Venus

Chapter 12

Now, before we leave for court this evening, I wish for your solemn word that you will not indulge in displays of the kind to which you treated us on Wednesday."

Nicholas adopted a severe mien as he regarded Polly, who was sitting before the mirror in the bedchamber threading a pearl-encrusted ribbon through her ringlets.

"If you do not engage in games of dalliance with painted ladies, I will not need to indulge in displays of any kind," she retorted. The defiant gleam in the hazel eyes sparked at him, reflected in the mirror.

Nicholas sighed. "Games of dalliance, Polly, are accepted sport at Whitehall. Indeed, they are de rigueur, and you must learn to play them, too. The one thing you may not do is descend upon me like one of the Furies, demanding that I take you home on the instant."

"But it was the only way I could think to stop your… your game with that… Oh, I cannot think of a suitable word for her," Polly said disgustedly. "All that paint and powder. Anyway, you did not take me home," she added, remembered resentment ringing in her voice.

"No, of course I did not. To have obeyed such an ill-considered and importunate summons would have brought ridicule on both our heads."

"Well, you did not have to tell me, in that bored voice, to find another escort because you were rather pleasantly occupied!" Polly scowled at him in the mirror. "Very pleasantly occupied, my lord, with your nose in her bosom!" Her hands fluttered in a gesture of denial. Her voice took on tone and accents that were not her own. "Fie on you, my dear sir, but 'tis an outrageous flirt y'are." The long lashes batted vigorously; her hands were clasped at her breast. "Indeed, and I can think of many a pleasant occupation, can ye not, my lord Kincaid."

In the next breath, before Nick could keep up with the transformation, she was speaking in a voice uncomfortably like his own, her eyes bent most sedulously upon an imaginary figure. "Sweet madame, many a pleasant occupation when such peerless charms are before me."

"Little shrew!" Nick exclaimed appreciatively. "Did I really sound like that?"

' 'Twas how I heard it," she said loftily, adjusting the lace at her neckline. "And monstrous ridiculous it sounded."

"In that case, I cannot imagine why it should have caused you to throw such a jealous tantrum."

"I did not. I merely requested that we return home."

"Well, we will not argue about it further," Nick said firmly. "But it is not to happen again. Is it understood? At Whitehall we go our separate ways. I will not be observing your every move, and you will not be seen to be observing mine. Because Wednesday was your first appearance at court since the king accepted you into his company, you will have been excused that indiscretion. But it will not be excused another time. Is it clear, moppet?"

Polly nibbled her bottom lip. "I do not wish to talk about it anymore. Richard was quite horrid afterward and took me into this dreadful room full of old ladies, who were just prosing on and on, and introduced me to his aunt, and I could not get away for hours] I thought I would expire with boredom. And you have not stopped scolding ever since."

"I want your word that you will behave in the manner Richard and I have explained is necessary."

"Cool indifference." Polly stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "You may dally with whomsoever you please, my lord. I will take my revenge in private." Her head tilted and she smiled up at him, her expression suddenly soft, resentment and defiance vanished. "Indeed, if 'tis important for you, Nick, I will do my utmost. But it is difficult for me to conceal these things."

"Aye, love, I know that." He touched her nose with a gloved fingertip. "But you have a good head on your shoulders, and all an actor's expertise. You can dissemble in this."

She could, Polly thought, as they left the house for the carnage that waited at the door. But it still seemed a ridiculous convention. However, she was enjoying her new life far too much to jeopardize its continuation for an obligation that Nick considered both necessary and simple enough to perform.

It had been four weeks since her debut at Moorfields. Thomas had put on Rival Ladies at the Theatre Royal two weeks later, and she had performed before the king, who, together with his courtiers, had come backstage at the end of the performance wreathed in smiles, brimming with compliments, and the invitation to attend at Whitehall whenever Master Killigrew had no need of her services; thus had Polly become a member of the king's company.

One could not attend Whitehall Palace without court dress, and the acquisition of this had taken some time, but two days ago Nick had escorted her to the palace for her first appearance in the thronged galleries and salons. And she had very nearly disgraced them both by giving rein to an indignant impulse that had no place in these circles…

"We are arrived," Nick said, breaking into her musings. "I will escort you into the Long Gallery; after that you must manage alone. You will not be short of admirers."

"Always assuming I might wish for them," she retorted, but without the earlier snap; this time as a shared jest.

Nick smiled, and handed her down from the carriage, which had come to a halt in the Great Court. They progressed in stately fashion along the corridors of the palace.

The rank odors from the chamber pots situated at strategic points behind tapestry screens and in dark corners were so much a part of the atmosphere that they were noticed by none of the habitues of the palace, be they guests, servants, or inhabitants. Dogs snapped and tumbled, snarling over a disputed bone, diving under skirts and between legs, an ever present trap for the unwary.

Polly sidestepped a spaniel pup, lifted her skirts to avoid a patch of something she did not care to identify, and entered the Long Gallery.

