Nick registered the duke's departure, but gave no sign. Instead he sat damning sexually incontinent dogs, Polly's soft heart, and the callous pragmatism of the artisan who saw in an unwanted animal merely another mouth to feed. The rehearsal was not going well. Polly was tense, Edward Nestor overanxious after her scathing response to his attempt to ease the situation, and Thomas was exasperated. Secure in the knowledge that there was now no one but himself as audience in the theatre, Nicholas got up and went forward to the stage.
"Your pardon, Thomas, but I think you'll all be better for a recess."
"I daresay y'are right, Nick." Thomas wiped his brow with a cambric handkerchief. "Everything is going awry. Take Polly and that damned puppy home. We must trust to luck and the gods this afternoon."
Polly came to the forefront of the stage. "The puppy could live in your stables, could he not, Nick?"
"I do not see why not," Nick said, then softly, "Say a kind word to Edward, moppet. He is looking most crestfallen, and it will not aid his performance this afternoon."
Polly glanced over to her hangdog colleague. She gave Nick a rueful smile and went over to Edward. "I do beg your pardon for being so sharp, Edward. 'Twas most unjust of me, but I was greatly distressed."
The young man's face cleared like the sky after a storm. "Oh, pray, do not mention it, Polly. I spoke hastily. Shall we see how the puppy is now?" The two went backstage in perfect amity, and Thomas sighed with relief.
"How was I to know she would take such a thing so much to heart?" he asked Nick, who still stood in the pit before the stage. "The wretched animal has been a complete nuisance, always underfoot. It could not possibly be allowed to stay here. Why would she react like that?" He shrugged at the unfathomable temperaments of actors, and female actors in particular.
"He seems all right." Polly reappeared, holding the dog. "A little subdued, but he is quite warm and breathing well." She held him out for Nick's inspection.
It was quite the most unprepossessing creature, Nick thought dispassionately, scrawny, with overlarge ears and feet. But then, ugliness was hardly sufficient reason to be condemned to a watery grave. He reached up and lifted Polly and the puppy to the floor of the auditorium. "Come, let us go home. We'll give the dog to John Coachman to take to the stables."
Outside the theatre, Polly said hesitantly, "Do you think Buckingham noticed anything strange, Nick?"
"I do not know," Nick replied honestly. "Let us hope that we both recovered quickly enough to allay suspicion."
For the next week, Buckingham played a waiting game. He issued no invitations, sent no little gifts, was agreeable when in Mistress Wyat's company but singled her out for no special attentions; and he watched her.
"I wonder if he thinks to pique me by this treatment," Polly suggested to Nicholas and Richard. "It would be a logical tactic. So far I have been the one offering, withdrawing, tantalizing. Mayhap he thinks to play me at my own game."
"If so, how do you think you should react?" asked Richard. They were walking in St. James's Park, in the company of the majority of the court enjoying the balmy April sunshine.
"I think I must approach him," Polly said. "If he's to believe that my eventual surrender is inevitable, that I am merely negotiating the price with my advances and retreats, then in this instance I must advance, humble and anxious as to what I could have done to offend."
Nick tried to identify the unease he felt at the turn matters had taken. If Buckingham had sensed things were not as they were presented, it would explain his withdrawal. Polly, by the tactics she proposed, would put his mind at rest. Yet Nick could not like it. However, he had no concrete reasons for objecting, so gave the scheme his agreement.
That evening His Grace of Buckingham found himself the object of the most flattering attentions from Mistress Polly Wyat. Those enormous soft eyes were fixed upon him, anxiously questioning. Her mouth quivered with unhappiness as she implored in a whisper to know her offense. A small hand rested upon his sleeve. Placing his own hand over hers, he assured her that there was no offense and begged that she would be his guest at a small supper party after the performance on the morrow. The invitation was accepted with alacrity and a show of pleasure that could not fail to gratify.
And both participants in the game went home well satisfied with the outcome of their tactics.
The following afternoon, however, Nicholas found a very thoughtful Polly preparing to go to the theatre for the afternoon's performance.
"I have received a note from Buckingham," she told him without preamble. "A confirmation of the invitation to supper, at the Half Moon tavern, and the most fervent request that I not delay in order to change my costume after the performance."
Kincaid said nothing for a minute. He stood very still behind her as she sat before her mirror, his hands playing absently with her hair. He stared over her head at the wall beyond as if it might reveal some secret. "It is a breeches part you play today, is it not?"
"Aye." Twisting her head, she looked up at him over her shoulder. "Buckingham is aware of that, I am sure."
"Doubtless," Nick agreed with a dry smile. "And like everyone else, finds the sight of your figure in such attire enough to inflame him to madness. I cannot fault his taste in wishing you to grace his party in such costume. But if you agree to do so, you are tacitly giving consent for whatever sport he may have in mind."
"I think, in this instance, I must do as he asks," Polly said. "To refuse would make nonsense of my approach last evening." Reaching behind her, she took his hands, smiling at him in the mirror. "I will pander to his taste in this matter, but will seem to fail to see an ulterior motive, and therefore will not respond. After all, have not some ladies of the court amused themselves on occasion by dressing as men?"
"That was different. It was a piece of indecorous mischief undertaken by a group of ladies who wished to shock. Buckingham is giving you a most definite message with this request. He is asking for an overt display of a kind that could only have one meaning. I cannot like it, Polly."
"But if I refuse, we might as well forget the plan," she pointed out. "For that would be giving him a most definite
message in return. "Tis a supper party in a tavern, Nicholas, hardly a bawdy house. What could happen?"
Nick frowned, chewing his lip. Then he sighed. "I suppose it is safe enough. You will enjoy your supper, at all events. The tavern is known for its cooking. I will send you, as usual, in my carriage, and John Coachman will wait for you. You will then be free to leave whenever you wish."
"That will do well," she agreed matter-of-factly, tucking her hair beneath a round velvet hat. "If I arrive in your coach, the duke will realize at the outset that I am still not prepared to take the sport further tonight, for all that I will provoke in my breeches." She turned away from the mirror, offering a placatory smile. "It is no great matter, love. Indeed, there is some pleasure in making game of Buckingham. I must use my wits, and that in itself gives some satisfaction."
"Aye." He picked up her cloak. "Put this on; it has begun to rain." He draped the garment around her shoulders, then said soberly, "Moppet, you must have a care. I am not saying that your wits are not as sharp as Buckingham's, but he's been using his a deal longer than you have yours. Do not become overconfident."
"I am not, am I?" She frowned at him.
"I do not know." Nick shook his head. "You are a deal more relaxed in the part than you were at the outset, and you might, therefore, underestimate the risks. You are crossing swords with a master duelist, and I would have you remember that at all times."