From the far end of the gallery she was under a scrutiny of the most august nature.

"Quite extraordinary beauty." King Charles looked across to where Mistress Polly Wyat stood, surrounded by an admiring court. A ray of March sunlight danced playfully in the honey-hued river cascading over her shoulders, which rose in creamy perfection from the froth of lace at her bodice. "She remains under Kincaid's protection, d'ye say, George?"

"So I understand, sir," returned the Duke of Buckingham, thoughtfully taking snuff. "But he does not appear overly protective." A smile twisted the duke's lips.

The king glanced sideways at his interlocutor and chuckled. "Ye've designs there yourself, have you, George? I can't say I blame you. I'd have a play myself if I weren't so encumbered by the ladies already." He sighed, dabbing his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief. "I swear, George, that if Mrs. Stewart is not after my Lady Castlemaine's blood, it is the other way around. 'Tis enough to destroy a man's interest in the fair sex."

"Not yours, sir," said Villiers with a bow and a salacious smile. "It would take a much greater force than that possessed by those two charmers."

The king laughed in great good humor. "Aye, I daresay I may count myself their match. In truth, though, they can neither of them hold a candle to Mistress Wyat."

"I wonder where Kincaid found her," mused the duke, a hungry light in his eyes. "No one seems to know, and neither he nor the lady are telling."

"Did not Killigrew say that she was the daughter of a merchant-some respectable bourgeois?"

The duke frowned. "There's no taint of the Grand Seraglio about her, certainly," he said. "She has none of the obvious tricks of one born and bred to whoredom. But it is also hard to imagine such a rare flower springing from the seed of some staid and plebian bourgeois. I cannot believe such antecedents could produce that delicacy of face and form, or that lively wit. There's nothing of the Flemish mare about her." He chuckled involuntarily at the absurdity of the comparison. "I would guess she's some nobleman's by-blow, brought up in obscure respectability, a mediocrity from which she's anxious to depart."

The king shrugged. "It seems of little moment where she came from, George. She is here to grace our stage and, mayhap, your bed." A quizzical eyebrow lifted. "Will ye unseat Kincaid, think you?"

"If he will be so churlish as to refuse to share her, then I shall have to." Buckingham smiled pleasantly. "But Nick is not one to keep good things to himself. He has a generous streak."

"And the lady…?" queried the king, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

It was an indication that His Majesty was growing bored with the conversation, so Buckingham contented himself with a light laugh, a shrug that expressed the opinion that the lady's feelings in the matter could only be of a certain nature. In truth, that was exactly what the duke did think. It seemed entirely reasonable to him that, Kincaid having

served his purpose by introducing her to the stage, she should now be looking around for a more powerful protector, one who could perhaps offer her greater prospects of advancement. Such a beauty could do much better for herself than a Yorkshire baron of moderate wealth and influence. Perhaps it was time for one who could offer her almost anything she might desire to press his suit.

Polly felt the duke's approach as he came up behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to lift, her skin crawled, and she could barely repress a shudder. Why did the man continue to have this effect upon her? Nick had introduced her to him when he had come backstage after her debut at Moorfields, but he had been one of many and it had been easy enough to keep him at a distance. Since then, he had appeared at the Theatre Royal, watching rehearsals and attending every performance. But then, so had many others. On Wednesday, here at court, he had been the soul of politeness and consideration, showing her a smilingly attentive countenance; yet she could not bear his proximity.

For some reason, Nick did not like to hear her talk of her aberrational reaction to a man universally known for his charm; indeed, when she had done so, he had accused her sharply of being fanciful. So now she kept her thoughts to herself, struggling for a neutral courtesy whenever she was in the duke's ken. But it was some considerable struggle.

"Your performance last night, Mistress Wyat, transcended anything I have seen upon the stage." His Grace bowed low before her.

"You do me too much honor, my lord duke." Polly sank into her curtsy, eyes demurely lowered. "With such a character as Isabella, it would be a poor actor, indeed, who failed to do justice to the part."

"Mr. Dryden must be honored," murmured the duke, taking her hand, raising her from the curtsy. "I can only hope you will grace my own poor efforts as dramatist. It must now be the ambition of all playwrights to produce a vehicle for your brilliance."

Polly tried to withdraw her hand, but his grip tightened.

A smile played over the thin lips as he said softly, "Why would you run from me, bud? Do my compliments offend you?"

Polly managed to produce a light laugh, a tiny shrug of her slender shoulders. "How should they, sir? An actor must needs have applause for survival. It is the very staff of life for us!" She let her hand lie, limp and unresponsive, in his, but her eyes sought escape. They met the steady regard of Richard De Winter, standing some ten paces away. Her gaze signaled him frantically; with a word of excuse to those around him, he sauntered casually across to her.

"Why, Lord De Winter," Polly said, as if surprised at his arrival. "I had not seen you here earlier." She could not make her curtsy with her hand held fast in Buckingham's grip, and this time her tug was rewarded.

"I have but just arrived," Richard said calmly, carrying her fingers to his lips in an elaborate salute. "I would congratulate you on your performance as Isabella. Never has the part been played with more wit and life."

"The credit is Mr. Killigrew's," Polly demurred, drawing imperceptibly closer to Richard, as if he would shield her from the duke. "I merely follow instruction."

"A man could only be gratified by such obedience," murmured the duke, taking snuff. "I can find it in my heart to envy Thomas. Are you as submissive with your protector, Mistress Wyat? Lord Kincaid is, indeed, a fortunate man. I trust your compliance is amply rewarded? There are those who would be most eager to rectify any omissions."

Her skin crept, as if slugs trailed stickily down her spine, under his mocking gaze, the delicately taunting tone that nonetheless made no attempt to disguise the naked hunger of voice and expression. The offer was as clearly made as it was possible to be, without overt crudity, and her eyes flew to Richard, desperately seeking rescue.

"I would add my own assurance of that fact, Buckingham," he said affably, thus making of the particular a general pleasantry. "Mistress Wyat must grow fatigued with all the

hearts laid before her feet. It becomes tedious, does it not?" He smiled blandly at Polly.

"Ah, never tedious, sir," she responded, once more in charge of herself. Her eyes sparkled roguishly as she dropped them both another curtsy. "I would have a carpet of hearts, had I my way."

"Cruel maiden!" De Winter threw his hands up in mock horror. "Will you offer no quarter, then?"

"None, sir," she replied promptly. "I feed upon adulation, and without it will shrivel and die."

"Definitely a fate to be avoided." The light tones were Kincaid's. Polly controlled the impulse to whirl 'round, to greet his arrival with the warmth and relief that she felt. Instead, she merely looked over her shoulder at him with a cool smile. "We must all ensure that you have an ample diet," he said, bowing gracefully.