"Why, Mistress Wyat, you have come to bring starlight to those of us who live in darkness." The greeting came instantly from a bewigged, beribboned, beringed gentleman of massive girth and raddled complexion.

"La, Sir John, I am come merely to bask in your moon-glow." Fan unfurled, eyes inviting, the rising star of the king's company curtsied, laid her hand upon the proffered arm, and glided off, leaving Lord Kincaid to his own devices.

From the far end of the gallery she was under a scrutiny of the most august nature.

"Quite extraordinary beauty." King Charles looked across to where Mistress Polly Wyat stood, surrounded by an admiring court. A ray of March sunlight danced playfully in the honey-hued river cascading over her shoulders, which rose in creamy perfection from the froth of lace at her bodice. "She remains under Kincaid's protection, d'ye say, George?"

"So I understand, sir," returned the Duke of Buckingham, thoughtfully taking snuff. "But he does not appear overly protective." A smile twisted the duke's lips.

The king glanced sideways at his interlocutor and chuckled. "Ye've designs there yourself, have you, George? I can't say I blame you. I'd have a play myself if I weren't so encumbered by the ladies already." He sighed, dabbing his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief. "I swear, George, that if Mrs. Stewart is not after my Lady Castlemaine's blood, it is the other way around. 'Tis enough to destroy a man's interest in the fair sex."

"Not yours, sir," said Villiers with a bow and a salacious smile. "It would take a much greater force than that possessed by those two charmers."

The king laughed in great good humor. "Aye, I daresay I may count myself their match. In truth, though, they can neither of them hold a candle to Mistress Wyat."

"I wonder where Kincaid found her," mused the duke, a hungry light in his eyes. "No one seems to know, and neither he nor the lady are telling."

"Did not Killigrew say that she was the daughter of a merchant-some respectable bourgeois?"

The duke frowned. "There's no taint of the Grand Seraglio about her, certainly," he said. "She has none of the obvious tricks of one born and bred to whoredom. But it is also hard to imagine such a rare flower springing from the seed of some staid and plebian bourgeois. I cannot believe such antecedents could produce that delicacy of face and form, or that lively wit. There's nothing of the Flemish mare about her." He chuckled involuntarily at the absurdity of the comparison. "I would guess she's some nobleman's by-blow, brought up in obscure respectability, a mediocrity from which she's anxious to depart."

The king shrugged. "It seems of little moment where she came from, George. She is here to grace our stage and, mayhap, your bed." A quizzical eyebrow lifted. "Will ye unseat Kincaid, think you?"

"If he will be so churlish as to refuse to share her, then I shall have to." Buckingham smiled pleasantly. "But Nick is not one to keep good things to himself. He has a generous streak."

"And the lady…?" queried the king, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

It was an indication that His Majesty was growing bored with the conversation, so Buckingham contented himself with a light laugh, a shrug that expressed the opinion that the lady's feelings in the matter could only be of a certain nature. In truth, that was exactly what the duke did think. It seemed entirely reasonable to him that, Kincaid having

served his purpose by introducing her to the stage, she should now be looking around for a more powerful protector, one who could perhaps offer her greater prospects of advancement. Such a beauty could do much better for herself than a Yorkshire baron of moderate wealth and influence. Perhaps it was time for one who could offer her almost anything she might desire to press his suit.

Polly felt the duke's approach as he came up behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to lift, her skin crawled, and she could barely repress a shudder. Why did the man continue to have this effect upon her? Nick had introduced her to him when he had come backstage after her debut at Moorfields, but he had been one of many and it had been easy enough to keep him at a distance. Since then, he had appeared at the Theatre Royal, watching rehearsals and attending every performance. But then, so had many others. On Wednesday, here at court, he had been the soul of politeness and consideration, showing her a smilingly attentive countenance; yet she could not bear his proximity.

For some reason, Nick did not like to hear her talk of her aberrational reaction to a man universally known for his charm; indeed, when she had done so, he had accused her sharply of being fanciful. So now she kept her thoughts to herself, struggling for a neutral courtesy whenever she was in the duke's ken. But it was some considerable struggle.

"Your performance last night, Mistress Wyat, transcended anything I have seen upon the stage." His Grace bowed low before her.

"You do me too much honor, my lord duke." Polly sank into her curtsy, eyes demurely lowered. "With such a character as Isabella, it would be a poor actor, indeed, who failed to do justice to the part."

"Mr. Dryden must be honored," murmured the duke, taking her hand, raising her from the curtsy. "I can only hope you will grace my own poor efforts as dramatist. It must now be the ambition of all playwrights to produce a vehicle for your brilliance."

Polly tried to withdraw her hand, but his grip tightened.

A smile played over the thin lips as he said softly, "Why would you run from me, bud? Do my compliments offend you?"

Polly managed to produce a light laugh, a tiny shrug of her slender shoulders. "How should they, sir? An actor must needs have applause for survival. It is the very staff of life for us!" She let her hand lie, limp and unresponsive, in his, but her eyes sought escape. They met the steady regard of Richard De Winter, standing some ten paces away. Her gaze signaled him frantically; with a word of excuse to those around him, he sauntered casually across to her.

