Venus

Chapter 5

The fire crackled, and the branched candelabra threw bright illumination on the table, catching the rich tones in the head bent over the big Bible. Her tongue peeped from between her lips, when they were not moving silently, making out the words on the page. It was most amazingly wonderful, Polly thought, how in a mere four weeks a confusing jumble of symbols could fall into a sensible pattern, unlocking a whole world.

"They did seem to do a deal of begatting," she commented, raising her head to look at her companion.

Nick, sitting at his ease beside the fire, chuckled. "You have come across one of those passages, have you? They can continue for pages. Why do you not find another chapter?" He watched her over the rim of his wineglass as she turned the fine paper with delicate fingers. It remained a source of continual amazement to him that such a fine-boned, dainty creature should have emerged from that coarse and brutal environment. Everything she did, she did with a natural grace.

"I cannot make this word out." She frowned deeply, saying with some annoyance, "The letters do not make sense."

He came to stand behind her, looking at the recalcitrant

collection of letters indicated by a slim but ink-stained forefinger. "The g-h is silent, moppet."

"Oh… Nigh!" Enlightenment brought heart-stopping radiance to the face now upturned to his. "But how very awkward to have letters that don't mean anything."

"Isn't it," he agreed, pressing a fingertip on the end of her nose in one of the casually affectionate gestures that were now so natural for him to administer and for Polly to receive. "I gather you left the house without leave this afternoon." An eyebrow lifted quizzically as he returned to his seat.

Polly did not immediately respond, and he did not press her, concentrating on the business of setting a taper to his clay pipe. "So she told you," Polly said finally, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

"She did." Nick drew on his pipe, narrowing his eyes against the curl of smoke. The list of Polly's infractions presented to him by his rigidly furious sister-in-law grew daily longer and increasingly tedious. "Could you perhaps see your way to telling me the occasion for it?"

A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth at this exaggeratedly polite request. "Had I asked for leave, it would not have been granted," she replied unarguably. "Then I would have been obliged to add disobedience to my offenses."

"It is there already," he commented dryly. "But pray tell me where you went." He threw her a shrewd look. "Unless you hold secrets?"

A tinge of pink showed against her cheekbone. "There is no secret. I had a great desire to visit Drury Lane, to see the king's playhouse, mayhap also-" She paused, then shrugged, seeming to make up her mind. "I thought, perhaps, to see Master Killigrew, to bring myself to his notice."

"You thought, in short, to take matters into your own hands, matters that we had agreed were best left in mine." Nicholas spoke harshly, knowing that he must nip this impatient independence in the bud. "Perhaps you will tell me what I have done to earn your mistrust. Am I not fulfilling my side of the bargain? Permit me to tell you that you do not appear to be overly scrupulous in fulfilling yours."

Large tears welled in Polly's eyes, falling down her cheeks to splash onto the table in front of her. "No!" Nick exclaimed, pushing back his chair with abrupt violence. "If those tears do not cease instantly, I shall ensure that they have cause to be genuine! You forget that I am become quite familiar with your tricks."

"It is a very useful accomplishment," said Polly, aggrieved, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Doubtless." He resumed his seat, then yielded to his curiosity, although he had no desire to offer encouragement for her more dubious feats. "Just how do you achieve it?"

"I think sad thoughts," she told him. "You were scolding me in that horrid way, and it was all for nothing, anyway, since the playhouse was closed up and I did not see anyone-and I am most dreadfully hungry," she finished on a plaintive note.

"Why ever should you be hungry?" Nick took the scent of his wine, frowning at her.

"For the reason that I have had no supper and am to have no breakfast," she said tartly. "You do not entirely keep your promises, sir. I understood that Lady Margaret was to have no jurisdiction over me. My stomach tells me otherwise."

Nick let his breath out in a low whistle. "Why did you not tell me of this straightway?"

"To have told you of the punishment, I would have had to tell you of the offense," she said candidly. "If you did not know of it, I had thought it best kept to myself."

"With some wisdom." He could not help smiling, recognizing the familiar pattern. She would exasperate him with her impatience and vociferous complaints about her present mode of existence, but then that enchanting ingenuousness disarmed him every time. "However, I am done scolding, so why do you not repair to the kitchen and fetch yourself some supper? Bring it back here."

"And theft will be added to my crimes," Polly declared, although she was halfway across the parlor. She paused with her hand on the door latch. "I suppose, in such an instance, Lady Margaret could turn me out of doors with good

cause." Her voice was hopeful, her eyes speculative. "Then we would have to find an alternative arrangement."

