Venus

Chapter 19

They came for Lord Kincaid that same night, in the hour before dawn when the spirit is at its lowest ebb and the night's chill at its most pervasive.

The hammering at the street door, the bellowed "Open in the name of the king!" brought casements flung wide the length of Drury Lane, and Goodman Benson, in nightcap and gown, hurrying from his bed, shivering with fear and cold, to draw back the bolts.

The lieutenant pushed past him, a troop of six soldiers at his back. "We are come for Lord Kincaid. Where is he to be found?"

Benson, quivering like an aspen leaf, pointed abovestairs, unable to find his voice in the face of this terrifying visitation.

The lieutenant, hand on sword, mounted two steps at a time, flinging open the door to the darkened parlor. He crossed the empty room, threw wide the door to the bedchamber. "My Lord Kincaid?" he demanded into the darkness, his soldiers crowding at his back.

Nick had heard the banging, had had time to recognize what was about to happen, but not to prepare himself. Now he reached for flint and tinder, lighting the candle beside the bed. Polly had sat up, her eyes wide in incomprehension, her

tumbled hair doing little to conceal her breasts as the quilt fell to her waist.

The intruders' eyes, as one pair, became riveted upon that creamy, rose-tipped perfection. Nicholas took hold of the cover and drew it up. "You have need of this," he said quietly. "To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?" An eyebrow quirked in sardonic question.

"You are Lord Kincaid?" The lieutenant approached the bed, one hand still on his sword hilt, although the man in the bed was both naked and unarmed.

"The very same," Nicholas said with an ironic bow of his head.

"What is happening?" Polly found her voice at last, clutching the sheet to her neck as she stared at a scene that smacked of a Bedlamite's lunacy.

"Hush, sweetheart," Nick commanded, gently but with authority. "You are to say nothing at all."

"I bear a warrant for your arrest, my lord," intoned the lieutenant. "You are to be committed to the Tower, there to await impeachment."

"On whose authority?" asked Nick, still quiet.

"His Grace the Duke of Buckingham signs the warrant in the king's name," came the answer, promptly.

"And the charge?"

"Treason, my lord."

Polly gasped. "But that is-"

"Hold your tongue!" Nicholas snapped. "May I see the warrant, Lieutenant?"

Polly subsided, realizing that she must sit still, and watch and listen. Only thus could she perhaps find a clue to this mystery. Surely it was a mistake; Nick would read the warrant and laugh, because it was meant for some other Lord Kincaid. But she knew that there was no mistake, and when Nick, having perused the document, handed it back without a word, the little cold space in her heart began to expand until she felt a great, terrifying emptiness.

"Will you grant me privacy to dress, Lieutenant?" Nicho- j

las asked politely. "If you await me in the parlor, I will join you in a few moments."

The soldier's eyes went to the casement. "You have my word," Nicholas said.

One could not refuse to take the word of a gentleman. "Very well, my lord." The lieutenant clicked his spurs together, spun on his heel, and left the bedchamber, his cohorts following.

"I do not understand what is happening," Polly whispered. "What is this of treason?"

"If I knew, I would be better able to form a defense," Nicholas said, swinging out of bed. "But 'tis my own fault."

"How so?" Polly sat watching him dress, in thrall to a confused terror that numbed her like the poisonous bite of a spider. The world she thought she knew was disintegrating, and she could not seem to do anything to hold it together.

"I had foreseen this, but dallied overlong," Nick said bitterly, buckling his sword belt. "Because I did not understand it, I did not believe in the urgency. I should have left London last week."

"But why?" Desperately, she still sought for a kernel of understanding. "What will they do to you, love?" Kneeling on the bed, she stretched out her hands toward him. "They will realize it is a mistake, and then you will come back. That is how it will be, isn't it?"

Nicholas looked at the huge eyes in the pale face, beseeching him with the dark, haunted terror of a small animal in a trap. He took the outstretched hands, folding them in his own, holding them to his breast. "You must go to De Winter and tell him of this. He will know how best to protect you. Tell him that the warrant bears Buckingham's signature. I know not how I have fallen foul of the duke, but it is certain sure that therein lies my offense."

