"By no means." Smiling, he invited her into the parlor. "I am honored that you did not stay to change your dress."

"My haste was too great, Your Grace," she responded. "You will forgive such anxiety."

"Rarely have I been more complimented." His gaze ran over her as she stood in the empty parlor, trying to conceal her surprised dismay at the absence of other guests. "A glass of wine? I am sure you are in need of refreshment after that stellar performance this afternoon. You won all hearts, bud."

Polly accepted the compliment with an inclination of her head, the touch of a smile, and took the glass of wine he proffered. "I need not have been anxious about being late, it would seem," she observed carefully. "Your other guests have not yet arrived."

"But did I not say that this was to be a private party?" The duke looked credibly discomposed. "I do beg your pardon if I led you to expect more amusing company than that my own poor wit can provide." He gestured to the supper table. "At least I can assure you that your palate will not go ungra-tified."

Polly's thoughts whirled as she felt the trap closing. If Buckingham was going to force the issue in this private room in a tavern where all ears would have been paid to be closed, then there was nothing she would be able to do to prevent him.

He came up behind her, and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. She started violently as his hand flattened against the curve of her hip outlined by the breeches. "My lord duke-"

"Such formality, bud," he interrupted, his voice low and caressing. "I have a name."

"And I, my lord duke, have no desire for a tete-a-tete," she said, finding that fear could be transmuted to anger with little difficulty under the prod of desperation. "I do not find trickery conducive to intimacy. You invited me to a small supper party, and it was that invitation I accepted. You will excuse me. My coachman is waiting."

"Just as I thought," he said softly. "Let us have done with

games. What do you want, Mistress Wyat? I am prepared to meet your price, if you will but declare it."

"So crude, Your Grace." She lifted a disdainful eyebrow, trying to stiffen her knees as rage flamed in his narrowed, hooded eyes. "Perhaps I am not to be bought."

"Everyone has a price," he said, softly menacing. "I will find yours, make no mistake."

Polly backed to the door. The duke watched her, knowing her fear. He made no attempt to stop her, but as she reached the door, he said gently, "I do not know what game you think to play, wench, but I am a poor sportsman unless it be a sport I enjoy. I do not appear to be enjoying this one, I should warn you."

"I do not know what you mean, sir." Her hand on the latch, escape now secured, Polly's courage returned. "But I accept only those invitations that mean what they say. I do not care to be deceived." On that note of hauteur, she beat a retreat, the flash of Dutch courage carrying her as far as the interior of the coach. Once there, in the swaying darkness, hearing the reassuring pounding of Kincaid's cattle taking her home, fear swamped her anew so that she shook as if in the grip of an ague. Buckingham had declared his intent. Who was she, a puny, insignificant, Newgate-born bastard with a modicum of talent and beauty, to withstand that intent?

Polly tumbled out of the carriage almost before John Coachman could let down the footstep. The street door was unlocked. She whisked inside, drawing breath with a wash of relief in the dim light of the tiny hall. Once safe behind her own door, the surge of panic ebbed, to be replaced by a bitter, self-directed anger. She marched upstairs, banging open the door of the parlor, expecting to see Nicholas and not sure whether she wished to or not. But the chamber contained only Susan, who turned from the table where she was arranging-a dish of sturgeon and a bowl of figs, presumably for Nick's supper.

"Why, Polly." Sue's round eyes opened even wider as she

took in the other's astonishingly daring costume. "We wasn't expectin' ye 'till later."

"I did not expect to be back," Polly said shortly. "My lord is not here?"

"Said as 'ow he'd return for supper at ten," Susan informed her. " 'Ave ye been out dressed like that? I never seen nothin' like it."

"Then you should pay a visit to the theatre," Polly said between compressed lips. She threw her plumed hat into the corner of the room, dragged off the heavily embroidered coat, tossing it to follow the hat, and tore at the buttons of the satin waistcoat, her fingers as vicious as the furious thoughts roiling in her head. For some reason, her costume seemed to symbolize the humiliation of the evening's debacle. A wanton in a whore's costume, she had revealed her fear to Buckingham and had thus ruined everything. The plan lay in tatters because her courage had failed her. She had offered a harlot's tawdry provocation, then had turned and run like a child who found her challenge taken up and the consequences greater than she had bargained for.

The waistcoat flew across the room as Susan stood, stunned into immobility by this extraordinary divesting. The high-heeled pumps, under the influence of a vicious kick, arced through the air to crash against the far wall. Polly yanked off her satin breeches and the silk shirt, dropping both to the floor and stamping on them, before pulling off her stockings.

Polly was well aware that the violence she was doing to her clothes was sacrilege. Her richly elaborate costume represented a substantial financial investment for the king's company; technically it was the king's property, and it was a property to be treated with the greatest care. If an actor was required to lie upon the stage boards, sheeting was placed over the bare floor to protect the garments, and mock battles were always undertaken with the greatest caution. However, such considerations carried no weight under a flood tide of temper designed to wash from her the bitter taste of anger and disgust.

"God's good grace!" Nick stood in the doorway, staring at the sight of Polly, stripped to her skin, poised in a rich, vibrant sea of satin and embroidery. Heedless of this ejaculation, she kicked at the discarded breeches.

"Pick those clothes up!" Nicholas closed the door smartly behind him, trying to sort out this astonishing scene.

"I hate 'em!" Polly spat, catching the breeches on a toe, lifting her foot clear of the floor. "I'll not wear 'ern again!" An agile high kick sent the garment soaring through the air.

"That is a matter you may discuss with Killigrew," Nicholas declared. "Pick them up at once! No, not you!" He spun round on Susan, who, with a frightened whimper, had run to the corner of the room, bending to gather up the fallen coat. "Leave it where it is and go downstairs."

The girl dropped the coat to the floor, scurrying from the room like a scared hedgehog.

Nicholas had no idea what could have caused this amazing tantrum, but decided that explanations would have to wait. For the moment, he would deal with the fact itself. "Pick up the clothes, Polly," he repeated quietly, walking over to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.

"No," said Polly, with another disdainful kick.

Nick turned to face her as she stood, sublimely indifferent to her nakedness, hands planted on hips, head thrown back, defiance and something else lurking in the topaz depths of her eyes. It was the something else that interested him, but he could not get at it until he had dealt with the defiance. "Pick them up, Polly."

It was at this moment that Richard De Winter stepped through the street door to come face-to-face with the panicked Sue at the foot of the stairs. "Good even, Susan," he greeted pleasantly, moving to set one foot on the stairs. "Lord Kincaid is above?"

"Yes… yes, please, m'lord," stammered Susan, the image of the stark naked Polly filling her internal vision. "But I don't think as 'ow 'es receivin'," she gasped, stepping on the bottom stair, barring his progress with her stubby body.