"Why, Lord De Winter," Polly said, as if surprised at his arrival. "I had not seen you here earlier." She could not make her curtsy with her hand held fast in Buckingham's grip, and this time her tug was rewarded.

"I have but just arrived," Richard said calmly, carrying her fingers to his lips in an elaborate salute. "I would congratulate you on your performance as Isabella. Never has the part been played with more wit and life."

"The credit is Mr. Killigrew's," Polly demurred, drawing imperceptibly closer to Richard, as if he would shield her from the duke. "I merely follow instruction."

"A man could only be gratified by such obedience," murmured the duke, taking snuff. "I can find it in my heart to envy Thomas. Are you as submissive with your protector, Mistress Wyat? Lord Kincaid is, indeed, a fortunate man. I trust your compliance is amply rewarded? There are those who would be most eager to rectify any omissions."

Her skin crept, as if slugs trailed stickily down her spine, under his mocking gaze, the delicately taunting tone that nonetheless made no attempt to disguise the naked hunger of voice and expression. The offer was as clearly made as it was possible to be, without overt crudity, and her eyes flew to Richard, desperately seeking rescue.

"I would add my own assurance of that fact, Buckingham," he said affably, thus making of the particular a general pleasantry. "Mistress Wyat must grow fatigued with all the

hearts laid before her feet. It becomes tedious, does it not?" He smiled blandly at Polly.

"Ah, never tedious, sir," she responded, once more in charge of herself. Her eyes sparkled roguishly as she dropped them both another curtsy. "I would have a carpet of hearts, had I my way."

"Cruel maiden!" De Winter threw his hands up in mock horror. "Will you offer no quarter, then?"

"None, sir," she replied promptly. "I feed upon adulation, and without it will shrivel and die."

"Definitely a fate to be avoided." The light tones were Kincaid's. Polly controlled the impulse to whirl 'round, to greet his arrival with the warmth and relief that she felt. Instead, she merely looked over her shoulder at him with a cool smile. "We must all ensure that you have an ample diet," he said, bowing gracefully.

Polly's mouth opened on a mischievous retort, but before it could be uttered, a footman appeared with the statement that His Majesty wished for the pleasure of Mistress Wyat's company in his Presence chamber. It was not an unusual request. The king frequently withdrew from these large gatherings and had the company he chose brought to him. But Mistress Wyat had not quite managed to forget the Dog tavern, or her time as kitchen miad in the Kincaid household. Private audiences with the king were not consonant with those memories. Her eyes flew in momentary panic to Nicholas.

He smiled lazily, as if he had not read her message. "It would seem that you are to receive adulation from the highest quarter in the land. Do not let the more humble of your admirers keep you, my dear Polly."

The panic faded. Beneath the level tones, the easy words, lay instruction, grounding her again. All feelings-including fear and unease-must be kept hidden beneath a light mockery, and she must expect no open assistance from Nick in public. Sincerity was a vice, overt expression of feelings the mark of the unsophisticated, trust the folly of the naive. The

lesson had been drummed into her often enough, and she had promised to follow it.

"Permit me to offer you my escort, Mistress Wyat." Buckingham, who had been about to withdraw from the arena once Kincaid had appeared on the scene, now seized the opportunity afforded by his position as king's favorite. He could accompany the lady without invitation-a privilege that neither Kincaid nor De Winter could assume.

Polly put up her chin, smiled faintly, and laid her hand upon the duke's brocaded sleeve. "How kind in you, my lord duke. I shall be eternally grateful. I am as yet unaccustomed to these august surroundings, so must depend upon the support and guidance of those who are."

Buckingham felt a disquieting stab. Could she possibly be making game of him? It was inconceivable; yet she was radiating something that did not sit easy with him. His eyes skimmed Kincaid's expression; it was quite neutral. He looked down at Polly's face, turned up to meet his scrutiny with a blandly inquiring smile. The huge forest pools of her eyes offered no clue as to the thoughts behind that wide, alabaster brow. But he was overwhelmed again by her beauty, catching his breath under the assault of a lusting desire greater than any he had yet experienced.

Polly read the look in his eyes. Only with the greatest effort was she able to control her instinctive recoil, as revulsion crystallized into fear at the certainty that this was a man who took what he wanted-and he wanted her. Her fingers trembled slightly as they rested on his arm, her cheeks lost a little of their color, but her voice was clear and strong as she bade a polite farewell to Kincaid and De Winter, and went off on the duke's arm.

"Buckingham is hooked," De Winter observed in quiet satisfaction. " 'Tis time to play the line, my friend."

Nick fiddled with the lace at his sleeve, a somber look in his eye, his mouth set in a hard line. "She loathes him, Richard. Can ye not feel it?"

De Winter said nothing for a minute. He could certainly feel Polly's loathing of the duke; but he had also felt her fear.

