Venus

Chapter 8

“I cannot help feeling that you are neglecting your duties, my dear Barbara." George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, took snuff with a delicate twist of his wrist, and arched an ironic eyebrow at his cousin, my Lady Castlemaine. "His Majesty has an air greatly disconsolate. Was he, perhaps, impervious to your usual forms of consolation last night?"

The king's mistress shrugged plump white shoulders, the gesture lifting her breasts clear of her decolletage to reveal the nipples. "He had set his heart upon flying his new hawk this morning." She gestured to the long, snow-encrusted windows of the Privy Gallery looking over the Pebble Court at Whitehall Palace. "It is hardly possible in such weather, and you know how he detests being thwarted."

"Then it is surely incumbent upon us to suggest some diversion," Buckingham mused, nicking at his satin sleeve with his lace-edged handkerchief. "There is no knowing what he may decide to do when he is allowed to brood."

"Or whose company he may choose to favor," said Lady Castlemaine, with a shrewd, knowing look at her cousin. "He seems uncommon pleased with Clarendon this morning. They were closeted in his Privy chamber for upwards of an hour. Methinks the lord chancellor is returning to grace."

A laugh, tinged with malice, accompanied the suggestion that she knew would arouse Buckingham to supreme irritation.

The greater part of the duke's energies these days was expended in the discrediting of the chancellor to the king-a task hindered by the facts that Clarendon's daughter was married to the Duke of York, His Majesty's brother, and that Clarendon had been Charles II's most trusted counselor throughout his exile and in the years since his restoration. But the king was coming to apostatize the old man as a bore, ¦ a dull dog who would put a bridle on His Majesty's pleasure seeking; one who was forever demanding that he turn his mind to the business of governing, and the placation of Parliament if he was to secure further revenue from them. King Charles did not consider it his task to placate the Commons in order to be provided with the money he required to pursue his pleasures. The granting of such funds was Parliament's duty.

"My dear cousin," said Buckingham deliberately, "it is no more in your interests than 'tis in mine to advance the chancellor's cause. You would be better employed in joining forces with me than in amusing yourself at my expense." Almost indolently, he reached out a hand, catching her wrist, shaking back the fall of lace that had obscured a diamond bracelet. The stones caught the light from the chandelier. They were exceptionally fme stones in a most intricate setting, and His Grace made great play of examining them. "An expensive trinket, madame," he drawled, pointing his meaning with an arched eyebrow. "A present from your husband, no doubt?" He dropped her wrist abruptly, and his eyes, cold and hard, met hers. "Take heed whom you make your enemy, my lady. I will govern the king, and when I do I will remember my friends and my foes." With a neat toss of his head to throw back the heavy fall of his peruke so that it should not obscure his face, His Grace bowed deeply.

The irony in the salutation after such a declaration would not have been missed by one much less perspicacious than Lady Castlemaine. She curtsied with matching depth. "I,

too, can be a powerful friend, my lord duke. Much can be contrived in the privacy of the bed curtains."

"Exactly so." Buckingham smiled. "Which is why I would have you remain there, Barbara." The smile touching only his lips widened. "We understand each other, I trust?"

"Perfectly." Lady Castlemaine fluttered her fan. She watched him walk over to where the king sat, surrounded by an anxious court, all clearly racking their brains for some solution to His Majesty's ennui. A deep frown drew the thick royal eyebrows together; slender, beringed fingers drummed on the carved oak arm of his chair; a red-heeled, ribbon-adorned shoe tapped an impatient rhythm. The duke bowed and said something that Lady Castlemaine could not hear, but the result was a deep roar of laughter from the king, followed by admiring ripples in imitation from the surrounding circle.

