Venus

Chapter 16

Iwill not travel with Lady Margaret!" Polly repeated fiercely, for the tenth time in the last hour. Nicholas struggled to hang on to the remaining threads of temper and patience. "You cannot expect me to make two journeys, Polly. Do you really imagine I should leave you here, escort Margaret and the household to her brother in Leicestershire, then come back to take you to Wilton House?"

"I do not expect you to do anything," Polly said, her mouth stubborn. "I have asked nothing of you, have I? I understand that you have a duty to your family, but I am not a member of your family. Look after Lady Margaret, and I will make my own way to Wiltshire. I can go on the public stage." Turning her back to him, she looked out of the tight-shut window onto Drury Lane, languishing under a May heat wave fiercer than any other in living memory.

There were few people about; those there were walked in the middle of the street, well away from doorways and side streets where they might find themselves suddenly in contact with a fellow human being-one who might be distempered, even without his knowing it. They carried handkerchiefs soaked in vinegar pressed to mouths and noses, for it was said that one drew in death when one breathed.

She noticed that two more houses across the street bore the red cross and the scrawled letters of the only prayer left for the inhabitants to pray: Lord have mercy upon us. The watchman leaned against one of the doors, absently picking his teeth. A window opened above him; a head appeared. The watchman stood away from the door, looking up. Then, with a short nod, he went off up the street. To fetch the physician, perhaps, Polly wondered, or the nurse; not the dead cart yet; that would not start its rounds until nightfall, when the city would resound to the melancholy tolling of the bell, and the cry to "Bring out your dead."

Nick stood looking at her averted back as he fought with an anger fueled by desperation and fear. The longer they remained in this city-become-lazar-house, the more inescapable their fate. The court, anxious to get as far from London as possible, had moved from Hampton Court to the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, Wilton House, near Salisbury. People were fleeing the city in droves; he had an absolute family duty to ensure the safety of his sister-in-law and the household dependent upon him. And Polly was telling him that that duty did not encompass her.

If she were his wife… No, now was hardly the appropriate moment to bring up that particular matter. He had intended, once the wretched affair with Buckingham was dealt with, to tackle the question at leisure. It was a subject of some considerable complexity, involving as it would the inevitable, boundless opposition of his sister-in-law; questions of residence, both Margaret's and theirs; and not least his own unresolved difficulties with the idea of sharing his wife with the theatregoing public. It was hard enough for him to share his mistress with an outward show of equanimity-but the mother of his children! In the last weeks, however, all issues had become subsumed under a brutal and undiscriminating scourge. Death, and its avoidance, were the only relevancies at present.

"I am not asking you to travel in the same coach as Margaret." There was a frayed edge to his voice that warned Polly she was pushing against his outer limits. "You may

travel in your own vehicle, which, like Margaret's, will be under the protection of my outriders and postilions."

"And what about the stops we must make along the way?" demanded Polly, unable to understand how he could not see how impossible it would be for her. "Must I stay under the same roof, or will you scout the countryside each night for two suitable neighboring inns in which to house your-" She was about to say "whore" in imitation ot Lady Margaret, but caught herself in time. "Your mistress and your sister?"

Nicholas gave up the attempt to reason with her. "I will make what arrangements I deem necessary," he said. "If you oblige me to use torce to achieve your compliance, I will do so. But in such a situation you will find your position much more embarrassing than anything you fear at the moment, I can promise you."

"Dear me," came a quiet voice from the door. "I do beg your pardon for intruding, but matters must be serious if Nicholas is obliged to resort to threats." Richard stepped into the parlor, closing the door behind him. "I am come to bid you farewell. I leave for Wilton House this evening, and assume you will be gone yourselves without delay."

"I will not travel with Lady Margaret!" Polly cried in despair. "And Nicholas is going to make me! Can you imagine what it would be like, Richard?"

"Worse than being dead of the plague, I suppose," snapped Nick.

Richard frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "As usual, I suffer from the dvibious gift of seeing both sides. It would be wretchedly uncomfortable for you, Polly, but Nick cannot be in two places at once, and neither you nor Margaret can travel without his escort."