"Yes. Newgate," said Lord Kincaid amiably. "You will end your days where you began them."

Polly, always one to accept defeat gracefully, dropped a mock curtsy of acknowledgment, her eyes mischievous.

"Get you gone," Nick said. "Or perhaps you are no longer hungry?" The query ensured her instant departure.

Chuckling, Nick bent to mend the fire. Was she ready? His amusement died as he pondered the question, staring into the flames where the fresh log blazed. She was certainly ready for an introduction to Killigrew. In the last weeks she had proved herself an apt and indefatigable pupil at anything she could be convinced was necessary to the achievement of her ambition. The rough edges had been remarkably easy to smooth, aided by her innate talent for imitation and remarkably sharp powers of observation.

He had told De Winter that in the teaching of her he would forge some chains, and he had done so. But was she ready for those other links that would bind her to him? Was she ready to accept the logical conclusion of the easy, trusting affection that he had fostered between them in the last month? He had sworn that when he made her his mistress, she would not feel she was entering into a bargain, would come to him out of her own passion. But he had been too busy either teaching her or refereeing between Margaret and her troublesome kitchen maid to spend much time on the gentle art of awakening the power of desire in that peerless breast. Perhaps it was time to bring the masquerade to a close and turn his attention to the forging of those other, stronger chains.

The door opened to admit Polly, bearing a platter laden with bread, cheese, and a hefty wedge of pigeon pie. She whisked herself into the parlor, glancing guiltily over her shoulder as she closed the door. "There was no one in the kitchen, so I was able to take whatever pleased me," she confided, coming quite unselfconsciously to sit on the floor before the fire, where he still knelt. She broke into the bread

with eager fingers, laughing up at him. "There was fat mutton and watery broth for supper." Her nose wrinkled. "I have done well, I think."

Nicholas regarded her platter with a degree of astonishment. Obviously she had not exaggerated her hunger. "If you really intend to consume such a quantity, you had best have something to help it down." He got up and went over to the side table to pour wine.

Polly accepted the glass with a smile of thanks and took a hearty bite of bread and cheese. "I have forgotten. Is it a marquis who comes after a duke?"

"Do not talk with your mouth full, moppet," he reproved automatically, sitting in the elbow chair beside the fire. "Aye, 'tis a duke, a marquis, an earl, a viscount, a baron."

Polly conscientiously swallowed her mouthful. "And you are a baron, and Lord De Winter is a viscount."

"Correct," he said with a smile. "Humble members of the peerage. Can you remember who is secretary of state?"

Polly took a sip of wine. "The Earl of Arlington." She became aware of his hand playing in her hair and, without undue thought, shuffled backward until she was leaning against his knees. "And the Earl of Arlington and the Earl of Clarendon are at outs, and the king prefers Arlington to Clarendon… I have it right, I think." She bit into the wedge of pigeon pie, savoring it with great concentration.

Nick allowed his fingers to drift over the nape of her neck, beneath the luxuriant fall of honeyed hair. Her neck bent responsively beneath the caress, and he smiled in quiet satisfaction, scribbling a fingernail into the delicate groove at the base of her scalp.

"Tell me some more about Master Killigrew and Sir William Davenant," Polly demanded. "If Master Killigrew manages the king's company and Sir William the Duke of York's company, then they must be some sort of rivals?" Suddenly, without knowing why she did, unless it had something to do with the strange, prickly warmth spreading through her body, emanating from those wonderfully busy fingers on her

neck, she looked over her shoulder at him, and suffered a slight shock. "Why are you smiling in that manner?"

"In what manner?" he asked softly.

Polly frowned in strange confusion. There was a glow in the emerald eyes, an intensity to his expression that set up a tingling response in her own. "It is a little hard to describe. I do not think anyone has ever smiled at me like that before."

"Mayhap no one has seen before what I see now," he said, moving a thumb beneath her chin to tilt her face as he brushed a pastry crumb from her lips with his forefinger and bent his head to bring his mouth to hers.

Polly had endured the assault of many a kiss over the last few years, on one occasion even from this man who was now so gently, so sweetly taking her mouth with his own, the tip of his tongue tantalizing her closed lips, the sensitive corners, so that the warmth bathed her like liquid sunshine and her toes curled in delight.

Very slowly, he raised his head, smiling down at the flushed surprised beauty of her. Then the hammering of the door knocker shattered the moment of quiet in which a wealth of meaning lay as yet unsaid but on the verge of articulation.

