Venus

Chapter 20

The seventh morning after the seventh night dawned, its cold gray light filling the square casement. Polly lay wide-awake, stiff and chilled, as she had done since her bedfellow had finally fallen asleep. Her wrists were bound beneath her, and Buckingham had neglected to share the quilt before he had slept, so she could do nothing about her exposure to the ice-tipped air.

There was an eerie silence. She had noticed in the last seven nights that this silence fell for no more than a couple of hours, just before profound night yielded to the dawn. It fell very suddenly, as if the wildness of the Piazza had run its course, its inhabitants stopped dead in the tracks of debauchery. The house slept in the same way, screams, giggles, footsteps, cries, all ceased as if at a signal, and it was as if Polly were the only person awake in this squalid corner of the universe.

She shivered convulsively, but nothing would persuade her to edge closer to the warmth of her companion's body- not when it was not required of her, and her revulsion could not be detected.

"Are you cold?" Buckingham spoke into the gray light, sleepily matter-of-fact.

"You neglected to untie my hands," she said, as matter-of-fact as he. "And I have no quilt."

"Careless of me," he said, his voice arid as the desert. "D'ye find no pleasure in the sensation of helplessness, bud?"

"Had I done so, my lord duke, I venture to suggest that your pleasure would have been diminished," she responded with acid-tongued truth.

Buckingham chuckled. He had no objection to her tartness so long as she entered his sport without physical reservation; and she had certainly done that. Indeed, it had been a most rewarding seven nights; he was sorry that they were over. But he would have tired of her eventually, and there was a certain sweetness in an ending that came before one was truly ready. Rolling her onto her belly, he unfastened the silk scarf that bound her wrists.

"My thanks, sir," Polly said formally, sitting up and shaking the life back into her numbed arms, chafing her wrists. "Our bargain is completed, I believe."

"Aye." Villiers sighed regretfully. "But I'd as lief continue it for a while longer. If I'd known what a joy you would be, I'd have fixed upon a month." He got out of bed, stretched and yawned, then went to throw coals upon the fire's embers.

Polly made no response, merely huddled beneath the quilt, which still retained his body warmth, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. She watched him dress, thinking dispassionately that it was for the last time. She would go home, and Susan would have the tub of hot water waiting before the blazing fire, and she would scrub the night's violations from her body, and the memory from her mind for the last time. And Nicholas would return, and would replace those grimy memories with his own fresh, present reality.

Dressed, the duke went to the mantel, where he took up the sealed document that had lain there for the last seven nights. He tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of his hand, regarding the figure on the bed. "Extraordinary!" he murmured, shaking his head. "That one would voluntarily expose oneself to such a fatiguing emotion as love." He

crossed to the bed, thrusting the document into the deep pocket of his coat. "A farewell kiss, sweet bud. 'Tis the last demand."

Eventually, the door closed on his departure. Polly flew from the bed, scrambling into her clothes, drawing her hooded cloak tight about her. The house reeked of stale liquor and tobacco smoke, and many other less savory remnants. A ragged, skinny girl, her chapped hands blue with cold, her nose dripping, was sloshing cold water over a pool of vomit in the corner of the landing. Polly drew her skirts aside and stepped quickly past. The doorkeeper, grumbling and mumbling, spat phlegm onto the sawdust-covered floor as he pulled back the bolts on the street door.

"It'd 'elp a body if n ye'd come down t'gether!"

It had been the same complaint for the last six mornings. Buckingham always left before Polly-just another client leaving his whore in the brothel, where she belonged-and the doorkeeper always bolted the door after him, then grumbled mightily at having to open up again five minutes later. Polly ignored him today, as she had done every previous day. Out in the street, where the night's debris still littered, she took a deep breath of freedom. She would cleanse both mind and body of the soil of those nights. She was no delicately nurtured flower, no piece of porcelain to be cracked and broken by such doings. She had seen worse, had known as bad. For many, such sordid degradations informed their lives from birth until death. For her it was over.

She ran, gulping the air in great drafts, enjoying the icy scalding as it pierced her lungs. Susan, who as usual had been watching for her from the parlor window, had the door open before she could knock. Polly thanked her and leaned gasping against the newel post until she could get her breath.

"Bath's all ready," Sue said. "My Lord De Winter's abovestairs, waitin' on ye."

Still somewhat breathless, Polly went upstairs. Richard was standing beside the fire, waiting for her return as he had done for the last five mornings, ever since she had told him

of Buckingham's bargain. He looked at her searchingly. " 'Tis done?"

