Venus

Chapter 3

When Lord Kincaid finally left his bedchamber, he was feeling somewhat less fragile, although his hands had proved inordinately clumsy when it came to the tying of his cravat-a sartorial activity that had consequently taken him a full half hour to complete, and had left the chamber floor littered with the crumpled evidence of his failures. His eyes were heavy, but no fault could be found with the cream silk waistcoat revealed through the slashed turquoise doublet, or his brocade coat, embroidered in silver, the wide sleeves turned up to reveal the lace cuffs of his shirt. His gloves were embroidered, his shoes buckled with silver, and his lordship had every reason to be satisfied with an appearance that would come under the informed and critical scrutiny of all those who attended the court of King Charles that morning.

He descended the staircase and paused in the hall, taking a pinch of snuff from the little onyx box that he then dropped back into the wide pocket of his coat while he pondered the question of whether the uncertain weather precluded his walking to Whitehall. The air would do him good, but his garments would not take kindly to rain. A loud caterwauling broke into this not unimportant debate.

"Gawd, sir, whatever's that!" Young Tom, who had has-

tened to open the great front door for his master, jumped as if he had been burned, and the door banged shut again.

"It sounds remarkably like a scalded cat," observed Kincaid, frowning deeply. The wailing, which seemed to originate from the back regions of the house, increased in volume. It was not at all the sort of sound one expected to hear in a gentleman's household, and Nicholas was soon in little doubt as to who was making it. But why? It was clearly incumbent upon him to find out.

His lordship did not in general frequent the working areas of the house, so his arrival in the kitchen caused gasps of alarm from the group there assembled. As far as he could judge, everyone, from the boot boy to the cook, was present, witnessing a scene presided over by a grim-faced Lady Margaret, swathed in a large white apron. Polly, wailing pite-ously, was seated on a low stool before the range whilst her ladyship, mouth set in an unyielding line, was pulling a steel comb through the tangled mass of honey-colored hair.

"Lord of hell!" exclaimed his lordship. "Polly, stop bellowing for a minute; I cannot hear myself think." The noise ceased with a suspicious immediacy, although the combing continued. "What is going on, pray?"

"I'll not have her bringing lice into the house," declared her ladyship tightly. "Her head is crawling with them."

"It hurts!" Polly protested with a vigorous sniff. Matters were not proceeding at all according to her chosen plan, and at this point, she rather thought that life at the Dog tavern had a certain appeal.

"Then it must be cut off," announced Margaret with ill-concealed satisfaction. "It is the devil's vanity anyway."

"No," Nicholas said. "Devil's vanity or no, sister, it is not to be cut. Why do you not send her to the hothouse? She may be bathed there and her hair washed."

"Bath!" Polly stared at him in horror. He could not surely expect her to immerse her entire body in hot water. "All of me? No, I will not. It is dangerous." Infinitely more dangerous than life at the Dog tavern!

"It will not kill you," Nicholas said with an effort at patience. "Have you never bathed before?"

Polly shook her head. Prue washed her hair for her when it became too itchy, and she occasionally took a damp rag to her body, but she could never really see the point; a little dirt hurt no one.

"This is hardly an appropriate matter for you, brother," Lady Margaret said. "You may safely leave it in my hands."

Polly instantly began to wail again, the soft, sensuous mouth quivering pitiably, her eyes fixed on Kincaid so that he thought he would drown in their liquescent green-brown depths. There was no resisting that appeal even though he was convinced that her distress was in some degree feigned.

"Stop that noise," he said softly. "You are not going to be hurt. I will take you myself."

"Brother! You cannot do such a thing." Margaret, in her outrage, forgot the unseemliness of a brangle with her brother in front of the servants.

"May I not?" He lifted an incredulous eyebrow. "I think I may be the judge of that, Margaret." He turned to Susan. "You will accompany us. We shall stop at the Exchange for clothes on our way. You will know what to purchase that will be appropriate, and then you may assist Polly in the bathhouse."

Susan cast an anxious look at her mistress, uncertain whether obedience to the master's commands would be construed as disobedience to the mistress. But Margaret knew when she was defeated, just as she knew that further protest would simply make her look ridiculous.

"If you wish to burden yourself with such a task, brother, far be it from me to object. Susan will know what clothes I consider suitable for a girl in that position." Casting Polly a look of loathing, she swept out of the kitchen.