"I am quite willing to do so," muttered Polly, then her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands with inspiration. "Why cannot I travel with you, Richard? If you go to Wilton House, we may go together, and Nick can join us there once he has seen his sister-in-law safe with her brother."

There was a short silence, while Polly looked hopefully

between the two of them. "I would not be any trouble," she assured hesitantly.

Richard laughed. "My dear, I should enjoy your company. Will you entrust me with the charge, Nick?"

"If you are willing to take on such an intractable wench, then you have my blessing… and my condolences," replied Nicholas, his annoyance for the moment unabated. "If she has Susan with her, at least you will not be obliged to act as tiring woman!"

"Well, of all the things to say!" spluttered Polly, pink-cheeked. "As if I would ever-"

"You are capable of anything," Nick interrupted. "It was not so long ago you unilaterally decided I would make a suitable patron and proceeded to adopt me-quite without my say-so, as I recall."

"You are unjust," Polly accused, blushing furiously. "My patience is not inexhaustible, and you have tried it sorely," Nick retorted in explanation. "If you are to leave with Richard, you had best call Susan and get on with your packing."

"I will leave you to make peace." Richard, ever the diplomat, went to the door. "I will delay my departure until tomorrow sunup, Polly. Can you be ready by then?"

Polly assured him that she could, and the door clicked shut in his wake. She turned to Nick with a tentative smile. "I did not mean to try your patience, love. I do not wish to part bad friends, and you will be all of three weeks upon your journey." The smile hovered on her lips, the anxiety of an innocent unjustly accused swam in the deep forest pools of her eyes, her chin trembled, and her shoulders sagged a little. Nick groaned in defeat, reaching for her with ungentle hands.

On a glorious morning at the end of June, thoughts and images of a plague-ridden metropolis no longer sharply etched in mind and memory, Lord Kincaid and Mistress Wyat were riding through the fields skirting the park of Wil-

ton House. Polly was atop a broad-backed piebald of sluggish disposition. Her own disposition left much to be desired.

"I will not have my bridle held any longer!" Polly declared on a lamentably petulant note, plucking crossly at the leading rein, which her companion held loosely with his own. "You said you would teach me how to ride, not how to sit like a cabbage whilst you lead my horse."

"For as long as you sit like a cabbage, so shall I hold the leading rein," Kincaid said equably, waiting for the explosion. It came with predictable force.

"I do not sit like a cabbage-"

"Your pardon, Polly," he murmured. "I thought that was what I heard you say."

"You are detestable," she said with feeling. "I can make this stupid animal go forward and left and right and stop. When will you allow me to do it alone?"

"When I am satisfied that your seat is secure enough," he responded coolly. "You do not wish to fall off, do you?"

"I am not going to fall off," Polly muttered. "It is so mortifying! There is to be a hawking expedition on the morrow, and I would wish to go. But I cannot when you lead me like a baby."

" 'Tis your foolish pride that will prevent you," Nick said, with a touch of acerbity. "There is no reason to be abashed simply because you were not bred to horsemanship from childhood. You will be a good horsewoman, I promise you. But for the moment you are learning, and I am teaching you. So do as you are bid and cease this shrewish railing, else I abandon the task."

Polly glowered at him from beneath the wide brim of her black beaver hat. "I do not need this leading rein. I will prove it to you."

"Indeed you shall," Nick said soothingly. "By the end of the week, if we ride every day, you shall then show me exactly what you can do on your own."

Polly compressed her lips. She had no intention of waiting until the end of the week, and she had every intention of

joining the hawking expedition on the morrow-without another hand on her bridle.

They turned onto a broad ride running among majestic oaks, chestnuts, and copper beeches; the sun filtered through the leaves, dappling the mossy ground beneath the horses' hooves with dancing will-o'-the-wisps. The sound of voices drifted through the sultry air along the path ahead.

Polly pulled back on the piebald's reins; the stolid animal came to a puzzled halt, tensing his neck against the contrary tug of the leading rein.

"Now what is the matter?" Nick drew rein.

"Can you not hear the voices? 'Tis Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham," Polly whispered, trying to turn her mount, who became thoroughly confused by the conflicting instructions he was receiving from leading rein and bridle. "They are coming this way, and I will not be seen by them like this." She tugged again at the rein Kincaid held. "Lady Castlemaine never loses an opportunity to say something belittling, and I'll not put the weapon in her hand… Move, you stubborn, stupid animal!" Frantically, she urged the piebald to turn. Nick, grinning, provided the necessary encouragement with his own rein.