"Aye." She nodded and came to the fire, stretching her hands to its warmth. " 'Tis done, Richard. He'll not renege?"

"God's grace, no!" Richard caught her chin, tipping it up. "And you, child?"

"Am no child," she said with a tiny smile. "But I am whole. The scars will not run deep."

His frowning examination continued. She returned the look with candor. After a while he nodded slowly. "It's well. But I could wish you had stayed for advice before taking the bit between your teeth. Mayhap I could have spared you these last nights."

Polly shrugged. "Even had you been able to, Richard, 'twould have taken a tedious long time. This way was speedier, and Nick will be free within the day. Indeed-" An exciting, yet somehow terrifying, thought struck her "-maybe within the hour, and I must bathe. I cannot greet him with… with…" Her hands passed down her body in a gesture expressive of disgust. "And he must not find you here, Richard, at this hour. It will puzzle him mightily." She began to push him toward the door. "Nothing must arouse his suspicions."

Richard resisted the inhospitable pressure of the small hands in his back. "You have Buckingham's pledge of secrecy?"

All the light died from the hazel eyes. She shook her head in sudden defeated weariness. "I thought not to ask for it."

"Then, if you will heed the advice of a friend who knows Nick of old, you will lay the whole before him without delay," Richard said briskly. "It is no great tragedy. He is a man of the world, Polly."

"I do not wish him to know," she said fiercely. "I would not have him share my own hells with the feeling that he was responsible for them. Can you not understand that?"

Richard sighed. "And suppose he should hear it from Buckingham, or from court whispers? Why do you imagine

Buckingham will keep it a close secret? He can have no reasons for doing so."

"But by the same token, he can have no reason for not doing so," Polly pointed out. "I cannot bring myself to tell him, Richard." She shuddered slightly. "Mayhap when it has faded a little, but not now."

She looked wan, fragile, seven sleepless nights etched upon her face, giving that usually vibrant beauty an ethereal appearance. Three afternoons, during this dreadful week, she had performed at the Theatre Royal, and only three members of the audience knew what superhuman effort it had cost her: Thomas Killigrew knew because he alone could read the professional actor; Buckingham and Richard knew. She had come close to breaking, and was still perilously close to the edge.

Richard decided that he would be unwise to push the issue at present. Her exhaustion, Nick would put down to worry, and maybe, for a few days, they would keep close to this house. Nick would not feel inclined to venture into society immediately, and when he was ready, Polly would perhaps be strong enough to tell him the truth of her ordeal.

"I will leave you to your bath, then," he said, picking up his cloak. "An hour or two of sleep would not come amiss, either."

Polly helped him with his cloak. "I could not have managed without your strength, Richard," she said softly.

He smiled. "You underestimate yourself, my dear. You would have done what you felt you had to, with or without my support." He bent to kiss her cheek. "Nicholas is a most fortunate man."

Nicholas, at that moment, was standing on the parapeted walk outside his prison. He drew his cloak tight against the wind gusting from the Thames. The river ran, gray-brown, below the parapet, a major highway on which the townsfolk went about their business, sparing little attention as they passed beneath Tower bridge for those within the massive

gray walls of the Tower itself. Perhaps they looked at Traitor's Gate, where the green river slime clung to the step, and the water slopped against the portcullis. And if they did so, perhaps they spared a thought for all those who had made the melancholy river journey, to enter this great and gloomy prison through that gate, to leave it only for the scaffold on Tower Hill.

It was a gloomy thought, but Nick could see little reason for cheer. True, he had not entered the Tower through Traitor's Gate, but he was as securely held as any, and he still had no concrete charges to defend.

He turned to look over the other side of the parapet, down into the great court of the Tower, where the distinctive black ravens squabbled amongst themselves, circling and strutting with the self-importance of those who had inhabited this place for longer than any human soul. Even at this early hour, the scene was lively, guards and servants hastening about their business, troops of soldiers responding with well-trained obedience to bellowed orders, heralds and liveried messengers on horseback passing back and forth through the gates. The governor appeared, striding briskly across the quadrangle. He looked up to see his prisoner, and raised a hand in salute.

Nicholas returned the salute. The governor was a civilized man, one who enjoyed civilized and intelligent company over a fine port, and Kincaid had rarely spent a lonely evening during this sojourn in the Tower.

"Breakfast's 'ere, m'lord." A guard appeared in the narrow entrance to the tower where Nick was housed.