"Tom, have the carriage brought around," Nicholas instructed the footboy. "Susan, find a cloak or some such to cover that smock; and some pattens for her feet." He also left the kitchen, well aware that his intervention had done Polly no good with Margaret, but confusingly unsure what else he

could have done. It should have been simple enough to leave women's work to the women, but when Polly had looked at him in that manner, he had become as putty. Now, instead of spending his morning at Whitehall in the leisured pursuits of a courtier, he was going to drive around the city with two maidservants, buying stuff gowns and petticoats, and encouraging one recalcitrant, lice-infested wench into the hothouse!

"Lord love us!" Susan ejaculated, once the kitchen was returned to the sole use of its accustomed occupants. She regarded Polly with awed interest. "What you done for 'is lordship, then? 'E never goes against her ladyship, never." She nudged Polly with a salacious grin. "Given 'im a bit o' the other, 'ave ya? Aren't ye the lucky one, takin' 'is fancy like that!"

Polly frowned, thinking of last night and his refusal of the offer of her body. "I don't think I have taken his fancy," she replied honestly, not a whit put out by the girl's manner or a conclusion that she could see would be the only reasonable one. She was perfectly at home in the kitchen; which, in all its essentials, except for the extraordinary degree of cleanliness, resembled her usual haunts, and perfectly at ease with Lord Kincaid's servants for much the same reasons. "I did save his life, though," she confided, her frown clearing at this happy truth. Just in time, she stopped herself from continuing blithely that in exchange he had promised to help her with her life's ambition. It would take a much less astute mind than Polly's to have missed the significance of Lady Margaret's dress and bearing and pronouncements on the devil's vanities. She was in the house of a Puritan.

She had scrambled into adulthood in a land ruled by the Lord Protector, where all forms of entertainment and gaiety were forbidden as the devil's work. Color and adornment in dress were held sinful vanities, punishable by stocks and pillory. Only in the last five years, since Charles II had been brought triumphantly from exile, had the Puritan rule lost its sway. Indeed, the pendulum had swung to the opposite extreme, and there was little extravagance in dress or behavior

that was now considered impermissible. It was a matter of some interest, she reflected, that his lordship, whose dress and bearing bore ample witness to his allegiance to the courtly norms, should share houseroom with such a stickler for the sober and divine. But then, kin had claims upon kin, and not since the reign of Henry VIII had there been anything unusual in two members of the same family holding opposing views on the manner in which the worship of God should be conducted. The present rule of the land was much more tolerant of differences in religious conviction and lifestyle than the Lord Protector's.

Polly dismissed the matter as being of little importance and turned her attention to the immediate issue-that of a visit to the hothouse. The gentleman-she still could not think of him in any other way-had told her last night that she would be required to do certain things that she would not wish to do, but that it was all part of some plan that would enable her to achieve her object. If immersing herself in hot water would draw her closer to her goal, then she supposed she would have to submit. At least she would do so in friendly company.

' 'Ow d'ye save his life, then?" asked Susan, rummaging in a cupboard. " 'Ere, these'll do you." She handed her a pair of wooden pattens. "Ye'd best borrow Bridget's cloak, for I'll have need of mine."

"Carriage is 'ere!" Tom appeared breathless in the door. " 'Is lordship's coolin' 'is heels abovestairs, and bids ye both come straightway."

Polly smiled her thanks as she took the cloak of coarse homespun handed her by the cook. The smile, did she but know it, did much to reconcile Bridget to the loan of such a precious garment.

"We must make haste." Susan pranced in the doorway, in her anxiety and excitement quite forgetting that she had not received an answer to her question.

Nicholas, while he was resigned to the task ahead, was also regretting his impulse until Polly appeared, wrapped in the ample folds of the cook's cloak. She turned the full sun of

that glorious countenance upon him and smiled-a smile that carried a hint of shyness behind its gratitude. He ceased to regret the impulse, accepting that it had been as inevitable as the sunrise. Clean, groomed, not at a disadvantage, who would she not entrance? He would welcome De "Winter's second opinion, and such an opinion would only be hastened by the speedy performance of the business in hand.

"Come." He gestured to the open front door, where the carriage waited, set his plumed hat upon his head, and followed the pair. "Susan, you may ride upon the box."

Susan climbed up to sit beside the coachman, very much wishing that she could have exchanged a glance with Polly. The sedate Kincaid household had achieved a most lively addition, one who was like to create a fair number of sparks if she continued to bask in the favor of my lord and the disfavor of my lady.

