Polly's pallor increased, and Richard realized with annoyance that he had planted a thought hitherto not conceived.

"Be not afeard," he said swiftly. "We will not permit such a thing."

"I wonder how you would prevent it," she said in dull truth. "I would sell my soul to Buckingham first."

Richard, for once, had no answer, but he bade her wait beside the fire while he dressed; then he would escort her home, where she should try to repair the broken night.

That afternoon Buckingham sat in his box at the king's house and watched her performance with cold admiration. He had been given a detailed account of the dawn events at the lodging in Drury Lane; he knew that Kincaid's mistress had not reacted to his arrest with equanimity. Yet here she was, investing the part of the amorous, designing Spanish heiress, intent on cuckolding a foolish husband, with such flagrant provocation as to make it a challenge to every man in the audience. It was almost as if she herself were saying, you may have me if I choose to be had, but let no man think to rule me. It was a clear statement that the abrupt removal of her present protector-a piece of gossip on everyone's lips-was not causing her any grave unease.

Thomas Killigrew, better attuned to the actor's skills, sensed the brittle edge to the performance. It was an edge that sharpened her act, but increased its fragility. It would take little to fragment the coherence of the part she played, and he found himself biting his lip in anxiety, for once feeling the play drag as he wished it to a speedy conclusion before disaster struck. It was not a wish shared by the audience, who were responding with gusts of laughter and shouts of encouragement when Leon revealed himself as far from the fool Margarita had believed him, and set about the task of bringing his errant wife to heel.

Polly alternately appealed to and challenged the spectators until they did not know what outcome they wanted in this particular duel of the sexes. Edward Nestor, as Leon, had no doubts at all and played better than he had ever done, a fact duly noted by Killigrew. One of Polly's great attributes was

her ability to bring out the best in her fellow players. However, it was with a deep sigh of relief that Thomas heard the epilogue spoken.

As Polly came off the stage, the strain of the act she had just put on showed clear in her eyes, in the tautness of her mouth, the tension in her body. Thomas called her, and she came over to him, expecting his usual words of approval and the inevitable constructive criticism. "How often do you think you can do that?" he demanded bluntly.

"I do not know what you mean." She found herself avoiding his eye. "Was there something wrong? They did not think so, at all events."

"You know well what I mean. It is because of Nick, is it not?" He laid a compassionate hand on her arm.

"I will not let you down, Thomas," she said, ignoring the question. "If that is your concern, you may rest easy."

"My concern is for you. You will not be able to continue at such a pitch ot desperation for very long. You will break, and you will take everyone down with you."

"I will not fail you," she reiterated. "I have matters well in hand, Thomas."

It was a statement that Thomas had some difficulty accepting, but before he could say anything, a noisy, laughing, chattering throng of courtiers, the Duke of Buckingham at their head, came into the tiring room, exclaiming and congratulating, waving perfumed handkerchiefs in emphasis, quizzing Polly through monocles as they called her a wicked jade, a sorceress who knew too well how to enslave the poor male with her charms and her wit.

Polly smiled, disclaimed prettily, flirted with accomplished ease, and gave them exactly what they wanted, except that she singled out no one for a special smile or unspoken promise. Suggestions were made, some overt invitations, but she deflected them all, conscious all the while of the unwinking scrutiny of Buckingham, who did not add his own voice to the chatter, but seemed to be watching her for something. It required every last effort to keep her voice from faltering, her smile from vanishing as if it had never been. It was as if

he were deliberately trying to disconcert her, and when, involuntarily, her eyes met his, she saw there a cold satisfaction, a quiet calculation that pierced her facade as if it were gossamer, revealing the naked vulnerability of her love.

He smiled lazily, drawing out an enameled snuffbox from the deep pocket of his gold-embroidered coat. "You will sup with me this evening, Mistress Wyat." It was the first time he had spoken, and there was no question mark. He took a pinch of snuff on his wrist, not taking his eyes off Polly.

Polly felt a great stillness fill her, a cool space surround her, as if she stood alone on the edge of an uncharted, horizonless sea. Richard had said she was to do nothing until he had had time to do what he could. But then, they had not expected the duke to move so quickly. She looked into the cold eyes, saw again the power of his lust and now the knowledge of its imminent satisfaction. Somehow she forced a smile as if she had not seen those things. "Nothing will give me greater pleasure, my lord duke."

He bowed. "I will send my carriage for you at nine o'clock." Then he walked away, leaving Polly's admiring court to exclaim at his good fortune and to complain at the lady's hard heart that would not unbend for them.

Polly walked alone back to her lodging. Richard had said he would spend the evening at court, where he would learn what he could. He would not wait upon her until the following day, by which time her assignation with Buckingham would be a thing of the past, and recriminations pointless. Richard never engaged in pointless exercises.

Her apartments carried a desolate air, a bleak loneliness in the two rooms once so cozy, so redolent with love's warmth and laughter. Susan appeared stunned, unable to comprehend the extent of the disaster that had come from the blue to shatter the orderly world to which she was accustomed. She could think only of how this would affect the plan to establish herself and Oliver in Yorkshire, and Polly was hard-pressed to bite her tongue. But she knew that Susan had to focus upon something in order to make some sense of things, and the matter that concerned her most nearly was the obvi-

ous choice. So she let the girl moan and bewail and speculate while she helped Polly with an elaborate toilet designed both to indicate to Buckingham that she was unbowed by events, and to convince herself of that fact.