Her ladyship's fingers combed restlessly through her hair, drawing it across her shoulders. Earlier she had tried, but failed, to do what Buckingham had so signally succeeded in achieving-the return of the king's good humor. It was a lesson she had best take to heart. His grace would soon be the most powerful man in the land, and there was no saying whether his influence could reach as far as his majesty's bedchamber, could prove threatening to the mistress of that bedchamber. But it was not worth putting to the test. The Countess of Castlemaine, all smiles, went over to join the laughing circle around the king.

"Nicholas… Nick! Oh, wake up, do!" Polly tugged at his shoulder. "It is the most amazing thing. You must come and see!"

Nicholas for a moment did not know where he was as the importunate voice and hand penetrated his deep slumber. Then memory returned. He rolled onto his back, blinking sleepily. The bed curtains were drawn back, but the light in the chamber was dim and gray. "You are awake betimes, Polly."

She pulled a mischievous face. "I have become accustomed to early rising in your sister's household, sir. Lying long abed encourages the devil's work." Her voice was an uncanny imitation of Margaret's, and he burst into laughter.

"Come back to bed. You will catch cold."

"Nay… Come and see!" She threw the quilt off him, seizing his hand.

Groaning, Nick obeyed the summons, staggering to his feet. He was not accustomed to leaving his bed until the morning was fairly well advanced, and the sight of Polly, prancing eagerly in her bare skin, was one to encourage a long lie-in, as was the cold air on his own uncovered flesh. "Put on your smock, moppet. You will freeze to death," he protested, reaching for his shirt.

"Oh, 'tis only cold in here because the fire had gone down," she said impatiently. " 'Tis not cold in the parlor." Pulling him behind her, she danced into the other room, where he noted that the fire was newly kindled, last night's supper dishes removed, and the table laid for breakfast. Goodwife Benson was clearly an efficient landlady.

"Look!" Polly gestured dramatically to the window. "We are in a snow house."

Nicholas whistled, crossing over to what had once been a window. It was completely blanked out by snow.

"Could the snow have fallen so deeply that it reached the upper story?" demanded Polly. "Shall we open it and see?"

"If you wish to fill the chamber with snow, by all means do so," Nick said equably. Polly looked so crestfallen as she realized the absurdity of a suggestion made in the throes of excitement that he chuckled. "One would think that you have never seen the stuff before."

"I have always loved it," she told him. "It covers up all the grime and the refuse, and you can pretend for a little bit that it will never come back-that the world will always be fresh and sparkling and white." She shrugged. " 'Tis fanciful, I know. The white cover becomes fouled, then it melts and the filth is still there, only even worse." A metaphor for life, she had so often thought. There would be moments when

hope was high, when the idea of radical change seemed not impossibly chimeric, then reality would intrude, made even more vicious by its destruction of dreams. But this time, the white transmuting cover would not become sullied and melt. It could not, because this time she had been given control over her destiny. The prize was there to be seized if she was capable of doing so.

Nick frowned, wondering why the radiance should have been so abruptly wiped from her face. But the bleakness vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, and she offered him that heart-stopping smile again.

"Mayhap we will be snowbound."

Nicholas returned the smile. "I can think of worse fates, but I had best get dressed and investigate downstairs." He went into the bedchamber to pull on shirt and breeches. Polly followed, scrambling into her smock.

"I wish to investigate, also," she said in reply to his raised eyebrow. "May I not?"

"I had rather you climbed back into bed and awaited my return. I do not intend to be many minutes; then we have some unfinished business to attend to. I seem to recall that you were rather anxious for the onset of morning. Or do you find the prospect of snow so all-absorbing that you will be unable to concentrate on anything else?"

Polly removed her smock and climbed back into bed. "But if you are a very long time, I shall come to find you."

"I can safely promise you that I shall not be," he said, rendered strangely dizzy by the sight to which he had just been treated. Polly's back view as she had clambered up onto the high feather mattress had set up in an inventive and playful mind an utterly dazzling series of images and possibilities. Finding themselves snowbound could, indeed, prove decidedly entertaining.