"I'd have more stomach for it with a deal more exercise," Nicholas said, but he turned within. A fire burned in the round stone chamber of his jail, a thick quilt and feather mattress furnished the narrow bed, a pile of books stood upon the plank table beneath the small, barred window. There was little discomfort in his conditions, if one did not count the loss of freedom. He met no insult, not even a hint of discourtesy, from his jailers, but they were still his jailers.

He turned desultory attention to ale and sirloin. Was Polly

still abed? It was past seven, but if she had not sought her bed before midnight, then she could well be asleep, preparing herself for the morning's work with Killigrew, and the afternoon performance. But what could she have been doing in his absence that would have kept her out of her bed into the small hours? Mayhap Richard was squiring her to court, encouraging her to maintain the casual, mercenary front that they had perfected over the months. Whatever happened, she must not be tarred with this unknown brush that painted her protector. Richard would understand that, and act accordingly.

Nick had received no communication from the outside world, the governor apologizing for orders that prevented this. Neither had he been permitted to send any-even instructions to Margaret as to domestic financial arrangements. De Winter would see that Polly lacked for nothing, of that he was certain, but nothing could assuage the aching fear for her, the desolation of his utter helplessness. He could feel her, smell her, see her, hear her. He could remember, as if he were still living them, the times when she had angered him, exasperated him, then disarmed him; the times when she had entranced him, had transported him to the outermost limits of joy, had brought him laughter and delight such as he had never known. And he wanted to weep with a loss that his prison walls seemed to insist was final.

"Lord Kincaid?" The ponderous tones of the governor tore him from his reverie.

"Governor, your pardon. I find myself somewhat distracted." He turned from the leaping flames and the dancing memories, putting his back to the fire as he greeted courteously the man who held dominion over his immediate circumstances. "Ye've some news of the impeachment, mayhap?"

"On the contrary, my lord." The governor was beaming. "A messenger has just come from Whitehall with this." A parchment was extended, the smile broadened. "I'll be sorry to lose your company, sir, but I can rejoice for ye."

Kincaid read the order under Buckingham's seal for his

release, and the dismissal of all charges, stated or yet to be so. "Why?" he asked softly. "It defies comprehension."

The governor had no light to shed and, indeed, could not understand why his noble erstwhile prisoner should tarry in questioning. He gestured to an accompanying guard. "Your sword, Lord Kincaid. The carriage awaits you in the court."

"Then I'll thank you for your courtesy and your many kindnesses, Governor." Nick sheathed his sword, feeling himself whole again, belonging to his own world again; the two men exchanged bows. The governor accompanied Nick to the court, where he entered the same unmarked carriage that, this time, bore him beyond the walls of the Tower, into the familiar streets of freedom.

Polly's wrists stung under the kiss of hot water as she sank into the tub before the bedchamber fire. The sensation brought the most unwelcome thought. "Sue, can ye see any marks on my skin?" She stood up in the tub, dripping, peer- -ing down at her body. Buckingham's sport had caused her no worse than occasional discomfort, but she had not had the foresight to worry about a telltale finger bruise, or a scratch of haste and passion-signs that a chaste and lonely seven days should not have put upon her body.

Sue had been given no details of the nights' events; she knew only that they had something to do with Lord Kin-caid's disappearance, and it was a secret to be kept guarded with her soul; but she was worldly enough to make a guess at the nature of Polly's nightly experiences-experiences that sent her, each morning, into hot water, scouring every inch of skin, before she fell into an exhausted sleep for an hour or two. So the request did not cause any exclamations.

Sue examined the slender figure carefully. "Ye've a little bruise on your arm, a scratch here." She touched beneath a pointed shoulder-blade. "Naught else that I can see."

"Apart from my wrists." Polly sat down in the water again, examining the slightly reddened skin. "Mayhap witch

hazel will help. 'Tis not too bad, but my lord must not notice."

"My lord!" Sue dropped the soap that she was about to hand the bather. "Is he released, then?"

"I expect him at any moment," Polly said with perfect confidence. Even Richard had said that a Villiers would not break his word, and somehow, she knew that she had lost her fascination for Buckingham now. He had wanted her, and he had taken what he wanted, proving to himself and to her the extent of the power that she had scorned. He had used her and could now discard her, a cast-off whore of no further interest. He would find fresh challenges, and leave Kincaid and his little actor-harlot to their own devices.

It was a prognosis with which Polly could find no fault. She was perfectly content to leave Buckingham in possession of the field, if that was what he chose to believe. He had thought to debase her, but he had not succeeded. She knew that, and it was her own knowledge that was all-important. It mattered not a jot what the duke thought.

