And both participants in the game went home well satisfied with the outcome of their tactics.

The following afternoon, however, Nicholas found a very thoughtful Polly preparing to go to the theatre for the afternoon's performance.

"I have received a note from Buckingham," she told him without preamble. "A confirmation of the invitation to supper, at the Half Moon tavern, and the most fervent request that I not delay in order to change my costume after the performance."

Kincaid said nothing for a minute. He stood very still behind her as she sat before her mirror, his hands playing absently with her hair. He stared over her head at the wall beyond as if it might reveal some secret. "It is a breeches part you play today, is it not?"

"Aye." Twisting her head, she looked up at him over her shoulder. "Buckingham is aware of that, I am sure."

"Doubtless," Nick agreed with a dry smile. "And like everyone else, finds the sight of your figure in such attire enough to inflame him to madness. I cannot fault his taste in wishing you to grace his party in such costume. But if you agree to do so, you are tacitly giving consent for whatever sport he may have in mind."

"I think, in this instance, I must do as he asks," Polly said. "To refuse would make nonsense of my approach last evening." Reaching behind her, she took his hands, smiling at him in the mirror. "I will pander to his taste in this matter, but will seem to fail to see an ulterior motive, and therefore will not respond. After all, have not some ladies of the court amused themselves on occasion by dressing as men?"

"That was different. It was a piece of indecorous mischief undertaken by a group of ladies who wished to shock. Buckingham is giving you a most definite message with this request. He is asking for an overt display of a kind that could only have one meaning. I cannot like it, Polly."

"But if I refuse, we might as well forget the plan," she pointed out. "For that would be giving him a most definite

message in return. "Tis a supper party in a tavern, Nicholas, hardly a bawdy house. What could happen?"

Nick frowned, chewing his lip. Then he sighed. "I suppose it is safe enough. You will enjoy your supper, at all events. The tavern is known for its cooking. I will send you, as usual, in my carriage, and John Coachman will wait for you. You will then be free to leave whenever you wish."

"That will do well," she agreed matter-of-factly, tucking her hair beneath a round velvet hat. "If I arrive in your coach, the duke will realize at the outset that I am still not prepared to take the sport further tonight, for all that I will provoke in my breeches." She turned away from the mirror, offering a placatory smile. "It is no great matter, love. Indeed, there is some pleasure in making game of Buckingham. I must use my wits, and that in itself gives some satisfaction."

"Aye." He picked up her cloak. "Put this on; it has begun to rain." He draped the garment around her shoulders, then said soberly, "Moppet, you must have a care. I am not saying that your wits are not as sharp as Buckingham's, but he's been using his a deal longer than you have yours. Do not become overconfident."

"I am not, am I?" She frowned at him.

"I do not know." Nick shook his head. "You are a deal more relaxed in the part than you were at the outset, and you might, therefore, underestimate the risks. You are crossing swords with a master duelist, and I would have you remember that at all times."

There was a wickedness to the performance Polly gave that afternoon that did little for Kincaid's peace of mind. She missed no opportunity to flaunt the curves of hip and thigh, the neat turn of her ankle, the soft roundness of her calves- womanly attributes only ever seen in public on the stage. Her asides were delivered to the audience with a pert mischief that brought gales of delighted laughter ringing to the glazed cupola. At the uproarious conclusion, when the

pretty young man was discovered to be endowed with a bosom of definitely female contours, Polly offered her bared breasts to the audience with a gesture of invitation that brought King Charles and his court to their feet on a shout of approval.

"Something more than usual has bitten her this afternoon," Killigrew murmured to Nicholas as they stood in the wings, watching the play. "Not that I have any objections, you understand. It is a supreme performance. Even the king is on his feet."

And George Villiers, thought Nick, realizing that it was for Buckingham that Polly was acting this afternoon. She was issuing an invitation that would entrap any man. If Buckingham already believed that she was well on the way to fulfilling her promises, he would now be convinced of it. He would be slavering this evening, and would meet a light coolness for his pains, even as her costume taunted him.

Nick's unease blossomed into anxiety. Did she really understand how dangerous was this game she played? he thought with a sudden savage stab of anger. At the moment she was behaving as if she played with a harmless fool instead of one of the most powerful and deadly men in the land.

"Methinks they have enjoyed the spectacle!" Laughing, Polly came off the stage, dancing up to the two men, her hair, released from the peruke that had provided part of her masculine disguise, tumbling down her back, adding spice to the wanton provocation of her costume.

"They would need to be something less than men to fail to do so," Nick snapped, looking at her as she stood, bright-eyed with excitement, her shirt still open, revealing her breasts in all their creamy, rose-tipped beauty. She was still as unselfconscious as ever about her body. The thought did nothing to appease him.

"Are you displeased?" Polly asked, puzzled at this unwarranted annoyance.

"God's grace, why should I be?" he returned. "Do up your shirt. I realize such exposure was necessary onstage, but it is hardly necessary now."

Polly gulped, drawing her shirt together. "You are become uncommon prudish, my Lord Kincaid." Her chin went up, and she met the anger in his eyes with her own.

Thomas Killigrew stepped back into the shadows. It was a most interesting exchange, and he could feel some sympathy for Kincaid. It must be galling for a man to see his mistress become the common property of every man who cared to attend the king's theatre, particularly when the mistress in question took such obvious pleasure in the sensation.

"Pray excuse me, my lord. His Grace of Buckingham awaits," Polly was saying frigidly. "I must put up my hair." With a perfectly executed bow, her plumed hat passing through the air in the elegant gesture of an accomplished gallant, she took a mocking leave of her teeth-gnashing lover.

Polly greeted the stolid figure of John Coachman before stepping into the carriage emblazoned with the Kincaid arms. She sat in the darkness, gnawing her lip, trying to find the equilibrium she knew she would need for the hours that lay ahead. Why had Nick snapped at her like that? It was unreasonable that at such a time he should become this acid-tongued stranger. He knew what lay ahead of her. For all that she seemed more relaxed in the part, she still had to overcome the deadly loathing, to rid herself of the slimy tendrils of apprehension whenever she was in Buckingham's orbit. While she laughed and flirted, promised and withheld, she was queasy with fear as she recognized the power of the man with whom she played her reckless game.

George Villiers watched her arrival from the window of the upstairs parlor at the Half Moon tavern. Just what had her performance this afternoon meant? Well, he was about to find out. The time had come for Mistress Wyat to commit herself. He walked to the door, opening it, standing ready to greet his guest as she ascended the narrow staircase.

"My lord duke." Polly greeted him with a bow similar to that she had given Kincaid a short while before-except that this salute was carefully engineered to entice, displaying her figure to best advantage. "I am not late, I trust."