Venus

Chapter 14

You understand what we want of you, Polly?" The question was posed by one of the four men crowding the parlor the following evening. Smoke from two clay pipes curled, drifting on the breeze through the open window.

Polly nodded at Sir Peter Appleby, resplendent in full periwig and scarlet satin-the veritable epitome of dandyism, except that the foppish exterior concealed a needlesharp wit. She had become familiar with these friends of Nick's since taking up her abode in Drury Lane, but only now did she know that beneath the friendship lay a stern commitment. "It seems clear enough, Sir Peter."

"Then perhaps you would run through it for us, so that we can be sure there are no misunderstandings," suggested Charles Conway.

Nick, leaning against the mantel above the empty hearth, puffing reflectively upon his pipe, was content to observe, leaving Polly's briefing to his colleagues. She would receive his instructions, of a more personal nature, before she left for Buckingham's revels.

"I am to pay particular attention to any conversations between the duke and the Earl of Arlington, noting any references to the Earl of Clarendon," Polly said readily.

"You do understand why this is important, Polly?" asked De Winter.

"Well, as I understand it," said Polly, "Lord Clarendon wishes to strengthen the alliance with France-an alliance which the king favors-but the Earl of Arlington, who is secretary of state, wishes to draw closer to Spain. Arlington and Buckingham are working together to undermine the chancellor's influence with the king, and will impeach him if they can produce just cause. Since you consider it would be dangerous for England to be at odds with France at this time, with the Dutch war going on, it is particularly important to know what plans Buckingham and his friends have for Clarendon." She smiled cheerfully as she completed this exposition. "Do I have it right?"

"You do," said Richard, chuckling. "Word-perfect, my dear. One other thing you might be alert to-any talk of the Duke of Monmouth's legitimacy. If Buckingham is encouraging the king in this, there will be a civil uproar. Parliament will not stand for it, and if we know how far Buckingham is prepared to go in his support of the idea, we will be better able to decide on our own moves."

"You think they will talk of these things?" Polly asked, tapping her closed fan against her palm. "They seem uncommon serious matters for a private party."

"It is because it is a private party that they will be discussed." Major Conway spoke with customary vigor, both voice and expression resonant with intensity. "We are closely acquainted with no one but you who might have access to these occasions, Polly. For that reason you must ensure that you do nothing to jeopardize your acceptance."

"In what way would I do so?" asked Polly.

The major regarded her with the burning eye of the committed. "You must not allow Buckingham to suspect that you do not intend fulfilling your promise eventually. Indeed, if such fulfillment becomes necessary, you must-"

"Such imperatives, Conway, are not for you to declare." Lord Kincaid interrupted quietly, but with an unassailable authority. "Polly has agreed to lend us her assistance, but she

will do so in a manner that is comfortable for her. She will not be asked to do anything repugnant to her." His gaze drifted, seemingly casual, around the room. "That is understood, I trust."

Polly broke the silence that greeted this statement. "I understand what you want of me, gentlemen. I will do all I can to ensure that you have it." She smiled with a mischievous glee that chased the intensity from the room, and only she knew how much effort had gone into its production. "I find that I do not care for the duke, as I am sure you know. I shall enjoy the game of deception, and enjoy furnishing you with the information you require." She stood up, smoothing down the pleated folds of her embroidered damask petticoat, adjusting the Venetian lace at her decolletage. " 'Tis perhaps time to begin this venture?" A delicate eyebrow arched.

"Aye," Nick said, " 'tis time. But I would speak with you in private first… You will excuse us, gentlemen?"

It was command, couched as polite request, and achieved the immediate departure of their guests. Richard paused in the doorway. "You have simply to perform, Polly. Y'are an actor of rare genius. Do not forget that." The door closed behind him, and Polly smiled tremulously.

" 'Tis unlike Richard to pay me compliments."

"He speaks only the truth," Nick said, turning toward her with quiet purpose. "Now, you are to listen to me. Your acting ability is not in question; your ability to hear and remember what is important is not in question; your ability to deceive such a one as Buckingham is not yet proven. You must remember that he and his friends are far from stupid, and you must remember above all else that they are very powerful." The emerald eyes held hers steadily, his voice was level, but Polly was in no doubt as to the utter seriousness of his words.