"I fear you must be having most improper thoughts, my lord," Polly said demurely, peeping at him over the quilt, which she was holding up to her nose. His own gaze lowered without volition to follow the direction of hers. "I do not think you should go and visit Goodwife Benson just yet,"

she continued. "Not until you have… have, well… subsided, if you see what I mean." The hazel eyes were alight with mischief; her tongue peeked from between her lips.

"I fear you are right," declared his lordship, calmly pushing off his breeches. He reached for the quilt and twitched it out of her hold, flinging it back.

"But the fire had gone out!" Polly yelped as the cold air hit her now-rewarmed flesh.

"The price of impudence," he told her cheerfully. "But you will not be complaining of the cold soon. Turn over."

When Goodwife Benson knocked on the bedchamber door an hour later, Polly had discovered that there was a variety of novel ways of increasing the body's temperature. Nicholas bade their landlady enter and propped himself on the pillows to smile a greeting as the round figure bustled in.

"Ye'U be needing the fire newly rekindled in "ere," said the goodwife, setting a bucket of coal in the hearth. "Will ye be wantin' my man to trim ye, m'lord?" She wiped her hands on her apron. "Right handy 'e is with a razor. Been a gentleman's gentleman, sir."

Nick rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. "I'd be glad of his services, goodwife. It's kind in him to offer."

The woman beamed. " 'Tis nothin', m'lord. But ye'll not be venturin' forth today. Snow's still falling."

Polly sat up at this, observing hopefully, "Mayhap you will not be able to open the door."

"Like as not." The goodwife's smile broadened. It was clear to Nick that she was as amused as he was by the contrast between Polly's ingenuousness and that extraordinary sensual, tumbled beauty. "But my man and the boy'll take a shovel to it, soon as may be." She turned back to the fire, busying herself with coals and kindling until a cheerful blaze filled the hearth. "There now. I'll fetch you up hot water and send my man to ye, m'lord. Will the young lady require help with 'er dressin'?"

Polly looked startled. "No… no, thank you." The goodwife inclined her head, bobbed a little curtsy, and bus-

tied out. "Why should she imagine I would need help with my dressing?" Polly slid out of bed.

"Ladies generally do," replied my lord with that enigmatic little smile. His words had the effect he had expected. She stood stock-still and stared.

"I do not think Newgate-born bastards, bred in a tavern, warrant such a title," she said carefully.

"But a lord's mistress might," he suggested. "We have not discussed what background you must assume, but you should perhaps consider this now. When you are introduced to Thomas Killigrew you will not wish to present him with… with…" He felt for words before deciding that Polly's had been both sufficiently descriptive and accurate. "A Newgate-born bastard. While actors are welcomed at court, such a history as yours is unlikely to be received with equanimity. And you know you must earn the king's approbation if you are to join his company."

Polly moved closer to the fire's warmth as she considered this. She turned herself slowly, like a roast on a spit, maintaining an even warmth on her bare skin. As always, she appeared sublimely unconscious of her nakedness. Such ease with one's body was, Nicholas reflected, a considerable asset in one who would tread the boards. He watched her cogitations in silent amusement for a moment.

"We have spent some considerable time and effort in the last month ensuring that your deportment and accomplishments are consistent with a respectable background," he reminded her eventually. "One that will not come amiss at court."

"I had not fully realized the complexity of this," Polly said slowly. "I realized that Master Killigrew must decide that I have some skill, but I had not thought as far ahead as coming to His Majesty's notice."

"If Killigrew agrees to take you on, he will present you in one of his productions," Nick told her. "He will invite the king to attend the theatre and will recommend you to his notice. The rest will be up to you, for you know that the members of the king's company are servants of His Majesty;

they wear the king's livery and receive their pay from the royal purse. With the Duke of York's company, the same applies, except that they are servants of His Grace. King Charles must decide for himself that he wishes you in his service."

"Oh." Polly found the idea of having to appeal in person to His Majesty, King Charles II, utterly daunting.