Polly listened to the calm instructions, felt the warm strength of his hold, and heard again in memory Buckingham's voice: "Everyone has a price. I will find yours, make no mistake." How naive she had been to imagine that, having played with her a little at Wilton House, he considered

his revenge well taken. He had told her as plainly as he could that he had found her price-the incalculable value of love.

Premonition took on a dread shape; what had been only specter solidified. Nick's voice, softly urgent, continued to reach her across the gray wasteland of knowledge, telling her that she must not lose courage, that he had friends aplenty who would work in his cause, that in these friends they must both trust, because, once lodged in the Tower, Nick could not act on his own behalf; until the charges were made clear when he was impeached, he could formulate no detense.

An imperative knock came at- the bedchamber door. Nick kissed her-a short, hard tarewell-and released her hands, pulling the quilt around her shoulders. "Do not lose courage, sweetheart. In that you must not fail me," he said, the deep green eyes holding hers. "And you must trust Richard. He will look after you."

"My lord?" The door opened, and Nick turned to face the lieutenant.

"I am ready." He reached for his cloak.

"I must ask you to surrender your sword, my lord," the lieutenant said in wooden accents.

Nick's hesitation was barely perceptible; then, an enigmatic smile playing over his lips, he drew forth his sword, presenting it with a bow, hilt first, to his guard. At the door, he looked over his shoulder to where Polly still knelt, wrapped in the quilt. He could feel the coldness of her hands in his, the stark terror that rendered her motionless, and he could not bear to abandon her in such a plight. He took a step back to the bed. The lieutenant laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Nick, with a violent curse, flung the hand away. The lieutenant drew his sword, and Polly in that instant returned to her senses.

She tumbled off the bed, clutching the quilt, the life again glowing in her eyes as her blood began to flow hot and fast. "I will not lose courage, love," she said, her voice strong. Tripping over the quilt in her haste, she ran toward him. "You must not think of me. You require all your thoughts and energies for yourself." She turned to the lieutenant, her

chin lifting as she looked him in the eye, her voice icily scornful. "Put up your sword, sir. It is not meet to draw it against an unarmed man and a woman."

Nicholas relaxed. "Bravo, sweetheart," he approved softly. "You will do as I bid you?"

"Aye," she said strongly. "Fear naught for me." Ignoring the guard, who, having sheathed his sword, was now shifting his booted feet impatiently, she reached up to kiss Nick. "I will see you back soon, my love."

He left then; it was not a farewell to be prolonged, for all that in the bleak recesses of his soul he knew that it could be the last.

Polly flew to the parlor window, looking down into the dark street, where a closed, unmarked carriage awaited. The escort and his prisoner climbed in, the troop mounted their horses, and the sinister procession set of in the direction of the Tower, from whence so many never returned. For one dreadful minute she saw the scaffold on Tower Hill, the executioner with his ax, heard the crowds laughing and jeering, come to see the sport; Nick, his hair tied back, shirt collar loosened, laying his bared neck upon the block. That paralyzing terror threatened again. This was not a world where one could rely on justice. Justice was an instrument of putty to be bent and shaped by those who possessed the power. George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, possessed that power.

The terror receded, a cold, clear purpose taking its place. She would consult with Richard first, because that was what Nick had bidden her do. But if De Winter would not agree to support her when she did what she knew had to be done, then would she play the game alone.

She dressed rapidly, then hastened down the stairs. The Bensons appeared from the back of the house as she laid her hand upon the latch. "Where've they taken my lord?" quavered Goodman Benson, his face waxen in the light of the candle that wavered in his shaking hand.

"To the Tower," Polly said shortly. "Ye've no need for fear. 'Tis no great matter, and will be soon sorted."

"But he was ta'en in our house," moaned the goodwife, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief, her nightcap askew on the thin gray curls. " Tis us they'll come fer next."

"You talk foolery," Polly snapped, understanding their fear but having little time for it. "Ye'll not be traduced. Why should the Duke of Buckingham concern himself with the likes of you?"

Indeed, neither of the Bensons could think of a single reason, and some of the anxiety faded from the faces still raised, half in appeal, half in anger, toward their lodger without whom this dread happening would not have occurred.

