Beside her, his expression studiously neutral, stood Kin-caid.

"You would set up such a one as your whore?" Lady Margaret spoke with cold loathing, spite glistening in her eyes. "I had thought you more fastidious, brother."

Polly quivered, the color draining from her face. Nick moved beside her. "Say nothing," he insisted in clear tones. "That is no accusation for you to answer."

"I will answer-"

"For once you will do as you are bid!" Nick, recognizing that he must take charge of this ugliness without a moment's delay, made no attempt to moderate the harshness of the command. Polly bit her lip, falling silent in sudden confusion. It was as if she were being attacked on all sides.

"I daresay you will find life with your brother in Leicester infinitely more to your taste, Margaret," Nicholas was saying with deceptive sweetness, even as he gripped the back of Polly's neck with firm fingers that imparted reassurance as they demanded her silence. "I shall, of course, be desolated at your departure, but I do understand how one of your tastes and principles would find my roof quite unsuitable." He knew as well as did Margaret that her brother, an impoverished country divine, father of a hopeful family, could not possibly offer his sister a permanent home.

Margaret's realization that she had overstepped the line was painfully revealed on her face. She looked, Polly thought with glee, rather like a landed fish. For an instant, the temptation to take advantage of her enemy's discomfiture with a well-aimed thrust offered powerful vengeance for all the injustices and unkindnesses of the last weeks. Then came the thought that to do so could only show her in an ill light, would be a demonstration of the kind of behavior one would expect from a tavern-bred slut, would simply confirm Margaret's accusation. It was one thing to defend oneself from physical attack with whatever means came to hand, quite another to kick an enemy who was already down.

"I will await you in the carriage, sir," she said, her tone one of lofty dignity. She gathered up her skirts, moving in stately fashion to the door, which was instantly opened by the fascinated Tom. The lad followed her to open the door of the coach, to let down the footstep.

"My thanks," Polly said, as condescending as any duchess. But sadly, mischief got the better of her. "Old trout! She is well served," she whispered, grinning at Tom as she settled herself on the seat. He snorted with laughter, leaning in to exchange a further confidence, and then jumped backward

as Lord Kincaid came down the steps. His lordship regarded the footboy's suffused countenance, then looked sharply into the carriage. Polly's eyes were brimming with deviltry.

Kincaid climbed into the coach, told Tom that he might go to his bed when he pleased, then sat back in the darkness as the boy closed the door on them. Whatever exchange had taken place between those two, Polly had quite clearly recovered herself, he reflected with an inner chuckle. That had been a most impressive display for one in such an ambivalent position.

Polly glanced sideways at her companion, but could see nothing of his expression. "You are not vexed, are you, sir?"

"Vexed!" he exclaimed. "With you? God's grace, no!"

"Then may I ask where we are going, my lord?"

He could hear the mischief in the dulcet tone, and recog-nized that Mistress Polly was more than restored. "To Drury Lane," he informed her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "And I think it is time that you practiced using my name. There are times when 'sir' and 'my lord' are appropriate, and times when they are not. The latter time has arrived."

"Oh," Polly said a few minutes later, absorbing the demonstration of this fact with apparent interest. "When you do that, I should call you Nicholas, is it so?" That same dulcet tone, laced with wickedness, set his nerve endings tingling with the most delicious anticipation. Unless he much mistook the case, this young woman was eventually going to prove herself an inventive and playful lover.

"When I do that, and a great many other things," he declared, drawing her back into his embrace.

Chapter 7

The coach and four came to a halt. A strange surge, part terror, part exultation, shuddered through Polly's slender frame. Nick, feeling it, tightened his hold for an instant before leaning forward to swing open the door. The snow swirled thickly now, caught white and effervescent in the yellow light of the lantern held up by the coachman. Nick jumped out, disdaining the footstep, and reached up to catch Polly by the waist, swinging her down beside him.

"I'll not be needing ye again this night," he said to John Coachman. "Get you and the cattle to shelter as soon as may be."

The coachman looked worriedly at the sky. "Has the smell of a blizzard, m'lord."

"Aye. Well, be off without delay. You've not far to go." He turned to Polly, who was squinting through the snow at her surroundings, her head and shoulders coated with white flakes. "In with you, before you become a pillar of ice." He put an arm around her waist, urging her to a door set into a timbered, whitewashed wall. The door swung open before he could knock.

"I was wonderin' whether ye'd make it in such foul weather," a cheery voice declared. "Fire's bright, and there's a good supper waitin' abovestairs."

Polly stepped into a small, square hall and found herself the object of scrutiny from a pair of bright black eyes set into a ruddy-complexioned, well-lined face. The scrutiny was interested but far from unfriendly. "This be the young lady, then, m'lord?"

"Mistress Polly Wyat," Nicholas said formally. "My love, this is Goodwife Benson. She will be looking after you."

Polly had never been looked after by anyone, except by Prue, way back at the dawn of memory, and even then not with any enthusiasm. She looked blank, searching for an appropriate response. The kindly eyes twinkled as if in understanding.

"Come along a' me, m'dear. I'll show ye the apartment m'lord 'as taken for ye." The plump body turned and bustled up a narrow flight of stairs. "Two nice chambers," she called over her shoulder. "Clean as a new pin, they be. No vermin in my 'ouse."