"I will not forget."

"And you will not forget this last thing I shall say. The very minute that you become uneasy, that you sense someone… anyone… might be looking at you with suspi-

cion, you will leave. Instantly! Is that quite understood, Polly?"

"And if I decide that the goal will be better achieved by my staying and allaying those suspicions in whatever manner seems necessary…?" She returned his look with her own, straight and candid.

"Nay, Polly, you will not. In such a circumstance, the goal will be sacrificed."

Polly shook her head. "That is a decision that I will make, Nicholas. You would have me involved in this, and I agreed to be so, of my own free will. How the game is played must now be up to me."

"And if I say that, if you take that stand, I will call a halt to the plan?"

"I would deny you the right to do so."

There was no anger in their words, no real sense of confrontation. It was simply the establishment of new ground.

"I will be careful, love," Polly said in soft reassurance, seeing his unease, feeling his discomfort as she took the reins into her own hands.

Nicholas looked at her for long minutes, then yielded. She was the chief player in the game. It was only reasonable that she should play by her own rules. "I will be waiting here for you," he said. "John Coachman will take you, and he will wait to bring you home."

The duke's mansion on the Strand was ablaze with light. Great flaming torches, set in metal sconces on either side of the imposing front door, threw illumination onto the flagway before the house. A linkboy ran to the carriage door as it drew up, holding up his torch as Polly descended, bending her head low as she stepped through the carriage door to avoid disturbing the high-piled artistry of her coiffure, carefully managing the weight of her skirts and train, which settled around her as she stood on the flagway, taking a moment to compose herself.

A liveried footman stood bowing in the opened door as

the linkboy lit the way. Polly passed through into a huge tiled hallway, where chandeliers swung from a domed ceiling and gilded moldings adorned the walls and doorways. A wide staircase curved upward, its steps shallow, its banisters elaborately carved. There was more grandeur here than in Whitehall Palace itself, Polly reflected. The immense wealth of the mansion's owner was declared from every corner.

The strains of lute and viol wafted down the stairs, a voice raised in laughter, the sound of hands clapping. Polly followed the footman up the staircase. At the head of the stairs, double doors stood open onto a salon, richly decorated and furnished. A group of musicians played at one end. Four men standing with their backs to the door were huddled over a long, low table, their laughter rising on a lubricious note. A cluster of women, painted and powdered, stood before the fire, fans fluttering, voices, light and artificial, drifting in the warm, scented air as they responded to the sallies of their male companions. Lady Castlemaine was one of their number, Polly noted, recognizing the others also as faces she had seen at court, but she could not put names to them all.

"Mistress Polly Wyat," intoned the footman, and the four men around the table straightened. The Duke of Buckingham, in peacock satin with gold lacing, his powdered periwig sweeping his shoulders, turned instantly to the door. The thin lips flickered in a smile as he came over.

"Why, Mistress Wyat, I had begun to despair of you." He made a magnificent leg, showing off his embroidered stockings and the high-heeled shoes where diamonds glinted, set into the heels and the gold buckles.

"Am I late, my lord duke?" Polly swept into her curtsy, a stage curtsy from which not a nuance was missing. "I am desolated to have offered such discourtesy. Your invitation did not specify a time."

"That was remiss of me," he murmured, kissing her hand. "In my eagerness to dispatch the invitation, I must have forgot such a trifling point." The heavy lids drooped even

lower. "I am devastated at the thought that my poor gift did not find favor, madame."

"On the contrary, Your Grace, it was exquisite. But far too valuable a present for me to accept." She met his meager smile with one as blandly polite and unexpressive.

Buckingham inclined his head. " 'Twas but a trinket, madame. I had thought it pretty enough to please you."

"I am not in the habit of accepting… trinkets… of any value from those with whom I am but slightly acquainted," Polly said carefully, still smiling.

Buckingham pursed his lips. "Then I will keep the brooch until such time as we are become better acquainted, Mistress Wyat."

"A pleasing suggestion, sir." Polly could feel the sweat breaking out upon her body under the strain of this loaded exchange. How long could she keep it up? Her gaze shifted with apparent naturalness to look around the room, reminding the duke of the presence of other company and his duties as host.