Nick read her mind with little difficulty. "I should not be overly anxious, sweetheart. The king is most susceptible to all aspects of female beauty, and you possess them all-lavishly." He chuckled as she blushed. Could she possibly be unaware of it? "If you have even a minimal talent for the stage, you need have no fears."

"I have more than minimal talent," she declared, indicating that her modesty was not all-encompassing.

"I do not doubt it," Kincaid agreed smoothly. "But you would be well advised to conceal the circumstances of your birth and upbringing if you wish to frequent the court."

"But not all actors have genteel antecedents," Polly objected. "I know they do not because the daughter of the butcher on Tower Street became an orange girl at the Duke of York's theatre, and then found a protector and became an actor."

"If you wish to be a mediocre actor, never emerging from the back ranks, then your origins may be as humble as you please," Kincaid said briskly. "But I had thought you intended to star. Star actors become courtiers, or they do not star."

"Perhaps I should be a woman of mystery," Polly said, a gleam in her eye. "With a deep and dark past. Will that serve, d'ye think?" She twirled, showing him her back, kissed pink by the fire's heat.

"Done to a turn," murmured Nick, sliding to the floor. A sharp rap at the door gave him pause. He sighed, reaching for his shirt. "One minute," he called. "I expect that this is Goodman Benson come to trim me. I will join him in the parlor. Do you dress yourself, now, and come out when you are decent."

Polly dressed rapidly, putting on over her kirtle the daygown that Kincaid had bought for her in the Royal Exchange. It was not an article of clothing worn by kitchen maids-kirtle, cap, and apron being considered quite sufficient-so she had only put it on when specifically instructed by Nicholas to do so. Clearly it was incumbent upon her in present circumstances to wear it. She combed her hair free of the tangles created by the night and morning's activities. Her pins, she remembered, were in the parlor, where Nick had left them last night, so she was obliged to leave her hair to hang loose over the neat lace collar of her kirtle.

The scene that she found in the parlor was one unfamiliar to her. The men she had known hitherto tended to the unkempt and bearded. Nicholas was seated before the fire, a large towel wrapped around his shoulders, his face lost behind a lather mask, while a thin, birdlike man, presumably Goodman Benson, razor in hand, was engaged in drawing a series of swaths through the lather. Polly stood watching, fascinated and amused at the thought of this delicate, ascetic-looking man belonging to the rotund and bustling Goodwife Benson.

"There you are, my lord." Benson spoke in reverential accents as he wiped his lordship's face with a dampened towel before standing back to survey his handiwork with a critical eye. "A little work with the comb, my lord, and I venture to say that ye'd be fit to attend court." Suiting action to words, he plied a comb vigorously to my lord's long, flowing locks, while Polly, nibbling on a slice of barley bread liberally buttered, continued to watch. If one's morning toilet was customarily this rigorous and extended, it was no wonder one did not appear belowstairs until the morning was far advanced.

The task was eventually completed to Benson's satisfaction. "I'd be happy to furbish your linen, my lord, seein' as how, on account of the snow, ye'11 be short of anything clean."

"Very true," said his lordship. "I'd be most grateful."

"I've a good velvet gown, if yer lordship would be so

condescending," offered Goodman Benson. It was an offer that was accepted with alacrity, and the erstwhile gentleman's gentleman hurried off, beaming, to fetch the required garment.

"I think you have just made him the happiest man in London," observed Polly, turning back to the table to hack at the pink, glistening ham. "Will you permit him to dress you, also? Fastening one's own buttons must be dreadfully tedious work."

"Don't talk with your mouth full. I have told you before; it is both ill bred and inelegant," was Kincaid's affable response to this sweetly uttered piece of provocation.

Benson returned before Polly could marshal her wits for a further attack, and his lordship was shortly arrayed in a velvet gown, which, judging by its size, was not the property of the goodman. The latter took away all my lord's garments, including his shoes, with the statement that the buckles could do with shining.

