Venus by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online

one with whom it was possible to discourse. His wife, unfortunately, saw only dogma, and Nick, for love of his dead brother, was obliged to keep the peace with the dogmatist. However, on this occasion, if Margaret’s sensibilities were wounded by the truth, it could not be helped. He would not subject Polly to the Puritan’s severity, certain as he was that that somewhat mischievous personality with its talent for improvisation would be sure to offend without intent within a very short space of time. However, he reflected with a slight smile, if that brute Josh had not managed to beat the spirit out of her, it was unlikely that Margaret would succeed.
    The enigmatic smile did nothing to improve matters with his sister-in-law. “You are entitled to your opinion, brother,” she said with harsh dignity. “I must, of course, be glad to have my faults pointed out to me. You may rest assured that I shall reflect upon what you have said.” She turned on her heel, and left his chamber, closing the door with a gentleness that contained more reproach than the most violent slam.
    Nicholas winced, pulling the bell for his footboy. Somehow he was going to have to weave a path through this tangle, and he had best start by discussing last night’s inspirationwith De Winter. He had failed to make the rendezvous at the Dog last night, but he would be found at court this morning, where there would be opportunity for a brief word, a new rendezvous. Buckingham’s suspicious eye had not yet fallen upon them, and for as long as they continued to play the gay courtiers with nothing on their minds but the pleasures of lust and dalliance, it would not do so.
    If all went according to plan, the duke’s eye would eventually fall upon the most ravishing actor yet to grace the king’s theatre on Drury Lane. And that actor would then have another part to play.

Chapter 3

    W hen 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 hastenedto 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