It was an irrational fear, surely. Buckingham would not harm her; he would have not the least reason to do so. "You have not encouraged this dislike?"

"Nay, I have been at pains to do the opposite."

"Matters worsen, Nick," De Winter persisted softly. "We have been officially at war with the Dutch since the fourth of this month, yet nothing is done in preparation. The king does not attend council meetings, but leaves the management and direction of the affair to those whose main interest is in personal gain from this conflict."

"Aye." Nick nodded, sighed heavily. "The king spends more care and pains making friends between Lady Castle-maine and Mrs. Stewart when they fall out than he ever does on matters of government. Such loveplay gives Buckingham a free hand-a hand he does not scruple to use for his own advancement and that of his friends and family." Nick smiled bitterly. "There are lucrative government posts aplenty for those with the influence to acquire them. Buckingham has that influence with the king, and can put whomsoever he pleases into posts for which they are ill fitted. In exchange for his patronage, he can be certain that they will dance to his tune."

"A tune that does not have His Majesty's interests at heart," De Winter agreed. "Everyone but the king knows that his favorite has no interest in the affairs of the country, or the attitude of the people. Buckingham is ungovernable, drunk with power, but he cannot be satiated." He sighed. "It is, of course, partly the fault of a system that encourages such corruption. When patronage is the chief method of advancement, and without advancement a man's pockets remain thin, those with the patronage are those with the power."

Richard paused to acknowledge a greeting from a passing lady resplendent in puce satin over crimson. Both men had been talking in low voices, their expressions carefully schooled to ones suited to a light conversation of no particular moment.

"We need to know what the duke intends, Nick. If Clar-

endon falls, then the king will have no wise counselor. If the Duke of York takes command of the navy in this war, then who is to take over the vital post of Lord High Admiral of the Kingdom? If Buckingham and his cohorts persuade the king to leave the position and its responsibilities to be executed by them as a group, nothing will be done. They have too many other agendas to deal in timely fashion with the material needs of the navy that must fight this war. 'Tis said that Buckingham wished for such a division, however. If we have a friend in his most intimate circle, then we may hear the truth." Richard waited patiently, respecting his friend's struggle, even as he knew what the outcome would be.

"And his mistress could have access to the secret conclaves…" Nick kept his voice muted with immense difficulty. "D'ye think I do not know that? 'Twas my idea, was it not? But hell and the devil, Richard! I will not ask it of her myself. Do you put it to her. You will be more objective than I. You may tell her that the scheme has my approval, but do not, if you can help it, tell her that the plan was originally my own. I'd not have her believe that this has lain behind-" He smiled with wry bitterness. "You understand me, Richard?"

"Aye, I understand, and will put it to Polly tonight." De Winter spoke now with brisk decision. "Your scruples may do you honor, my friend, but this is not the time for them. They are a luxury we cannot afford. She'll not come to harm, and indeed, may do herself some good. The patronage of the Duke of Buckingham can only be to her advantage."

"More so than mine, I take it," replied Nick with that same wry smile.

"She is your mistress, not your wife, Nicholas," De Winter reminded him.

"I am aware of that," Nick said in a tone that caused his friend to look at him sharply.

"Is that your intention, Nick?"

"Not even this court would accept with credulity a man's lack of interest in his bride's infidelity, my dear Richard. There are some elementary courtesies, after all. A delay of a

few months, surely, would be needed before a bride and groom could openly look around for fresh adventures?" Sarcasm lay heavy in his voice. "If she's to find her way to Buckingham's bed soon, she must do so unencumbered."

"It is a necessary sacrifice you make, Nick," Richard said quietly.

"How right you are, Richard." Self-mockery laced Kin-caid's voice. "I am in no danger of forgetting the realities for a moment." He glanced around the room. "Perhaps I will go and amuse myself with Lady Fanshawe. She is always willing to play a little. I will leave you to take Polly back to her lodgings when the king dismisses her. You may tell her that I will come to her later." He offered De Winter a small mock bow before sauntering across the room in the direction of the egregious Lady Fanshawe, who turned her powdered and painted countenance upon him with undisguised eagerness; the ostrich plumes in her headdress bobbed wildly as she curtsied; her breasts, lifted almost clear of her neckline, showed rouged nipples.

"La, my Lord Kincaid! You have been neglecting us sorely, I swear it! You have barely shown your face at court since you found your pretty little actor." Full, vermilion lips pouted; eyebrows, arched and lengthened with a black pencil, assumed an impossible quirk over the top of her vigorously fluttering fan.

Nicholas smiled, allowing his gaze to travel with lascivious admiration over the charms thus displayed as he picked up his cards in the old, familiar game. At least while he was playing it, he could distance the inconvenient emotions that went with loving Polly.

It was a full hour before Polly was released from the king's Presence chamber. When she reentered the Long Gallery her eyes instantly and automatically went in search of Nicholas in her eagerness to show him that she had survived the ordeal. In fact, it had not been that much of an ordeal. The king had been all condescension, and she had really quite enjoyed herself. But there was no sign of Nicholas.