"Do you shift your linen every day?" Polly asked in genuine astonishment.

Nicholas took his seat at the breakfast table. "It is customary. Sit down, now. 'Tis most ill mannered to eat standing up." He poured ale into a pewter tankard, drinking deeply, before slicing bread and bacon for himself.

"I have never known it to be customary," declared his companion, sitting opposite him. "And 'tis not ill mannered to eat standing up if you do not have the time to sit down."

"But you do have the time," he reminded. "And will continue to have; just as you will find yourself amongst people with whom it is customary to shift their linen regularly, if not on a daily basis."

"That is a little difficult if one has only one petticoat and smock," pointed out Polly, helping herself liberally to a dish of anchovies and olives.

"That will be remedied as soon as the snow has cleared sufficiently for a shopping expedition. Until it does, we should perhaps use our enforced seclusion to continue your

studies. I must teach you a few of the French words that are in frequent use. They must come easily to your tongue."

"That sounds somewhat tedious," Polly said with a comical grimace. "I can think of many more amusing ways to while away the time. Can you not?"

"Without question," he agreed, managing to conceal the fact that he had quite failed in an attempt to react imperviously to the frankly wanton invitation in the hazel eyes. "And it you wish to abandon your ambition of an introduction to Master Killigrew, then I see no reason why we should bother with such tedious activities."

Polly lowered her eyes to her plate. She had been outma-neuvered in that mischievous little play, and it clearly behooved her to sharpen her wits if she wished to indulge in such amusements in future.

Kincaid grinned. Her thought processes were transparently easy to divine. She looked up, caught the grin, and burst into laughter. "It is odious in you to gloat so! I have not had as much practice as you have in the art of conversational exchanges."

"Oh, was that what that was?" he murmured. "I had thought it more in the nature of a ham-fisted attempt to score unnecessary points on the subject of my sartorial habits-a subject, I might add, on which you are not equipped to expatiate."

"I do not know what that means," Polly declared. "But I collect it is in the nature of a snub."

"Correct," he agreed gravely, then found himself obliged to engage in spirited defense as she hurled herself upon him with an indignation not entirely feigned. "That is not an acceptable way of expressing annoyance," he gasped, once he had managed to get sufficient grip upon her to allow him to draw breath. He held her firmly on his knee, her legs trapped between his, her wrists clipped in the small of her back, his other hand twisted in the honeyed mane tumbling over her shoulders. "One does not give physical expression to anger, you rag-mannered brat; at least, not in court circles. One uses one's tongue and one's wits to best effect."

"Well, as you have just pointed out, I am not very good at that," she retorted with an experimental wriggle that achieved nothing.

"You do not appear signally successful at this, either," laughed Nick. "Cry peace!" He tugged on her hair, bringing her face round and down to his. The fight left her rapidly as he invaded her mouth, continuing to hold her head fast until she returned the kiss with the eagerness that so delighted him, the soft body melding, pliant and welcoming, with his.

"But I am more successful at this, am I not, my lord?" she whispered, her tongue swooping in tantalizing darts against his eyelids as she moved her body on his lap to considerable effect.

"Without question," he groaned, hardening beneath her.

"And I learn very quickly, do I not?" Her tongue dipped into his ear, probing the whorls and contours with devastating thoroughness.

"Indubitably." Nick groaned again. Sliding his hands beneath her, he lifted her, pulling up her skirt and petticoat. "There, now sit down again," he whispered urgently, twitching aside his gown, turning her so that she sat astride his lap.

"Oh," Polly said, realizing what was happening when her bare thighs met his. "Is it possible like this?"

"Can you think of any reason why it should not be?" He smiled and guided her opened body onto the impaling shaft.

"No, none at all," breathed Polly, taking him within herself… And then, much later, in accents of wonder and awe, "Not a reason in the world!"