"I am delighted you agreed to grace my little revels," Buckingham said, turning back to the room. "You will be acquainted with some of my guests… but not all," he added delicately, regarding her through his hooded eyes as she took in what had been occupying the gentlemen around the table. The girl spread upon it was quite naked.

"Is she not a little chilly?" Polly asked carelessly.

Villiers chuckled appreciatively. "A few guineas can be amazingly warming, my dear madame, for such a one as she."

A brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding, thought Polly. If Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, had not entered her life, she could have been earning her bread in such a manner… She banished the distracting thought; it only led to that other question, the one she must not dwell upon.

"I see my Lord Arlington," she said now, as if the matter of whores displayed upon tables was of no further interest. "Talking with Lady Castlemaine. I would have speech with

him, sir. He was so kind as to send me a letter of compliment after the performance this afternoon, and I must thank him."

Buckingham bowed his acquiescence and escorted her to her goal. She accepted a glass of canary from a footman and set out to play the coquette.

The duke rarely left her side, and it was clear to Polly, from the speculative looks sent her way from all and sundry, that the company had deduced the meaning of her presence at this private gathering. Carefully, she ensured that not just the duke was the object of her coquetry, even while her eyes, when they met those of His Grace, told him otherwise.

"George, a game of macao, dear fellow. You owe me my revenge!" The laughing invitation came from a newcomer, John Maitland, Earl of Lauderdale, one of the Cabal.

"Aye," agreed Arlington. " 'Tis the devil's own luck ye have with the cards, George. Ye took a thousand guineas off me last time."

Buckingham laughed, flicking open his snuffbox to take a leisurely pinch. " 'Tis like taking toffee from a babe, but if ye've a mind to be trounced again, then by all means let us repair to the card room." He turned to Polly beside him. "I'd have ye with me, bud, if y'are willing. Such beauty can only bring a man good fortune."

The public endearment sealed the matter for all, as did the proprietorial hand cupping her elbow. If Mistress Wyat was not already gracing Buckingham's bed, she soon would be, and her acceptance in this group was now assured.

Assured for as long as she made no slips, Polly thought, accompanying the men into the card room leading off the main salon.

"Nay, sir, I'll stand at your shoulder," she said, laughing, as he directed a footman to draw up a chair for her beside his own at the round table, gleaming mahogany under the candlelight. " 'Tis the place of luck, is it not?"

Buckingham raised her fingers to his lips, saying with soft meaning, "I trust my luck will hold beyond the cards."

Polly allowed an elusive smile to play across her lips, before raising her fan, concealing all but her eyes. Sweat trick-

led down her back under the strain of keeping her revulsion hidden.

"What think you of the king's hints about his marriage to Lucy Walter, George?" The question came from Arlington, and it brought Polly to prickly awareness. Lucy Walter was said to be the mother of the illegitimate Duke of Mon-mouth, the king's sixteen-year-old son.

Buckingham shrugged, gesturing to the boy who stood on his other side holding a heavy leather purse. He took out a hundred guineas and laid them upon the table. "I'll see you, Henry." He watched as Arlington laid his cards upon the table, then chuckled, exposing his own hand. "My twenty to your nineteen, Henry… No, I think the king is playing a lost cause here. If he claims marriage to the Walter woman, he must produce evidence, witnesses, documents. If he had them to produce, he would have done so by now."

"They could be found," observed Lauderdale, sipping his claret, frowning as he examined his cards.

Polly kept very still, praying that the sudden tension in her body would not be transmitted to the seated figure so close to her. This was what she was here to hear.

"But think what a trouble," drawled Villiers. "One can never be sure that a bought witness will stay bought, or that a document one happens to… to discover-" An elegant beringed hand passed through the air in graceful explanation "-will stand up to informed scrutiny."

"So ye'll not encourage His Majesty in this?" inquired Arlington.

Again Buckingham shrugged. "I've no objection to York's succeeding to the throne. Monmouth's a callow lad, overindulged and a trifle empty-headed."

"Vain and ambitious into the bargain," chuckled Lauderdale. " 'Twould not suit your purposes, George, I'll be bound, to have such a one on the throne."