Nick got to his feet with an exclamation. Apart from the inopportune nature of such an interruption, it was late for passing visitors and the house had been locked up an hour since; he was coatless, wore only doublet and hose as befitted a man beside his own hearth; his sword was abovestairs. He stood listening as the knocker sounded again. Such an imperative nighttime summons could have fell intent at a time when one could never be certain who one's friends were, when lies and whispers abounded, conspiracies thrived, and a man could find himself in the Tower on a single word of an enemy who had the king's ear.

"Hell and the devil, boy, what kept you?" a loud voice, unfamiliar to Polly, boomed from the hall as young Tom finally managed to draw the bolts on the door.

Nicholas smiled and relaxed, saying easily, "Charles can never be convinced that he is not on a parade ground."

"Is your master at home, lad?" It was Richard's voice this time. "Be good enough to tell him that he has visitors. Sir Peter Appleby, Major Conway, and myself."

"I had better go abovestairs," Polly said, unsure whether her dismay at the prospect had more to do with the abrupt cessation of that wonderful new activity to which Nick had just introduced her, or to abandoning her unfinished pigeon pie.

Nicholas shook his head. "Nay, I would have you stay. You may demonstrate the fruits of my labors of the last weeks." He strode to the parlor door, flinging it wide. "Richard, Charles, Peter, you are well come indeed. Come you in and feel the fire. There's wine here. But Tom shall fetch you ale if ye'd prefer."

"Ale, forsooth," boomed the major's parade ground voice. "Lord, but I'm as dry as lenten pease."

Three men, wrapped in thick cloaks, strode into the parlor, bringing a waft of the cold January night with them in their wind-reddened cheeks and tossed hat plumes.

Polly, unsure what Nick meant by a demonstration of the fruits of his labors, had got to her feet and now stood to one side of the fire, neat and demure in her gray kirtle with its lace collar, hands clasped in front of her.

"Why, good even, Polly," greeted Richard, smiling.

"Good even, Lord De Winter." She curtsied gracefully, remembering what Nick had told her of the correct depth to be accorded different social ranks. It was not a kitchen maid's bob, but the carefully executed obeisance of a young lady.

Nicholas smiled. "Polly, allow me to make known to you Sir Peter Appleby and Major Charles Conway. Gentlemen… Mistress Polly Wyat."

Now Polly realized what he had meant about the fruits of his labor. He had introduced her to his friends as if she were not his kitchen maid, and clearly she was expected to play the part designated, as he had coached her. "I bid you welcome, gentlemen." She offered another beautifuDy executed curtsy, this one meeting with responding bows. "May I pour you wine, Sir Peter? Lord De Winter?" Smiling graciously,

she moved to the side table. "Tom will bring ale for Major Conway directly."

She was playing hostess as if she were born and bred to it, Richard observed, exchanging an appreciative smile with Nick. Polly, busy with her guests' cloaks and the pouring of wine, did not notice that the cheery bonhomie of the major, and the more restrained courtesies of Sir Peter, concealed a sharp observation that took in every facet of her face, form, and deportment.

Cloaks doffed, refreshment in hand, the visitors took chairs. Polly wondered if it would be appropriate for her to finish her supper, still on the tray before the fire.

Nick, seeing her speculative gaze fixed on the pigeon pie, couldn't help chuckling. "I am certain no one will mind if you finish your supper, Polly."

"Indeed not, mistress. Desolated to have interrupted you," boomed the major. "Shockin' time to pay a call, I know, but we were passin' the door and just thought to see if Nick was by his fireside. Pray forgive us."

Polly murmured some suitable response and wondered whether to resume her position on the floor. The only available seat was a stool by the table, away from the fire and the circle of visitors. Ladies probably did not sit on the floor when consuming pigeon pie, but it was quite clear to everyone from the tray's present position that that was where she had been sitting. She glanced at Nick, who had relit his pipe and was seated in his chair watching her cogitations with huge amusement.

He gave her a small nod, pointing to the floor at his feet. Relieved, she settled down, leaning naturally against his knees, and resumed her interrupted meal while the conversation went on over her head. It was clearly a familiar subject for the four men, she reflected, since they began talking with no preliminaries.

"It seems inconceivable that the Commons will vote such a monstrous sum, even to finance a war," commented Richard. "Two and half millions! It is quite unprecedented."

"Aye, but a commercial war with the Dutch could bring

in rich booty," replied Sir Peter. "Expectations are high, even though Admiral Allin's attack on their merchant fleet at Cadiz was disappointing."