"Perhaps we had better try a canter," he said, still grinning, "If you've a mind to outdistance them." He set his own mount to a trot, and Polly's piebald reluctantly increased his speed. Nick did not ride his powerful chestnut during these hours of instruction, since Sulayman would have difficulty keeping his pace to the plodding of the animal his lordship had chosen for Polly, but even the calm mare he was riding today, once she got into her stride, threatened to outstrip the piebald lumbering into a reluctant canter on the mare's flank.

They broke through the trees into the open fields again. "Can we stop now?" Nick called over his shoulder, throwing her a teasing, glinting smile. "Have we removed ourselves far enough from the danger of mockery, or should we attempt a gallop?"

" 'Tis not funny," Polly expostulated, bouncing in the

saddle as her horse slowed abruptly, throwing up his head with a disgusted snort. "She would regale everyone this evening with the story, and I cannot abide the snickers." Her voice automatically took on the exact inflections of Lady Castlemaine's. "Why, my dear Mistress Wyat, how I admire your courage to take up horsemanship in this way." A trill, in perfect imitation of the countess, accompanied the statement, as she continued in the same voice, "I am too full of conceit, I fear, to expose myself by attempting to learn something in the company of those who cannot imagine what it would be like to be a novice. One is so inelegant, initially-"

"That'll do, Polly," Nick interrupted, although he was laughing. "Why should you imagine that people will mock you?"

"Have you not noticed, sir, how the female court follows where the countess leads in such matters?" Polly asked with asperity. "For some reason, ever since I arrived here, it has pleased my lady to make game of me when she can. I do not understand what I could have done to offend her."

Nick looked curiously at his companion. Had she really no understanding of the nature and workings of feminine jealousy? Surely she had to realize that a woman who commanded the admiration, bordering in some cases on besot-tedness, of practically every man who crossed her path was going to fall foul of her own sex. The Countess of Castle-maine was not alone in fearing that in these close quarters the beautiful young actor would attract the more than friendly eye of the king. At the moment, King Charles treated this young female member of his theatre company with an easy familiarity, akin to that shown her by Killigrew and De Winter. She responded with the natural unselfcon-sciousness that she exhibited to those others, and it was not hard to see that the king, accustomed to the flatterers and the overawed, was pleased with her, and found her company amusing. But Nicholas had the shrewd suspicion that it would go no further than that. King Charles was far too busy juggling the competing claims of Frances Stewart and Lady

Castlemaine to add to his seraglio one who would infuriate them both.

"The men do not make game of you," Nicholas said now, watching her. "Perhaps therein lies your answer."

Polly frowned. "Lady Castlemaine could not possibly be jealous of me. She is the wife of an earl and the king's mistress, while I am nothing. True, she does not know exactly how much of nothing I am, but unless she wished to be your mistress also, I cannot imagine why she should be envious." She offered him that mischievous, heart-stopping smile, and chuckled. "Of course, I could hardly blame her for wishing such a thing. You are a great deal more handsome than either the king or the Earl of Castlemaine. But I should tell you that I will not permit it. Should you succumb to blandishment, sir, you will take damaged goods to another's bed."

"Why, you ferocious shrew!" exclaimed Nicholas. "I had not thought you bloodthirsty!"

"Merely careful of mine own, my lord," she said sweetly. Then the laughter died from her eyes. "Methinks His Grace of Buckingham follows my Lady Castlemaine's lead. Since he arrived from his country estate two days ago, he has had barely a word for me, civil or otherwise. I have done as you said and behaved as if that last meeting had not occurred, but he has not forgotten it. I know it." She shivered in the warm summer air. "Have you marked the way he looks at me sometimes?"

Nicholas had, indeed, noticed the covert and still covetous gaze of His Grace resting upon Mistress Wyat, and it had certainly occurred to him that Buckingham had possibly not left the field. However, he could see no immediate cause for alarm. "I cannot imagine what he could do to harm you here," he said. "There are too many eyes upon him. Nay, he will have forgotten his annoyance by the autumn, I'll lay odds, if you continue to treat him with a purely social courtesy. He will find other fish to fry."