She scanned the brilliant, chattering throng. Dusk was

falling beyond the long windows, and servants moved to light the flambeaux and many-branched candlesticks so that the room, already heated with so many bodies, grew rapidly stuffy, sweat and the ripe overlay of perfumes mingling, heavy in the air. Coiffures grew limp, and many a lady surreptitiously dabbed at her face, examining her handkerchief for signs that her paint was running.

"You look weary, Polly. I will escort you home." Richard De Winter spoke at her shoulder. She looked up at him with a start.

"That is kind in you, Richard. But I will wait for Nick."

"Nicholas is somewhat occupied." De Winter took snuff. "He has commissioned me to see you safe home, with the message that he will come to you later tonight."

"I suppose he is occupied with another of his painted dolls," declared Polly, looking mischievously at Richard. "Perhaps I had better find him."

Richard gazed into the middle distance, observing casually, "My aunt did enjoy your company on Wednesday. She has expressed the desire to introduce you to others of her friends. You would find their discourse most edifying, I assure you."

"It is not friendly in you to fail to see the jest," Polly told him, somewhat aggrieved at this thinly veiled threat. "Why must you take me home, and not Nick?"

De Winter sighed. "Let us achieve a degree of privacy and I will explain. This is not the place for argument. If you have no objection, we will go by water. 'Tis a pleasant evening, and I have need of the air."

For all that they had become fast friends, and she had been using his first name for several weeks now, Richard could on occasion be irritatingly dictatorial, Polly reflected with a grimace. She much preferred Nick's methods of ensuring her compliance! However, she yielded to necessity without further objection, allowing De Winter to tuck her hand beneath his arm as he escorted her from the palace.

"Well?" she requested, once they had attained Whitehall Stairs. "Where is Nick?"

"Have a little patience, child," her companion advised, gesturing to a wherryman on the lookout for passengers to bring his small riverboat up to the steps. "Let us enjoy the evening on the water."

Polly compressed her lips, stepping into the wherry, managing her skirts with considerable dexterity as she sat down. De Winter took his place opposite her and instructed the wherryman to row to the Somerset Stairs. He smiled at Polly's indignant expression but said nothing, gazing about him instead with every sign of pleasure in the fine spring evening, as he hummed a little tune.

In fact, Richard was nowhere near as easy in his mind as he appeared. How best to broach the upcoming subject to Polly was exercising him considerably. He must somehow ensure that she did not feel betrayed by Kincaid; must somehow convince her of the vital political purpose that lay behind their request; must somehow couch the imperative in terms of a request, he amended to himself.

The wherry scraped against the steps at Somerset Stairs. Richard paid the oarsman his sixpence before assisting Polly onto dry land. It was a short walk from the river to the Strand, and from thence to Drury Lane. Polly kept silence as they walked. She had the conviction that something of moment was about to take place, yet she did not know why she should have this belief, since there was nothing overt in Richard's demeanor to encourage it. But intuition was a powerful persuader; and intuition was also telling her that she was not going to enjoy whatever this momentous happening would turn out to be. Why was Nicholas not here?

The answer to that question was revealed in short order once they had reached her lodging. Politely, Polly offered her guest a glass of sherry before she sat upon the window seat beneath the diamond-paned casement, and waited. De Winter walked around the parlor with a restlessness most unusual in this generally suave and impassive aristocrat.

"Why do you not make a clean breast, sir?" Polly prompted quietly. "I find myself growing apprehensive and would dearly like to make an end of this."

"Very well." He placed his sherry glass upon the side table. "You have heard talk both here and in Nick's house about the way matters of government are conducted-"

"Are not conducted," Polly corrected with raised eyebrow.

"Exactly so." He permitted himself a small smile. "You understand, then, where Nick and I stand in this?"

"That you consider the king ill advised," Polly said. "That the Cabal under Buckingham's leadership is to a large extent responsible for this, and you would bolster the position of the chancellor at this time, because he is a more reliable minister than the Earl of Arlington, for instance."

"I will tell you now, Polly, that myself, Nick, Sir Peter, and Major Conway have pledged ourselves to circumvent Buckingham's destructive influence." He picked up his sherry glass again, sipping slowly, gathering his thoughts.

"To set yourselves up in opposition to Buckingham can only be dangerous." Polly frowned uneasily. "You and Nick both said that only a fool would make an enemy of the duke."

Richard nodded. "We do not make our opposition obvious, Polly."

"So how would you do this thing?" she asked as the flicker of unease blossomed into flame, and she still did not know why.

"We need someone who has access to Buckingham's intimate circle," De Winter said, deciding that directness was his best policy. "Someone whose presence would be so accepted that conversation would go on around her without thought. Someone who could be in privy places where documents might be left lying around-"

"Her?" Polly managed to get the one word out, the word that penetrated her confusion with the blinding speed of a rapier thrust.