They reached a minute landing, where the goodwife unlatched a solid oak door, pushing it open with a flourish. A neat, paneled parlor was revealed under sloping eaves. A fire sizzled on a stone hearth, and a linen-covered seat ran beneath the low mullioned window. The furniture was plain but highly polished, the hangings and coverings crisply clean and bright. A round table was set with platters, pewter cups, knives, and skewers; the aroma of roasting meat wafted up the stairs.

"And 'ere's your bedchamber." Goodwife Benson opened a door in the far wall. Here was a room dominated by a big four-poster with a carved oak tester and rose-red curtains. There was a paneled tiring table with a branched candlestick and a crystal mirror above it, the whole warmed by the cheerful blaze of yet another fire.

Polly was speechless. She was to have two rooms to herself! And such rooms! Her eyes flew to Nicholas, standing behind her, watching her with the enigmatic smile she had come to expect, even though she frequently did not know why he should have it.

"It's to be 'oped all's to your satisfaction, mistress," the goodwife said when Polly remained silent.

"Oh… yes… p-please… th-thank you… indeed, it is," stuttered Polly.

"Then I'll see to your supper," the woman said comfortably. "Ye'll be sharp-set, I'll be bound."

"Indeed we are," Nicholas said when it became clear that Polly had once again lapsed into muteness. Goodwife Benson bustled out, and he snapped his fingers in front of the bewitched Polly. "Wake up."

Her eyes focused, and she saw he was laughing at her. "Am I to live here alone?" she managed to ask, still unable to grasp the idea of so much space for one person.

"I'm hoping I may be a frequent visitor," he said quizzically, unfastening the clasp of her cloak.

"Y-yes, of course, sir," replied Polly, hearing how absurdly polite and formal she sounded, unable to blame Nick for the ready laughter brimming in the emerald eyes. "Shall… shall you be staying tonight?"

"Well now." He pulled pensively at his chin, "If I were issued an invitation, I just might be induced to accept it. It being such a dreadful night, you understand? Blizzard threatening…"

Her lips twitched. Peeping up at him through her lashes, she swept him a deep curtsy, sinking to her heel, one toe delicately pointed. "I do beg you will take shelter in my humble abode, my lord. I should never rest easy if I thought you were out in such a storm."

"I shall be eternally grateful, madame." A magnificent leg returned her salutation, and Polly, assailed by giggles, lost her balance and collapsed with an undignified thump on the floor. Nick picked her up. "What a lamentable performance," he chided. "I thought I had taught you to execute a curtsy with more decorum." Drawing her into his embrace, he pushed up her chin, consuming that ravishing countenance with his gaze, feeling her pliancy under his hands, seeing the image of her body in the eye of memory.

"I want you." The naked hunger in his eyes and voice

sent laughter scuttling to the four corners of the bedchamber. Then the sound of footsteps next door, the smells of roasting mutton, Goodwife Benson's cheery summons to table, broke into the charmed circle. "Anticipation must again whet the appetite," he said with a rueful smile. "And you will be the better for your supper. Lovemaking on an empty belly leaves something to be desired." He ushered her into the parlor, where a roast of mutton steamed enticingly upon the sideboard and a platter of oysters sat upon the table, ready opened, glistening pearly gray in the candlelight.

He held her chair for her, unfolded a linen napkin on her lap, poured wine into her cup, then took his place opposite. For all the ease of their past companionship it was the first time that she had sat at table in his company. There had never been any question before but that matters between them would be conducted on the terms of tutor and pupil, master and servant. Now Polly felt unaccountably nervous, as if these present attentions were awarded mistakenly and should have had some other recipient than a Newgate brat of unknown parentage. Then she remembered that she was an actor, that she could be whomsoever she pleased. She raised her glass in salutation, her eyelashes fluttering, lips curving delicately.

Nick, absorbing the full impact of this breathtaking performance, was in little doubt as to its cause. He raised his own glass. "Masterly," he approved. "You know well how to adapt to unfamiliar circumstances. It is a talent that will stand you in good stead in the next weeks."

Polly sucked an oyster from its craggy shell. The intensity had quite gone out of the occasion. His lordship was speaking in the easy tones he habitually employed, as if those words of passion had not been spoken with such urgency such a short time before. It ensured that she was able to devote her full attention to her supper; under the benign influence of good food, good wine, warmth, and undemanding companionship, all apprehension left her.

Nicholas noted her gradual relaxation with satisfaction. He was far from such a state himself, although his compan-

ion could not possibly guess from his manner at the effort he was exerting to keep his ardor under bridle. It was ot the utmost importance to him that the true initiation of this exquisite creature should bear no relation to the brutalities she had endured in the past. He remembered only too clearly her piteous plea that he not hurt her that first evening, when, with the resignation of the accustomed victim, she had ceased her struggles, surrendering herself to whatever new yet inevitable horror awaited her. Tonight she would experience only gentleness as he led her along the sweet paths of pleasure. There would be time enough later for the glorious rough and tumble of lust's urgencies.

He selected a Katharine pear from the fruit bowl. It was a fruit beloved of King Charles and his queen; one, it was to be assumed, never before tasted by the girl who should, if all went according to plan, shortly find herself moving in those exalted circles. He peeled the fruit, quartered it neatly, and laid it upon her plate, remembering pragmatically that he had not yet educated her palate for that role, and must do so. The reminder, for some reason, cast a bleak shadow. It was the second time the concerns of the conspirator had intruded in such unwelcome fashion when he wished only to think of a loving seduction.