"The Royal Exchange," Kincaid instructed the coachman, before climbing into the carriage behind Polly, who took her seat, patting the leather squabs with an appreciative hand. This carriage was a far cry from the hackney of the previous evening.

"It is a most elegant coach, sir," she said politely. Her gaze ran approvingly over his attire as he sat opposite her, adroitly swinging his sword to one side so that it would not catch between his legs. "And you are a most proper gentleman, my lord."

Nicholas's lips twitched, but he accepted the compliment with a gracious bow of his head.

"You were not quite so magnificent last night," Polly continued, as if apologizing for not having complimented her companion earlier.

"One dresses rather differently when one is intending to visit the court from when one is frequenting a wharfside tavern," he explained solemnly.

"I imagine so," agreed Polly, frowning. "But I do not understand why you would wish to frequent a wharfside tavern when you can go to court or… or even to the playhouse."

"Have you ever been to the play?" Nicholas asked curiously, hoping to take her mind off her question.

Her eyes glowed as she shook her head. "Not to a real playhouse, no; but Twelfth Night four years ago, a troupe of strolling players came to the Dog tavern and put on an entertainment to pay for their cakes and ale. It was wonderful!" The glow deepened as she seemed to be looking into another world. "The costumes and the dancing. They let me take part a little and said I had some talent." She shot him an almost defiant look as if daring him to contradict her. "They would have taken me with them, only Josh overheard me asking; so I got his belt instead." She shrugged, cheerfully insouciant. "But I am going to be a good actor."

"That would not surprise me in the least," he said mildly, and Polly looked instantly gratified. "I have witnessed a fair number of your performances since last evening."

There was something in his tone that took a little of the gilt from the statement, but the carriage at this point came to a halt, and Polly, pulling aside the leather curtain, gazed upon the riotous bustle of the Royal Exchange, where stall keepers jostled for custom, calling out their wares to prospective shoppers, maids and mistresses, gentlemen and loungers, who picked over the merchandise and haggled over the prices.

Polly had her hand on the door latch, ready to leap to the ground, when his lordship spoke with soft determination behind her. "Nay, you must stay in the carriage. You cannot possibly show yourself in public in such undress."

Her face fell ludicrously, all the glow and sparkle fading from those great eyes. "But I have never before seen such a place. I will pull the cloak around me-"

"Nay!" he repeated, sharply this time. "It is freezing outside. You exposed yourself to the elements sufficiently last evening." Stepping past her, he sprang lightly to the ground, where Susan already stood in attendance. He closed the carriage door firmly, then, although he knew it to be a mistake, glanced upward. Polly looked at him through the window, as pathetic as any prisoner, as appealing as a drooping violet

after a rainstorm. Kincaid sighed. "If you promise not to set the hothouse on its heels with your wailing, we will stop here on the way back, and you may explore to your heart's content."

The violet lifted its head to the sun, unfurling its radiance. Her mouth curved in that devastating smile as she propped her elbows on the edge of the window and settled down to observe the scene from shelter. Kincaid, completely bewitched, shook his head helplessly.

"Come, Susan, let us deal with this matter without delay." He strode off with the maidservant in tow.

When they returned within half an hour, Susan was lost behind the number of packages heaped in her arms. But when the coachman relieved her of her burdens, thus revealing her face, her expression was one of shock. When the mistress shopped, particularly for her servants, every item was subject to careful consideration, a weighing up of necessity against cost. The materials were all to be sturdy and hard-wearing, coarse and without frills or furbelows, and only the strictest necessities were purchased. His lordship, while bearing in mind that a servant in his sister-in-law's house must be clad only in the most sober, modest garments, had bought a petticoat and smock of the finest Holland, a kirtle of warm, fine wool, and a plain dark gown of a mixture of wool and silk. There was a thick serge cloak with a fur-trimmed hood, and a pair of leather gloves. Two pairs of woolen hose, a pair of leather pumps, and a pair of cork-soled pantofles to wear over the pumps in inclement weather completed a wardrobe that would enrage Lady Margaret by a quality and scope that was most definitely unsuited to the status of a kitchen maid.

"Lor!" murmured Susan, climbing back on the box. "There'll be fireworks when the mistress sees that lot." She regaled the fascinated coachman with a full account of the purchases as they bowled along to the hothouse.