"You," affirmed Richard quietly.

"But.…but how should I gain access to-" Then she saw Buckingham's cynical, dissolute countenance bent upon her, the eyes afire with that lusting hunger; and she knew.

She sprang to her feet in a swish of satin petticoats and lace-edged gown. "You say Nick would have me do this? He knows that I cannot abide Buckingham."

"Which is why I am deputed to present the case, Polly," Richard said quietly. "Nick would not ask this of you himself. It is not a lover's request, you must understand, but the request of a political faction of which Nick is a leading member. We have need of your services. England has need of your services, Mistress Wyat. Will you deny them?"

"I have little interest in politics," Polly muttered, pacing the chamber. "Why should I sacrifice myself in this way? If it were necessary for Nick himself, then… then, maybe, I could- No, not maybe," she added with a flash of impatience. "Of course I would… but-"

"This is for Nick," De Winter interrupted. "He has pledged himself to this cause. The specter of civil war still hangs over the land, Polly. If the king sets himself up against the people, as his father did before him, then the specter will take substance. Buckingham does not see this danger. He cares only for the acquisition of power-power he will hold by ruling the king. You say you have no interest in politics. But surely you cannot view such a prospect with equanim-ity."

"Nay." Polly crossed her arms, hugging her breasts as if she were cold. "Of course I cannot. But is there no other way, Richard?"

"Villiers wants you," Richard said bluntly. "That fact gives you the passport into his intimate circle. He will not suspect you of spying because he will see only what he thinks is there-a female actor with her bread to earn and one way in which to earn it. Such liaisons are common enough, and he is not known for his lack of generosity in these matters."

Polly shuddered. "I do not see myself as a member of the duke's harem, my Lord De Winter."

Richard chewed his lip thoughtfully. It was not as if he had not expected resistance. "Why must you be a member of his harem?" he asked, apparently casual. "Are you not special

enough to hold your own place? And in the holding, you will provide us with the eyes and ears we must have."

Polly poured herself a glass of sherry, belatedly offering the decanter to Richard. He accepted with a slight inclination of his head, refilled his glass, and waited for the result of her cogitations.

"Special," she murmured after a few minutes, seeming to savor the word with the idea that had dropped suddenly into her head. There was one way to become special for George Villiers-the rich, ungovernable, never-thwarted duke.

"Think you that perhaps His Grace might be piqued to good purpose, Richard?" Her eyes glowed suddenly, lit with a speculation based on relief as she saw a way around this untenable dilemma.

"Pray continue," he invited, unable to resist that infectious smile. "I am open to any modification."

"Well…" She tapped pearly teeth with a slender forefinger. "His Grace is accustomed to his own way, is he not?" A nod answered her. "Suppose he should find me elusive? Sometimes offering, sometimes withdrawing, but always willing for the pursuit?"

"If he wants you badly enough, you will snare him with such tactics," De Winter declared.

"And he wants me badly enough," Polly stated quietly, quite without vanity or artifice. It was hardly a fact that gave her satisfaction, but in this instance, it could be put to good use. "I can play that part, Richard. I will spin a web that will intrigue him, that will ensure that he is constantly desirous of my company, always waiting for the moment of surrender- a moment that he is convinced is not far away. If I can achieve entry into his intimate circles with such tactics, that will suffice, will it not? I have only to be accepted as a presence."

"I see no reason why it should not work," Richard said thoughtfully, recognizing with relief that he was no longer engaged in the recruitment of an unwilling accomplice, but in shared planning with a partner. "We are interested only in

whatever impressions, whispers, plans, you can bring us, not in the methods you use to garner them."

"And Nick?" Polly asked, her enthusiasm fading abruptly. When had the idea first come to him and his friends? she wondered dully. Since it had become clear that Buckingham had his eye upon her? And whose idea had it been? "Will it be important to him, do you think, that I can manage to extract the information without surrendering to the duke? Or does he view such a matter with indifference?"

"I do not think you need me to supply you with the answer to that," Richard said gently. "He will be here soon. Why do you not ask him yourself? If you really need to know his answer."

Polly sat down under a wash of fatigue. She did not think she needed to ask Nick the question, but she still wished he had had the courage to involve her in this conspiracy himself. In her naivete, she thought that it would have come easier from him.

Richard looked at her, compassion in his eyes. Maturity was a painful process, and the school in which Polly must grow was harder than many. Somehow she had managed to scramble unsullied through a life that should have destroyed all illusions. Then she had met Nicholas Kincaid-a man who, loving her, would foster her illusions rather than destroy them. Now she must face a harsh reality where even love failed as shield, where love asked more of her than she could easily give.

"You need your bed," he said after a while. "It has been an evening to try the strength of Atlas. Get you gone, now. I will remain until Nick returns."

She smiled wearily, rising to her feet. " 'Tis kind in you, Richard, but I'll not trespass further on your time. I am not uncomfortable with my own company."

