Buckingham went white about the lips, but scorn laced his voice as he said, "Pray tell me, just whose honor has been insulted?"

"My wife's," Nicholas replied. "And, therefore, my own."

Shock leapt into the heavy-lidded eyes, then Buckingham recovered himself. "I see." A twisted smile touched his lips. "Why did I not expect it? That were foolish in me." He picked up the gauntlet. "Where and when, gentlemen?"

"Barn Elms, at dawn." It was Richard who spoke. "As seconds, Sir Peter and I claim the right to fight beside our principal. You will choose your own seconds accordingly, Duke." A polite smile accompanied the statement.

Buckingham merely bowed and pulled the bell rope beside the hearth. "You will excuse me, gentlemen. It appears I have much to accomplish in a few hours."

Outside, the three men went their separate ways after a brief word about arrangements for the morning. Nicholas walked back to Drury Lane through the frosty night, prepar-

ing himself for a most unenviable task. How the devil did a man break to his wife of a few hours that she had an even chance of being widowed on the morrow?

He found her curled up, asleep on the floor by the parlor fire. It took but the most cursory observation to realize that she slept the sleep of complete exhaustion, so far gone in unconsciousness that she barely breathed. Her face was deathly pale, the golden lashes forming dark crescents against her pallor, and Nick knew he must not wake her, even if he could.

She did not stir when he lifted her and put her into bed. Nick undressed and climbed in beside her; thus he passed his wedding night in wakeful reflection, holding the fragile figure against him as the memories crowded in.

Chapter 22

Polly first heard the voices as part of her dream, then, as she crossed over into wakefulness, became aware of them as reality. She lay still, her head turned toward the crack of yellow light edging the doorway to the parlor. Richard's voice came through the partly open door, low but clear.

' 'Tis seven miles to Barn Elms, Nick; less than an hour's ride."

"The surgeon?"

"Will meet us there. As will Peter. What of Polly?"

"I have written a letter. I can think of no other way, Richard. She was dead to the world last night, and I could not bring myself to waken her ¦with such news."

"Be of good cheer." Richard's voice was bracing. "Ye'll be back here, the business done, before she awakes, I'll lay odds."

"And you not a gambling man," declared Nick dryly.

"Let us away."

"Aye. Go you on; I'll be but a minute."

The edge of light broadened. Polly closed her eyes, breathing with deep regularity. She felt him come to the bed, standing over her. Then his lips brushed lightly across hers, and he whispered, "Fare you well, sweetheart."

Polly held herself still while confused turmoil roiled in her head, then the light was extinguished as the door closed gently. She sat up, blinking in the dark, listening intently. There was no sound from the other room, only the silence of emptiness. Springing from the bed, she ran to the parlor door, opening it carefully. The chamber was in darkness except for the fire that had been newly kindled. She padded to the window, peering down into the dark street. The shadowy figures of two horsemen were disappearing rapidly in the gray-dark.

A letter. Nick had said he had left a letter. She lit the lamp with shaking fingers and saw the paper, folded on the table. It was explanation, and a farewell of searing sweetness; in postscript, sealed with his ring, the deeding of his entire estate to his wife.

Polly swallowed the threatening tears. This was no time for female maudling. Nicholas, having married her in order to avenge her, was now going to fight Buckingham, and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it. Dueling had been outlawed by proclamation repeatedly, but in reality no one would deny a gentleman the right to answer insult with the sword, to execute the laws of honor for himself.

Could she not prevent it? Had she not also the right to execute the laws of honor? The thought grew, dazzling in its daring and simplicity. It fathered instant action, and in the action was found surcease from dread anxiety.

She dressed in Florimell's breeches and shirt, her own riding boots and riding cloak, slipped down the stairs, out into the street, and 'round to the stables. Tiny greeted her with a friendly whicker, holding still for the bridle, nostrils flaring at the prospect of exercise.

"I have only a sidesaddle, so we must go bareback," Polly whispered, nuzzling the mare's neck before swinging nimbly astride. It felt rather strange at first, but then wonderfully easy, and somehow much more natural. Men were the most fortunate of creatures, Polly decided, turning Tiny in the direction of Piccadilly.

Barn Elms was across the river, way the other side of

Knightsbridge and Chelsea, close to Putney. She knew the way because she and Nick had passed it when they had ridden to Richmond just after their return from Wilton.

Her head was as clear as the morning air. She knew only this crystalline dread that the man who had once done all he could to harm her would now succeed in destroying that which she loved more dearly than life itself. Nick's love for her was without question, but if their precipitate marriage had been for the wrong reasons, he must not die for those reasons. She urged Tiny to increase her speed. She could be no more than fifteen minutes behind them, and there would surely be formalities that would take time; but to arrive too late would be the final irony.

The sun came up just as she crossed the river at Parson's Green. She had but a mile to go, and now encouraged Tiny to give of her best. The common and coppice of Barn Elms glistened under the feeble light of the newly risen sun. Seven horses stood beneath the trees; the clash of steel upon steel carried on the frosty air. Tiny's hooves pounded the mud-ridged frozen sod. The thin ice of puddles crackled, their exquisite patterns destroyed beneath the heedless hooves. Polly's heart beat with a nauseating speed; the sweat started on her brow, ran down her back, dampening her shirt, despite the whistling cold air that numbed the tip of her nose and made her eyes water.

