Venus

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 resisting 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.

Then his hand stilled; his entire body became motionless as she began to unlace her bodice in a strangely matter-of-fact fashion. In a gesture devoid of artifice, she opened the front of her smock beneath, revealing the full, creamy swell of her breasts, rose-crowned and proudly upstanding. Nicholas sat down on the lumpy flock mattress on the narrow bed. The ropes creaked in protest beneath his weight. His eyelids were inordinately heavy, yet he could not take his gaze off her as the tawdry red dress fell to the floor, to be joined by the grimy petticoat.

Polly stood still, wondering desperately what to do next. She had never been obliged to remove her smock before. The gulls had always lapsed into unconsciousness before she had slipped off her petticoat, yet this one remained awake, and was clearly waiting for the disrobing to be complete. She looked anxiously into his eyes for the dilation and cloudiness that would indicate the potion was about to take effect. The eyes remained fixed upon her; clearly she had no choice. Her hands moved to slide the opened smock off her shoulders.

Nick found himself slightly breathless as she slipped slowly

out of the thin garment to stand naked in the cold, dirty chamber. The contrast between their surroundings and that flawless body, glowing opalescent in the flickering light from the oil lamp, was beyond contemplation.

"Come over here." The soft command seemed to shriek in the silence. Polly swallowed, taking a tentative step toward the bed. The room spun suddenly around Nicholas; with a dreadful flash of apprehension he realized that things were not as they should be. Even as she drew close, this amazing creature seemed to flicker and fade before his eyes. "In the name of God!" he exploded, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope that his vision would clear. "What have you done to me?"

To Polly's mingled relief and dismay, he tumbled onto the bedstead. She stepped cautiously over to the bed, looking down at the inert figure. Her task as lure was completed; she should now dress and go back to the taproom, leaving the rest to Josh. What would they do to him? They would not kill him, surely? But she knew that they would. Left alive, he would bring the Watch down on them, and they would all end up at the end of a rope-herself included.

She bit her lip, thinking of the wise man's prayer: Give me not poverty, lest I steal. But she had been dealt poverty in this world of scant justice, and permitting regrets or the voice of conscience was a luxury she did not have. A roar of laughter from the taproom below set the oak boards shivering beneath her feet. It was a timely reminder. Josh would be waiting for her, and if she didn't reappear, he would come in search. Her eyes drifted to the bulge in the gentleman's doublet where he kept his purse. Josh would not miss a guinea. He could not know how much the purse had contained.

Stealthily, she bent over the still figure, her fingers sliding inside the pocket of the velvet doublet.

"So that's your game! Thieving doxy!"

The world seemed to tilt; then Polly found herself flat on her back on the bed, staring wide-eyed with shock into a pair of dazed but unmistakably livid emerald eyes.

"You take your payment before rendering the service, is

that it?" His body was heavy on hers, one hand holding her wrists above her head, the other gripping her jaw with a determined force that was not consonant with the drinking of one of Prue's specials.

"You are supposed to be asleep," she gasped with mistaken, ingenuous candor.

"And God help me, I deserve to be!" he muttered. "Of all the dupes! To be taken in by such a trick in a place like this." Nicholas did not know why the feel of those probing fingers had penetrated his torpor, but he did know that he must fight the continuing creeping insensibility with his last ounce of strength-both mental and physical. Anger was a powerful aid as he examined that beautiful, deceitful countenance, the enormous glowing eyes leading him into a green-brown land of promise, the sensual mouth slightly parted over perfect white teeth. The soft body moved beneath him, bringing the image of her nakedness to vibrant life. Lust was also a powerful force, particularly when combined with fury. "This time you provide the service before payment," he said, bringing his mouth to hers.

Polly writhed and twisted beneath a ravaging assault; the buttons of his coat bit into her softness; the velvet seemed to rasp against her skin. And threading through her panic was the infinitely terrifying thought that Josh and his cronies would arrive at any minute, would find her naked… would find their victim in possession of his senses… She did not know which thought was the more hideous. She had not waited for the gentleman to finish his mulled wine, and to that extent she was responsible for the failure of the plan. But Prue must have miscalculated, also.

"Please!" She fought free of his mouth. "You do not understand."

"Understand!" Laughter cracked in sharp derision. "I understand that I am buying what you promised to sell."

"But I did not promise…" Polly's voice faded as she realized how pointless and unconvincing was her defense. She had always known that one day her luck would run out; one day she would not be able to protect herself; one day

would come the unvanquishable assault on a maidenhead that she had so far managed to preserve against all the odds, knowing that its possession was the only thing that set her apart from the ranks of dull-eyed slatterns who peopled her world. Lost virginity led to a swollen belly, to the pox, to the hopeless, self-perpetuating cycle of rape and childbirth, broken only by the grave. Once she had started upon that road, there would be no turning back, no possibility of theatres and stages and applauding audiences-no possibility of a future.

But if the time had come, then perhaps it was better at the hands of this man, who might have some delicacy, than for a few pennies with one of the hardhanded, foul-mouthed customers belowstairs. Her struggles ceased. "Do not hurt me," she whispered.

Nicholas stared down at her. "Hurt you! Why should you imagine I would do such a thing?"

Two large tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. "It hurts to breach the maidenhead, does it not?" Her voice was small, her face set.