Polly could not stay for further discussion. She left them by the stairs, going out herself into the cold and the gray gloom of a winter dawn. Richard lived in a fine house in St. Martin's Lane. It took her no more than ten minutes before she was hammering on the great knocker, caring not if she woke the dead.

The bolts scraped back, and a sleepy footboy stood, indignant, in the doorway, rubbing his hands in the icy air. j "What business d'ye have at this hour?"

"Business with my Lord De Winter," Polly announced briskly, pushing past him into the hall. "Pray tell him at once that Mistress Wyat desires speech with him."

The footboy looked as if he was about to take issue with this peremptory and outrageous demand, but Richard, alerted by Polly's vigorous knocking, appeared on the stairs, a warm furred nightgown drawn close about him against the early morning chill.

"Why, Polly! What's amiss, child?" Quickly, he came down to the hall. "No, you shall tell me in my parlor. Lad, kindle the fire, then bring hot milk to the parlor!" He snapped his fingers at the bemused boy, who scampered off in obedience. "You are chilled to the bone. Have you walked from Drury Lane?"

"Aye," Polly said, a hint of impatience in her voice. "There is not time for fires and hot milk, sir-"

"There is ample time for both, child," Richard inter-

rupted calmly. "You will learn as you grow older that very little cannot wait upon hot milk and a fire."

"But they have taken Nick!" Polly cried.

"Yes, it was to be expected. But wait until we are private to tell me the manner of it."

Polly yielded. She had not the strength to batter against the wall of De Winter's calm impassivity. "You expected it?" She allowed him to lead her into the small, booklined parlor at the back of the house, where a fire now blazed in the hearth.

"Aye, but we miscalculated. We had thought to discover what lay behind Nick's fall into disfavor, and thus hoped to circumvent it." Richard tapped his fingers on the carved wooden mantel, staring down into the fire. "He is imprisoned in the Tower?"

"Yes." Polly sat wearily on a leather-covered stool beside the fire. "They took him but a half hour since. He said-" She broke ofF as the door opened to admit the lad with a steaming pitcher and two mugs, which he set on the table.

"That be all, m'lord?"

"For the moment," Richard said, strolling over to the table. He poured hot milk into one of the mugs, then added brandy from the decanter. "Drink this, Polly. 'Twill put the heart back in you."

She took the drink, warming her chilled hands on the mug, then, between grateful sips, told the tale, carefully repeating Nick's words.

"So we must lay this at Buckingham's door," Richard mused when she had finished. "Why?"

He looked shrewdly at Polly, sitting upon the stool, hands still clasped around the mug, a strange expression on her set face. "Ye've some light to shed on this, Polly?"

"I think so," she said.

"How so?" He waited, curious to hear what this exquisite creature could have to say. She had shown herself quickwitted in the past, possessed of an eye and an ear for the important, the ability to select from a mass of information and impressions that which was salient.

"The Duke of Buckingham promised… nay, threatened that he would find my price," Polly told him, staring fixedly into her mug. "It would appear that he has done so."

De Winter whistled softly. "You think he would have Nick accused for such a reason?"

Polly shrugged. "I am certain of it. Let me tell you what transpired between us at Wilton House."

Richard heard her out in attentive silence, then spoke firmly. "Buckingham is a cunning bastard, my dear. A great deal more cunning than you." He leaned forward to poke the fire. "I would have you do nothing until I have had a chance to smell the wind. It may be that you are mistaken, that this is nothing, that the king will lose interest and will be persuaded to rescind the order-"

"And while we wait for such an illusion to take shape, Nick languishes in the Tower, in God knows what conditions!" Polly interrupted, impassioned, leaping to her feet. "Tread softly, lest ye rouse the devil! Is that it, my lord?"

"It seems to me that the devil is already roused," Richard said dryly. "Moderate your tongue. Nick may allow you uncommon license in your badgering, but I will not."

Polly flushed and resumed her seat. The rebuke, as had been intended, served to bring under control the sudden surge of panic that had led to her outburst.

Richard permitted himself a smile, lifting her chin. "I understand your fear. Indeed, I share it. But nothing will be gained without due thought and care. Trust me."

"I do." Polly offered a wry smile. "But I should warn you that I will act on my own if you will not assist me."