It was two days later before the self-enclosed world of the lovers was breached. There had been no snow for ten hours, and the front door was freed of obstruction. Polly tumbled outside with all the vigor and eagerness of a cabined kitten set free, exclaiming as always at the wonderland where the filth of the streets, the soil of the kennels, the ordure-ridden

straw of the cobbles, was vanished under a pristine carpet. Nicholas followed her, laughing at the enthusiasm that plunged her headlong into a drift. Other folk appeared on the lane, blinking in the snow's dazzle, calling jovial greetings. One or two snowballs were thrown-a sport that instantly appealed to Polly. She was engaged in a merry battle with a couple of stable lads, her newfound dignity cast to the four winds, when Richard De Winter appeared, astride a powerful beast who clearly made up in strength what he lacked in elegance as he highstepped his way through the drifts.

Lord De Winter was privileged to witness the moment when his old friend, habitue of the court of King Charles, received, full in the face, a snowball thrown by a laughing girl who pranced, taunting, in the snow, neatly evading all missiles directed at her. Nick, with a roar, descended upon the dancing sprite, retribution clearly in mind, and Polly, squealing, took to her heels, her cloak flying out behind,

"Oh, what a joyous sight it is to see children at play," mocked Richard.

Kincaid ceased his pursuit at the sound of the familiar voice and turned, laughing, brushing snow from his face and coat. "Why, Richard, you are well come, indeed. And intrepidly so. The streets are passable?" A snowball flew through the air, struck De Winter's mount squarely on the neck. The horse threw up his head with an annoyed whinny, and both men swung round on the culprit.

"I beg your pardon," Polly said, one hand pressed to her lips, eyes wide in apology. "It…it seemed to leave my hand of its own accord." She plowed through the snow toward them. "Lord De Winter, I bid you good day." She reached up a hand, smiling with genuine warmth. Her hood fell back, offering him an unhindered view of that radiant countenance framed in a braided coronet, glinting richly gold under the. sun's glow. "Pray grant me absolution, sir. I had not quite realized that playtime was over."

"There is nothing to absolve," he responded cheerfully,

swinging from his mount. "Think you that one of your playfellows could be persuaded to have a care for my horse?"

Nicholas beckoned one of the lads, and the animal was handed over. "Polly, see if the goodwife has the makings of a punch bowl, will you?"

"Why, yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord. Will there be anything else, my lord?" Polly curtsied in the snow, gathering up a handful as she rose. She patted it thoughtfully between her hands, smiling benignly.

De Winter, with a punctilious care, straightened the lace edging to his glove. Nicholas said, "Mistress Wyat, would you be so good as to request Goodwife Benson to supply me with the makings of a punch bowl? I should be forever in your debt." Polly tossed the snowball from hand to hand, debating.

"It is always wise to recognize when one has won a point," De Winter said softly. "Even in sport."

Polly cast him a sharp glance, met smiling gray eyes, and chuckled, tossing the snowball to the ground. "You give good counsel, sir. Come within and warm yourself. I will see what can be coaxed from our hosts." She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and the Bensons' apartments, and Nicholas ushered his friend to the parlor abovestairs.

"Some considerable transformation," remarked Richard, stepping over to the fire.

Nicholas did not assume that he was referring to Kincaid's new surroundings. He nodded. "She shows great ease at adapting. I do not think that Killigrew will find anything amiss."

"And the chains.-…?" Richard took snuff, discreetly avoiding his companion's eye.

"Are in place." Kincaid strolled to the window, looking down at the lively scene in the street. Was it possible for those chains to become mutual bonds? He had intended to lead an innocent along the paths of love, to kindle passion in her and teach her the infinite joys of fulfilling that passion. Thus would he forge the chains of love that would ensure her loyalty. For himself, he had intended to consummate a

desire he had felt since he had first laid eyes upon her. He had consummated that desire, and looked forward with intense pleasure to its continued satisfaction. But something was getting in the way of his clear thinking. It was Polly herself-that candid, mischievous, loving elf who seemed to be weaving chains of her own.