Their arrival at this building caused Polly to assume the mien of one about to ascend the scaffold. She stepped hesitantly out of the coach into the courtyard and stood still,

clinging to the door handle. The vehicle, bearing the Kin-caid arms upon its panels, brought the establishment's proprietor hustling across the cobbles, calling over his shoulder to have one of the privy chambers prepared for his lordship. When informed that his customer was not, on this occasion, to be his lordship, but, instead, the tumbled, begrimed girl at his lordship's side, he rapidly revised these instructions. The common baths in the female wing would do perfectly well. Only the gentry were entitled to privacy.

He was required to revise his plans yet again when he received his lordship's orders, and a more than generous payment. There was to be privacy, a limitless supply of hot water, plentiful towels, whatever assistance was requested for however long the ablutions should take.

The proprietor glanced at the wench again, deciding that it was going to be a long and tedious task. Why was his lordship concerning himself with the cleanliness of this street drab? Then the girl looked up at him, and he understood why. God's grace! But where had he found such a pearl? She was in sore need of cleaning up, though, even if one was not particularly fastidious.

"It shall be exactly as you say, my lord," he murmured, bowing low, rubbing his hands together. "My wife will attend to the girl personally."

"Good. The wench there will help also." Kincaid gestured toward Susan. "I will return in two hours. That should be sufficient."

"Two hours!" Polly squawked. "I cannot spend two hours in water. I will dissolve."

"Do you wish to learn to read and write?" His lordship fixed her with a gimlet eye. "And do all the other things we discussed?"

Polly put her chin up and turned resolutely toward the hothouse. " 'Tis not so very unpleasant," Susan reassured her, trotting along beside her. "We all comes every four weeks, even the mistress. Can't abide dirt, she can't. Says it lids the devil's work. An' lice!" Susan's hands flew up in a gesture of exaggerated horror. "If'is lordship hadn't stopped

'er this morning, she'd have cut all your 'air off, she would. Did it to little Milly only last month. Right down to the scalp."

That prospect was sufficiently hideous to grant Polly a degree of resignation to the alternative offered her. The proprietor's lady was a large, cheerful woman whose experienced eye immediately took in the full gravity of the task ahead. She grimly rolled up her sleeves and added more hot water to the tub.

Kincaid spent the next two hours in a neighboring coffeehouse, looking through the latest Oxford Gazette. The news was as disturbing as ever. Public dissatisfaction with the king and his court was becoming daily more clamorous; the periodicals and tabloids to be found in the coffeehouses all contained tales of the wild doings of his cronies, of how the king was ruled by his mistress, Lady Castlemaine, of the ascendancy of the Duke of Buckingham. There was frank and fearful speculation that the king would make his bastard son, the Duke of Monmouth, legitimate, thus creating him heir to the throne in place of the king's brother, the Duke of York.

For some reason, the king did not seem to see the danger he was in. He ignored the advice of all but those who encouraged him to assert his divine right to absolute power, as his father had done before him. The land had risen against his father's autocracy, and they would do the same again if given just cause. The legitimizing of the Duke of Monmouth and the setting aside of the rightful heir would be seen as just cause. The House of Commons would never ratify such a move, and if the king attempted to force them to do so, he would meet his father's fate. As he would if he continued with a reckless expenditure that was bankrupting the nation. The English people had tasted their own power, and they would not again accept being milked to pay for the king's pleasures and whims.

Nicholas frowned, tapping a manicured finger on the table. Charles II needed wise counselors, not those who were interested only in their own political advancement and per-

sonal power. Unfortunately, the young king had not been taught to distinguish the true from the false and, having spent his youth in impoverished exile, had not been bred to kingship.

Kincaid and De Winter led a small faction pledged to circumvent the influence of those who would lead the king astray, the Duke of Buckingham in particular. The king was a man of whim, choosing and abandoning favorites as the mood took him. If something could be discovered to Buckingham's discredit, then his star would fall. In addition, it might be possible to forestall the worst of the king's errors if they could keep one step ahead, were able to anticipate, so that, if necessary, the full force of opinion from the opposing members of the House of Lords could be brought to bear on the king before he approached the Commons with unpopular demands. If the Lords made its voice heard loudly enough, King Charles might listen.