"Will the king ask the Commons for such a sum?" Polly put her empty platter on the tray and prepared to enter the discussion. "It would mean they would have to raise taxes, would it not?"

"It would," concurred Nick, "which will do little to improve His Majesty's popularity in the country."

"A fact which His Grace of Buckingham and the others of the Cabal steadfastly refuse to admit," declared the major.

Polly knew now that the Cabal was composed of Clifford, Ashley, Buckingham, Arlington, and Lauderdale. They were referred to as the Cabal for the obvious reason that their initials formed the word.

' 'Tis to be hoped Clarendon will have a steadying influence," mused Richard.

"If he's not impeached first!" The major spoke with a surge of energy. "Since Bristol's last attempt to oust him, he has been riding an uneasy mount. 'Tis imperative we discover-" He stopped suddenly, his gaze resting for a moment on Polly's face, upturned toward him, alive with interest. "Well." He cleared his throat. "Enough of such gloom. I've a mind for a rubber of whist. 'Tis a devilish good game-become all the rage in the queen's drawing room."

"I will fetch the cards," Polly offered with alacrity.

"Nay, moppet, I will fetch them." Nick forestalled her. "Get you to bed now."

"But I am not in the least awearied," Polly protested. "I would watch your play."

"You will be tired enough in the morning," he told her.

"I would not be if I did not have to rise-" She stopped. Nick's expression was not encouraging. Kitchen maids did not argue with their masters, and neither was this public protest in the least ladylike. She appeared to have forgotten her lines in both parts.

"Bid us good night," Nicholas instructed softly. "In proper fashion."

"I give you good night, my lord." Polly curtsied to him, then went scrupulously around the room bidding each one farewell with another courteous salute, although her face and voice were expressionless. She left the parlor, trailing an aura of hurt disappointment.

Richard chuckled as the door closed behind her. "You certainly have your hands full, Nick."

"Aye." Nick grinned. "But I'd not have it otherwise. What think you, gentlemen?" He raised an eyebrow at Sir Peter and the major.

"Amazing beauty. You did not exaggerate, Richard," Sir Peter said. "We had hoped our unexpected visit would afford us a glimpse, I confess. Where does she come from, Nick?"

Nick puffed on his pipe and shook his head. "That is the one secret I shall keep, Peter. It lies between Polly and myself." Richard knew, of course, but the confidence was as safe with him as if he had never heard it. "D'ye think she will captivate Buckingham?" Nick asked.

"And anyone else she chooses," declared Major Conway, taking snuff. "My apologies for slipping like that earlier. I realize she mustn't have an inkling that we've an intention to do more than bewail the king's foolishness and the Cabal's manipulation."

"No harm was done," Nick said easily. "You recovered readily enough. But your visit was timely." In one sense, at least, he amended with a rueful inner smile. "I wished you to see her and judge for yourselves before I took the next step." He looked around at the gravely attentive group. "If everyone is agreed, I think the time has come to begin to put the plan into action."

"You will move her out of here?"

"As soon as I can find suitable lodgings, Richard."

"And you will make her your mistress?" The major spoke matter-of-factly. "Before bringing her to Killigrew's notice, presumably?"

"That is my intention," Nick responded in like fashion.

"To bind her securely with the chains of love," murmured

Richard, casting a shrewd look at him. "Those of gratitude seem well in place."

"They will be when I remove her from Margaret's supervision," Nick said with an indulgent chuckle. "She is not inclined to thank me for her present situation, for all that she relishes her instruction." He sipped his wine. "Do you have any suggestions about lodgings?"

"Not Covent Garden," pronounced Richard. "You want no taint of the harlot attached to her. To be under your protection is one thing, but to inhabit the Grand Seraglio will not do."

"Indeed, not," agreed Sir Peter. "But Drury Lane might serve. It has decent houses and respectable landlords for all its proximity to Covent Garden."

"Aye, and 'tis close to the theatre," put in the major. "She'll not be conspicuous there."

"And you may come and go as you please without drawing undue attention." Richard smiled. "There is so much hustle and bustle on the lane, the houses so well occupied by the busy and the popular. It is always difficult to remember whose house one saw a person enter." The smile faded. "That could be to all our advantages later, when we wish to glean unobtrusively what she has to offer for harvest."

Nicholas simply nodded. "I will look for a suitable lodging run by a fitting landlady on the morrow. D'ye care to bear me company on the business, Richard?"

"Gladly. Now, how about that rubber of whist?"

