Nick took pity on Susan. "Why do you not clear the table, Susan. It seems that the dishes have lain overlong."

Her relief patent at having a customary function to perform, Susan mumbled apologies and set to, disappearing from the parlor with a laden tray.

"Does Susan please you?" Nick pinched Polly's chin, looking deep into her eyes. "You are at ease with her, and she will have no difficulty understanding what you require of a helper."

"Aye, she pleases me," she said, touching his lips with a delicate finger. "As no one else could." She drew back from him as the cold shadow of the morning obtruded into this love-lit warmth. "You had a pleasant walk with His Grace, I trust?"

"He was at some pains to indicate his interest in my mistress," Nick said evenly. "As I was at pains to appear totally indifferent."

"Aye, 'twas what I thought would be discussed." She turned back to the fire. "I made it clear this morning that I was available. But I refused an invitation for this evening. It seemed wise to appear not overeager."

"How did he react to such a refusal?" Nicholas went to the sideboard to pour wine. "Have you had sufficient, or shall I refill your glass?" He held the decanter, an eyebrow raised in question.

"There is no performance this afternoon, but I have to return to the theatre for another rehearsal," she said with a grimace. "I had best have no more, lest I make further er-

rors. Thomas is like to prove uncommon difficult in such a case."

"Further errors?"

Polly shrugged and told him the story of her morning's ploy. "It worked well enough," she finished. "But to answer your question about the duke's reaction to my refusal: I do not think he was best pleased, at first. But then he seemed to take it in his stride." She poked the fire, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. "I do not think 'twill be long before I receive another invitation-one that I will accept."

The following morning, the household quiet was shattered by the hammering of the door knocker. Polly, in the absence of Nicholas and his strictures on correct deportment at mealtimes, was consuming a peripatetic breakfast while she roamed the parlor muttering lines between rnouthfuls, and improvising gestures as they came to her.

"I'll see who 'tis," Sue said, putting down one of Polly's gowns she had been examining for tears and stains. "Ye'U get the indigestion if ye don't stop all this muttering an' movin' whilst yer eating." She went to the parlor door.

"Y'are as fussy as my lord," Polly said with a chuckle, going to the window to see if any clue as to the visitor would be found on the street. A lad in the Duke of Buckingham's livery stood in the lane. All humor left her, to be replaced by a quiet stillness, the same stillness that always followed the moment of panic before she went onstage, one that allowed her to assume a persona not her own.

' 'Tis a message and a parcel for ye." Sue came into the parlor, bearing a small package and a folded paper. "From His Grace of Buckingham, the boy says. He's waitin' on yer answer."

Polly opened the paper. The script was bold and black, the invitation couched in flowery language and hedged about with compliments. She opened the accompanying package, and Sue gasped. A delicate brooch, shaped like a

daisy, made of silver filigree studded with diamonds and seed pearls, lay on Polly's palm.

" Tis exquisite," Polly murmured, half to herself. Her refusal of such a gift would certainly intrigue His Grace, particularly when the returned present was accompanied by acceptance of his invitation to a small gathering at his house in the Strand the following evening. He would not know what to make of such mixed messages.

"Sue, ye must give this back to the messenger." She wrapped up the brooch again. "But tell him that Mistress Wyat is very happy to accept the duke's invitation for tomorrow… Of course," she added, a touch disconsolately, " 'twould be better if I were to write the message, but I cannot be sure of spelling it correctly, and I cannot wait for my lord's help."

Sue looked uneasily at Polly. "Why's His Grace sendin' ye invitations and gifts, Polly? 'Tis not right when y'are livin' under my lord's protection."

" 'Tis something I must do for my lord and Lord De Winter," Polly told her. "Rest easy. My lord knows all about it."

"Doesn't seem right to me," muttered Sue, taking the package.

It wouldn't, of course, Polly reflected as the door closed on the departing Susan. Sue could not begin to comprehend the hypocrisies and contradictions of court life, where a married woman could bear another man's child and her husband would cheerfully claim the bastard as his own, where harlotry was practiced as openly as in the stews of Covent Garden, yet did not go by that name. Beauty, good manners, and the ability to play the game with discretion were the only virtues.

And Polly, who came from Sue's world where no distinction was drawn between mistress and whore, frequently found herself unsure of where she fitted in the scheme of things. As far.as the court was concerned, she was the mistress, open and acknowledged, of Lord Kincaid. If Prue and the other inhabitants of the Dog tavern knew of it, they

would call her his lordship's whore. So which was she? And did it really matter, anyway? It was how Nick regarded her that mattered, and he had made that very clear… Yet he had been ready to ask a whore's work of her…

When had they first thought to use her in this way? Who had thought of it? It is possible we may be of service to each other… Lord of hell! she thought in furious imitation of the man in question. What did it matter? She was now involved in this of her own free will.

She went to the window, looking down on the lane to see how the duke's servant received her message. He did not look very comfortable as Sue pressed the package upon him; indeed, seemed to be putting up some kind of argument. Perhaps it would be considered that he had failed in his mission, Polly thought, and he would be judged culpable for her refusal. Well, there was little she could do about that.

" 'E didn't want to take it back," Sue informed her, returning to the parlor. "Said as 'ow His Grace would be angry."

"It is hardly the lad's fault." How angry would the duke be with her? Polly shrugged, dismissing the question. It was a bridge to be crossed when she reached it. "I must send a message to my lord… The Bensons' lad can take it." She pulled the bell rope, suddenly filled with a restless energy, as if, now that the business was launched, she would have it in full play without delay.

The Bensons' lad did not have far to go, as it happened, to deliver his message. As he trotted down St. Martin's Lane, he espied Lord Kincaid astride his raking chestnut gelding.

"M'lord… m'lord…" Breathlessly, the lad jumped into the middle of the cobbled street.

Sulayman came to a well-trained halt, and his rider peered down at the panting urchin, demanding sharply, "Is something amiss?"

"Don' think so, m'lord." The boy looked puzzled at the question. "Mistress Wyat jest sent me to fetch ye as soon as may be."

"Which you proceeded to do at all speed." Kincaid

laughed, reaching into his pocket for a coin. "For your speed and your trouble, lad." He left the boy in the middle of the street, examining this unexpected bounty with the speculative eyes of one who could not decide what amongst a plethora of delights to purchase with his sixpence.

Nicholas found Polly pacing restlessly between the parlor and the bedchamber in a state of halt undress. Sue had given up attempting to get her to stand still long enough to lace up her corset and had returned placidly to her earlier task of examining the contents of Polly's wardrobe, exclaiming occasionally at its magnificence.

"Oh, Nick, you are come at last," Polly greeted him as he stepped through the door.