Nicholas relaxed. "Bravo, sweetheart," he approved softly. "You will do as I bid you?"
"Aye," she said strongly. "Fear naught for me." Ignoring the guard, who, having sheathed his sword, was now shifting his booted feet impatiently, she reached up to kiss Nick. "I will see you back soon, my love."
He left then; it was not a farewell to be prolonged, for all that in the bleak recesses of his soul he knew that it could be the last.
Polly flew to the parlor window, looking down into the dark street, where a closed, unmarked carriage awaited. The escort and his prisoner climbed in, the troop mounted their horses, and the sinister procession set of in the direction of the Tower, from whence so many never returned. For one dreadful minute she saw the scaffold on Tower Hill, the executioner with his ax, heard the crowds laughing and jeering, come to see the sport; Nick, his hair tied back, shirt collar loosened, laying his bared neck upon the block. That paralyzing terror threatened again. This was not a world where one could rely on justice. Justice was an instrument of putty to be bent and shaped by those who possessed the power. George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, possessed that power.
The terror receded, a cold, clear purpose taking its place. She would consult with Richard first, because that was what Nick had bidden her do. But if De Winter would not agree to support her when she did what she knew had to be done, then would she play the game alone.
She dressed rapidly, then hastened down the stairs. The Bensons appeared from the back of the house as she laid her hand upon the latch. "Where've they taken my lord?" quavered Goodman Benson, his face waxen in the light of the candle that wavered in his shaking hand.
"To the Tower," Polly said shortly. "Ye've no need for fear. 'Tis no great matter, and will be soon sorted."
"But he was ta'en in our house," moaned the goodwife, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief, her nightcap askew on the thin gray curls. " Tis us they'll come fer next."
"You talk foolery," Polly snapped, understanding their fear but having little time for it. "Ye'll not be traduced. Why should the Duke of Buckingham concern himself with the likes of you?"
Indeed, neither of the Bensons could think of a single reason, and some of the anxiety faded from the faces still raised, half in appeal, half in anger, toward their lodger without whom this dread happening would not have occurred.
Polly could not stay for further discussion. She left them by the stairs, going out herself into the cold and the gray gloom of a winter dawn. Richard lived in a fine house in St. Martin's Lane. It took her no more than ten minutes before she was hammering on the great knocker, caring not if she woke the dead.
The bolts scraped back, and a sleepy footboy stood, indignant, in the doorway, rubbing his hands in the icy air. j "What business d'ye have at this hour?"
"Business with my Lord De Winter," Polly announced briskly, pushing past him into the hall. "Pray tell him at once that Mistress Wyat desires speech with him."
The footboy looked as if he was about to take issue with this peremptory and outrageous demand, but Richard, alerted by Polly's vigorous knocking, appeared on the stairs, a warm furred nightgown drawn close about him against the early morning chill.
"Why, Polly! What's amiss, child?" Quickly, he came down to the hall. "No, you shall tell me in my parlor. Lad, kindle the fire, then bring hot milk to the parlor!" He snapped his fingers at the bemused boy, who scampered off in obedience. "You are chilled to the bone. Have you walked from Drury Lane?"
"Aye," Polly said, a hint of impatience in her voice. "There is not time for fires and hot milk, sir-"
"There is ample time for both, child," Richard inter-
rupted calmly. "You will learn as you grow older that very little cannot wait upon hot milk and a fire."
"But they have taken Nick!" Polly cried.
"Yes, it was to be expected. But wait until we are private to tell me the manner of it."
Polly yielded. She had not the strength to batter against the wall of De Winter's calm impassivity. "You expected it?" She allowed him to lead her into the small, booklined parlor at the back of the house, where a fire now blazed in the hearth.
"Aye, but we miscalculated. We had thought to discover what lay behind Nick's fall into disfavor, and thus hoped to circumvent it." Richard tapped his fingers on the carved wooden mantel, staring down into the fire. "He is imprisoned in the Tower?"
"Yes." Polly sat wearily on a leather-covered stool beside the fire. "They took him but a half hour since. He said-" She broke ofF as the door opened to admit the lad with a steaming pitcher and two mugs, which he set on the table.
"That be all, m'lord?"
"For the moment," Richard said, strolling over to the table. He poured hot milk into one of the mugs, then added brandy from the decanter. "Drink this, Polly. 'Twill put the heart back in you."
She took the drink, warming her chilled hands on the mug, then, between grateful sips, told the tale, carefully repeating Nick's words.
"So we must lay this at Buckingham's door," Richard mused when she had finished. "Why?"
He looked shrewdly at Polly, sitting upon the stool, hands still clasped around the mug, a strange expression on her set face. "Ye've some light to shed on this, Polly?"
"I think so," she said.
"How so?" He waited, curious to hear what this exquisite creature could have to say. She had shown herself quickwitted in the past, possessed of an eye and an ear for the important, the ability to select from a mass of information and impressions that which was salient.
"The Duke of Buckingham promised… nay, threatened that he would find my price," Polly told him, staring fixedly into her mug. "It would appear that he has done so."
De Winter whistled softly. "You think he would have Nick accused for such a reason?"
Polly shrugged. "I am certain of it. Let me tell you what transpired between us at Wilton House."
Richard heard her out in attentive silence, then spoke firmly. "Buckingham is a cunning bastard, my dear. A great deal more cunning than you." He leaned forward to poke the fire. "I would have you do nothing until I have had a chance to smell the wind. It may be that you are mistaken, that this is nothing, that the king will lose interest and will be persuaded to rescind the order-"
"And while we wait for such an illusion to take shape, Nick languishes in the Tower, in God knows what conditions!" Polly interrupted, impassioned, leaping to her feet. "Tread softly, lest ye rouse the devil! Is that it, my lord?"
"It seems to me that the devil is already roused," Richard said dryly. "Moderate your tongue. Nick may allow you uncommon license in your badgering, but I will not."
Polly flushed and resumed her seat. The rebuke, as had been intended, served to bring under control the sudden surge of panic that had led to her outburst.
Richard permitted himself a smile, lifting her chin. "I understand your fear. Indeed, I share it. But nothing will be gained without due thought and care. Trust me."
"I do." Polly offered a wry smile. "But I should warn you that I will act on my own if you will not assist me."
"That were foolish in you. I will not deny you assistance, but I ask that you let me do what I can first."
Polly looked into the calm, strong face. Richard would have no chivalrous scruples about permitting her to make whatever sacrifice she chose, if that was the only path open to them. Had he not already asked such a thing of her? But beside his deep and abiding friendship for Nicholas, he also had a fondness for her. She could count on him to behave