He saw her into the elegant, well-kept interior of Kin-caid's coach and stood upon the flagway, staring after the conveyance. This one was not going to be easily or cheaply bought. She had clearly a very firm idea of her own worth, and would not sell herself for less. Well, His Grace of Buckingham could respect that. He must set about wooing her. It was a novel game, and there was no reason why he should not take pleasure in it. With a little smile, he turned back to the house.

"Standing staring out of the window is not going to hasten her return, Nick," remarked De Winter.

"Aye, I am aware." Nick turned from the window, reaching for his wineglass on the sideboard. "But I cannot rest, Richard."

"She'll not come to harm," Richard reassured. " 'Tis a gathering; Buckingham cannot compel anything from her in such a situation. If she finds she cannot perform the part, then she may leave at any time she pleases. While nothing will be gained, by the same token, nothing is lost."

Nick's frown etched deep lines between his red-gold eyebrows. "I fear she has taken the bit between her teeth on

this, Richard, and she will run with it." He paced restlessly for a minute, then stopped. "Did you hear a coach?"

Richard went to the window, flinging it wide, looking into the darkness. "You have sharp ears, my friend. A carriage has just rounded the corner."

Nick came to stand beside him, and Richard felt the tension run from his friend as the carriage, the unmistakable figure of John Coachman upon the box, came to a halt before the door below.

Nick resisted the urge to run down to her. He wanted to see how she was when she thought herself unobserved. She might play a part for him-the part she thought he would want to see-and he was not confident that he would be able to distinguish acting from reality without some clues, so skillful had she become.

The coachman opened the door, let down the footstep, and Polly descended into the strip of light shining down from the upstairs casement. "My thanks, John Coachman. I trust 'twas not too tedious a wait for ye." Her clear tones rose to the opened window. Then, as if magnetized, she looked up.

"Are ye still up, my lord?" There seemed to be a light, teasing note in her voice. "I made sure you would have been abed an hour since… and Lord De Winter, also."

A window was flung open next door, and a protesting bellow rent the air. Polly put a guilty finger to her lips, her eyes widening in mock horror.

"Come in," Nick instructed in a piercing whisper, wondering how she had made him want to laugh at such a moment. He went to the parlor door to wait for her.

She came up the stairs with swift step and tumbled instantly into his arms. She was shaking like a leaf, and all desire to laugh left him abruptly. He held her close, feeling the fragility beneath the elaborate dress, the armor of corset and layers of petticoats.

"What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?" The anguished questions whispered against her ear as he stroked her back and she shuddered against him.

"Nay… nay… not hurt," she managed at last. "It is going to succeed, I think, but… but I did not realize how hard the work 'twould be, Nick. 'Tis a thousand times worse than the theatre."

Nicholas drew her into the parlor, closing the door quietly. "Is that all that is the matter? That maintaining the part was hard work?"

"If it were just a matter of maintaining the part, 'twould not be so difficult," she said, her voice a little quavery, although she had stopped shaking. "Oh, my thanks, Richard." She took the glass of claret he handed her. "But I must also write the lines, Nick. I had not thought of that."

The two men looked at each other. Somehow, they had not grappled with that complexity, either. "But you managed to do so?" Richard prompted.

Polly nodded, drinking deeply of the wine as if it were the elixir of the gods. "I think it was convincing. Nothing of moment was said of Lord Clarendon. However, there was talk of the Duke of Monmouth." She told them what she had heard, moving around the room as she did so, pausing to refill her glass. Nick frowned at the speed with which that glass had been emptied, but for the moment held his peace.

"And how did you leave Villiers?" asked De Winter when the story seemed told.

"With an invitation to find my price," Polly said bluntly, reaching again for the decanter.

"Nay, moppet, you have had sufficient." Nick stayed her hand, and she turned on him with a flash of fury.

"By what right do you tell me that? I have barely touched a drop all evening for fear I would make an error. Surely now I may be permitted some relaxation!"

"As much as you need," he said evenly. "But you are drinking too quickly."

Polly glared at him. Richard got out of his chair, reaching for his cloak.

"I think 'tis time I left you." He drew on his gloves. "My compliments, Polly. Not that I doubted you," he added with a dry smile, bending to brush her forehead with his lips.

"But pay heed to Nick, now. He has more experience than you when it comes to the bottle."

"Aye," agreed Nick cheerfully. "A dreadful sot I was in my youth."

Polly looked between them, saw the way they had drawn together implicitly, knew that her well-being was the reason. "I give you good night, Richard," she said.

Nick saw Richard from the house, then came to the parlor, where Polly still stood as he had left her.

"I ask your pardon," she said softly. "I did not mean to snap in that manner."

"There is nothing to pardon." He took her in his arms. "Let us go to bed now. Let me ease you in ways infinitely more pleasurable than those to be found in wine."

"What in the world…" Nick stood staring around the parlor the following noon.

" Tis His Grace of Buckingham," Polly choked. She had returned from the theatre five minutes earlier to find the parlor turned into a veritable conservatory. Exotic blooms were massed in every corner, and Sue and the goodwife had been quite distracted by the shortage of containers in which to display this glory. "Where could he have procured them?" She gestured helplessly. " 'Tis enough to decorate Westminster Abbey."

"Buckingham's conservatories are famed," Nick told her. "Was there a message?"

"Aye." She took a paper from the table, holding it out to him. "He desires me to wear orchids at my breast this evening when we go to court, that he may know this gift is acceptable."

"And shall you?" Nick raised an eyebrow at her. She was looking her usual self, he thought, all traces of last night's tension vanished.

Polly shook her head. "Nay. But I shall wear the freesias in the lace of my sleeve, and he may make what he can of that."

Nick could not help chuckling. "Y'are a rogue, Polly. I begin to think you enjoy the prospect of this game."

Some of the mischief faded from her eyes. "In a way, perhaps, I do. Tonight we shall be at court, and you will be there. I may play the elusive wanton on ground that is not the duke's. 'Twill be less of a strain."

"I had thought not to attend this evening," Nick said. "Richard and I thought it sensible to reinforce my indifference to the duke's pursuit. But if you need me, then of course I shall accompany you."

Polly turned away abruptly, beginning to rearrange a bowl of tulips with apparent absorption. She had not expected the normal pattern of her life with Nick to be affected by this conspiracy, yet she should have done. He had his own part to play. So why did it feel as if, having prepared her and thrust her upon this stage of his choosing, he was now withdrawing, leaving her to play the part he considered of paramount importance? But if this spying was what he had intended for her all along, from the earliest moments of their meeting, then it was hardly surprising it should now take precedence over a loving companionship that had simply facilitated his original plan.