"Nay." Polly crossed her arms, hugging her breasts as if she were cold. "Of course I cannot. But is there no other way, Richard?"

"Villiers wants you," Richard said bluntly. "That fact gives you the passport into his intimate circle. He will not suspect you of spying because he will see only what he thinks is there-a female actor with her bread to earn and one way in which to earn it. Such liaisons are common enough, and he is not known for his lack of generosity in these matters."

Polly shuddered. "I do not see myself as a member of the duke's harem, my Lord De Winter."

Richard chewed his lip thoughtfully. It was not as if he had not expected resistance. "Why must you be a member of his harem?" he asked, apparently casual. "Are you not special

enough to hold your own place? And in the holding, you will provide us with the eyes and ears we must have."

Polly poured herself a glass of sherry, belatedly offering the decanter to Richard. He accepted with a slight inclination of his head, refilled his glass, and waited for the result of her cogitations.

"Special," she murmured after a few minutes, seeming to savor the word with the idea that had dropped suddenly into her head. There was one way to become special for George Villiers-the rich, ungovernable, never-thwarted duke.

"Think you that perhaps His Grace might be piqued to good purpose, Richard?" Her eyes glowed suddenly, lit with a speculation based on relief as she saw a way around this untenable dilemma.

"Pray continue," he invited, unable to resist that infectious smile. "I am open to any modification."

"Well…" She tapped pearly teeth with a slender forefinger. "His Grace is accustomed to his own way, is he not?" A nod answered her. "Suppose he should find me elusive? Sometimes offering, sometimes withdrawing, but always willing for the pursuit?"

"If he wants you badly enough, you will snare him with such tactics," De Winter declared.

"And he wants me badly enough," Polly stated quietly, quite without vanity or artifice. It was hardly a fact that gave her satisfaction, but in this instance, it could be put to good use. "I can play that part, Richard. I will spin a web that will intrigue him, that will ensure that he is constantly desirous of my company, always waiting for the moment of surrender- a moment that he is convinced is not far away. If I can achieve entry into his intimate circles with such tactics, that will suffice, will it not? I have only to be accepted as a presence."

"I see no reason why it should not work," Richard said thoughtfully, recognizing with relief that he was no longer engaged in the recruitment of an unwilling accomplice, but in shared planning with a partner. "We are interested only in

whatever impressions, whispers, plans, you can bring us, not in the methods you use to garner them."

"And Nick?" Polly asked, her enthusiasm fading abruptly. When had the idea first come to him and his friends? she wondered dully. Since it had become clear that Buckingham had his eye upon her? And whose idea had it been? "Will it be important to him, do you think, that I can manage to extract the information without surrendering to the duke? Or does he view such a matter with indifference?"

"I do not think you need me to supply you with the answer to that," Richard said gently. "He will be here soon. Why do you not ask him yourself? If you really need to know his answer."

Polly sat down under a wash of fatigue. She did not think she needed to ask Nick the question, but she still wished he had had the courage to involve her in this conspiracy himself. In her naivete, she thought that it would have come easier from him.

Richard looked at her, compassion in his eyes. Maturity was a painful process, and the school in which Polly must grow was harder than many. Somehow she had managed to scramble unsullied through a life that should have destroyed all illusions. Then she had met Nicholas Kincaid-a man who, loving her, would foster her illusions rather than destroy them. Now she must face a harsh reality where even love failed as shield, where love asked more of her than she could easily give.

"You need your bed," he said after a while. "It has been an evening to try the strength of Atlas. Get you gone, now. I will remain until Nick returns."

She smiled wearily, rising to her feet. " 'Tis kind in you, Richard, but I'll not trespass further on your time. I am not uncomfortable with my own company."

"Maybe not, but I'll stay nevertheless." He spoke now with familiar briskness. "You've had no supper. I'll ask Goodwife Benson to prepare ye a caudle. Get you to bed."

"I do not need a nursemaid, Richard," she protested. He merely smiled and pulled the bell rope. With a defeated

shrug, Polly went into the bedchamber to struggle alone with the ribbons, buttons, and laces of her complicated attire. The days of smock, petticoat, and kirtle were long gone, and she swore with Dog tavern vigor as she wrestled with the recalcitrant knots of her corset.

"I told you you have need of a lady's maid."

Polly whirled, pink-cheeked with her exertions, to the suddenly opened door of the bedchamber. "Nick! I did not hear you come in."

"You were cursing like a Billingsgate fishwife," he observed, shrugging out of his coat, crossing the room in his shirt sleeves toward her. "You could not possibly have heard anything but the sounds of your own voice." Setting his hands upon her shoulders, he spun her around and tackled the laces with experienced fingers.

"Ahh! My thanks." Polly breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing the life back into the constricted flesh beneath her smock. "I do not know why I ever consented to wear that instrument of torture!" She kicked the offending garment across the room.

"I think you do know why," he said with quiet gravity. "Do you also know exactly why you have consented to this other matter-one considerably more distasteful than the wearing of a corset? I would have you certain sure of your own mind."

"What did Richard tell you?" She walked over to the window and stood gazing out into the evening gloom, for the moment unwilling to look at him.

"Only that you had consented to participate in our plan; that you were fatigued and he had sent you to bed; and that since you had had no supper, he had bidden the goodwife prepare you a peppermint caudle."

Polly could not help smiling at what she knew had to be a faithful rendition of Richard's farewell speech to Nicholas. She could almost hear his voice delivering it.

There was a knock at the door. The goodwife bustled in with the bowl of spiced gruel mixed with wine. "This'll put the heart in you," she announced cheerfully, setting the

bowl on the tiring table. She examined Polly shrewdly. "Ye look as if ye need it, too, m'dear. They're workin' ye too hard, I'll be bound." An accusatory glance at Kincaid accompanied this statement. "Every afternoon on that stage. It's not right, m'lord. Indeed, 'tis not. Barely a child, she is."

Nicholas scratched his head, murmuring something vaguely conciliatory that seemed to satisfy the landlady, who gathered up Polly's discarded clothes, taking them away with her. "If you had a maid, the goodwife would not be obliged to care for your wardrobe," Nicholas observed, turning back the cover on the bed. "Get between the sheets, now. I do not think I can face further accusations of neglect and exploitation."

"You do not neglect me, love. Or exploit me," she said softly, clambering into bed. "I do only what I choose to do."

"Is that truly so?" He handed her the peppermint caudle, then sat upon the bed beside her.

"Yes. But I could wish you had asked me yourself to engage in this spying." Polly kept her eyes on the gently steaming mixture on her knees, stirring it thoughtfully with a pewter spoon. "It was cowardly to ask Richard to do it."