Polly shrugged in apparent acceptance of this reassurance. But she could not feel completely easy. Nick had arrived just

over a week ago, and until Buckingham's appearance, this country sojourn had proved delightful, apart from the needling of the king's mistress and her ilk, and Nick's infuriating intransigence over the matter of the leading rein. There was a constant round of entertainments-masques and dances, tennis matches, hunting and hawking-and she found herself taking inordinate pleasure in them all. Master Killigrew would occasionally put on an impromptu play for His Majesty's entertainment; then Polly was required to earn her place at court, but she did not find the earning at all arduous; much less so than on the stage at Drury Lane. And Nick, for all that he treated her with fashionable casualness when they were in public, never forwent an opportunity to be alone with her, as now.

While at night… Well, Polly smiled to herself. What went on behind the closed door of his bedchamber in the west wing of the house was no one's concern but theirs. If his lordship's man found Mistress Wyat tucked up in his lordship's bed of a morning, he was too discreet and well trained to betray a flicker of surprise. Polly secretly thought it ridiculous that she was obliged to keep pretense of using her own apartment, keeping her clothes in there, performing her toilet in absurd privacy. It seemed a most profligate waste of space, she felt, to have two rooms when only one was necessary. But such thrifty and practical considerations were bred in the crowded city slums, not in the lofty mansions of the rich.

Kincaid, although he accepted the Earl of Pembroke's hospitality at Wilton House, stabled his horses at an inn in the village, seeing no reason why they should be a charge upon his host, who was already put to great expense by the king's gracing him with his presence.

Polly was glad of this arrangement, since it ensured that the mortification of her riding instruction was kept between themselves and the stable lads at the inn. At her insistence, they rode off the beaten track, where encounters like the one they had just narrowly avoided would be unlikely. However, as they clattered into the stable yard at the inn and she ac~

cepted Kincaid's hand to dismount, she was firmly resolved that she had had her last ride in that manner. The piebald seemed as happy to be rid of her as she was to be of him, clopping off to his stable with the relieved air of one who had performed a tedious duty and could now look forward to his reward.

Polly strolled casually over to the stable block, her long, extravagantly pleated riding skirt caught up over one arm. Outside one box, she stopped, peering into the gloomy interior, where a fly buzzed monotonously, and the rich aroma of horseflesh, hay, and manure filled her nostrils. The inhabitant of the box came over to the door at an inviting click. "Good morrow. Tiny," Polly murmured, stroking the dainty creature's velvety nose, reaching 'round to run her hand over the sinewy neck, which arched in pleasure as the mare whickered and nuzzled into her palm. "I did not bring anything this day," Polly apologized. "But tomorrow I will."

"You commune with that animal as if she were possessed of tongues," Nick said, a laugh in his voice as he came up behind her.

"So she is, of her own kind," Polly returned serenely. "We understand each other, do we not, Tiny?"

The mare rolled thick, pink lips against her hand in answer and pawed her stable floor, liquid brown eyes glowing. "See?" said Polly. "How could she be clearer?"

"With difficulty." Nick smiled, reaching in to stroke the horse. "Next to Sulayman, she is my favorite."

"May I ride her?" Polly asked directly, shooting him a sideways glance.

Nicholas nodded immediately. "She will suit you very well when you are able to handle her. But she is a spirited filly. It will take an experienced pair of light hands to achieve mastery. Her mouth is too delicate for a curb, and her spirit will not take kindly to the whip."

"And you think my hands are sufficiently light?"

"If you will but listen to your instructor, and do as you are

bid, they will be so," he teased, twining around his finger a stray curl that had escaped her hat.

"I think you are overcautious, my lord," Polly declared.

"Impossible, when you consider what it is over which I exercise such caution," he answered solemnly, although his eyes glinted with humor. "I would not have a bruise mar that ivory skin."

"I am not unaccustomed to bruises," Polly pointed out.

"But not with me," he said, the gravity now genuine.

Polly inclined her head in smiling acceptance. "Nay, not with you. But I meant only that I am not so delicate that a tumble will spell disaster. If I am prepared to risk it, why are you not?"

