had
hit her with the blast of cold air from the opened casement, complete and perfect-the opportunity she had sometimes despaired of being given. It would require a little cooperation, of course, but surely he would be happy to take what she could offer in exchange. Men were not in general indifferent to her charms-an interest that so far had been nothing but a burden, but in this instance could be put to good use. Wrapping the coat around her shoulders, she stroked the sleeve, wonderingly. "I've never worn velvet before."
"What do you mean, you're coming with me?" He looked at her uneasily.
"Well, I can't go back, can I?" she pointed out with impeccable logic. "Josh'll kill me… if Prue doesn't first." Her dance on the frozen mud became more vigorous. "Besides, I saved your life, so now you can be my… my…" She searched for the right word, then found it. "Protector," she finished triumphantly. "Or do I mean patron? Actors have patrons, don't they? But I suppose, if I am to be your mistress, then you would also be my protector. Anyway, either will do."
"Either will not do!" Nicholas, unable to make head or tail of this assured statement, stared at the prancing figure swathed in velvet. "May I remind you that it was you who made the saving of my life necessary in the first place?"
"Ah," Polly bit her lip. "I suppose that is true. But what am I to do? I cannot become an actor without a patron. I have been waiting for one forever. And now you have turned up so fortuitously-" A violent sneeze brought an end to this confusing recitation, returning Nicholas to his senses. She was going to freeze to death if he left her here, if she had not already contracted an inflammation of the lungs. He didn't want her death on his conscience-time enough when they found shelter to decide what to do with her.
"Where are we?" He peered into the murk, but could see nothing familiar.
"Near Gracechurch Street," was the prompt reply. "Cornhill's up that-a-way." She pointed ahead.
"We'll mayhap find a hackney there. If there's a jarvey
willing to ply his trade on this filthy night." He glanced down at her bare feet. "Can you walk that far?"
Polly shrugged. "Have to, won't I?" She began to run up the lane-an extraordinary figure in underdress and a gentleman's coat, that honey hair streaming in the wind. He'd be lucky to find a jarvey willing to take such a motley creature, Nicholas reflected gloomily. She looked as if she'd escaped from Bedlam! Mind you, he was beginning to feel as if he had done so. He set off at a brisk walk in her wake.
There were few people abroad to witness the strange pair, but Nicholas, alert for footpads, kept his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes peeled for a sight of the Watch, unsure how he would explain matters should he be challenged. They reached Cornhill, where Polly stopped. She dashed a hand across her eyes-a gesture that did not escape Nicholas, coming up beside her. It was too dark to see the extent of her distress, but her posture had lost its previous jauntiness. He looked anxiously up the street. Not even the lantern of a linkboy showed through the fog.
"Lord of hell! You could at least have brought your shoes!" The irritable mutter produced a gulping sound from his companion, but he was too worried about her physical state to care overmuch about wounded sensibilities. Then the sound of hooves pierced the dark. Nicholas stepped into the street. A coach lantern wavered, its light a will-o'-the-wisp in the fog-dark. He ran toward the vehicle, praying that it was a public hackney so that he would not be obliged to throw himself on the mercy of some late-night traveler, who would be justifiably suspicious of an apparently benighted gentleman and a half-clad female.
"Wha' y'want, then, foin sir?" The muffled figure on the box swayed, his words slurred. "Foul night to be abroad." He raised a bottle to his lips and drank deeply, hiccuping.
"Your services," said Nicholas briskly, pulling open the coach door. He turned to yell for Polly before the jarvey could whip up his horses and take off without them, but she was right beside him. He bundled her inside. "A guinea for you if you can take us to Charing Cross, man."
"Ah'm for me bed," the coachman protested in spite of the promised largess. "Wrong direction."
Nicholas put his foot on the step to the box and sprang nimbly up. "Either you drive us, or / do!" The menace was so clear in both voice and stance that the jarvey, muttering ferociously, turned his horses.
Polly sat in the pitch darkness of the frowsty interior, where the smell of onions and unwashed bodies mingled in a noxious bouquet with stale beer and fusty leather. She chafed her sore, frozen feet as the carriage swayed and jolted over the cobbles under the direction of its inebriated driver. There was a time when the vehicle lurched violently, and she fell onto the floor. An enraged yell came from the box, followed by a significant thump. She struggled back onto the seat, pulling aside the scrap of leather curtain that shielded the unglazed aperture serving as window.
"Sir?" Her voice quavered as she craned her neck to peer up at the box. "Is everything all right?"
"That rather depends upon how you define all right." His voice drifted down through the darkness. "Our friend here has finally succumbed to persuasion to yield up the reins."
There was something infinitely reassuring about the dry tone, and Polly withdrew her head, wondering what form the persuasion had taken. At least the motion was rather less erratic now, but the pain in her feet, as sensation returned, brought tears to her eyes. Secure in her isolated darkness, she made no attempt to stop them, and they rolled down her cheeks as the events of the evening took their inevitable toll.
Nicholas accorded the motionless figure of the jarvey, slumped on the box beside him, a brief glance now and again as he turned the horses from Fleet Street onto the Strand. It had required little more than a tap to render him unconscious, and he would be well paid for the indignity once Lord Kincaid had attained the comfort and security of home.
Home was a large house in a quiet street off Charing Cross. Like its fellows on the street, the windows were in darkness at this hour of the night, although a lantern burned,
hanging from an iron hook set into the stone pillar beside the door. Margaret would have been abed these past two hours, Nicholas knew, which, perhaps in the circumstances, was all to the good. He did not feel like explaining his unorthodox companion to his straight-laced sister-in-law, or indeed, to anyone at this juncture. Springing off the box, he opened the carriage door.
"Are you still in there?"
"I cannot imagine where else I would be." It was a brave attempt at a light response, but tears were heavy in her voice. "Where are we?"
"At my house," he replied, holding the door. "Come."
Polly stepped out of the carriage, forgetting her sore feet for the moment in her fascinated contemplation of her surroundings. This was not the London she knew, which was a city of plaster and lath buildings on narrow, crooked streets, the gables protruding so far over the lower floors that they formed a roof across the lanes. Here, the light from the lantern showed her a broad, paved thoroughfare and a mansion of warm brick and white stone. Polly did not think she had ever seen so many windows in one building. The gentleman must be a very important man, as well as a rich one, to have a house with so many glazed windows. Her luck had certainly turned. On one thing she was resolved-this opportunity was not going to slip through her fingers. She was going to stick closer than his shadow to this influential gentleman until he had helped her to achieve her goal.