This two-pronged attack depended entirely on having access to Buckingham's inner circle, to the plots and plans he would weave with Sir Thomas Clifford and my Lords Ashley, Arlington, and Lauderdale. De Winter's manservant had been recruited, initially. He had left De Winter's service to become employed as lackey in Buckingham's household, but not even the substantial sums he received for any piece of information had been able to compensate him for his terror at the prospect of discovery. It became obvious to his real employers that fear was making him unreliable, and one slip on his part would mean the end for all of them. Spying on the king's favorite would be tantamount to spying upon the king-treason, which ended on the block.

The manservant had been retired on a healthy pension, well away from London, and another spy was needed. Why not a beautiful young actor? One who would so manifestly appeal to Buckingham's notoriously lusting eye? A mistress would have access to all those private conclaves, and if she did not know she was spying, the danger of discovery would be reduced. Careful priming beforehand, and skillful ques-

tioning later, should elicit the information from her without her being aware of it.

It was tricky, but it could work. It was certainly the best opportunity they had had in some time. Lord Kincaid consulted the watch hanging at his waist, saw that two hours had passed since he had abandoned his prospective spy to her watery fate, and returned to the hothouse. He found himself most eager to see what transformation soap and water had wrought. He was not disappointed.

"You must have been even dirtier than I thought," he managed to say, once he had recovered from the sight of Polly's now unhindered beauty. Her hair, clean and burnished, was an even richer color than he had realized, and her complexion, free of the dirt that had been embedded in the skin, was a clear, translucent ivory. Only her eyes were unchanged, except that in their now-polished setting they shone even more luminous than before. He could make an informed guess, aided by memory, of the condition of the rest of her, now concealed beneath the modest neatness of her unimpeachable garments. Once her bruises had healed, there would not be a blemish to mar the perfection. The thought brought an uncomfortable constriction in his loins; he turned brusquely toward the coach.

"Come, it is time we went home. I have wasted the greater part of my morning already."

Polly, torn between resentment at his callously matter-of-fact manner and pleasure in the combined sensations of cleanliness and the feel of fine linen against her skin, followed him a little crossly. "But you promised that we might stop again at the Exchange." She gathered up her skirts with unconscious elegance to mount gracefully into the coach.

Now, where had she learned to do that? Nicholas wondered. It was as if she had been born and bred to the gracious management of skirts and petticoats. "I will let you and Susan off at the Exchange. You may walk home afterward."

"Oh, but please, my lord. My lady…" Susan stammered, leaning over the side of the box in her anxiety.

"I will make it all right with her ladyship," Nicholas

promised, accepting that he was going to have an unpleasant scene on his hands when Margaret discovered that he had blithely given her maid a holiday.

Polly's excitement when she was finally permitted to set foot in the magic world of commerce was so innocently, childishly at odds with that mature beauty that Kincaid was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. Bethinking himself that wandering around stalls lacked something essential if one was not in a position to purchase, he handed her a sovereign.

" Tis hardly riches," he said, laughing, as she looked at him, dumbfounded. "But you might see some trifle that takes your eye." He was aware that Susan was also staring. "To hell and the devil," he muttered. Why should a generous impulse have such an effect?

He knew perfectly well why, of course. One did not hand out sovereigns to servant wenches except in payment for services rendered-services, in general, of a certain kind. It would not do for Margaret to draw such a conclusion. Nothing would prevail upon her to share houseroom with one she would call whore. There seemed only one solution. He handed Susan the sovereign's mate, with the injunction to enjoy themselves but to ensure that they were home for dinner. Then he gave the coachman instructions to drive to Whitehall, and left two blissfully happy girls, with untold riches burning a hole in their pockets, to enjoy a brief holiday.

The Long Gallery at Whitehall was thronged. It was here that gossip was created and exchanged, factions developed and broken, reputations made and ruined. His eye sought for the tall, slender figure of Richard De Winter, Viscount En-derby. Nick's oldest friend, the man with whom he had shared the brutal hells of their boyhood years at Westminster School, was lounging beside one of the long windows overlooking the bowling green, his indolent posture belying the taut power and decision that Nick knew so well. An elaborate periwig fell to his brocade shoulders; diamond buttons on his coat sleeves winked in the light from the window. His eyelids drooped slightly, concealing the razor sharpness of

the gray eyes beneath. A lace-edged handkerchief fluttered from his beringed fingers, and a burst of laughter rose from the admiring group of ladies clustered around him. De Winter was a wit with a notoriously sharp tongue, and no scruples as to where and to whom he directed that sharpness. He was feared by many, but no one would show it, any more than they would fail to listen when he pronounced.