"Because I am not." The pronouncement effectively closing the discussion, Nicholas turned to leave. "Do you return to the house with me, or will you stay and commune further with Tiny?"

"There is no need to be vexed." Polly walked beside him across the yard, out into the main street of the little village clustering at the gate of Wilton park.

"I have told you before that my patience is not inexhaustible. You are persistent as a wasp at the honeycomb."

"Then I will cease my buzzing," Polly declared cheerfully. "Shall you dress up for the masquerade tonight? I have it in mind to play a May Day milkmaid, with petticoats all tucked up and curls atumble. Think you t'will be pretty?"

Nicholas felt a flash of suspicion at this instant docility. He looked down at her, saw only the wide hazel eyes full of ingenuous question, her lips parted in a soft smile. He dismissed the suspicion as unworthy. Polly always capitulated with grace. "I can think of few costumes more delightful, moppet; particularly on you. But then, it matters little what you wear, as well you know. You enchant, regardless; hence my Lady Castlemaine's distemper."

"Well, I am determined not to allow her to trouble me anymore," Polly said, reaching up to adjust the starched folds of her cravat. "If the ladies will not talk with me, then I shall devote my attention to the gentlemen with good conscience.

Mayhap His Grace of Buckingham will accord me more than a cold nod." Brave words, she thought, but she must try to overcome these surely fanciful fears that every time she felt the duke's eyes upon her, he was contemplating the price that he had promised to find.

She was as good as her word that evening. Sue had entered with enthusiasm into the idea of a May Day milkmaid, and the two girls spent the afternoon adapting a daintily flowered cambric petticoat that Polly would wear over her smock, without gown or kirtle. The gardens yielded pinks, marigolds, and daisies, which Susan's nimble fingers entwined in the loose ringlets tumbling about the milkmaid's shoulders. ' 'Tis not a costume one would wear gladly in winter," Polly said with a chuckle, surveying herself in the glass. "I must go barefoot if I'm to play the part with accuracy."

"You would go barefoot before the king?" Sue, in the process of pinning up the skirt of the petticoat to reveal the shapely curve of calf and the neat turn of ankle, looked up, stunned at the idea of such brazen immodesty.

"I hardly think it is any the more indecent than appearing before the king in smock and petticoat," Polly said tranquilly, adjusting the neck of her smock with a critical frown. "Besides, His Majesty is hardly unfamiliar with the female form in various states of undress."

Sue giggled, in spite of her shocked disapproval at this irreverence. "Lor', PolJy, ye shouldn't say such things."

' 'Tis but the truth," her companion returned unargu-ably. "I am going to my lord's apartments to show myself before appearing below. If there is anything amiss, he will tell me so."

Her chamber, while it was smaller and less luxuriously appointed than Kincaid's, as befitted the anomalous position in the court hierarchy of an accredited mistress with no husband's status to define her own, adjoined his lordship's. Polly had exclaimed at this convenience, until Kincaid had pointed out dryly that the Earl of Pembroke's steward would be apprised of all relevant facts appertaining to his master's guests, and would make disposition accordingly. Such tactful dispo-

sition had converted a dressing room to Polly's bedchamber, enabling her to enter Kincaid's apartments through the connecting door. She did so now, with no more than a light tap to herald her arrival.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I did not realize you had a visitor. Shall I come back later?" She smiled at De Winter, resplendent in crimson satin embroidered with turquoise peacocks, sitting by the window sipping a glass of canary.

Nicholas, engaged in inserting a diamond pin in the heavy fall of lace at his throat, said easily, "Not a bit of it, sweetheart. We talk no secrets." He turned to examine her, and a smile spread slowly across his face. "What a bewitching jade you are. What think you, Richard?"

"That the knives will be sharpened to a fine keenness," De Winter said with open amusement. "You have courage, I will say that for you, Polly. There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth amongst your fair rivals when you appear in such fashion."

"Well, I do not care for that," Polly declared stoutly. "If I were to put ashes in my hair and clothe myself in sackcloth, it would not alter Lady Castlemaine's disposition toward me, so why should I care?"