"That were foolish in you. I will not deny you assistance, but I ask that you let me do what I can first."

Polly looked into the calm, strong face. Richard would have no chivalrous scruples about permitting her to make whatever sacrifice she chose, if that was the only path open to them. Had he not already asked such a thing of her? But beside his deep and abiding friendship for Nicholas, he also had a fondness for her. She could count on him to behave

with pragmatic realism, but he would take no unnecessary risks.

"Very well," she agreed. "But you will not ask me to wait overlong?"

He shook his head. "How should I? But Nick would prefer that you not make this sacrifice, so let us see if we can obviate the necessity."

"He must not know," Polly said. "If it is necessary, he must never know of it."

Oh, the naivete of the young, thought Richard. But he would not enter that murky arena-not yet, at least. "Now, listen carefully, Polly. You must, for the moment, behave as if you are quite unaffected by this. Puzzled, certainly, but not unduly disturbed. You can always find another protector, can you not? That is what the world must think."

"Yes." She nodded. "The play must go on, must it not?"

"Good girl." He released her chin. "Go to the theatre and give the performance of your life. Can you do that?"

"Of course," she said simply, getting to her feet. " 'Tis to be Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. I shall be the most wicked, defiant Margarita imaginable, and hint to the entire playhouse that, like Margarita, I conduct my love affairs where I choose, accepting no man's authority-be he husband or keeper; and the absence of my keeper at the king's pleasure makes little difference to my roving eye. We will see what my lord duke makes of that." Then the spark faded from her eye, the challenge from her voice. "Can you discover if Nick wants for anything, Richard?"

"He'll be lodged as a lord, child. He will not suffer discomfort."

"But 'tis a dark and gloomy place, the Tower." Polly shuddered. "Damp with the river slime, and lonely, with only the ravens for company."

"He'll have the governor for company," Richard reassured. "And they'll not put him to the torture without cause; which cause must be declared for all to hear."

Polly's pallor increased, and Richard realized with annoyance that he had planted a thought hitherto not conceived.

"Be not afeard," he said swiftly. "We will not permit such a thing."

"I wonder how you would prevent it," she said in dull truth. "I would sell my soul to Buckingham first."

Richard, for once, had no answer, but he bade her wait beside the fire while he dressed; then he would escort her home, where she should try to repair the broken night.

That afternoon Buckingham sat in his box at the king's house and watched her performance with cold admiration. He had been given a detailed account of the dawn events at the lodging in Drury Lane; he knew that Kincaid's mistress had not reacted to his arrest with equanimity. Yet here she was, investing the part of the amorous, designing Spanish heiress, intent on cuckolding a foolish husband, with such flagrant provocation as to make it a challenge to every man in the audience. It was almost as if she herself were saying, you may have me if I choose to be had, but let no man think to rule me. It was a clear statement that the abrupt removal of her present protector-a piece of gossip on everyone's lips-was not causing her any grave unease.

Thomas Killigrew, better attuned to the actor's skills, sensed the brittle edge to the performance. It was an edge that sharpened her act, but increased its fragility. It would take little to fragment the coherence of the part she played, and he found himself biting his lip in anxiety, for once feeling the play drag as he wished it to a speedy conclusion before disaster struck. It was not a wish shared by the audience, who were responding with gusts of laughter and shouts of encouragement when Leon revealed himself as far from the fool Margarita had believed him, and set about the task of bringing his errant wife to heel.

Polly alternately appealed to and challenged the spectators until they did not know what outcome they wanted in this particular duel of the sexes. Edward Nestor, as Leon, had no doubts at all and played better than he had ever done, a fact duly noted by Killigrew. One of Polly's great attributes was

her ability to bring out the best in her fellow players. However, it was with a deep sigh of relief that Thomas heard the epilogue spoken.

As Polly came off the stage, the strain of the act she had just put on showed clear in her eyes, in the tautness of her mouth, the tension in her body. Thomas called her, and she came over to him, expecting his usual words of approval and the inevitable constructive criticism. "How often do you think you can do that?" he demanded bluntly.

"I do not know what you mean." She found herself avoiding his eye. "Was there something wrong? They did not think so, at all events."