But it might matter what Nicholas thought. Polly sank deeper into the tub. She could not imagine how Nick would react. Would he, as Richard said, treat it as pragmatically as he had their plan that she should spy for them from the duke's bed? Or would he see her as debased? A plaything of that notorious debauched wencher? Used and discarded, and therefore unlovely and unlovable?

A loud banging at the street door resounded through the house. She heard his voice, his quick tread on the stair, and all such anxieties fled for the present. He was safe, and that was all that mattered.

She sprang from the tub, running into the parlor, to fling herself, naked and dripping, into his arms as he pushed open the door. "Nick! Oh, Nick!" she sobbed repetitively against his chest, holding him with all her strength, clasping her hands at his back, squeezing tightly. "I have missed you so!"

For a few moments he just held her, saying nothing as he allowed the feel, the shape, the scent of her to become a part of him again; then, gently, he prized apart her hands at his

back and stood away from her, holding her arms wide at her sides. "Let me look at you."

"But I am all wet," she hiccuped on a half laugh, half sob.

"Why should that prevent my looking at you?" he teased, the emerald eyes devouring her with the hot flame of need, until she thought she would dissolve into his gaze.

"I said it would be a mistake and you would come back," Polly whispered, realizing that she must make some comment about this return that was supposed to be a surprise.

"Aye, so you did." He pulled her back against him, running his hands down her back, cupping her buttocks, pressing her against him. "I do not know what the devil has been going on, but I intend to discover."

Polly arched backward to look up at him, although her lower body remained cemented to his. "But you might stir the waters again," she objected on a ring of anxiety.

"If I do not know what lay behind it, love, I'll never be sure it will not happen again," he pointed out, kneading the firm, rounded flesh beneath his hands. "Nay, some game is being played, and I must discover it. Tis possible Richard will have some inkling. Have you seen him?"

"Yes, every day," she said, sliding her hands beneath his coat again, feeling the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. "Must we talk of this now? I have been so afeard for you." She pressed her lips against his chest as her fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

"I have not been entirely sanguine, I'll confess," he said, his fingers raking through her wet hair. "Why do you bathe at this early hour, moppet? You are not accustomed to doing so."

"I have been unable to sleep, and I thought it might refresh me," she extemporized, reflecting that it was not entirely an untruth. "But what of you? Have you breakfasted? Will you bathe, sleep-"

"There is but one thing I wish to do," he interrupted, a changed note in his voice, a purposeful smile playing over his lips. "And I shall not be able to do it, foolish jade, if you

catch an ague, standing around in your wet skin on a bitter winter's morn."

"My joy at the sound of your voice would not admit of such mundane considerations," Polly returned, with a haughty snifF. "And I take it mighty ill in you, my lord, that you should find fault when… Ouch!"

"Cease your railing, shrew!" Nick swept her up into his arms, the gem-bright eyes laughing down at her mock indignation. "I had thought, after such an absence, to woo you with soft words and tender kisses, but it seems you'd liefer have a tumbling match!" So saying, he strode with her into the bedchamber, tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed.

Picking up the towel that Susan had left beside the bath, he set to work on Polly's wriggling body, rubbing her dry until her skin glowed and the blood ran swift in her veins. Laughing and squirming helplessly beneath the hands that lost no opportunity to explore, tickle, probe, that tossed her and turned her as if she had no more resistance than a straw doll, Polly thought of those other hands that had rendered her as helpless as these were doing. But here she was helpless with pleasure, in thrall to the magic of one who knew and cared how to pleasure her. There was no comparison, even if the fundamental act had been the same. She let the thoughts and images slide away from her, sloughed like an outworn snake's skin.

"Have I missed anywhere?" Nick mused, hovering over her, towel still in hand.

"I think you forgot my toes," Polly responded, wriggling them invitingly. "They are all damp 'twixt and 'tween."

Nick grinned. He knew well how sensitive were Polly's feet. "How remiss," he murmured, slipping an arm beneath her knees and sweeping up her legs, circling the narrow ankles between thumb and forefinger.

"No!" Polly squealed as his tongue licked along the sole of each foot, stroking into the high-arched instep. "Oh, you know I cannot bear it!" She thrashed wildly on the bed as the delicious torment continued, and he took her toes into his mouth, suckling on each one, his thumb massaging her

heels and soles, setting up a chain of sympathetic reaction all over her body. It was as if every nerve in her feet was connected to some other part of her. Finally exhausted, she ceased her struggles and protests, abandoning herself to the wickedly skilled arousal, the slow sensitizing of each nerve and pleasure center.