"You are early from bed, brother," Margaret greeted Kincaid the following morning as he crossed the hall, dressed for riding in buckskin breeches and high boots, a camelot cloak with gold buttons slung across his shoulders.

"I have some business to transact," Nick said easily. "Where is Polly this morning?"

Lady Margaret's lips thinned, as they always did at the mention of the girl and the consonant inevitable reminder that in this instance she did not hold the reins. Apart from

anything else, she did not understand what her brother-in-law was about. The wench did not share his bed-of that Margaret was convinced-but whenever he was in the house, the girl was at his side, and the voices and laughter coming from Kincaid's parlor corroded her soul like acid. She was convinced that he never so much as took the wench to task for the faults of which his sister-in-law kept him so religiously apprised.

"I trust she has not made another escape?" Nick queried with a dry smile when Margaret did not immediately answer his original question.

Margaret said frigidly, "As far as I am aware, brother, the girl is in the kitchen. The chapman is here."

"Make sure she is in the house when I return." Nick walked to the door. "I shall be dining with friends, but will be back by midafternoon." He contemplated telling his sister-in-law that she would soon be rid of the thorn in her side, then decided against it. He had no idea how soon he would find suitable lodgings for Polly, and there was no point stirring things up prematurely.

The scene in the kitchen at this point was one unlikely to please the lady of the house, there being for once little evidence of sober industry. Big Rob, the peddler, was paying his quarterly visit, and the contents of his pack-lace and pins and thread, combs and gaudy trinkets-were spread upon the table while the household crowded about like swarming bees, Polly as eager as the rest. The chapman's visits were always a high point in any household. Even the Dog tavern had been enlivened by them.

Big Rob was a mountain of a man, as his name implied. Bright eyes like raisins in a currant bun gleamed as he flirted with the chattering Susan, who bridled and blushed but showed no disinclination for the play, not even for the smacking kiss he gave her as he went on his way.

"Shame on you, Sue," Bridget scolded half-seriously. "You go on like that and ye'11 end with a swollen belly."

Susan giggled and her plump face pinkened. " 'Tis only a

bit o' fun. There's little enough of it around 'ere. I'll be careful, never ye fear. I'm no brazen hussy of Covent Garden breeding. No man's goin' to 'ave 'is way with me, less'n 'e can offer me a ring."

Bridget clucked her approval, and Polly buried her head in the pantry, reflecting that these two probably would not draw any distinction between an actor in search of a noble protector and the Covent Garden prostitutes so scathingly described by Sue. It was not a comfortable thought.

But then she thought of those moments in Lord Kincaid's parlor last evening, before his visitors had arrived. If she closed her eyes, she could feel again the press of his lips, gentle yet so very much more than friendly, upon hers. What had it meant? What did it mean when he looked at her in that certain way? When his eyes took on that deep glow that seemed to penetrate to her very essence? And what did it mean when she felt this strange, hot confusion when he touched her with those caressing strokes of his finger, or looked at her as if he was seeing something of which she was unaware. Then, at other times, he was just briskly instructive, short with her when she moaned and complained about having to stay in this house, demanding, though always patient, in the tasks he would have her master. The contradictions must mean something. He had promised to teach her what she would need to know to impress Master Killigrew and to take her place in her chosen world. He was certainly fulfilling that promise. Surely he must want something in exchange? Indeed, he had said at the beginning that they might be of service to each other. But in what way? He had made it painfully clear that he was not interested in her offers of the only thing she could imagine she had to offer. He could have had her maidenhead at any time he chose outside this house. It was a conundrum.

Lady Margaret sailed into the kitchen at this point, effectively dampening the general exuberance left by Big Rob's visit. An hour's idleness had been granted but must now be paid for.

Polly, sent after dinner to polish the brass on the door knocker, and to scrub and hone the front step, shivered in the winter air, deciding that the lady of the house had assigned her this unfriendly task with some deliberation. It was not a day for outdoor work. The sky was leaden, threatening snow, and the wind flogged around the street corner, its rawness penetrating her cloak. The stone of the step was hard and icy beneath her knees. The holystone she was using to scour the step slipped from her numb fingers, and she cursed crossly.

"What in the devil's name do you do out here?" Nick's voice came from behind her, sharp with exasperation. He was astride a raking, long-tailed chestnut gelding.