"You know well what I mean. It is because of Nick, is it not?" He laid a compassionate hand on her arm.

"I will not let you down, Thomas," she said, ignoring the question. "If that is your concern, you may rest easy."

"My concern is for you. You will not be able to continue at such a pitch ot desperation for very long. You will break, and you will take everyone down with you."

"I will not fail you," she reiterated. "I have matters well in hand, Thomas."

It was a statement that Thomas had some difficulty accepting, but before he could say anything, a noisy, laughing, chattering throng of courtiers, the Duke of Buckingham at their head, came into the tiring room, exclaiming and congratulating, waving perfumed handkerchiefs in emphasis, quizzing Polly through monocles as they called her a wicked jade, a sorceress who knew too well how to enslave the poor male with her charms and her wit.

Polly smiled, disclaimed prettily, flirted with accomplished ease, and gave them exactly what they wanted, except that she singled out no one for a special smile or unspoken promise. Suggestions were made, some overt invitations, but she deflected them all, conscious all the while of the unwinking scrutiny of Buckingham, who did not add his own voice to the chatter, but seemed to be watching her for something. It required every last effort to keep her voice from faltering, her smile from vanishing as if it had never been. It was as if

he were deliberately trying to disconcert her, and when, involuntarily, her eyes met his, she saw there a cold satisfaction, a quiet calculation that pierced her facade as if it were gossamer, revealing the naked vulnerability of her love.

He smiled lazily, drawing out an enameled snuffbox from the deep pocket of his gold-embroidered coat. "You will sup with me this evening, Mistress Wyat." It was the first time he had spoken, and there was no question mark. He took a pinch of snuff on his wrist, not taking his eyes off Polly.

Polly felt a great stillness fill her, a cool space surround her, as if she stood alone on the edge of an uncharted, horizonless sea. Richard had said she was to do nothing until he had had time to do what he could. But then, they had not expected the duke to move so quickly. She looked into the cold eyes, saw again the power of his lust and now the knowledge of its imminent satisfaction. Somehow she forced a smile as if she had not seen those things. "Nothing will give me greater pleasure, my lord duke."

He bowed. "I will send my carriage for you at nine o'clock." Then he walked away, leaving Polly's admiring court to exclaim at his good fortune and to complain at the lady's hard heart that would not unbend for them.

Polly walked alone back to her lodging. Richard had said he would spend the evening at court, where he would learn what he could. He would not wait upon her until the following day, by which time her assignation with Buckingham would be a thing of the past, and recriminations pointless. Richard never engaged in pointless exercises.

Her apartments carried a desolate air, a bleak loneliness in the two rooms once so cozy, so redolent with love's warmth and laughter. Susan appeared stunned, unable to comprehend the extent of the disaster that had come from the blue to shatter the orderly world to which she was accustomed. She could think only of how this would affect the plan to establish herself and Oliver in Yorkshire, and Polly was hard-pressed to bite her tongue. But she knew that Susan had to focus upon something in order to make some sense of things, and the matter that concerned her most nearly was the obvi-

ous choice. So she let the girl moan and bewail and speculate while she helped Polly with an elaborate toilet designed both to indicate to Buckingham that she was unbowed by events, and to convince herself of that fact.

She wore a gown of ivory satin, looped up at the sides to reveal a rose damask petticoat edged with lace, stiffly encrusted with seed pearls. The long train of the gown swept behind her; her hair was piled artfully on top of her head, the knot contained by a delicate filigree coronet; this headdress and a pair of high-heeled satin pumps added to her stature-a prop sorely needed by the actor this night. The string of perfect pearls that Nicholas had given her as a belated eighteenth birthday present were clasped around her neck, and she drew strength from them as if from a talisman. They bore his spirit, and nothing that Buckingham could do or say would defile that.

Yet when the carriage arrived at the door on the stroke of nine o'clock, the sweat of fear broke out on her brow, and nausea tugged at her belly, loosened her gut. She drew on lace-edged gloves over her clammy, shaking hands, and Sue draped her velvet-lined cloak about her shoulders.