"Why indeed," Richard agreed easily. " 'Tis such an ingeniously simple costume." He laughed in rich enjoyment. "I'll lay odds 'tis that that'll cause the most grief. Imagine how galling to have spent hours and fortunes and positive buckets of paint and mountains of powder, only to be out-; done by a milkmaid in petticoat, smock, and a few flowers."

"If you are not to wear shoes, you had best have a care where you put your feet," Nick said, rising and smoothing down his coat. "And what have you to say about mine own dress, mistress?" He cocked an eyebrow at her, turning slowly for her inspection.

"Magnificent!" Polly breathed, taking in the rich black satin with gold arabesques, the glint of diamond, the wink of silver on his shoes, the deep burnished auburn hair falling in heavy luxuriance to his shoulders, to lie in rich contrast against the dark cloth. The emerald eyes danced, seeming

even brighter against the somber black and gold of his suit. "You are a very prince." She stepped across the room, metal to his magnet, quite forgetting Richard's presence. Placing her palms against Nick's chest, she stroked the silky cloth with its raised golden decorations, then stood on tiptoe to place her smiling lips against his.

"A prince should have a princess as consort, not a milkmaid." Just as Baron Kincaid should have his baroness. The old, unbidden apprehension nibbled again at the edges of her present contentment. Again she quelled it, and fluttered her eyelashes against his cheek in a wicked little caress that brought his nerve endings to prickly arousal.

"That would depend upon the milkmaid." De Winter interrupted the play, rising to his feet with a deceptive laziness. "However, you shall descend upon my arm, Polly, not that of your prince."

"One must not wear one's heart upon one's sleeve," Polly said with an ironic smile. "But Buckingham knows where mine does not lie."

Richard's eyes met Nick's across the flower-strewn honeyed head. "Are you uneasy, Polly?" he asked quietly.

Everyone has a price. I will find yours. Oh, 'twas nonsense to be concerned about a remark made in the anger of chagrin. It had no place in this self-enclosed world, far removed from life's realities, from the monstrous terrors of a plague-stricken metropolis. In this world where the pursuit of pleasure and the fulfillment of desires of whatever kind were the only object, why would Buckingham concern himself with an old and private thwarting? Nick was right. The coldness would soon dissipate as other interests took over, and she would not have these two concerned about her sinister fancies.

"Indeed not, Richard." Polly spoke firmly. "What is there to be uneasy about? In truth, I prefer the duke's coldness to his attentions. I do not find that familiarity has lessened the repugnance I feel for him."

With a smile of sweet innocence, she dropped De Winter a curtsy. "Are you sure, my lord, that you are not paying me

too much attention? After all, I arrived here under your escort, and I am as often upon your arm as upon Nick's."

"Jackanapes! You are going to make a very bad end," Richard declared with feeling, taking her hand and laying it upon his arm. "Strive for a modicum of conduct, if you please."

Polly gave him a smile glinting with mischief before glancing over her shoulder at Nicholas, dropping one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink that brought a shout of laughter from him.

"Be off," he said. "We will dance the coranto later, if you can remember the steps."

"If you, my lord, will promise not to tread upon my toes," she said, wriggling one bare foot pointedly; on which Parthian shot, she left him still searching for rejoinder, herself well satisfied that she had dissipated that moment of tension.

Her entrance, as had been predicted, caused no small stir. "What a rustic simplicity, mistress!" trilled Lady Castle-maine. "But one must have the simplicity of mind to accompany such a costume."

"Indeed, the least sophistication and one would look perfectly ridiculous," concurred Lady Frobisher, fanning herself vigorously.

"You are too kind, my ladies." Polly sank into a deep obeisance, each movement in the sequence radiating insolence. "I am most complimented that my poor performance should be so convincing."

Richard De Winter, shoulders shaking, left her in the vixens' den, confident that she could hold her own. However, she was not to be left there for long. A liveried footman appeared at her shoulder, bearing the king's summons.

Polly, smiling around the circle of ladies, excused herself. King Charles was sitting in a carved chair at the far end of the state drawing room. "I'faith, but 'tis a deuced pretty child y'are," he declared, radiating bonhomie. "I'll have a kiss, God save.me." Seizing her hands, he pulled her down upon the royal lap, embracing her with hearty enthusiasm.