"Maybe not, but I'll stay nevertheless." He spoke now with familiar briskness. "You've had no supper. I'll ask Goodwife Benson to prepare ye a caudle. Get you to bed."

"I do not need a nursemaid, Richard," she protested. He merely smiled and pulled the bell rope. With a defeated

shrug, Polly went into the bedchamber to struggle alone with the ribbons, buttons, and laces of her complicated attire. The days of smock, petticoat, and kirtle were long gone, and she swore with Dog tavern vigor as she wrestled with the recalcitrant knots of her corset.

"I told you you have need of a lady's maid."

Polly whirled, pink-cheeked with her exertions, to the suddenly opened door of the bedchamber. "Nick! I did not hear you come in."

"You were cursing like a Billingsgate fishwife," he observed, shrugging out of his coat, crossing the room in his shirt sleeves toward her. "You could not possibly have heard anything but the sounds of your own voice." Setting his hands upon her shoulders, he spun her around and tackled the laces with experienced fingers.

"Ahh! My thanks." Polly breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing the life back into the constricted flesh beneath her smock. "I do not know why I ever consented to wear that instrument of torture!" She kicked the offending garment across the room.

"I think you do know why," he said with quiet gravity. "Do you also know exactly why you have consented to this other matter-one considerably more distasteful than the wearing of a corset? I would have you certain sure of your own mind."

"What did Richard tell you?" She walked over to the window and stood gazing out into the evening gloom, for the moment unwilling to look at him.

"Only that you had consented to participate in our plan; that you were fatigued and he had sent you to bed; and that since you had had no supper, he had bidden the goodwife prepare you a peppermint caudle."

Polly could not help smiling at what she knew had to be a faithful rendition of Richard's farewell speech to Nicholas. She could almost hear his voice delivering it.

There was a knock at the door. The goodwife bustled in with the bowl of spiced gruel mixed with wine. "This'll put the heart in you," she announced cheerfully, setting the

bowl on the tiring table. She examined Polly shrewdly. "Ye look as if ye need it, too, m'dear. They're workin' ye too hard, I'll be bound." An accusatory glance at Kincaid accompanied this statement. "Every afternoon on that stage. It's not right, m'lord. Indeed, 'tis not. Barely a child, she is."

Nicholas scratched his head, murmuring something vaguely conciliatory that seemed to satisfy the landlady, who gathered up Polly's discarded clothes, taking them away with her. "If you had a maid, the goodwife would not be obliged to care for your wardrobe," Nicholas observed, turning back the cover on the bed. "Get between the sheets, now. I do not think I can face further accusations of neglect and exploitation."

"You do not neglect me, love. Or exploit me," she said softly, clambering into bed. "I do only what I choose to do."

"Is that truly so?" He handed her the peppermint caudle, then sat upon the bed beside her.

"Yes. But I could wish you had asked me yourself to engage in this spying." Polly kept her eyes on the gently steaming mixture on her knees, stirring it thoughtfully with a pewter spoon. "It was cowardly to ask Richard to do it."

Nick winced. "It was not through cowardice, moppet. I did not wish you to feel pressured. Perhaps it was conceit on my part, but I had thought you might find it harder to refuse me than Richard."

"But you wish me to do this thing?" She looked at him directly for the first time.

Nicholas shook his head. "No, I do not. But on occasion there are greater purposes that have to be served, and one must make sacrifices. This is one of those occasions."

It is possible we may be of service to each other. Where had those words come from? They had been spoken when she had been sitting in another bed in another chamber in the company of Nicholas, Lord Kincaid. Did this go back to that time, then?

"I am only a Newgate-born, tavern-bred whore, after all," Polly heard herself say, casually taking a mouthful of

gruel. "It is hardly a great matter to sacrifice such a one to another's bed." Why must she test him? Did she want to know the answer? There was a sudden, devastating silence.

Nick was for an instant bewildered by the words. She could not possibly believe he saw the matter in that light. But once upon a time he had done so. He had seen in a hard-schooled, ambitious wench the possibility of mutual benefit. He would put the means of achieving her ambition in her hands; she would be encouraged to do no more than accept an offer that any woman in search of material benefit would seize eagerly.

But it had been a long time since he had thought in those terms. Polly was not in search of benefit of any kind. She had all she wanted now that she had proved herself capable of fulfilling the talent she had harbored with such dedication. And she loved, and was loved in return.

The thought that she might doubt him brought a surge of wrath, fueled by a guilty knowledge that her implicit accusation had its roots in a sad past truth, one that he would now deny to his last breath.

Polly looked up at him, and the spoon in her hand clattered into the bowl. Such stark anger stood out on his features, ignited the emerald eyes so that they flamed in his whitened face.

"Give me the bowl!" His voice was a lash as he snatched the porringer from her. "Now, get out of bed!"

Polly's knees began to tremble. She had had no idea that the humorous, easygoing Nicholas could look like this, could evince such a towering height of black fury.

"I said, stand up!"