It was simply an attack of stage fright, she told herself, descending the stairs. She was accustomed to such attacks, knew just how to deal with them. She was about to go onstage; once there, all fear would disappear, because she would no longer be Polly Wyat, who could be afraid, but someone else for whom fear was a stranger and an irrelevancy. But while she sat in the carriage with the Buckingham arms emblazoned upon the panels, she was still Polly Wyat, miserably afraid, and there was no Master Killigrew waiting in the wings, sending out his support and encouragement.

The carriage came to a stop all too soon; the door opened, the footstep was lowered, and Polly stepped out. Only then did she realize where they were. This was not the Duke of Buckingham's mansion in the Strand. It was Covent Garden, and she was standing at the door of one of the most notorious bawdy houses in the Piazza. That door was

opened, and a servant stood there, clearly bidding her entrance. She could refuse, turn and walk away from here in her elegant gown of a lady of the court, behaving as if her costume were an accurate reflection of the person it clothed; or she could go inside to perform her whoring with the rest of the house's occupants. She had come here to sell her body. How and where the buyer chose to conduct the purchase was up to him.

Well, at least her role had been defined for her from the outset. There were to be no polite pretenses. She could play the harlot as well as any other character-probably better, since she had been bred to play it from puberty. With a cold detachment, Polly gathered up her skirt and entered the house.

The servant closed the door. Polly stood for a minute as the sounds of the house enveloped her. There were giggles, and squeals, loud male laughter, the smack of flesh upon flesh, scurrying feet, slamming doors.

The servant leered, looking in open speculation at her dress and bearing. Polly returned the look with one of haughty derision. "Is it too much to ask that ye cease your gaping and take me to my host?"

The man's jaw dropped, but he gestured toward a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the hall. "This-a-way."

Polly followed him to an upper landing. A man, wig askew above a face glistening and scarlet with drink, his clothing in a state of considerable disarray, emerged from a chamber, laughing as he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He, too, gawped at Polly as if he could not quite believe his eyes. Polly allowed her gaze to roam insolently down his body before she looked up in scorn, as if finding him wanting. His color heightened; he took a step toward her, whether in menace or interest, Polly did not stay to discover.

Her escort led her down a narrow corridor to pause outside a door at. the far end. It was quieter in this part of the house, the floor no longer bare but covered with a canvas carpet, the candles in the sconces wax, not tallow. The man

tapped on the door, then opened it, standing aside for Polly to enter.

"My lord duke, what novel surroundings," she said, sweeping past the servant, allowing her train to swirl around her in a pool of ivory satin.

Buckingham was standing beside the hearth, a glass of ruby claret in his hand, an expression of anticipated amusement on his face. At her crisp greeting, the amusement faded somewhat. "Brothels and whoring partner each other remarkably well," he said, softly insulting. "I had thought you would find such surroundings more comfortable."

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows lifted. "How considerate of you, my lord duke." She looked around the chamber with every appearance of interest. It reminded her of the room at the Dog tavern where she had taken the gulls and undressed for them. It was cleaner, certainly, more comfortable, but it reeked of its purpose, as had the other chamber. If it had not been for Nicholas, she would have been whoring for pennies in that room, when Josh was not taking payment in kind for her keep. And no doubt she would have died of the plague, and any misbegotten bastards with her.

Life came full circle sometimes. She would do now what would have been forced from her, if fate had not intervened. The Polly of the Dog tavern had many strengths, and knew how to overcome the degradation, how to distance herself from assaults. All she had to do was to rediscover that Polly- the one Buckingham did not know had ever existed, the one Nicholas had spent so much loving care on obliterating.

"Shall we discuss terms, Your Grace?" Her hands went to the clasp of her cloak, but Buckingham forstalled her.

"Allow me." He eased the manteau from her shoulders, laying it with great care over a chair back. "A glass of wine, perhaps?"

"Thank you." Her hand was perfectly steady as she took the glass, and she was aware of a distance between herself and this man who was going to torment her if he could. But he would not be able to, because he did not know that Nick's Polly was not in this room. Here was a street-hardened tav-

ern wench, accustomed to blows and curses, well able to hold her own in a world informed by brutality and degradation-a world in which such a place as this was utterly familiar. If he did but know it, His Grace had done her some considerable favor by this initial humiliation. It made the role much easier to carry.

