"Your pardon, madame," he managed, swinging open the carriage door, springing lightly to the ground. He bowed. "I pray you will permit me to make amends. If you would direct me to your lodging, I will convey you there myself."

Polly curtsied automatically as she examined the gentleman covertly. He was most magnificent, with three curling ostrich plumes to his hat, dyed red to match his wine-red velvet coat and breeches, a full-bottomed periwig upon his head, diamonds upon his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes. She raised her eyes to his face as she swam upward, and suffered a slight shock. It was not a pleasant face, although the expression was one of studied amiability-hard eyes under heavy, drooping lids; a thin mouth, with more than a hint of cruelty to it, beneath a long, pointed nose that

reminded her of a hawk's beak. It was the face of a cynic and a dissolute, and the examination to which she was being subjected was frankly calculating. Polly quite suddenly wished she were well away from his vicinity.

"There is no need, sir," she replied. "I live but a short distance and would prefer to walk."

"Oh, but you cannot do so," he protested. "Allow me to present myself. George Villiers at your service, madame."

The name meant nothing to Polly, who had never heard the Duke of Buckingham referred to by his family name. She responded with a polite murmur and another curtsy before turning abruptly, walking off down the street.

Buckingham stood motionless, his eyes riveted on the figure until she turned the corner from Drury Lane onto Long Acre. If she lived but a short distance from here, it should not be impossible to discover her address and identity. Such rare beauty would not go unremarked in the taverns and shops. He beckoned to his footboy.

Polly, finding unaccountably that all desire to continue her walk was vanished, returned home by way of Bow Street. The enticing aroma of roasting fowl and a mug of buttered ale before the crackling luxury of her own fireside offered some measure of compensation, and she was sitting before the fire, wriggling her toes in its warmth, feeling completely in charity with the world, when she heard De Winter's voice in the hall belowstairs.

Jumping up, she went to the parlor door, appearing on the small landing as his lordship mounted the stairs. "Why, sir, are you come to visit? Nicholas is gone to his house."

"Then may I be permitted the conceit of thinking you might be glad of my company?" He smiled, bowing as he reached the landing.

" 'Tis no conceit, sir, but the truth." She gestured to the parlor. "Pray come in and let me pour you wine."

"Y'are a most accomplished hostess, Mistress Wyat," Richard said, smiling, as she took his hat and cloak.

Polly hesitated, then said, "If you would care to join me for dinner, my lord, I would be very happy to have your

company. Goodwife Benson has gone to some trouble to dress a fine pullet."

"Prettily said!" Laughing, he flicked her cheek with a careless finger. "I should be delighted. The prospect of the goodwife's pullet quite sets my mouth to watering!"

Thus it was that when Nicholas came hotfoot up the stairs into his mistress's apartments, he found a cozy scene. The two diners were quite clearly upon the easiest of terms, and Nick was surprised by a most unjustified pang of what he could only recognize as jealousy. He knew that Richard would under no circumstances set up a flirtation with another man's protegee, and even more vital, he knew that Richard would never lose sight of the greater goal. De Winter was a dedicated politician, committed to his country's well-being; no personal whim would be permitted to intrude upon that commitment. Polly Wyat was necessary to the furtherance of that cause.

Nevertheless, the ripple of Polly's laughter, the provocative flash of her eyes as she responded to a sally, the flush of enjoyment painting her cheeks, twisted a malevolent skewer in his gut.

"Oh, you are well come, Nicholas!" Polly sprang from her chair, running to greet him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "How is Lady Margaret?" An imp of mischief danced across her face before she schooled both expression and posture to those of a devout sobriety. "She has not, I trust, found too much to aid the devil's work in the past days?"

"Minx!" declared Nicholas with some satisfaction, finding his moment of unease now fled into the realm of irrelevancy. "You have been amusing yourself, I see."

"Oh, famously," she agreed, pulling him over to the fire. "Lord De Winter is a most entertaining companion." She poured wine for the newcomer. "He has been telling me about fox hunting. I should like to learn to ride a horse."

"Then so you shall," promised Nick, taking the proffered goblet with a smile of thanks. "When the weather improves."

"Oh, I should tell you: I had a most strange encounter this

morning," Polly said thoughtfully, remembering for the first time the man in wine-red velvet. A little shiver prickled her spine, but she could not really imagine why. There had been nothing sinister in his manner or words.

"Yes?" Nick prompted. "A strange encounter with whom?"

"It was outside the playhouse. His carriage splashed me!" The statement was underpinned with remembered resentment. "I was having a fight with his coachman…"

"You were what?" interrupted Nick at this somewhat horrifying image.

"Well, I was telling him exactly what I thought of him," Polly elucidated. "And in no uncertain terms, when this gentleman climbed out of the carriage."

"He might well," murmured Nick, picturing the scene. "I might have shown a degree of interest myself if my coachman was engaged on my time in a verbal brawl with a foul-mouthed wench."

"If he had driven with a little more consideration, he would not have smothered me with mud!" Polly retorted tartly. "Is one not entitled to object in such a circumstance?"

"There are ways… and ways… of doing so," Nick said, carefully circumspect. "So what did the gentleman say when he had climbed out of the carriage to find himself confronted by your outrage?"

Polly frowned. "He was most apologetic and desired to drive me home. He was most insistent." She shrugged. "Maybe that is not in itself strange, but there was something about the way he looked at me."

Nicholas felt himself stiffen. He could well imagine how the unknown would have looked at Polly-with unbridled lust. He had seen it often enough; but then, so had Polly, and she usually had little difficulty dealing with it. So what had disturbed her particularly this time? "You did not accept his offer?" It was a rhetorical question.

"I think that had I not been so close to home, I might have found it difficult to gainsay him," Polly said frankly, putting her finger at last on what had so disturbed her. The

gentleman had given the impression of one who possessed both the power and the inclination to take for himself what was not freely rendered.

"I told you to have a care," Nick said quietly.

"But this was not one of those of whom I was supposed to be careful," Polly pointed out. "There were arms emblazoned on the panels of his coach. He was no footpad or street rogue. I would not have been afeard of such as they."

"You did not discover his name?" De Winter put in.

"Yes… he offered an introduction in a most proper manner. I did not return the courtesy but walked away. I imagine he must have thought me sadly lacking in manners."

"If you were accosted, I do not think you were obliged to be mannerly." Nick offered reassurance.

"But you could say that it was I who did the accosting," Polly said with ruthless candor, this matter of manners seeming suddenly to assume an inordinate importance.

De Winter prompted again. "What name did he give you?"

"Oh, yes… Villiers," she said, still frowning. "George Villiers. I think that was it."