As they reached the group of horses, Polly drew back on the rein, careful as always, despite the spur of fear, to avoid the tug that would damage the sensitive mouth. She flung herself from the mare's back, knotting the reins on Tiny's neck so that she would not catch her foot if she dropped her head to graze.

Sulayman turned his head in recognition when she laid an alerting hand on his rump as she came up behind him. He, like his six fellows, was tethered to a tree branch. Nick's cloak was slung across the saddle, and in the deep pocket, as she had known it- would be, was the bulge of his pistol.

Polly drew it forth. It was ready primed, since Nick maintained that there was little point in carrying a firearm that

could not be used without preparation when one migh need urgent protection against footpads, highwaymen, anc any other of the rogues plaguing the highways and byways.

Holding the pistol gingerly, Polly moved forward, for th‹ moment hidden by the horses, until she had a clear view o the field. Six men, in riding breeches and shirt sleeves, were moving over the ground like dancers, paired in an elaborate deadly ballet with no score. The seventh man stood to one side, his breath steaming in the air, cloak drawn tightly aboul him, the leather bag at his feet proclaiming his profession.

Buckingham and Kincaid were closest to Polly. They wore their hair tied back, revealing emotionless faces, eyes fixed on the dancing blades, mouths set in grim concentration. The swords joined, parted, each ring of steel setting Polly's heart to beating even faster until she could barely hear over the drumming in her ears. Slowly she raised the pistol, squinting along the barrel, which would not keep still in her shaking hands. She had never handled a pistol before, but surely it could not be so very difficult. One had but to pull the trigger, and the target was hardly small.

She did not think she should kill Buckingham. The fate of the murderer of the king's favorite and one of the foremost peers of the realm was bound to be unpleasant. It would also effectively curtail her loving with Nick, which would be a rather pointless conclusion in the circumstances. But where should one aim in order to disable? Always supposing that one could aim.

There was a moment when Buckingham was half-turned toward her, his sword arm parrying his opponent's lunge. Polly fixed her eye on the angle of his shoulder opened toward her, then, before she could think further, squeezed the trigger.

The explosion, the flash of fire, shattered the eerie, concentrated silence. Buckingham's sword dropped; he sank slowly on one knee, his hand clapped to his shoulder, where the bright blood welled shockingly between his fingers, startling against the white of his shirt. For a long moment the scene was a still life, then the

picture dissolved; the surgeon was running over to the fallen man, the others following, voices rising in the clear air. Polly stepped out from behind the horses, walking as if in a trance toward the circle of men, the still-smoking pistol dangling from her hand.

"I hope I did not kill him," she said in a flat voice. "I did not think it would be a good idea, although I should have liked to have done so." She looked down at the wounded man with a curious dispassion.

"Odd's bones!" Amazingly, it was Buckingham who broke the stunned silence, the words faltering through blue-tinged lips. "What a blood lust ye have, bud." A painful chuckle escaped him. " 'Tis a powerful enmity you bear me."

"Did you expect amity?" Polly asked coldly, with the same dispassion.

"Nay! But to be felled by a slip of a wench! My plans do not in general miscarry to such a degree." His eyes closed as the surgeon laid bare the wound.

Nicholas seemed to come out of the hypnotic trance that had gripped him from the moment of the shot. "Do you have any idea what you have done?" he demanded of Polly, snatching the pistol from her. "To interfere in an affair of honor-"

"But I could not allow him to kill you!" Polly exclaimed.

"Your faith is touching!" Nick rasped. "I suppose it did not occur to you that the reverse could have been the outcome?"

"Well, yes, it did. But I could not be certain of it, could I?" She looked down at Buckingham again. "Is he sore wounded, Master Surgeon?"

The doctor glanced up at her. "This is the most irregular affair. But I do not hold with dueling. 'Tis a barbarous practice, and it would appear, young lady, that you have spilled less blood than might otherwise have been let. The ball has passed through the shoulder. The exit is clean. I see no reason why he should not recover completely, once I have staunched the flow."

Nicholas looked around at the four seconds. "What's to be done, gentlemen? I will abide by whatever decision you make."

It was Buckingham who answered him. "Let it be said that I earned my wound at your hands, Kincaid, and honor is avenged." He coughed painfully. "I'd as lief not have it known that a wench was responsible for such a mortifying mishap."

"And I'd as lief not have it known that my wife felt it necessary to protect me in such fashion," Nick declared. "If there's any who feels dishonor, I will make what reparations are required."

"If you continue in this fashion," Polly broke in, "you will find yourself offering to fight them all again."

"Hold your tongue!" Nick rounded on her. "Have you not disgraced me sufficiently? Never, ever have I suffered such humiliation! That my wife should-"

"I do not have to be your wife," Polly interrupted recklessly. "I understand that you only married me in order to challenge the duke-" She stopped abruptly, her breath suspended, as he strode toward her.

"Oh, Polly! Polly!" murmured De Winter, shaking his head in disbelief.

Nicholas caught the thick braid hanging over her shoulder, twisting it around his wrist until he held her on a short leash. "Let us go apart into the trees," he said pleasantly. "Pray excuse us, gentlemen."

"God's grace, but 'tis a stout arm Kincaid'U need if he's to keep such a wife in a decent order," observed one of Buckingham's seconds in an awed tone. "I take it we're all resolved to keep this matter scotched? 'Twill be the scandal of the year, else."