"Ye'll forgive a somewhat personal remark, Nick, but she'll be of little value to Killigrew, or to us, with a swollen belly." De Winter surveyed his friend's rigid back, remembering the play he had interrupted in the lane. It had a quality that had little place in the formalized relationship of keeper and mistress.

Nick turned slowly, offering a rueful smile. "You may rest assured that at the expense of a slight diminution in pleasure, I am taking the precaution that will prevent such a happenstance."

De Winter simply nodded. "I am come from the court, where I have been immured these last two days whilst you have been disporting yourself. It would appear that Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham are become fast confidants."

"That is hardly good tidings, my friend." Nicholas tossed another log onto the fire. "Had they been pulling against each other, the evil influence of each upon the king would be rendered less harmful. Together…" He shrugged.

"They will encourage him to incalculable foolishness," continued De Winter. "If they support Monmouth's legitimacy, and persuade the king to set himself up against Parliament, they will bring the country to the brink of another civil war. The people will not stand for it, Nick."

"I am aware of it."

"And you are still minded to avail yourself of any opportunities Mistress Wyat might afford for circumventing the duke?" De Winter spoke casually. "You are in a better position now to assess how skillful she might be in attracting and keeping Buckingham's attention."

"You may rest assured that she lacks none of those attributes that will appeal to Buckingham," Nick said, in a voice as dry as fallen leaves. Sensual, passionate, uninhibited…

What man could resist her? Why the devil was the thought so distasteful?

"So when do you intend effecting the introduction to Killigrew?"

"I see no reason to delay," Nick said. "Once she has a new wardrobe, one more suitable for an aspiring actor. What she has left to learn, she will learn rapidly enough under Tom's instruction."

The door opened at this point, and Goodwife Benson came energetically into the chamber, carrying a tray laden with brandy, hot water, lemons, and spices. She was followed by Polly, bearing a large punch bowl and ladle. "Is it a brandy punch ye'll be wantin', my lord? I've rum, if ye'd prefer it."

"Thank you, but brandy will serve admirably," Nick assured her, moving to take the heavy bowl and ladle from Polly. "If you'd set the tray beside the fire…" The woman did so, cast a critical eye around the room to ascertain that all was in order, before bobbing a curtsy and hastening out, her stuff gown swishing with the vigor of her stride.

Polly settled herself on a three-legged stool before the fire and drew the punch bowl toward her. "I was taught to mix a tolerable punch," she informed the two men with a serene smile, reaching for the brandy.

Nick regarded her quizzically. "I am not sure that is entirely wise. The last time I had drink of your mixing-"

"That is unjust!" protested Polly. "As it happens, the drink to which I assume you are referring was not of my mixing."

Nick smiled at her. "I spoke in jest, moppet."

"Aye, I am aware." Pushing the bowl aside with an impatient gesture, she came to put her arms around his neck, placing her mouth firmly on his. "And I would forgive you even if'twere not a jest."

"This is not going to get the punch mixed," observed Richard pensively, kneeling on the hearth to set about the task himself.

"No, you are right." Nick pulled Polly's arms from

around his neck. "Neither is it a practice to be conducted in public, I fear. Pleasant though it is for the recipient."

"I do not understand what you mean." Polly looked hurt. "I wished only to kiss you."

De Winter turned a choke of laughter into a cough and sprinkled nutmeg onto the contents of the punch bowl.

"Will you explain, Richard, or shall I?" Nick asked.

"You. I have my hands full with the punch," replied his friend.

"Sit down, Polly… No, not on my knee!" Nick put her firmly back on the stool she had abandoned. "Now, listen to me very carefully. 'Tis a lesson I have not yet imparted."

Polly, looking more than a little rebellious, kept her seat on the stool, folding her hands in her lap. "I do not think this is a lesson I am going to want to learn," she muttered suspiciously.

