"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.

"No, of course I do not need you. I had just assumed that you would come, but I see that it will be best if you do not." She heard her voice, cool and even in the small room where the mingled scents of hothouse blooms hung heavy like a stifling, exotic blanket. Paradoxically, instead of imparting the light freshness of spring flowers, they seemed to carry an aura of corruption. An involuntary shudder fingered its way down her back.

Nicholas frowned at her averted back. There was a stiffness about her suddenly, an almost forced neutrality in that normally expressive voice. "What is it, sweetheart?" he said, coming up behind her, placing his hand between her shoulder blades. "Is it that you are frightened?"

"No… no, I am not frightened," she replied, moving away from the warm pressure of his hand. "There is nothing to be afeard of. I shall go to court and spin my web around

the duke." She turned to face him, smiling brightly. "Mayhap you will be here when I return. Or must you stay at your house this night?"

"I have invited some friends for supper and a card party," he said carefully, watching her face. "But I will come here afterward."

"There is no need," she said with a shrug. "I expect 'twill be late when your friends leave."

"What is it?" he repeated. "When I first came in, you were in great good humor. Something has upset you."

"What could possibly have upset me?" Polly went to pull the bell rope. "The goodwife is waiting to bring up dinner. She has prepared a chine of beef especially for you, since she knows your fondness for it."

Throughout the meal, she chattered in her customary fashion, and Nick put his unease behind him, reflecting that it would not be extraordinary for her moods to fluctuate at this trying time. The greatest service he could offer would be to follow her lead and avoid exacerbating her perfectly natural tension.

The Duke of Buckingham, on the watch for her arrival, was conscious of a most unusual emotion as Mistress Wyat made her entrance into the Long Gallery at Whitehall that evening. He was aware of chagrin. The orchids he had confidently expected to see adorning that matchless bosom were nowhere to be seen.

He moved casually through the throng toward her. "Mistress Wyat. How fortunate we are that you are come to grace us with your presence." There was a sardonic undertone, and his bow was so deep that it could only be considered a mockery.

Polly remembered what Nick had once said about compliments being offered as insults. This was clearly an example. She smiled, and curtsied with matching exaggerated depth. "My lord duke, how kind in you to say so." Her fan unfurled, fluttered, then closed with a snap.

The duke's eyes narrowed at these clear signs of her own annoyance. In general, people trembled when George Vil-liers was at odds with them; they did not return gestures of displeasure in kind. But then she smiled at him, that heart-stopping, radiant smile that made him catch his breath.

"Your Grace, I must thank you for such a pleasing gift." She raised one hand, showing him where a cluster of freesias had been threaded into the lace of her smock sleeve. "As you see, I have put it to good use."

"I am honored, madame," he said, taking her hand and turning it, raising it to inhale of the delicate scent of the flowers. "But I had hoped-"

"Why, sir, you could not expect me to wear orchids with this gown," she interrupted with a tinkling laugh. "Neither would show to advantage."

The duke was obliged to concede that scarlet satin and orchids would not do. She could have chosen to wear another gown, of course, but he was beginning to suspect that the lady was playing a devious game. Well, for as long as it amused him, he would play it with her.

"Lord Kincaid does not accompany you this evening?" He took snuff, his eyes resting casually on that exquisite countenance. Not a flicker passed across it.

"It does not appear so, Your Grace," she returned easily. "I understand he had another engagement."

"I cannot imagine an engagement that could take precedence over escorting such beauty," Buckingham murmured. Polly merely smiled. "D'ye care to listen to the music, madame?" The duke offered her his arm. "The king's musicians are most talented."

Polly acquiescing, they made their way into the music room, where were gathered Buckingham's cronies, the king, and my Lady Castlemaine. The king greeted Polly with flattering attention; his mistress, after a speculative, all-encompassing assessment of Polly's appearance, bade her a bored good evening and addressed Buckingham, pointedly excluding Polly from her conversation.

Polly, ingenuously, wondered what she could have done to offend this powerful lady. She moved closer to the musicians, seeming to give them her full attention while keeping her ears pricked for any useful morsels that might come her way, but it was not until the arrival of Lord Clarendon that anything of interest to the spy occurred.

"What is it, Clarendon?" the king inquired testily as the chancellor bowed before him. "We would not be troubled with business this night, and judging by your somber looks, 'tis business you have on your mind."