"Monster!" she whispered, defeated by delight.

"You asked for it, my love," he replied in perfect truth, smiling, still holding her legs as he looked down on her flushed face and heavy eyes, the rise and fall of her breasts in response to the thudding of her heart and her swift breath. He moved his hands to the insides of her legs and slipped slowly down their length, spreading them wide as he caressed the tender satin of her inner thighs, approaching with tantalizing delicacy the throbbing cleft, while Polly lay, breathless in expectancy, poised for the touch that she knew would send her surging over the edge to which he had brought her with such demonic knowingness.

Her eyes implored him, her tongue ran over her lips, her body became as molten wax, a formless puddle on the featherbed, centered only on that nerve-stretched apex. Hot tears of near unbearable delight scalded her cheeks. The muscles in her belly tightened, sending little flutters across the surface of her skin; and then, when there seemed nothing in the world but the tension of expectancy, he touched her.

Her body leapt as if beneath a burning brand, and she thrummed like a string of a plucked lute. It was as if, after an eternity of denial, she had been given back what she had lost. The loving touch of bodily joy, the turbulent plane of ravishing bliss were hers again.

"Come to me, love," she whispered, "inside me," desperate in her urgency for the fusion that would make them both whole again.

Nick stripped, careless of buttons and hooks in his haste, then he gathered her against him and, as she lifted her hips, pressed deep within her. Her body closed around him, holding him within her silken toils; he exhaled slowly, smiling in

soft satisfaction. "Such honeyed delight, love," he whispered, bending to kiss her eyes. "Velvet and honey, you are."

"No spice?" she murmured. "Such a concoction sounds a trifle sickly."

"There's salt enough upon your tongue to add savor to marchpane," he said. "Shall I punish you for that?" Slowly, he withdrew to the edge of her body.

"Quarter, my lord," she begged. "Indeed, 'twas a thoughtless impertinence." Her legs curled around his hips, pulling him toward her again.

"To respond to compliments in such fashion is, indeed, impertinence," he said gravely, tightening his buttocks in resistance against the pressure of her heels.

"I crave pardon, and will accept any penance except this." Her hips arced as her heels increased their pressure, and Nick chuckled, yielding with a show of reluctance.

Then the laughter died from his face, and his eyes burned into hers. "As you love me, sweetheart, do not move. I would have you with me, but one wriggle and I shall be lost."

She smiled. "And I would have you lost. I shall be with you, never fear." Slowly, she tightened her inner muscles around him, saw his face dissolve with joy, tried to keep at bay her own tempest the longer to enjoy his pleasure; and then was engulfed herself.

"God's grace, but I have missed you." Nick opened his eyes, his heart slowing against the still rapid beat of the one below. "I have missed being angered by you, as I have missed being entranced." He kissed the corner of her mouth, the cleft of her chin. "Tell me what you have been doing this sennight."

"Apart from worrying?" Polly asked, feeling her heart race again, a light sweat misting her palms. Stage fright, she told herself sternly.

Nick frowned. "You look worn to a frazzle, love,"

' 'Tis nothing, now that you are back. I could not sleep, and there has been the playhouse… Oh, what is the

time?" She sat up in a panic not entirely feigned. "We are to rehearse this morning." She sprang to her feet.

"Is there a play this afternoon?" Nick rolled off the bed, since clearly the moment for softnesses and cuddling was past.

"Nay, but tomorrow we are to perform Master Dryden's new play, Secret Love. 'Tis monstrous funny in parts. Melissa becomes Master Florimell." She struck a pose, beginning to mime the combing of a full peruke. " 'Save you, Monsieur Florimell! Faith, methinks you are a very jaunty fellow.' '

Nick laughed at the absurdity of her naked femininity and the very masculine swagger she produced. "Does Edward play opposite you?"

"Aye, as Celadon, my lover. 'Tis very awkward, as he challenges me to fight at one point." She twinkled mischievously.

"And how does the fair Florimell avoid such a happenstance?" he asked, much amused, and no longer aware of the signs of strain that he had noticed a minute ago.

She struck another pose, haughty, one make-believe handkerchief passing through the air. " 'Out upon fighting: 'tis grown so common a fashion, that a modish man condemns it.' "

Nick roared with laughter. "I will see no more, lest it spoil me for the performance." He stepped into Polly's neglected bathwater. " 'Tis cold, but I daresay will serve to refresh me. Had you better not dress?"

