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.