Buckingham's lips moved in the semblance of a smile, and his eyelids drooped heavily. "I cannot imagine what you

could mean, John. Why should it be a matter of moment to me who succeeds His Majesty?"

A laugh rippled around the table, and the conversation turned to gossip.

Polly drew her lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and surreptitiously wiped her clammy palms. She had done what she had come here to do, established her position in this circle, and heard something of importance to Nick and the others. Surely she could make her escape now, for this time at least. But how to extricate herself gracefully?

She yawned delicately behind her fan. "La, my lord duke, but 'tis monstrous fatigued I am grown. I must ask you to excuse me. 'Tis to be hoped I have brought you sufficient luck for one night." She smiled over her fan, yawned again.

The duke's expression was not encouraging. His eyes hardened. "Why, bud, 'tis early yet."

"But you forget, sir, I am a working woman and must be at the theatre at ten of the morning."

Buckingham pushed back his chair, rising fluidly. Polly, taking this to mean that he would escort her from the room, curtsied to the men at the table. "I bid you good night, sirs," she said, and moved away toward the salon.

"Come now, you would not be so unkind as to run away, madame," the duke protested softly as they entered the still-crowded salon.

"Run away from what, duke?" inquired Polly sweetly. "I have enjoyed myself most wonderfully, but, indeed, I must seek my bed if I am to satisfy Master Killigrew tomorrow."

His fingers circled her wrist, lightly, yet Polly felt her skin jump with alarm. "You would not have me disappoint my audience, would you, sir?"

"But you disappoint me," he said gently, still holding her wrist.

It was time for the withdrawal. "Then I am sorry for it, sir, but I was not aware I was under an obligation." She met his gaze directly and saw the flash of puzzlement cross that generally impassive countenance, a flicker of uncertainty

lurking in the eyes. The duke had thought the game and its rules understood. Now he was not so sure.

Then he released her wrist, bowed deeply, and said, "I am desolated at your departure, madame, but I realize I have no claims, much as I would wish for them."

"They have to be earned, sir," she said. It could not be luch plainer. If he went about it the right way, he could have what he wished for. It was up to him to discover the right way.

The duke bowed again. "Then I shall endeavor to do so, bud." He beckoned to a footman. "Summon a chair for Mistress Wyat."

"There is no need, sir. My coachman awaits."

If that surprised him, it did not show on his face. "Then permit me to escort you to your carriage."

He saw her into the elegant, well-kept interior of Kin-caid's coach and stood upon the flagway, staring after the conveyance. This one was not going to be easily or cheaply bought. She had clearly a very firm idea of her own worth, and would not sell herself for less. Well, His Grace of Buckingham could respect that. He must set about wooing her. It was a novel game, and there was no reason why he should not take pleasure in it. With a little smile, he turned back to the house.

"Standing staring out of the window is not going to hasten her return, Nick," remarked De Winter.

"Aye, I am aware." Nick turned from the window, reaching for his wineglass on the sideboard. "But I cannot rest, Richard."

"She'll not come to harm," Richard reassured. " 'Tis a gathering; Buckingham cannot compel anything from her in such a situation. If she finds she cannot perform the part, then she may leave at any time she pleases. While nothing will be gained, by the same token, nothing is lost."

Nick's frown etched deep lines between his red-gold eyebrows. "I fear she has taken the bit between her teeth on

this, Richard, and she will run with it." He paced restlessly for a minute, then stopped. "Did you hear a coach?"

Richard went to the window, flinging it wide, looking into the darkness. "You have sharp ears, my friend. A carriage has just rounded the corner."

Nick came to stand beside him, and Richard felt the tension run from his friend as the carriage, the unmistakable figure of John Coachman upon the box, came to a halt before the door below.

Nick resisted the urge to run down to her. He wanted to see how she was when she thought herself unobserved. She might play a part for him-the part she thought he would want to see-and he was not confident that he would be able to distinguish acting from reality without some clues, so skillful had she become.

The coachman opened the door, let down the footstep, and Polly descended into the strip of light shining down from the upstairs casement. "My thanks, John Coachman. I trust 'twas not too tedious a wait for ye." Her clear tones rose to the opened window. Then, as if magnetized, she looked up.