She wore a gown of ivory satin, looped up at the sides to reveal a rose damask petticoat edged with lace, stiffly encrusted with seed pearls. The long train of the gown swept behind her; her hair was piled artfully on top of her head, the knot contained by a delicate filigree coronet; this headdress and a pair of high-heeled satin pumps added to her stature-a prop sorely needed by the actor this night. The string of perfect pearls that Nicholas had given her as a belated eighteenth birthday present were clasped around her neck, and she drew strength from them as if from a talisman. They bore his spirit, and nothing that Buckingham could do or say would defile that.

Yet when the carriage arrived at the door on the stroke of nine o'clock, the sweat of fear broke out on her brow, and nausea tugged at her belly, loosened her gut. She drew on lace-edged gloves over her clammy, shaking hands, and Sue draped her velvet-lined cloak about her shoulders.

It was simply an attack of stage fright, she told herself, descending the stairs. She was accustomed to such attacks, knew just how to deal with them. She was about to go onstage; once there, all fear would disappear, because she would no longer be Polly Wyat, who could be afraid, but someone else for whom fear was a stranger and an irrelevancy. But while she sat in the carriage with the Buckingham arms emblazoned upon the panels, she was still Polly Wyat, miserably afraid, and there was no Master Killigrew waiting in the wings, sending out his support and encouragement.

The carriage came to a stop all too soon; the door opened, the footstep was lowered, and Polly stepped out. Only then did she realize where they were. This was not the Duke of Buckingham's mansion in the Strand. It was Covent Garden, and she was standing at the door of one of the most notorious bawdy houses in the Piazza. That door was

opened, and a servant stood there, clearly bidding her entrance. She could refuse, turn and walk away from here in her elegant gown of a lady of the court, behaving as if her costume were an accurate reflection of the person it clothed; or she could go inside to perform her whoring with the rest of the house's occupants. She had come here to sell her body. How and where the buyer chose to conduct the purchase was up to him.

Well, at least her role had been defined for her from the outset. There were to be no polite pretenses. She could play the harlot as well as any other character-probably better, since she had been bred to play it from puberty. With a cold detachment, Polly gathered up her skirt and entered the house.

The servant closed the door. Polly stood for a minute as the sounds of the house enveloped her. There were giggles, and squeals, loud male laughter, the smack of flesh upon flesh, scurrying feet, slamming doors.

The servant leered, looking in open speculation at her dress and bearing. Polly returned the look with one of haughty derision. "Is it too much to ask that ye cease your gaping and take me to my host?"

The man's jaw dropped, but he gestured toward a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the hall. "This-a-way."

Polly followed him to an upper landing. A man, wig askew above a face glistening and scarlet with drink, his clothing in a state of considerable disarray, emerged from a chamber, laughing as he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He, too, gawped at Polly as if he could not quite believe his eyes. Polly allowed her gaze to roam insolently down his body before she looked up in scorn, as if finding him wanting. His color heightened; he took a step toward her, whether in menace or interest, Polly did not stay to discover.

Her escort led her down a narrow corridor to pause outside a door at. the far end. It was quieter in this part of the house, the floor no longer bare but covered with a canvas carpet, the candles in the sconces wax, not tallow. The man

tapped on the door, then opened it, standing aside for Polly to enter.

"My lord duke, what novel surroundings," she said, sweeping past the servant, allowing her train to swirl around her in a pool of ivory satin.

Buckingham was standing beside the hearth, a glass of ruby claret in his hand, an expression of anticipated amusement on his face. At her crisp greeting, the amusement faded somewhat. "Brothels and whoring partner each other remarkably well," he said, softly insulting. "I had thought you would find such surroundings more comfortable."

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows lifted. "How considerate of you, my lord duke." She looked around the chamber with every appearance of interest. It reminded her of the room at the Dog tavern where she had taken the gulls and undressed for them. It was cleaner, certainly, more comfortable, but it reeked of its purpose, as had the other chamber. If it had not been for Nicholas, she would have been whoring for pennies in that room, when Josh was not taking payment in kind for her keep. And no doubt she would have died of the plague, and any misbegotten bastards with her.

Life came full circle sometimes. She would do now what would have been forced from her, if fate had not intervened. The Polly of the Dog tavern had many strengths, and knew how to overcome the degradation, how to distance herself from assaults. All she had to do was to rediscover that Polly- the one Buckingham did not know had ever existed, the one Nicholas had spent so much loving care on obliterating.

"Shall we discuss terms, Your Grace?" Her hands went to the clasp of her cloak, but Buckingham forstalled her.

"Allow me." He eased the manteau from her shoulders, laying it with great care over a chair back. "A glass of wine, perhaps?"

"Thank you." Her hand was perfectly steady as she took the glass, and she was aware of a distance between herself and this man who was going to torment her if he could. But he would not be able to, because he did not know that Nick's Polly was not in this room. Here was a street-hardened tav-

ern wench, accustomed to blows and curses, well able to hold her own in a world informed by brutality and degradation-a world in which such a place as this was utterly familiar. If he did but know it, His Grace had done her some considerable favor by this initial humiliation. It made the role much easier to carry.