This remark was greeted with laughter from those around the king. "Indeed, sir," drawled Buckingham, "methinks you should instruct the musicians to play a dirge. 'Twould better suit the chancellor's mien than their present merriment." This unkind sally drew further amusement at the expense of the old man.

Clarendon bowed again stiffly. "I would ask for a moment's private talk, Your Majesty."

"We are in no mood for your pessimism and strictures, Chancellor. We had thought to have made that clear," snapped His Majesty, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "This is a private gathering we would have in this room, with those disposed to listen to pleasant music and engage in agreeable conversation."

There was nothing for the discomfited Clarendon to do but accept this humiliating dismissal. No sooner had he left than Buckingham said with a contemptuous curl of his lip, "I do not know why Your Majesty continues to tolerate such a dullard. It says much for Your Majesty's generosity that you continue to honor him. But he has outgrown his usefulness."

The king sighed. "I know it, George, I know it. But short of impeachment, what's to be done? He has the support of Parliament."

"He is your minister, sir," reminded Buckingham softly. "Not Parliament's. He holds office at your behest."

The king shrugged. "We will talk no more of it." He

gestured toward the musicians. "Let them play a galliard and we will dance."

Polly spent the entire evening in this select company, and she was under no illusions but that she was invited at Buckingham's request. He danced with her, plied her with refreshment, made every effort to ensure her comfort. She, in turn, trod the razor's edge between coquetry and commitment, so that he could never be sure exactly what she was promising. At the end of the evening, she refused his escort home, and he accepted the refusal with apparent grace.

"You would have me dance to an intricate tune, bud," he said with a wry smile, kissing her hand. "But I'll endeavor to learn the steps."

"You talk in mysteries, sir," Polly said as he handed her into her carriage. "But I must thank you for making my evening so enjoyable."

The carriage lurched forward, and she sank back against the squabs under a wash of exhaustion. Perhaps it would be simpler just to yield, play the part as it had originally been written for her. The thought made her shudder with revulsion. She closed her eyes and imagined how wonderful it would be if she were already in bed, if she did not have to go through the tiresome business of leaving this soothing, swaying darkness, of climbing the stairs, of undressing herself…

"Mistress Wyat." The coachman's insistent voice parted the mists of sleep, and she struggled up, heavy-limbed, to climb out of the carriage, heedless in her fatigue of the correct management of skirts and train. She dragged herself up the stairs, thinking wishfully that maybe Sue had waited up for her and would help her with her clothes. But she had not asked her to do so. Wearily she pushed open the parlor door and was shocked by a stab of dismay at the sight of Nick drowsing by the fire. She wanted to be alone tonight, alone with her exhausted body and overstretched mind, alone to find oblivion for the both, out of which would come the strength necessary for the morrow.

Nick came awake the moment she stepped into the room. "Y'are late, sweetheart." Smiling, he stood up, stretched, and came toward her.

"I had thought you intended staying at home this night." She stepped away from him as he would have reached for her, and headed for the door to the bedchamber.

"I have had warmer welcomes," Nick mused, following.

"Your pardon, but I am awearied beyond thought," she said shortly, reaching to loosen her hair from its pins. "If I do not find my bed instantly, I will be asleep on my feet."

"Then let me aid you." He came up behind her, reaching over her shoulders for the creamy swell of her breasts, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

She pushed his hands away with an impatient gesture that stunned them both. "I do not wish for that, Nick."

"Now, what the devil is this?" There was anger in his puzzlement, and he spun her round to face him, catching her chin, pushing her face up to meet his scrutiny.

"Oh, why will you not let me go to bed?" she cried, tears of frustration sparkling in her eyes. "I am just tired. I have been playing this wretched game all evening… I think you are right; it would be better if I surrendered to Buckingham-" Now, why had she said that? Why did words just say themselves sometimes?

"Nay," Nick said fiercely. "I'll not have that."

"Why not?" she demanded. "Until recently, you were quite prepared for it."

"That is true." Nick released her chin and ran his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically distracted gesture. "But I made an error in assuming that I could tolerate it."

"An error in assuming that we could be of service to each other?" Dear God, she had said it. She looked at him, aghast, searching his face for denial. But it was not there. He had gone very still, the emerald eyes shaded with the truth. The angry words of contradiction that she wanted to hear more than anything, this time did not come.