"Probably not," Nick responded, as equable as always. "But it is a vital one nevertheless." He stood up, reached for his clay pipe and the pouch of tobacco on the mantel, and began to fill the bowl as he talked. "I have told you that any overt discourtesy will put you beyond the social pale. The same applies to public displays of emotion of any description. Cool friendship is acceptable, but that is as far as you may go." He bent to light a taper in the fire, then set it to the pipe.

"I may not speak lovingly to you, or touch you, or-"

"No, you may not!" Nick broke in in vigorous confirmation. "In public, you will treat me with a careless indifference, as I will treat you-"

"Nay!" Polly jumped up, horrified at such an image. "I could not do such a thing, and if you treat me with a… with a careless indifference, I shall go home."

"Then you will never again be invited to show your face at court," Richard said coming to his friend's aid. "While it will be common knowledge that you live under Nick's protection, you will become an object of disgust if you parade your emotions."

"Why?"

Nick shrugged. "It is not done, sweetheart. That is the only answer I can give you. If you would achieve acceptance in that world, then you must abide by the rules."

De Winter tasted the concoction in the punch bowl with a critical frown before remarking casually, "Should you break the rules in such a fashion, you will make Nick a jestingstock, as well as yourself. 'Twould hardly be a convincing demonstration of affection." He ladled the drink into three pewter goblets. "The very reverse, I would have said."

Polly buried her nose in the fragrant steam curling from the goblet. She came from a world where every facet of emotional life was lived on the surface and in front of all eyes. Kisses, blows, endearments, and curses were administered whenever and wherever the need or desire arose. There was no privacy in the fetid, teeming lanes and houses of the city slums, and concealing emotion was a concept quite alien to her.

Nick watched her over the lip of his own goblet, guessing at her thoughts, just as he knew what Richard was thinking. Not only would she jeopardize her own position at court in such an instance, but she would also destroy all possibility of their own plan's coming to fruition.

As if echoing his thoughts, Richard spoke again. "As an actor, Polly, it will be not in your interests to imply that you have eyes only for Lord Kincaid. You will receive many other offers, which you may or may not choose to accept; but if you wish to further your ambition, then you will not wish to give the impression of one who has lost her heart and cannot be approached. There are those who might offer you marriage." His eyebrows lifted. "You would not be the first female actor to marry into the nobility."

Polly struggled to master the stab of dismay at these words. She could not imagine wishing for a protector other than the one she had. But then, it was always possible that Lord Kincaid would weary of her. Why would he not? She had said that first night, when he had put her into the truckle bed in his room and she had first propounded her plan, that once

she was established under his aegis, if he no longer wished to be her protector, then she would be able to find another one. It was the way these matters were conducted, as she had always known.

The idea of marriage was so far beyond her sights, whatever De Winter might say, that she did not trouble to dwell upon the notion. Even if the world was not to know she was a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard, she would always know.

She raised her head, smiling, and neither of her companions had an inkling of the effort it cost her. "It is just possible, my lord, that I may be successful enough at my profession to support myself. In which case, I would have no need of a husband and may take only those lovers who appeal to me."

"Let us drink to such an admirable goal," De Winter said easily, raising his glass, exchanging a quick glance with Nick, who merely quirked an eyebrow.

Nick drank the toast, wrestling with his own quite unjustified resentment. Without so much as a word to himself, De Winter had appropriated the task of planting in Polly's head the seeds of her future role. It was a task that Nick thought should lie at his own door, but De Winter was behaving as if Polly were common property.

In a sense she was, he admitted grimly to himself-inasmuch as she was the tool the faction would employ in their conspiracy against Buckingham, she belonged to the group. Clearly, it behooved him to keep his eye on the ultimate goal and concentrate on germinating the seeds planted by De Winter. Becoming sidetracked by emotion would serve no purpose and could, indeed, endanger the lives of them all.