With a little moan of fear, she stumbled to obey, although a small voice told her that she would be safer in bed. But resistance at this moment was unimaginable.

His hands gripped her shoulders through the thin cotton of her shift. "Do you dare repeat that?"

Polly shook her head, struggling to persuade her vocal chords into working order again, since a verbal response was

clearly demanded. "N-no… please," she stuttered. "1 did not really mean it… 'Twas just… just-"

"Just what?" he rasped as her voice faded. "Answer me!"

"I wanted to see what you would say," Polly whimpered miserably, hearing how lame the half-truth sounded, yet quite unable, under the piercing glare of those livid eyes, to attack by making explicit that moment of lost trust. She had needed reassurance, and she was getting it; but she had never imagined it coming in this shape.

"Now you are going to hear what I would say," he said, bringing his face very close to hers, his hands on her shoulders jerking her against him. "If you ever so much as think such a thing again, let alone articulate it, I promise that you will wish your parents had never met! Do you hear me?" Polly nodded dumbly. "You had better," he said with no diminution in ferocity, still holding her close. "Because I mean it. You will look back on Josh and his belt with nostalgia! I swear it!"

Polly swallowed, attempting to lubricate her throat, to lick dry lips. Why on earth had she expected him to enfold her in his arms, to whisper loving reassurances and sorrow for having to ask this of her, to kiss away the hurt and whisper his gratitude and admiration for her courage? Why hadn't she expected to be bullied and threatened in this savage fashion for having had such stupid, childish doubts?

"Get back into bed," Nick directed in his normal voice. "And finish your supper."

Meekly, Polly did as she was told, although her appetite for the rapidly cooling contents of the porringer had rather diminished. She took a spoonful, watching Nick warily as he began to get out of his clothes. Had Richard told him of her own modification of their plan? Presumably not, or he would have mentioned it at the beginning. She cleared her throat and put the spoon back in the bowl, waiting for him to turn 'round in response to the signal.

"Do you have something to say?" Nick approached the bed, unbuttoning the lace cuffs of his shirt. His expression

was still distinctly forbidding. "1 suggest you reflect well before you open your mouth."

Polly could bear it no longer. "1 have said I am sorry. It is most ungenerous of you to continue to be so unforgiving."

Nick regarded her gravely, then sighed. "Sweetheart, I am torn asunder by this business. Only desperation would force me to lend my countenance to it, but the situation is desperate. However, I will not oblige you to play this part. Do you understand that?"

Polly nodded, and the candlelight caught the burnished golden tones in the hair tumbling across her shoulders, deepened the green and topaz brilliance of her eyes. "Richard did not tell you of my own suggestion, then?"

Nick looked startled. "What suggestion?" He took offhis shirt, tossing it onto a stool, the gesture setting the muscles to ripple in his back.

Polly averted her eyes from the distracting sight. It didn't seem reasonable that at such a moment of intensity, lust should intrude with its insouciant, all-absorbing power.

Nick continued with his undressing while she told him of her discussion with Richard. When she had finished, he said nothing for a minute or two, but poured water from the ewer into the basin and splashed his face vigorously. Then he turned back to the bed. "There is more risk for you in such a ploy than in simply answering the call to Buckingham's bed. If he does not care for the game, he will do all in his power to injure you. He is a powerful enemy, moppet. You would do best to have him as your friend."

"As lover, you mean," she said, plucking at the coverlet with restless fingers. "I prefer to hazard his enmity."

"I do not want you to take such a risk," he said bluntly. "We will forget the matter in its entirety. I will tell De Winter and the rest that we must come up with another solution."

"Nay!" Polly pushed aside the covers and knelt on the bed, urgent in her determination. "If it is important to you, love, then it is important to me. I have said I will do it, and I

will. It is no longer a matter over which you have any say. I will partner you in this."

Nicholas looked at her, a frown between his brows, but a tiny smile in his eyes. "You grow out of hand, young Polly."

"I grow up, my lord," she replied, meeting his eye. "Responsible for myself."

"Aye," he agreed slowly. "It was inevitable, and I will learn to like it."

Kneeling up, she reached her arms around his neck. "I have been full grown for many a year, love." Her lips brushed his, her breath whispering sweet and warm. "In all essentials."

Nick laughed, running his fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Yes, indeed, a veritable crone y'are," he scoffed. "Wrinkled and bowed down by the weight of experience- Ouch! Don't you do that!" In mock indignation, he bore her backward onto the bed, but she moved against him with sinuous urgency, her mouth hungry against his, her hands sliding imperatively over his back, gripping his buttocks with harsh demand.

Nick pushed up her smock, responding to her need with his own abrupt, unceremonious craving. They came together, clung, suspeneded in a moment of rough-hewn passion that excluded all but the need to lose themselves in each other, in the ravaging torrent of pure sensation.

Afterward, spent and at peace, Polly slept in the crook of Nick's arm, while he lay looking into the darkness, trying to rationalize the deep foreboding that had rushed into the void left by the retreat of bodily bliss.