"Why should you imagine, Mistress Wyat, that you are in a position to discuss terms?" the duke now said, returning to the fire, leaning one arm negligently along the mantel, regarding her with that same air of amused interest, as one who waited for the entertaining antics of a creature in a circus, obliged to perform to his piping.

Polly sipped her claret. "Indeed, Your Grace, should you choose to take from me whatever you wish without my consent, there is none to say you nay." She looked around the room. "The door is not locked, but I am sure that if I chose to run from you, there would be those to stop me." She walked over to the window, drawing aside the curtain to look down onto the bustling Piazza, where the full gamut of fleshly pleasures and perversions was for sale. "I did not have to enter this house. But you knew that I would, since you appear to have discovered my price." She turned and smiled at him over her glass. "Rape might appeal to you in some instances, my lord duke, but I'd hazard that you want more than that from me."

Buckingham pulled at his chin, regarding her now thoughtfully, quite without amusement. He had expected abject fear, pleading for her lover, and finally the desperate acceptance of the terms he would dictate. Instead, she was standing there telling him that she understood the game and was prepared to play it.

"No," he said, pushing himself away from the mantel. "Rape has limited appeal, although I might choose to fabricate it at some point in our acquaintanceship."

"Your terms, duke."

"Can you not guess, mistress? You seem remarkably perspicacious." He strolled over to the long deal table against

the far wall and tore off a chicken leg from the bird resting on a humble pewter platter. "Will you not sup?"

"I find I have no appetite." She took his vacated place at the fire. "Perhaps I should tell you my own terms." She waited for a response, but Buckingham gnawed on his chicken leg, offering neither invitation nor denial. "You may have me, Duke. In exchange, I will have, now, the order for Lord Kincaid's release from the Tower, and the dismissal of all charges, either stated or predicated, against him; the document to be written by you, signed and sealed, and given to me before we commence whatever play you have in mind."

Buckingham smiled. "The play I have in mind, bud, will be of seven nights duration, here in this chamber. I will have from you your willing-nay, eager-participation." The smile broadened, and the banked fires of lust flared for a second in the eyes resting upon her face. "Any hesitancy to comply with my wishes, the hint of a refusal to accede to my demands, will nullify the bargain. You will come at this time every evening for seven days, returning to your lodgings in the morning."

So there it was. Polly forced herself to meet his searching gaze without flinching. She must lend herself to whatever quirks this man's notoriously dark lust might produce. A whore's work-no more than that. "What guarantee do I have that you will keep your side of the bargain?"

For some strange reason such an aspersion seemed to catch him on the raw. "You have the word of a Villiers!" he snapped, losing his equilibrium for a second.

Polly raised an ironic eyebrow. "Your pardon, my lord duke, I meant no slur upon your honor. How should I, indeed?" She paused for a minute, but the duke had himself well in hand again, so she continued calmly. "I would have your word, also, that you will do me no serious hurt, and that you will not spill your seed within." She was negotiating like a whore, Polly thought distantly. A whore's terms, for one must keep intact the goods with which one had to bargain in the future.

Buckingham suddenly laughed. "By God, but y'are more

than I reckoned on! As consummate a courtesan as my Lady Castlemaine or any. Know your value and keep it! Well, the sport will be the better for it, I swear." He strode to the door, flung it wide, and bellowed for the servant. "Bring me paper, quill, and sand caster."

They were produced, the order written, the charges declared dismissed. Buckingham dropped hot wax from the candle, sealing the document with the impress of his signet ring. "This will be delivered to the governor of the Tower in seven days time, on condition that you have fulfilled your side of the agreement."

"You'll not find me wanting," Polly said.

George Villiers refilled his wineglass, selected two walnuts with some deliberation from a bowl, then leaned against the table, looking at her. He held the walnuts against each other between his hands and squeezed slowly. The shells cracked in the sudden stillness. Smiling, he turned his attention to peeling away the husks cupped in his hands before looking up at her as she stood, immobile by the fire. His eyes narrowed as he said softly, "I'd have you show me what I've bought."

No different in essence, Polly thought, than the little chamber in the Dog tavern. She began to unhook her gown.