Nicholas took a deep breath, struggling with the sense of unreality that seemed to have transcended the physical confusion brought about by whatever had been slipped into his drink. Since when was a tavern whore in possession of her maidenhead? "You would have me believe you are a maid?" he demanded incredulously, releasing his hold. He got off the bed and stood looking down at her as she lay sprawled on the coverlet. She seemed to be quite unconcerned at her nakedness, almost as if she had forgotten it, he thought, trying to shake his head clear of bewilderment.

Polly nodded, sitting up. "I am only supposed to bring the gentlemen up here," she explained. "They always fall asleep before they can-"

"And then you rob them?" he interrupted harshly, seeing nothing to contradict in her statement. It was extraordinary to think that she had preserved her innocence throughout this fraud, but not an impossible feat in the circumstances she had described and he had experienced.

"Not I," she corrected, as if it could possibly make any difference to her degree of guilt. "Josh and his friends."

"And then what happens?" He began to pace the small chamber in an effort to keep the fog at bay. The girl did not reply. He swung 'round on her. "And then what happens?"

She shook her head, eyes wide with appeal. "I do not know."

"Liar!" He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You are a liar, a thief, an accomplice to murder." And all that malefice was contained in a form so beautiful that it almost defied belief. He turned from her in disgust.

"No, you cannot go downstairs." The urgent whisper arrested him as he put his hand on the latch. "They will not let you out of here alive." Polly jumped from the bed, catching his arm. "There is a cupboard on the landing. If you hide there until they come up, then you can slip down the stairs when they come in here."

"You expect me to hide from a pack of river rats?" he exclaimed, drawing his sword in one easy movement.

"There are six of them," she said. "You may be brave as a lion, but against such odds-" She shrugged and turned from him, bending to pick up her smock from the floor.

Her buttocks and thighs were bruise-tinged, the deep purple of fresh contusions overlaying the yellow of old hurts. Nicholas saw again the vicious Josh, his great red hands raised against her, the obscene glint in his little eyes. The anger ran from him. What right had he to judge this girl for whom violence was an inextricable part of daily living? She did only what she was compelled to do, and life was cheap in these back slums.

"And what will happen to you?" he asked quietly. "I doubt you could take another beating so soon after the last."

Polly flushed. She had forgotten about the welts. Hastily, she pulled on her smock. "He only does it 'cause he wants to do the other." Amazingly, an imp of mischief danced suddenly in her eyes. "But Prue won't let him. Says she's not about to share her husband with a chit of a girl she's brought up from babyhood, and she'll cut it off if he tries anything

with me." A tiny chuckle escaped her, despite the desperation of the moment. "She would, too. She's bigger than he is."

Nicholas could feel his own mouth curving in response. She did have the most infectious smile, even when, as now, it was one of pure mischief, with none of the come-hither quality of before. But then, that particular smile had been intended to deceive; this variety appeared to be without artifice.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and all desire to laugh fled. Polly went as white as milk as Nicholas, sword drawn, whirled to face the door. The door was flung back on its hinges to reveal Josh and five burly men ranged behind him, all armed with cudgels.

Why would they need cudgels if their intended victim was supposed to be unconscious? Nicholas wondered with dis-passion, moving backward to give himself maneuvering space. They'd probably enjoy bludgeoning him to death before dropping him in the river, he reflected, still dispassionate.

"Get out of here, girl," rasped Josh. "I'll deal with you later." He advanced on Kincaid, the others fanning out behind him in the small chamber. Nicholas wouldn't have a chance. His sword flashed, catching Josh's arm as he raised the cudgel. Blood dripped from the cut; the tavern keeper roared like an enraged bull, bringing the cudgel down with full force. Nicholas jumped aside, and the club just missed shattering his arm; but he was almost against the wall now. There would be nowhere to jump the next time.

A sudden blast of freezing air filled the room, setting the sullen coals in the hearth to hiss and smoke. Someone had opened the casement at his back. "Quickly!" Polly's anguished cry from behind told him who to thank for that piece of quick thinking. He relinquished all vainglorious thoughts of fighting to the death to preserve the honor of the Kincaids. There'd be no honor in the demise that awaited him here, beaten to a pulp like a rabbit in a harvested field. He leapt backward onto the broad stone sill,

keeping his assailants momentarily at bay with rapid thrust and parry of his sword, desperation lending him both speed and strength. Then he consigned himself to the air, jumping backward into the unknown.

He landed with a jarring thump. But he had landed on earth, not stone, and for that he could be grateful. The cold air, combined with the tension and excitement of the last few minutes, cleared his head miraculously. He blinked, trying to accustom himself to the darkness. The men would know how to find him, and since he didn't know where he was, he could not know how to remove himself from this insalubrious neighborhood.

"Catch me!" a now familiar voice called in a desperate plea. He looked up to see Polly in her white smock poised on the sill. A hand reached to seize her waist; with a wild shriek she kicked herself free before tumbling, unbalanced, from the window. Nicholas managed to break her fall, although she knocked him to the ground again, and he wasted desperate seconds trying to disentangle himself from her flailing limbs, swirling hair, and the folds of her smock.

The sounds of confused bellowing from above ceased abruptly. "Quick," Polly said. "They are coming downstairs." She grabbed his hand, tugging him into the shadowy darkness, away from the lamplight of the window. "This way."

Nicholas opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. So he was going to run through the streets of London on a foggy, freezing December night in the company of a barefoot tavern wench wearing nothing but her smock! It seemed a fitting enough conclusion to such an evening.