"Are ye still up, my lord?" There seemed to be a light, teasing note in her voice. "I made sure you would have been abed an hour since… and Lord De Winter, also."

A window was flung open next door, and a protesting bellow rent the air. Polly put a guilty finger to her lips, her eyes widening in mock horror.

"Come in," Nick instructed in a piercing whisper, wondering how she had made him want to laugh at such a moment. He went to the parlor door to wait for her.

She came up the stairs with swift step and tumbled instantly into his arms. She was shaking like a leaf, and all desire to laugh left him abruptly. He held her close, feeling the fragility beneath the elaborate dress, the armor of corset and layers of petticoats.

"What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?" The anguished questions whispered against her ear as he stroked her back and she shuddered against him.

"Nay… nay… not hurt," she managed at last. "It is going to succeed, I think, but… but I did not realize how hard the work 'twould be, Nick. 'Tis a thousand times worse than the theatre."

Nicholas drew her into the parlor, closing the door quietly. "Is that all that is the matter? That maintaining the part was hard work?"

"If it were just a matter of maintaining the part, 'twould not be so difficult," she said, her voice a little quavery, although she had stopped shaking. "Oh, my thanks, Richard." She took the glass of claret he handed her. "But I must also write the lines, Nick. I had not thought of that."

The two men looked at each other. Somehow, they had not grappled with that complexity, either. "But you managed to do so?" Richard prompted.

Polly nodded, drinking deeply of the wine as if it were the elixir of the gods. "I think it was convincing. Nothing of moment was said of Lord Clarendon. However, there was talk of the Duke of Monmouth." She told them what she had heard, moving around the room as she did so, pausing to refill her glass. Nick frowned at the speed with which that glass had been emptied, but for the moment held his peace.

"And how did you leave Villiers?" asked De Winter when the story seemed told.

"With an invitation to find my price," Polly said bluntly, reaching again for the decanter.

"Nay, moppet, you have had sufficient." Nick stayed her hand, and she turned on him with a flash of fury.

"By what right do you tell me that? I have barely touched a drop all evening for fear I would make an error. Surely now I may be permitted some relaxation!"

"As much as you need," he said evenly. "But you are drinking too quickly."

Polly glared at him. Richard got out of his chair, reaching for his cloak.

"I think 'tis time I left you." He drew on his gloves. "My compliments, Polly. Not that I doubted you," he added with a dry smile, bending to brush her forehead with his lips.

"But pay heed to Nick, now. He has more experience than you when it comes to the bottle."

"Aye," agreed Nick cheerfully. "A dreadful sot I was in my youth."

Polly looked between them, saw the way they had drawn together implicitly, knew that her well-being was the reason. "I give you good night, Richard," she said.

Nick saw Richard from the house, then came to the parlor, where Polly still stood as he had left her.

"I ask your pardon," she said softly. "I did not mean to snap in that manner."

"There is nothing to pardon." He took her in his arms. "Let us go to bed now. Let me ease you in ways infinitely more pleasurable than those to be found in wine."

"What in the world…" Nick stood staring around the parlor the following noon.

" Tis His Grace of Buckingham," Polly choked. She had returned from the theatre five minutes earlier to find the parlor turned into a veritable conservatory. Exotic blooms were massed in every corner, and Sue and the goodwife had been quite distracted by the shortage of containers in which to display this glory. "Where could he have procured them?" She gestured helplessly. " 'Tis enough to decorate Westminster Abbey."

"Buckingham's conservatories are famed," Nick told her. "Was there a message?"

"Aye." She took a paper from the table, holding it out to him. "He desires me to wear orchids at my breast this evening when we go to court, that he may know this gift is acceptable."

"And shall you?" Nick raised an eyebrow at her. She was looking her usual self, he thought, all traces of last night's tension vanished.

Polly shook her head. "Nay. But I shall wear the freesias in the lace of my sleeve, and he may make what he can of that."

Nick could not help chuckling. "Y'are a rogue, Polly. I begin to think you enjoy the prospect of this game."

Some of the mischief faded from her eyes. "In a way, perhaps, I do. Tonight we shall be at court, and you will be there. I may play the elusive wanton on ground that is not the duke's. 'Twill be less of a strain."

