Polly tumbled out of the carriage almost before John Coachman could let down the footstep. The street door was unlocked. She whisked inside, drawing breath with a wash of relief in the dim light of the tiny hall. Once safe behind her own door, the surge of panic ebbed, to be replaced by a bitter, self-directed anger. She marched upstairs, banging open the door of the parlor, expecting to see Nicholas and not sure whether she wished to or not. But the chamber contained only Susan, who turned from the table where she was arranging-a dish of sturgeon and a bowl of figs, presumably for Nick's supper.
"Why, Polly." Sue's round eyes opened even wider as she
took in the other's astonishingly daring costume. "We wasn't expectin' ye 'till later."
"I did not expect to be back," Polly said shortly. "My lord is not here?"
"Said as 'ow he'd return for supper at ten," Susan informed her. " 'Ave ye been out dressed like that? I never seen nothin' like it."
"Then you should pay a visit to the theatre," Polly said between compressed lips. She threw her plumed hat into the corner of the room, dragged off the heavily embroidered coat, tossing it to follow the hat, and tore at the buttons of the satin waistcoat, her fingers as vicious as the furious thoughts roiling in her head. For some reason, her costume seemed to symbolize the humiliation of the evening's debacle. A wanton in a whore's costume, she had revealed her fear to Buckingham and had thus ruined everything. The plan lay in tatters because her courage had failed her. She had offered a harlot's tawdry provocation, then had turned and run like a child who found her challenge taken up and the consequences greater than she had bargained for.
The waistcoat flew across the room as Susan stood, stunned into immobility by this extraordinary divesting. The high-heeled pumps, under the influence of a vicious kick, arced through the air to crash against the far wall. Polly yanked off her satin breeches and the silk shirt, dropping both to the floor and stamping on them, before pulling off her stockings.
Polly was well aware that the violence she was doing to her clothes was sacrilege. Her richly elaborate costume represented a substantial financial investment for the king's company; technically it was the king's property, and it was a property to be treated with the greatest care. If an actor was required to lie upon the stage boards, sheeting was placed over the bare floor to protect the garments, and mock battles were always undertaken with the greatest caution. However, such considerations carried no weight under a flood tide of temper designed to wash from her the bitter taste of anger and disgust.
"God's good grace!" Nick stood in the doorway, staring at the sight of Polly, stripped to her skin, poised in a rich, vibrant sea of satin and embroidery. Heedless of this ejaculation, she kicked at the discarded breeches.
"Pick those clothes up!" Nicholas closed the door smartly behind him, trying to sort out this astonishing scene.
"I hate 'em!" Polly spat, catching the breeches on a toe, lifting her foot clear of the floor. "I'll not wear 'ern again!" An agile high kick sent the garment soaring through the air.
"That is a matter you may discuss with Killigrew," Nicholas declared. "Pick them up at once! No, not you!" He spun round on Susan, who, with a frightened whimper, had run to the corner of the room, bending to gather up the fallen coat. "Leave it where it is and go downstairs."
The girl dropped the coat to the floor, scurrying from the room like a scared hedgehog.
Nicholas had no idea what could have caused this amazing tantrum, but decided that explanations would have to wait. For the moment, he would deal with the fact itself. "Pick up the clothes, Polly," he repeated quietly, walking over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"No," said Polly, with another disdainful kick.
Nick turned to face her as she stood, sublimely indifferent to her nakedness, hands planted on hips, head thrown back, defiance and something else lurking in the topaz depths of her eyes. It was the something else that interested him, but he could not get at it until he had dealt with the defiance. "Pick them up, Polly."
It was at this moment that Richard De Winter stepped through the street door to come face-to-face with the panicked Sue at the foot of the stairs. "Good even, Susan," he greeted pleasantly, moving to set one foot on the stairs. "Lord Kincaid is above?"
"Yes… yes, please, m'lord," stammered Susan, the image of the stark naked Polly filling her internal vision. "But I don't think as 'ow 'es receivin'," she gasped, stepping on the bottom stair, barring his progress with her stubby body.
Richard surveyed this courageous stance with a quirked
eyebrow. "If that is so, he may tell me himself, may he not?" he observed equably.
Susan's jaw dropped as she struggled to find some unarguable reason to prevent his lordship's progress. But he was not to be prevented. Taking the girl by the shoulders, he calmly moved her out of his way, saying good-humoredly, "Be off, wench. I'll not intrude where I'm not welcomed, so ye need have no fears." Then he ascended the stairs. At the top, he knocked hard on the parlor door.
Within, impasse still held. Polly started at the knock, but other than that, made no move. Nicholas continued to look at her over the lip of his wineglass. "Who is it?" he called.
"Richard."
"Your pardon, but I crave a moment's indulgence, Richard," Kincaid answered, not taking his eyes off Polly. "Now," he said softly. "Whether you pick up those clothes and put on your nightgown before I bid Richard entrance is a matter for your choice. But pick them up, you will. Make no mistake."
Pride and common sense warred, every engagement played out visibly on the mobile countenance. Nicholas was obliged to school his features with the utmost severity as he watched the battle. The least indication of his inner amusement, and he would lose.
Common sense won. With a muttered "Lord of hell!" Polly bent to scoop up the abused garments, stalking to the bedchamber, her arms full. "You have missed a stocking," Nick pointed out affably. "In the far corner."
Polly flung a Billingsgate oath at him, grabbed up the stocking, and stormed into the bedchamber, the door shivering on its hinges under the ferocity of its closing.
"Pray come in, Richard." Nick went to open the parlor door. "My apologies for the discourtesy in keeping you without."
"Not at all, dear fellow." Richard raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"
"It would appear so." Nick frowned. "Wine?"
"Thank you. I thought Polly was to be with Buckingham."
"She was. But something has occurred to put her in the devil of a temper."
"If it is anger rather than distress, my friend, it will be the more easily mended," observed Richard, sipping his wine.
"I have the feeling the two are intertwined," Nick said gravely. "But she was in no mood for any kind of reasonable converse. It was necessary to get her attention first."
Richard smiled, spreading the wide tails of his coat as he sat down. "I see. And now you have it…?"
"We may endeavor to dig for the cause," Nick said briskly. He strode to the bedchamber door, calling with clipped authority, "Polly, come out here. I wish to talk to you."
She came out immediately, respectably clad in her nightgown, her hair braided demurely over one shoulder; it was very clear from both expression and posture that the tantrum was over. Indeed, she appeared subdued, if anything.
"Now, what lay behind that unseemly display?" Nick demanded, keeping his tone unconciliatory. "I would not be in your shoes if Killigrew finds that those garments have suffered from such treatment."