me," Killigrew said in exasperation. "Such incidents are not my concern."

"Oh, how can you say that? This is your theatre. Everything that happens in it is your concern. These… these brutes are in your employ. What they do is your responsibility!" Impassioned, she turned on the group of artisans. "You are murdering louts, every one of you!"

"Polly, please calm yourself. 'Tis only a puppy, and besides, 'tis not drowned." Edward Nestor, Polly's leading man and utterly devoted admirer, attempted to step into the breach. It was an error, since she swung on him, holding her burden beneath his nose in fervent accusation.

"Only a puppy! How could you say such a thing? You have been feeding it like the rest of us." Her voice became choked with angry tears, and Nick, unthinking, stepped quickly toward the stage.

"Nicholas! Thank God!" exclaimed Thomas, seeing him in the gloom of the pit. "Perhaps you can calm her."

Polly swung 'round, crying distressfully, "Oh, Nick… Nick, they were drowning the puppy in a bucket, and it was crying so piteously. 'Tis more than half-dead." She tumbled from the stage, still clutching her burden. She did not immediately see Buckingham standing in the shadows as she ran weeping to Nicholas. "See what they have done, love." She held out the sodden scrap in her arms, then fell against Nick's chest.

"What an extraordinary fuss about nothing," Nick said coolly, making no attempt to hold her.

Polly jumped back from him as if she had been burned, her eyes wide with shock and outrage. Then she saw Buckingham behind him, watching her from beneath those drooping lids. There was a moment when her face registered utter dismay as she realized what she might have revealed, then she was saying coldly to Nicholas, "You are as unfeeling as the rest."

"Come now, Mistress Wyat," the duke said, stepping out of the shadows. "I daresay they assumed that the animal would have suffered less by such a death than by being left to

roam the streets, starving, a prey to every young bully with his sticks and stones."

It was calm good sense; the drowning of unwanted litters was an inescapable part of life. But it went with life in the Dog tavern, and somehow her sensibilities had become as refined as her present existence. Polly recognized this truth, and it helped her recover herself.

"You are quite right, sir. 'Tis just that I had developed a fondness for the creature." She went back to the stage. "Here, you may do what you can to revive him. I shall take him home with me." She handed the puppy to one of the guilty men, brushed her hands off, and turned back to Thomas. "Shall we continue?"

Buckingham sat in the pit, apparently watching the rehearsal, but in fact he took in little. Her voice: See what they have done, love. The way she had run to Kincaid: so naturally, as if this man who had gone to such pains to give the impression of studied indifference to his mistress were her only resource from pain; such confidence she had had until he had responded with that coldness. And the disbelieving shock with which she had jumped away from him… until she had seen Buckingham himself. There had been fear and dismay on her face then, just for a minute.

What the devil did it mean? Buckingham's expression took on a look that any who knew him would read with alarm. If Mistress Wyat was playing a deeper game than he had believed, then he would discover the truth without delay. Quietly, he rose and left the theatre.

Nick registered the duke's departure, but gave no sign. Instead he sat damning sexually incontinent dogs, Polly's soft heart, and the callous pragmatism of the artisan who saw in an unwanted animal merely another mouth to feed. The rehearsal was not going well. Polly was tense, Edward Nestor overanxious after her scathing response to his attempt to ease the situation, and Thomas was exasperated. Secure in the knowledge that there was now no one but himself as audience in the theatre, Nicholas got up and went forward to the stage.

"Your pardon, Thomas, but I think you'll all be better for a recess."

"I daresay y'are right, Nick." Thomas wiped his brow with a cambric handkerchief. "Everything is going awry. Take Polly and that damned puppy home. We must trust to luck and the gods this afternoon."

Polly came to the forefront of the stage. "The puppy could live in your stables, could he not, Nick?"

"I do not see why not," Nick said, then softly, "Say a kind word to Edward, moppet. He is looking most crestfallen, and it will not aid his performance this afternoon."

Polly glanced over to her hangdog colleague. She gave Nick a rueful smile and went over to Edward. "I do beg your pardon for being so sharp, Edward. 'Twas most unjust of me, but I was greatly distressed."

The young man's face cleared like the sky after a storm. "Oh, pray, do not mention it, Polly. I spoke hastily. Shall we see how the puppy is now?" The two went backstage in perfect amity, and Thomas sighed with relief.

"How was I to know she would take such a thing so much to heart?" he asked Nick, who still stood in the pit before the stage. "The wretched animal has been a complete nuisance, always underfoot. It could not possibly be allowed to stay here. Why would she react like that?" He shrugged at the unfathomable temperaments of actors, and female actors in particular.

"He seems all right." Polly reappeared, holding the dog. "A little subdued, but he is quite warm and breathing well." She held him out for Nick's inspection.

It was quite the most unprepossessing creature, Nick thought dispassionately, scrawny, with overlarge ears and feet. But then, ugliness was hardly sufficient reason to be condemned to a watery grave. He reached up and lifted Polly and the puppy to the floor of the auditorium. "Come, let us go home. We'll give the dog to John Coachman to take to the stables."

Outside the theatre, Polly said hesitantly, "Do you think Buckingham noticed anything strange, Nick?"

"I do not know," Nick replied honestly. "Let us hope that we both recovered quickly enough to allay suspicion."

For the next week, Buckingham played a waiting game. He issued no invitations, sent no little gifts, was agreeable when in Mistress Wyat's company but singled her out for no special attentions; and he watched her.

"I wonder if he thinks to pique me by this treatment," Polly suggested to Nicholas and Richard. "It would be a logical tactic. So far I have been the one offering, withdrawing, tantalizing. Mayhap he thinks to play me at my own game."

"If so, how do you think you should react?" asked Richard. They were walking in St. James's Park, in the company of the majority of the court enjoying the balmy April sunshine.

"I think I must approach him," Polly said. "If he's to believe that my eventual surrender is inevitable, that I am merely negotiating the price with my advances and retreats, then in this instance I must advance, humble and anxious as to what I could have done to offend."

Nick tried to identify the unease he felt at the turn matters had taken. If Buckingham had sensed things were not as they were presented, it would explain his withdrawal. Polly, by the tactics she proposed, would put his mind at rest. Yet Nick could not like it. However, he had no concrete reasons for objecting, so gave the scheme his agreement.

That evening His Grace of Buckingham found himself the object of the most flattering attentions from Mistress Polly Wyat. Those enormous soft eyes were fixed upon him, anxiously questioning. Her mouth quivered with unhappiness as she implored in a whisper to know her offense. A small hand rested upon his sleeve. Placing his own hand over hers, he assured her that there was no offense and begged that she would be his guest at a small supper party after the performance on the morrow. The invitation was accepted with alacrity and a show of pleasure that could not fail to gratify.