Nicholas strolled over to the group, pausing to acknowledge greetings, exchange a word of news, a light remark. He learned that again the king had not left his privy chamber this morning, where he was closeted with the Duke of Buckingham and two other favorites, my Lords Bristol and Ashley. Increasingly, His Majesty was cutting himself off from the conversation and opinions of the majority of the court.

"Why, Nick, my dear fellow, how goes the world with you?" De Winter hailed him.

"Indifferent well, Richard," replied Nicholas airily, bowing with great ceremony to the ladies, his plumed hat sweeping the floor. "I fear I caught cold last night."

De Winter's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Indeed, I am sorry to hear it, but 'twas a foul night. I was kept withindoors, myself, by some unexpected visitors."

"A fortunate occurrence," Kincaid said with a degree of dryness. "I should have been glad to have been so prevented from making my own journey."

"Lord De Winter has been telling us the most outrageous story," a lady in orange taffeta informed Nicholas with a trilling laugh. "It is said that during a ball at Lord Lindsey's last week, a babe was born in the middle of the coranto. The infant was caught in a handkerchief, but no one knows who is the mother, no lady acknowledging the child, and everyone continuing with the dance."

"Ah," said Nicholas thoughtfully. "But I understand that my Lady Fawcett has since been confined to her bed."

"Nick, you have outdone me!" cried De Winter. "I must retreat in shame." With a sweeping bow, he removed himself from the circle, leaving Nicholas to entertain the ladies with

further scurrilous tales before he, too, made his excuses and sauntered along the matted gallery to take the stairs to the Privy Garden.

De Winter was waiting for him at the King Street Gate, at the far end of the garden. "My apologies for last night," he said without preamble. "You had difficulties?"

" 'Tis a long story, Richard." Nick told the tale as they walked toward the Strand, then proceeded to expound his proposition to his rapt companion. "When you see her, you will see what I mean," he finished. "Such extraordinary beauty. Never have I seen its like."

De Winter looked at his friend, wondering if perhaps something had addled his senses. "Is she, indeed, a maid? It seems unlikely, my friend, although I would not doubt your word."

"I have no empirical evidence," Nick said with a slight shrug. "But I would stake my honor upon it. She is quite the most unusual wench."

"Desirable enough for Buckingham? He has more interest in flesh and blood than in the fey."

Nicholas gave a short laugh. "Desirable enough, Richard! I know not how to keep my own hands from her at times. And she is most definitely of this world."

"And Killigrew will take to her?"

"When she is groomed," Nick said with absolute certainty.

"And you can rely upon her cooperation?"

"Her only desire is to tread the boards," Nicholas said. "And I am convinced she has no small talent. Indeed, I am often hard-pressed to tell the performance from the genuine emotion."

"But with such a creature-a Newgate brat who has grown from the slums-you will not be able to trust in her loyalty. It will be given to the highest bidder. For that reason, you may be able to encourage her into Buckingham's bed-there are few higher-but how can you be sure she will remain sufficiently attached to you to enable you to milk her of any information? It will have to be done very casually

if she is not to suspect. It seems to me, my friend, that that predicates a certain intimacy." His eyebrows lifted. "Should she begin to suspect the truth, she may well see financial advantage in playing turncoat. Then we will both lose our heads."

Nicholas was silent for a minute. He did not resent this hard catechism. Richard spoke only the truth, and the stakes would be of the highest. Finally he said, "If I may bind her to me…"

"She will remain loyal," De Winter finished on a low whistle. "Will you bind her with the chains of gratitude or of love, my friend?"

Nicholas shrugged. "Of the first, certainly. Of the second…" He smiled. "We will wait and see. I find I have a powerful desire for her, Richard, one I would consummate; but I must kindle her own first. She is still an innocent in matters of passion, in spite of her background." He paused thoughtfully, then said, "Maybe because of it. Passion and desire are not necessarily synonymous with lust, and she is certainly familiar with the latter in its ugliest manifestations. But we will leave that in abeyance. While she remains beneath my roof, she remains virgin. She must be taught certain things, and in the teaching I will forge some chains."

Richard De Winter nodded, and kept silent. He found himself with a great desire to make the acquaintance of Mistress Polly Wyat.