"I had thought not to attend this evening," Nick said. "Richard and I thought it sensible to reinforce my indifference to the duke's pursuit. But if you need me, then of course I shall accompany you."

Polly turned away abruptly, beginning to rearrange a bowl of tulips with apparent absorption. She had not expected the normal pattern of her life with Nick to be affected by this conspiracy, yet she should have done. He had his own part to play. So why did it feel as if, having prepared her and thrust her upon this stage of his choosing, he was now withdrawing, leaving her to play the part he considered of paramount importance? But if this spying was what he had intended for her all along, from the earliest moments of their meeting, then it was hardly surprising it should now take precedence over a loving companionship that had simply facilitated his original plan.

"No, of course I do not need you. I had just assumed that you would come, but I see that it will be best if you do not." She heard her voice, cool and even in the small room where the mingled scents of hothouse blooms hung heavy like a stifling, exotic blanket. Paradoxically, instead of imparting the light freshness of spring flowers, they seemed to carry an aura of corruption. An involuntary shudder fingered its way down her back.

Nicholas frowned at her averted back. There was a stiffness about her suddenly, an almost forced neutrality in that normally expressive voice. "What is it, sweetheart?" he said, coming up behind her, placing his hand between her shoulder blades. "Is it that you are frightened?"

"No… no, I am not frightened," she replied, moving away from the warm pressure of his hand. "There is nothing to be afeard of. I shall go to court and spin my web around

the duke." She turned to face him, smiling brightly. "Mayhap you will be here when I return. Or must you stay at your house this night?"

"I have invited some friends for supper and a card party," he said carefully, watching her face. "But I will come here afterward."

"There is no need," she said with a shrug. "I expect 'twill be late when your friends leave."

"What is it?" he repeated. "When I first came in, you were in great good humor. Something has upset you."

"What could possibly have upset me?" Polly went to pull the bell rope. "The goodwife is waiting to bring up dinner. She has prepared a chine of beef especially for you, since she knows your fondness for it."

Throughout the meal, she chattered in her customary fashion, and Nick put his unease behind him, reflecting that it would not be extraordinary for her moods to fluctuate at this trying time. The greatest service he could offer would be to follow her lead and avoid exacerbating her perfectly natural tension.

The Duke of Buckingham, on the watch for her arrival, was conscious of a most unusual emotion as Mistress Wyat made her entrance into the Long Gallery at Whitehall that evening. He was aware of chagrin. The orchids he had confidently expected to see adorning that matchless bosom were nowhere to be seen.

He moved casually through the throng toward her. "Mistress Wyat. How fortunate we are that you are come to grace us with your presence." There was a sardonic undertone, and his bow was so deep that it could only be considered a mockery.

Polly remembered what Nick had once said about compliments being offered as insults. This was clearly an example. She smiled, and curtsied with matching exaggerated depth. "My lord duke, how kind in you to say so." Her fan unfurled, fluttered, then closed with a snap.

The duke's eyes narrowed at these clear signs of her own annoyance. In general, people trembled when George Vil-liers was at odds with them; they did not return gestures of displeasure in kind. But then she smiled at him, that heart-stopping, radiant smile that made him catch his breath.

"Your Grace, I must thank you for such a pleasing gift." She raised one hand, showing him where a cluster of freesias had been threaded into the lace of her smock sleeve. "As you see, I have put it to good use."

"I am honored, madame," he said, taking her hand and turning it, raising it to inhale of the delicate scent of the flowers. "But I had hoped-"

"Why, sir, you could not expect me to wear orchids with this gown," she interrupted with a tinkling laugh. "Neither would show to advantage."

The duke was obliged to concede that scarlet satin and orchids would not do. She could have chosen to wear another gown, of course, but he was beginning to suspect that the lady was playing a devious game. Well, for as long as it amused him, he would play it with her.

"Lord Kincaid does not accompany you this evening?" He took snuff, his eyes resting casually on that exquisite countenance. Not a flicker passed across it.

"It does not appear so, Your Grace," she returned easily. "I understand he had another engagement."

"I cannot imagine an engagement that could take precedence over escorting such beauty," Buckingham murmured. Polly merely smiled. "D'ye care to listen to the music, madame?" The duke offered her his arm. "The king's musicians are most talented."