"Aye." Polly went to the armoire. "Will you not come to the rehearsal this morning?" She turned, offering him an apologetic smile. " 'Tis just that I fear to lose sight of you again."

"I must visit Richard, sweetheart," he said seriously, splashing water on the back of his neck. "There are matters that bear investigation-"

"But not today, surely," she broke in. "And mayhap Richard will come to dine if we send him a message to say that you are released."

Nick frowned, saying slowly, "I had thought to go to court this morning. I've a need to judge my reception."

Polly bit her lip, wondering whether continued pleading would arouse his suspicions. She allowed her shoulders to sag, her head to droop; her lip quivered, but she said nothing, continuing with her dressing.

Nick's frown deepened. He had no reason to suspect that this display of unhappiness bravely borne was less than genuine and, as usual, found her impossible to resist. "Very well. We will keep close today, except for Richard. Why do you not send to his house with an invitation to dinner?"

"And you will come to the theatre?" She turned eagerly to face him, hands clasped, eyes huge and glowing.

Radiant as a violet after the storm, Nick thought with customary resignation. "Aye, if you wish it. But I think it unkind in you to spoil my first view of the play by obliging me to witness the blunders and the promptings, and Master Killigrew's irritations and castigations."

She danced over to the tub, bending to kiss him. "I will find a way to recompense you, I promise."

Nick shook his head in familiar defeat. "Send the message to Richard. But for the love of God, do not write it! A verbal invitation will do."

Polly stuck her tongue out. "How do you expect me to improve when I receive so little encouragement?"

Master Killigrew greeted Nicholas with heartfelt relief. "God's bones, but 'tis good to see you safe, man. I have been in more than half a mind to cancel tomorrow's performance."

"Why so?" Nick took snuff, hiding his amusement that Killigrew's relief at seeing him appeared to have more to do with his theatre than congratulation on Nick's happy release from imprisonment.

"Why, 'tis Polly! Such an edge of desperation as she has been walking. I have been afeard that she would slip at any moment, and with the first performance of a new play-"

He shrugged expressively, confident that his interlocutor would fully comprehend the gravity.

"She has been greatly anxious," Nick said, watching the stage.

"Aye, but 'tis more than that," Thomas declared. "There has been something else amiss, but she'd not confide in me." He watched the action critically, then nodded. "But all's well now, it would seem." He strode forward. "Polly, we all know what Master Dryden wrote the part of Florimell for you, but you must not let it go to your head! It is still necessary to perform, unless you wish to be bombarded from the pit."

"You are unjust!" Polly declared, swinging 'round on her mentor. "What would you have me do?"

Nicholas smiled, listening to the lively exchange. It was as if the last week had never happened. Except that it had.

"Well met, my friend." Richard De Winter spoke softly from the gloom of the pit, and Nick turned, hand outstretched in welcome.

"Ah, Richard, it does me good to see you again." They clasped hands in a moment that said more than words could. "Did you receive Polly's message?"

"Aye." Richard laughed. "Much garbled with joy, but the meaning was clear." He turned his attention to the stage, then nodded, much as Killigrew had done. "I see that she is herself again."

"Did you notice aught else but uncommon anxiety about her these last days, Richard?" asked Nick.

Tread softly, Richard reminded himself. "Uncommon anxiety is all-pervasive, Nick. D'ye have a reason for asking?"

Nick shrugged. "Not really. I daresay Killigrew in his own uncommon anxiety saw more than there was to be seen." Linking arms with his friend, he drew him into the shadows of the pit, where their whispers would not disturb the rehearsal. "Have you any light to shed, Richard?"

De Winter shook his head. "Nay, but I am charged with a message-a most kindly message." He paused, and Nick

raised an eyebrow in silent question. "His Majesty bids you attend the levee on the morrow. A small matter of misunderstanding to be resolved."

"Lord of hell!" Nick raised his eyes to the cupola. "A misunderstanding had me arrested at dawn with great sound and fury! A misunderstanding kept me lodged in the Tower for a sennight!"

"Softly, now," Richard advised, laying a hand on his arm. "Let be, Nick. Let the hound snore, and do you smile at the king. No great harm's done, when all's computed."

Nick seemed irresolute, but slowly he relaxed, accepting the sense of his friend's words. He looked toward the stage. Polly had suffered no lasting, hurt, and neither had he. Better to leave the hound snoring, as Richard said.