"Nothing that pleases me," Polly snapped, all memory of kisses and softness vanished under an annoyance and misery now focused on the one who, at this moment, seemed entirely responsible for her present wretched occupation. "Or did you imagine that such a task was by my own choice?" Still kneeling, she twisted to glare up at him, resplendent and warm in his camelot cloak with its gold buttons, and his plumed beaver hat. She rubbed her bare hands together and blew on them, noting his gold-embroidered gloves.

Nick sighed. "In with you; you are like to catch your death of cold."

"But my task is not completed," she pointed out with an acid tongue. "The knocker is yet tarnished."

"Then it must remain so, I fear." Nick ignored her tone. "Go inside straightway! Wait for me in my parlor. I shall be in as soon as I have taken Sulayman to the stables. Then I have some news for you that may not come amiss."

He rode off to the stables situated in the lane behind the house, leaving Polly staring after him. He had sounded vexed, but she knew it was not with her for all that he had ordered her inside in the tone he used for kitchen maids. But that look had been lurking in his eyes again, the one he had had last night, just before he kissed her.

Polly shivered under a frigid blast of wind, suddenly de-

ciding that she could not care in the least about Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, and his conundrums. She had had as much as she could endure of the Lady Margaret's household, and so she would tell him. And this time, he would listen! Picking up the bucket of cold, scummy water, the brush and holystone, she marched into the house, kicking the door shut behind her.

"You cannot have completed the task in such a short time." Lady Margaret emerged from the drawing room at the violent bang of the door. "How dare you slam the door in that manner!" An angry flush stained her cheeks, and she spoke through compressed lips.

"Go to hell!" Polly muttered, stomping across the hall with her burdens.

"What did you say?" Unable to believe her ears, the Puritan stared in slack-mouthed outrage.

Polly was cold and stiff, and at the end of her tether with confusion and vexation. "It seems to me that you would have a better chance of hindering the devil's work if you were to go and join him," she said, slowly and carefully.

"Why you insolent little whore!" Margaret hissed, her eyes blazing with all the fury of the violated fanatic, her body shaking as she stepped, hand upraised, toward Polly.

Without thought, Polly hurled the bucket of cold, dirty water at the Lady Margaret's feet.

Nick stepped into the hall just as the water hit the flagstones with a squelching slap, to slurp around the Puritan's ankles, soaking her shoes and the hem of her petticoat and gown. The tableau was for a second frozen as Lady Margaret stared down in disbelief, stunned by such an inconceivable happening, and Polly, hazel eyes still ablaze with fury, stood motionless, uncertain what to do next.

"Oh, Polly, you shrew!" Nick exclaimed, laughter lamentably quivering in his voice at this amazing spectacle.

"She was going to strike me," Polly said fiercely.

"I wonder why," Nick murmured, striding rapidly across

the hall as Lady Margaret returned to her senses with a scream of rage.

"Out ot this house!" She took another step toward Polly and slipped in a puddle. Nick's arm shot out just in time, yanking the enraged woman against him the instant she was about to fall in an undignified heap to the floor.

" 'Tis all right, Margaret," he said soothingly. "Why do you not go to your chamber and change your dress and shoes? Susan can clear up this mess."

Margaret stared at him, an almost feral look in her eyes. "Never, ever have I been subjected to-"

"No," he said, still soothing. "Of course you have not, and you shall not be again. I will deal with this, now."

"There is nothing to deal with!" Polly's voice shook, but it was clear and strong. "I am leaving." She marched toward the door.

Nick caught her with his free arm, thus finding himself in the ludicrous position of having both warring parties in his hands. Laughter was threatening to overwhelm him and required every last ounce of self-control to keep submerged. "Yes, you are leaving, Polly," he said. "But for the moment you will go into my parlor and wait for me."

"Why? There is nothing to stay for." Her chin went up, but the hazel eyes were overbright, sheened with tears she would not shed.

Nick spoke gently, realizing that she had as yet no reason to see the funny side of the situation. "As it happens, there is. Just go, moppet, please." Feeling some of the rigidity leave her, he released her.

Polly regarded him for a second. Then she turned and walked into his parlor, closing the door behind her.

"She's to be turned off without a character," Margaret said, trembling with outrage. "This instant!"

"Go to your chamber and change your dress," Nick said evenly. "You need concern yourself about her no longer. Shall I send Susan up to help you, or should she clean up this mess?"

The need to make a domestic decision of even that small

nature seemed to restore Margaret to some measure of herself. "I will manage, thank you, brother. Do get that… that creature off the premises."

"With pleasure," Nick murmured to her retreating back. A gleam in his eye, he turned toward the parlor and Polly.