"You do," said Richard, chuckling. "Word-perfect, my dear. One other thing you might be alert to-any talk of the Duke of Monmouth's legitimacy. If Buckingham is encouraging the king in this, there will be a civil uproar. Parliament will not stand for it, and if we know how far Buckingham is prepared to go in his support of the idea, we will be better able to decide on our own moves."

"You think they will talk of these things?" Polly asked, tapping her closed fan against her palm. "They seem uncommon serious matters for a private party."

"It is because it is a private party that they will be discussed." Major Conway spoke with customary vigor, both voice and expression resonant with intensity. "We are closely acquainted with no one but you who might have access to these occasions, Polly. For that reason you must ensure that you do nothing to jeopardize your acceptance."

"In what way would I do so?" asked Polly.

The major regarded her with the burning eye of the committed. "You must not allow Buckingham to suspect that you do not intend fulfilling your promise eventually. Indeed, if such fulfillment becomes necessary, you must-"

"Such imperatives, Conway, are not for you to declare." Lord Kincaid interrupted quietly, but with an unassailable authority. "Polly has agreed to lend us her assistance, but she

will do so in a manner that is comfortable for her. She will not be asked to do anything repugnant to her." His gaze drifted, seemingly casual, around the room. "That is understood, I trust."

Polly broke the silence that greeted this statement. "I understand what you want of me, gentlemen. I will do all I can to ensure that you have it." She smiled with a mischievous glee that chased the intensity from the room, and only she knew how much effort had gone into its production. "I find that I do not care for the duke, as I am sure you know. I shall enjoy the game of deception, and enjoy furnishing you with the information you require." She stood up, smoothing down the pleated folds of her embroidered damask petticoat, adjusting the Venetian lace at her decolletage. " 'Tis perhaps time to begin this venture?" A delicate eyebrow arched.

"Aye," Nick said, " 'tis time. But I would speak with you in private first… You will excuse us, gentlemen?"

It was command, couched as polite request, and achieved the immediate departure of their guests. Richard paused in the doorway. "You have simply to perform, Polly. Y'are an actor of rare genius. Do not forget that." The door closed behind him, and Polly smiled tremulously.

" 'Tis unlike Richard to pay me compliments."

"He speaks only the truth," Nick said, turning toward her with quiet purpose. "Now, you are to listen to me. Your acting ability is not in question; your ability to hear and remember what is important is not in question; your ability to deceive such a one as Buckingham is not yet proven. You must remember that he and his friends are far from stupid, and you must remember above all else that they are very powerful." The emerald eyes held hers steadily, his voice was level, but Polly was in no doubt as to the utter seriousness of his words.

"I will not forget."

"And you will not forget this last thing I shall say. The very minute that you become uneasy, that you sense someone… anyone… might be looking at you with suspi-

cion, you will leave. Instantly! Is that quite understood, Polly?"

"And if I decide that the goal will be better achieved by my staying and allaying those suspicions in whatever manner seems necessary…?" She returned his look with her own, straight and candid.

"Nay, Polly, you will not. In such a circumstance, the goal will be sacrificed."

Polly shook her head. "That is a decision that I will make, Nicholas. You would have me involved in this, and I agreed to be so, of my own free will. How the game is played must now be up to me."

"And if I say that, if you take that stand, I will call a halt to the plan?"

"I would deny you the right to do so."

There was no anger in their words, no real sense of confrontation. It was simply the establishment of new ground.

"I will be careful, love," Polly said in soft reassurance, seeing his unease, feeling his discomfort as she took the reins into her own hands.

Nicholas looked at her for long minutes, then yielded. She was the chief player in the game. It was only reasonable that she should play by her own rules. "I will be waiting here for you," he said. "John Coachman will take you, and he will wait to bring you home."

The duke's mansion on the Strand was ablaze with light. Great flaming torches, set in metal sconces on either side of the imposing front door, threw illumination onto the flagway before the house. A linkboy ran to the carriage door as it drew up, holding up his torch as Polly descended, bending her head low as she stepped through the carriage door to avoid disturbing the high-piled artistry of her coiffure, carefully managing the weight of her skirts and train, which settled around her as she stood on the flagway, taking a moment to compose herself.

A liveried footman stood bowing in the opened door as

the linkboy lit the way. Polly passed through into a huge tiled hallway, where chandeliers swung from a domed ceiling and gilded moldings adorned the walls and doorways. A wide staircase curved upward, its steps shallow, its banisters elaborately carved. There was more grandeur here than in Whitehall Palace itself, Polly reflected. The immense wealth of the mansion's owner was declared from every corner.

The strains of lute and viol wafted down the stairs, a voice raised in laughter, the sound of hands clapping. Polly followed the footman up the staircase. At the head of the stairs, double doors stood open onto a salon, richly decorated and furnished. A group of musicians played at one end. Four men standing with their backs to the door were huddled over a long, low table, their laughter rising on a lubricious note. A cluster of women, painted and powdered, stood before the fire, fans fluttering, voices, light and artificial, drifting in the warm, scented air as they responded to the sallies of their male companions. Lady Castlemaine was one of their number, Polly noted, recognizing the others also as faces she had seen at court, but she could not put names to them all.

"Mistress Polly Wyat," intoned the footman, and the four men around the table straightened. The Duke of Buckingham, in peacock satin with gold lacing, his powdered periwig sweeping his shoulders, turned instantly to the door. The thin lips flickered in a smile as he came over.

"Why, Mistress Wyat, I had begun to despair of you." He made a magnificent leg, showing off his embroidered stockings and the high-heeled shoes where diamonds glinted, set into the heels and the gold buckles.

"Am I late, my lord duke?" Polly swept into her curtsy, a stage curtsy from which not a nuance was missing. "I am desolated to have offered such discourtesy. Your invitation did not specify a time."

"That was remiss of me," he murmured, kissing her hand. "In my eagerness to dispatch the invitation, I must have forgot such a trifling point." The heavy lids drooped even

lower. "I am devastated at the thought that my poor gift did not find favor, madame."

"On the contrary, Your Grace, it was exquisite. But far too valuable a present for me to accept." She met his meager smile with one as blandly polite and unexpressive.

Buckingham inclined his head. " 'Twas but a trinket, madame. I had thought it pretty enough to please you."

"I am not in the habit of accepting… trinkets… of any value from those with whom I am but slightly acquainted," Polly said carefully, still smiling.

Buckingham pursed his lips. "Then I will keep the brooch until such time as we are become better acquainted, Mistress Wyat."