Polly acquiescing, they made their way into the music room, where were gathered Buckingham's cronies, the king, and my Lady Castlemaine. The king greeted Polly with flattering attention; his mistress, after a speculative, all-encompassing assessment of Polly's appearance, bade her a bored good evening and addressed Buckingham, pointedly excluding Polly from her conversation.

Polly, ingenuously, wondered what she could have done to offend this powerful lady. She moved closer to the musicians, seeming to give them her full attention while keeping her ears pricked for any useful morsels that might come her way, but it was not until the arrival of Lord Clarendon that anything of interest to the spy occurred.

"What is it, Clarendon?" the king inquired testily as the chancellor bowed before him. "We would not be troubled with business this night, and judging by your somber looks, 'tis business you have on your mind."

This remark was greeted with laughter from those around the king. "Indeed, sir," drawled Buckingham, "methinks you should instruct the musicians to play a dirge. 'Twould better suit the chancellor's mien than their present merriment." This unkind sally drew further amusement at the expense of the old man.

Clarendon bowed again stiffly. "I would ask for a moment's private talk, Your Majesty."

"We are in no mood for your pessimism and strictures, Chancellor. We had thought to have made that clear," snapped His Majesty, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "This is a private gathering we would have in this room, with those disposed to listen to pleasant music and engage in agreeable conversation."

There was nothing for the discomfited Clarendon to do but accept this humiliating dismissal. No sooner had he left than Buckingham said with a contemptuous curl of his lip, "I do not know why Your Majesty continues to tolerate such a dullard. It says much for Your Majesty's generosity that you continue to honor him. But he has outgrown his usefulness."

The king sighed. "I know it, George, I know it. But short of impeachment, what's to be done? He has the support of Parliament."

"He is your minister, sir," reminded Buckingham softly. "Not Parliament's. He holds office at your behest."

The king shrugged. "We will talk no more of it." He

gestured toward the musicians. "Let them play a galliard and we will dance."

Polly spent the entire evening in this select company, and she was under no illusions but that she was invited at Buckingham's request. He danced with her, plied her with refreshment, made every effort to ensure her comfort. She, in turn, trod the razor's edge between coquetry and commitment, so that he could never be sure exactly what she was promising. At the end of the evening, she refused his escort home, and he accepted the refusal with apparent grace.

"You would have me dance to an intricate tune, bud," he said with a wry smile, kissing her hand. "But I'll endeavor to learn the steps."

"You talk in mysteries, sir," Polly said as he handed her into her carriage. "But I must thank you for making my evening so enjoyable."

The carriage lurched forward, and she sank back against the squabs under a wash of exhaustion. Perhaps it would be simpler just to yield, play the part as it had originally been written for her. The thought made her shudder with revulsion. She closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if she were already in bed, if she did not have to go through the tiresome business of leaving this soothing, swaying darkness, of climbing the stairs, of undressing herself…

"Mistress Wyat." The coachman's insistent voice parted the mists of sleep, and she struggled up, heavy-limbed, to climb out of the carriage, heedless in her fatigue of the correct management of skirts and train. She dragged herself up the stairs, thinking wishfully that maybe Sue had waited up for her and would help her with her clothes. But she had not asked her to do so. Wearily she pushed open the parlor door and was shocked by a stab of dismay at the sight of Nick drowsing by the fire. She wanted to be alone tonight, alone with her exhausted body and overstretched mind, alone to find oblivion for the both, out of which would come the strength necessary for the morrow.

Nick came awake the moment she stepped into the room. "Y'are late, sweetheart." Smiling, he stood up, stretched, and came toward her.

"I had thought you intended staying at home this night." She stepped away from him as he would have reached for her, and headed for the door to the bedchamber.

"I have had warmer welcomes," Nick mused, following.

"Your pardon, but I am awearied beyond thought," she said shortly, reaching to loosen her hair from its pins. "If I do not find my bed instantly, I will be asleep on my feet."

"Then let me aid you." He came up behind her, reaching over her shoulders for the creamy swell of her breasts, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

She pushed his hands away with an impatient gesture that stunned them both. "I do not wish for that, Nick."

