"They could be found," observed Lauderdale, sipping his claret, frowning as he examined his cards.
Polly kept very still, praying that the sudden tension in her body would not be transmitted to the seated figure so close to her. This was what she was here to hear.
"But think what a trouble," drawled Villiers. "One can never be sure that a bought witness will stay bought, or that a document one happens to… to discover-" An elegant beringed hand passed through the air in graceful explanation "-will stand up to informed scrutiny."
"So ye'll not encourage His Majesty in this?" inquired Arlington.
Again Buckingham shrugged. "I've no objection to York's succeeding to the throne. Monmouth's a callow lad, overindulged and a trifle empty-headed."
"Vain and ambitious into the bargain," chuckled Lauderdale. " 'Twould not suit your purposes, George, I'll be bound, to have such a one on the throne."
Buckingham's lips moved in the semblance of a smile, and his eyelids drooped heavily. "I cannot imagine what you
could mean, John. Why should it be a matter of moment to me who succeeds His Majesty?"
A laugh rippled around the table, and the conversation turned to gossip.
Polly drew her lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and surreptitiously wiped her clammy palms. She had done what she had come here to do, established her position in this circle, and heard something of importance to Nick and the others. Surely she could make her escape now, for this time at least. But how to extricate herself gracefully?
She yawned delicately behind her fan. "La, my lord duke, but 'tis monstrous fatigued I am grown. I must ask you to excuse me. 'Tis to be hoped I have brought you sufficient luck for one night." She smiled over her fan, yawned again.
The duke's expression was not encouraging. His eyes hardened. "Why, bud, 'tis early yet."
"But you forget, sir, I am a working woman and must be at the theatre at ten of the morning."
Buckingham pushed back his chair, rising fluidly. Polly, taking this to mean that he would escort her from the room, curtsied to the men at the table. "I bid you good night, sirs," she said, and moved away toward the salon.
"Come now, you would not be so unkind as to run away, madame," the duke protested softly as they entered the still-crowded salon.
"Run away from what, duke?" inquired Polly sweetly. "I have enjoyed myself most wonderfully, but, indeed, I must seek my bed if I am to satisfy Master Killigrew tomorrow."
His fingers circled her wrist, lightly, yet Polly felt her skin jump with alarm. "You would not have me disappoint my audience, would you, sir?"
"But you disappoint me," he said gently, still holding her wrist.
It was time for the withdrawal. "Then I am sorry for it, sir, but I was not aware I was under an obligation." She met his gaze directly and saw the flash of puzzlement cross that generally impassive countenance, a flicker of uncertainty
lurking in the eyes. The duke had thought the game and its rules understood. Now he was not so sure.
Then he released her wrist, bowed deeply, and said, "I am desolated at your departure, madame, but I realize I have no claims, much as I would wish for them."
"They have to be earned, sir," she said. It could not be luch plainer. If he went about it the right way, he could have what he wished for. It was up to him to discover the right way.
The duke bowed again. "Then I shall endeavor to do so, bud." He beckoned to a footman. "Summon a chair for Mistress Wyat."
"There is no need, sir. My coachman awaits."
If that surprised him, it did not show on his face. "Then permit me to escort you to your carriage."
He saw her into the elegant, well-kept interior of Kin-caid's coach and stood upon the flagway, staring after the conveyance. This one was not going to be easily or cheaply bought. She had clearly a very firm idea of her own worth, and would not sell herself for less. Well, His Grace of Buckingham could respect that. He must set about wooing her. It was a novel game, and there was no reason why he should not take pleasure in it. With a little smile, he turned back to the house.
"Standing staring out of the window is not going to hasten her return, Nick," remarked De Winter.
"Aye, I am aware." Nick turned from the window, reaching for his wineglass on the sideboard. "But I cannot rest, Richard."
"She'll not come to harm," Richard reassured. " 'Tis a gathering; Buckingham cannot compel anything from her in such a situation. If she finds she cannot perform the part, then she may leave at any time she pleases. While nothing will be gained, by the same token, nothing is lost."
Nick's frown etched deep lines between his red-gold eyebrows. "I fear she has taken the bit between her teeth on
this, Richard, and she will run with it." He paced restlessly for a minute, then stopped. "Did you hear a coach?"
Richard went to the window, flinging it wide, looking into the darkness. "You have sharp ears, my friend. A carriage has just rounded the corner."
Nick came to stand beside him, and Richard felt the tension run from his friend as the carriage, the unmistakable figure of John Coachman upon the box, came to a halt before the door below.
Nick resisted the urge to run down to her. He wanted to see how she was when she thought herself unobserved. She might play a part for him-the part she thought he would want to see-and he was not confident that he would be able to distinguish acting from reality without some clues, so skillful had she become.
The coachman opened the door, let down the footstep, and Polly descended into the strip of light shining down from the upstairs casement. "My thanks, John Coachman. I trust 'twas not too tedious a wait for ye." Her clear tones rose to the opened window. Then, as if magnetized, she looked up.
"Are ye still up, my lord?" There seemed to be a light, teasing note in her voice. "I made sure you would have been abed an hour since… and Lord De Winter, also."
A window was flung open next door, and a protesting bellow rent the air. Polly put a guilty finger to her lips, her eyes widening in mock horror.
"Come in," Nick instructed in a piercing whisper, wondering how she had made him want to laugh at such a moment. He went to the parlor door to wait for her.
She came up the stairs with swift step and tumbled instantly into his arms. She was shaking like a leaf, and all desire to laugh left him abruptly. He held her close, feeling the fragility beneath the elaborate dress, the armor of corset and layers of petticoats.
"What is it, sweetheart? Are you hurt?" The anguished questions whispered against her ear as he stroked her back and she shuddered against him.
"Nay… nay… not hurt," she managed at last. "It is going to succeed, I think, but… but I did not realize how hard the work 'twould be, Nick. 'Tis a thousand times worse than the theatre."
Nicholas drew her into the parlor, closing the door quietly. "Is that all that is the matter? That maintaining the part was hard work?"
"If it were just a matter of maintaining the part, 'twould not be so difficult," she said, her voice a little quavery, although she had stopped shaking. "Oh, my thanks, Richard." She took the glass of claret he handed her. "But I must also write the lines, Nick. I had not thought of that."
The two men looked at each other. Somehow, they had not grappled with that complexity, either. "But you managed to do so?" Richard prompted.