Polly, emerging somewhat breathless from her sovereign's

lusty salute, forced herself to laugh and flutter as if quite overset. In truth, she was a trifle overcome, never having conceived of the moment when she would receive attentions of this intimate nature from England's monarch. But knowing how easily bored the king could become, she recovered rapidly. Plucking a marigold from her hair, she placed it in his buttonhole with a delicate blush and a pretty smile.

"A gift in return, sire."

The sally earned her another kiss, and when she made a move to rise from his knee, King Charles circled her waist with a restraining arm. "Nay, my bud, I'll have your company a while longer. Such a sweet weight as it is." Laughing in great good humor, he took a perfumed comfit from the bowl on the table beside him and popped it between her lips.

For half an hour Polly sat upon his knee as he plied them both with sweetmeats, and his hands strayed just a little, and he engaged her in a risque exchange that required all her wits. A circle of admiring courtiers surrounded them, laughing heartily at each sally, complimenting Polly on her wit, her dress, her beauty, in faithful recitation ot their king. All the while, Polly was conscious of the darting venom directed at her from Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine, who stood just outside the circle.

"A consummate performer, is she not, Barbara?" George Villiers took snuff, smiling with a hint of malice at his cousin. "Think you she is enjoying her present position?"

"How could she not be?" snapped the king's mistress, betrayed into a display of genuine emotion.

"You, madame, are a fool if you believe that," Villiers said lazily. "She cannot wait to be released."

"She is a conniving whore!" spat Barbara. "But if she thinks to worm her way into the king's bed, she must think again."

"Fear not, my dear. The king has no intention of any such thing. He has mistresses enough to plague him," laughed Villiers. "Or so he says to me. A quick and careless tumble, maybe, but only if the jade were eager." He paused, looking thoughtfully at the scene. "I do not believe she is."

Lady Castlemaine regarded him with interest. "What of your pursuit of the milkmaid, George? You were mighty hot upon it, as I recall."

Villiers shrugged easily. "I have yet to find the right price in the right currency." A smile flickered on his lips, a smile that did nothing to lighten his countenance. "But the little trollop shall pay the cost of arrogance in full measure; be assured of that, Barbara. You shall yet enjoy her downfall."

Lady Castlemaine shivered slightly at the clear menace in the soft tones. "What has she done to you, George, that you would promise me such a thing?"

The duke placed his palms together, hinged his thumbs beneath his chin, and reflectively tapped his forefingers against his mouth, his narrowed eyes fixed on the king and the figure upon his knee, swinging her bare feet with apparent insouciance. "With Kincaid's connivance, the silly child thought to make game of me. For that I shall rub her exquisite little nose in the dirt," he responded, for once revealing his true colors without adornment. "And I shall ensure that Kincaid knows every detail of his mistress's degradation. Thus, quite simply, shall I be revenged upon them both." Then he laughed. "Pray excuse me, cousin." He bowed and sauntered over to the group around the king.

"Do you join the hawking on the morrow, Mistress Wyat?" He addressed Polly, who, having just earned her release from the royal embrace, was standing beside the king's chair, waiting for the nod that would give her permission to leave his presence.

It was a pleasant enough question; the tone had even a hint of warmth, Polly noticed. But for the moment she had thought only for the fact that the question suited her own purposes. She glanced surreptitiously at Nicholas, who had appeared, it seemed, from nowhere. "I think no, Your Grace," she said. "I am not overly fond of leaving my bed at such an early hour."

The duke turned to Nicholas. "And you, Kincaid. Do you leave your bed early enough to join us?"

Without a flicker, Nick inclined his head. "I cannot imag-

ine what could provide competing pleasure, Buckingham. I shall certainly attend. I've a new gerfalcon to fly."

The conversation turned rapidly onto matters of falconry, and Polly made her escape, well satisfied with Nick's response to Buckingham's goading. Of course, she had provided them with the cues, and with complete intention. She had hoped to discover without the question direct whether Nick would go ahawking in the morning, and she had also hoped to encourage him to do so, since she had every intention of surprising him with her own presence. Buckingham's question had left him with little option but to respond as he had. The rest was up to her. A little ingenuity and careful timing were all that was required.