"Now, what the devil is this?" There was anger in his puzzlement, and he spun her round to face him, catching her chin, pushing her face up to meet his scrutiny.

"Oh, why will you not let me go to bed?" she cried, tears of frustration sparkling in her eyes. "I am just tired. I have been playing this wretched game all evening… I think you are right; it would be better if I surrendered to Buckingham-" Now, why had she said that? Why did words just say themselves sometimes?

"Nay," Nick said fiercely. "I'll not have that."

"Why not?" she demanded. "Until recently, you were quite prepared for it."

"That is true." Nick released her chin and ran his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically distracted gesture. "But I made an error in assuming that I could tolerate it."

"An error in assuming that we could be of service to each other?" Dear God, she had said it. She looked at him, aghast, searching his face for denial. But it was not there. He had gone very still, the emerald eyes shaded with the truth. The angry words of contradiction that she wanted to hear more than anything, this time did not come.

She turned away from him, cold and empty. "So it does

go back to the beginning, then. I did wonder." She shrugged. " 'Tis not important, 1 daresay. But I could wish you had been honest with me." With careful concentration, she began to unthread the freesias from her sleeve lace.

Nicholas searched for words. Had he been less than honest with her? He had intended to be, certainly; had intended to use her as an unwitting tool; but so far back, it was surely no longer relevant. He had not wanted her to draw the correct conclusion, though, to remember that long-ago statement. Now he must somehow find the way to put all right, to repair the shattered trust.

"Look at me, Polly," he said quietly.

Reluctantly, she did so. "Nick, I am too weary for this tonight. 'Tis not important." But the bleak misery in those hazel eyes gave the lie to the words.

"I am sorry, but it is important, and we will resolve it before we sleep." He knew now what had to be said and spoke with quiet determination. "It is true that in the very beginning I had thought-"

"That you had rescued a would-be whore who could be put to a whore's work to your advantage," she broke in flatly.

"That is the last time you will say such a thing with impunity," Nicholas told her, his voice as quiet and determined as ever. "It was you, if you recall, who first propounded the plan to find your way to the theatre via my bed. After which, as I remember, you were kind enough to inform me that if I no longer wished to be your protector, you would find another one." He noted her sudden confusion with some satisfaction. "It struck me at the time that your plan could very well mesh with my own. So yes, your present work with Buckingham was planned at the beginning of our association."

"Why did you not tell me?" she asked in a low voice.

"Because I thought the truth would hurt you, as it has. I have been on the rack!" He spoke now fiercely. "I had promised you to my friends long before I came to love you. I had made a commitment, one I could not in honor renege

upon. To ask for your cooperation seemed the only possible way of resolving such a dilemma. But I have never pressed you, have I?"

Polly shook her head in silence as she struggled to make sense of the confused tangle of thoughts and emotions twisting in her weary brain.

"Now, I want you to answer me honestly." Striding toward her, he took her chin again. "Loving you, I would never have asked this of you if I had not already, in another life, made the commitment. Is it not more unpleasant a thought that I might have decided you could serve our purpose after I came to love you? That, knowing your revulsion for Buckingham, I could callously demand of you that you share his bed?"

Polly swallowed. Why had she not thought of that? She had feared only manipulation from the beginning, had not questioned the kind of person who could cold-bloodedly conceive the use in such a fashion of one he purported to love.

"Answer me," he insisted, his fingers tightening on her chin.

"Aye, 'tis a much more repugnant thought," she murmured.

"Do you believe that I love you?"

She nodded.

"And have we done with this now?"

Again she nodded.

"And there's to be no more talk of whores and a whore's work."

Polly shook her head.

Nick smiled suddenly. "Lost your tongue, moppet?" he teased gently.

Polly returned the smile tremulously. The relief she felt could not be described. It was as if the weight of the world had rolled from-her shoulders. She knew now that she could manage this business with Buckingham, if not with a carefree heart, at least in businesslike fashion. It was simply a task that

she was supremely fitted to perform. That was all. It was perfectly simple.

She surrendered herself to the embrace that would provide shield and buckler against the hurts of the world, to the love that would render all arrows harmless, that would drain her of all but the promise of the morrow.