"Then I could wish you had heeded him." His tone softened. "Eat your dinner, now. You cannot perform on an empty belly." He turned to Richard. "I will visit Buckingham after dinner. I may count on you in this?"
"You would demand satisfaction?" De Winter asked, for once startled out of his calm assurance.
Polly's knowledge of court rules and etiquette had still occasional gaps, but there were some things she did know. "You cannot possibly!" she exclaimed, aghast. "The duke would not meet you over such a matter. It is a question of a whore-bought and paid for. Wherein lies the insulted honor? He would laugh in your face." Then she sprang to her feet, as Nick's chair clattered to the floor under the force of his own rising.
"By God, I told you what I would do if you ever spoke like that again!'-' His fury now blazing, open on his face, he strode round the table.
Polly, choosing the better part of valor, fled for the door.
"Why will you not understand?" she cried, no longer tearful, simply angry and frustrated at his blindness. "In this case, it is merely the truth-an insignificant truth. If I do not mind it, why should you?"
Wrenching open the door, she jumped through it. The door banged shut in Nick's face. With a wrathful oath, he reached for the latch.
"Nay, Nick, stay!" Richard spoke, sharply imperative. "Have you not lashed her sufficiently?"
Nicholas turned slowly. "I did not mean to do so."
"But you did, nevertheless. She has endured enough; and if she wished to spare you pain, then you should honor her for it."
"Richard!" Nick's face was contorted with anguish. "Do you think I do not know what she has suffered? I cannot bear to think of it. It is as if vultures tear at my gut. But I will have that debaucher's blood for it!" The promise was spoken softly, but the ferocity chilled Richard.
"Talk sense, man! Polly is quite right. Villiers would laugh in your face, and the story would keep the court in mirth for months to come. You would be a laughingstock, and so would she. She is your mistress, Nick. You hold no umbrella of honor over her. Would you commit murder? For 'tis your only option."
Nicholas stood very still, feeling the warmth of a ray of sun on the back of his head. The chamber was bright with winter sun and the fire's glow; the air was redolent with the good smells of Goodwife Benson's cooking; the dinner table was laden with plenty, the wine rich in the cup. A scene of perfect domestic tranquility, except that the lady of the house was missing. He shook his head in annoyance. "I should be pilloried for a fool! I have been procrastinating for no sufficient reason-" He shrugged. "Well, that is done with now. Come, Richard. You must forgo the rest of your dinner, I fear. I need your help, for there is much to arrange in a short time."
Polly had reached the theatre without fully realizing that that was her destination. But once there, she knew that it was the only place where she would be able to compose herself for the task ahead. Whatever had happened, whatever lunacy Nick might yet decide upon, she had to go onstage. Too many people would be depending upon her this afternoon- John Dryden, Thomas, her fellow actors. And even more, herself. She had relied on pride and determination to carry her through the last sennight. Those resources were not exhausted-they could not be. This afternoon she would demonstrate to Buckingham, and to Lady Castlemaine, and to anyone else who was interested, that, bloodied though she may be, she was unbowed. They could not touch her with the slimy coils of their own sordid souls.
She went into the tiring room. Her costumes were laid out: the gown and petticoats for Melissa in the first act, then the breeches, wig, and waistcoat when Melissa became Florimell. Melissa/Florimell was a character she enjoyed, a triumphant character, who carried the duel of wit and words to victory, for all that she suffered a degree of tousling at Celadon's hands in the unmasking. Amazingly, Polly chuckled to herself. The role had been created for her, and she would do justice to the creation.
Thomas Killigrew found his leading female actor early at her dressing. She responded cheerfully to his greeting, and he was relieved to see that the light in her eyes contained none of the fevered piquancy of the last days. Thanking God and the fates for Kincaid's safe and timely return, he turned his attention to the pressing matter of a recalcitrant box hedge that was disinclined to remain upright on the stage.
Nicholas and Richard arrived halfway through the performance. Polly was not aware of their arrival, any more than she had been aware of their absence. The audience was, as always, a featureless mass below her. She was attuned to their reactions, but as a whole, not as individuals, and she knew that they were enjoying every luscious, wickedly provocative second of Master Dryden's Secret Love.
Nicholas experienced again the emotions of that first per-
formance of Flora's Vagaries, at Moorfields. He knew he had to come to terms with the knowledge that that ravishing, magical creature created her own world into which she invited every lusting, eager member of the audience. But frequently, as now, he failed lamentably. She belonged to everyone, by her own choice, understanding the hungers and needs, gratifying them with grace and pleasure. And he must learn to live in peace and harmony with such creative generosity. There was no alternative, and there never had been.
He glanced sideways at De Winter. Richard smiled in complete comprehension. "Faith, but you'll be the most unpopular man in London, Nick, if you take her away from this."
"Think you I could?" Nick asked, with a wry grimace.
"Not and keep her happy," Richard agreed. "By God, listen to her purr. I fear poor Celadon is about to lose this encounter."
"And count the world well lost for love," said his companion softly.
The play reached its conclusion: Florimell, after much delicious tousling and mousling, was revealed as Melissa; the lovers were reconciled; and the audience came to their feet, those who were close enough crowding upon the stage, expressing their pleasure as vigorously as they would have done their displeasure. Polly emerged, laughing and breathless from the throng, tumbled and disheveled in her breeches and boots, her ruff torn by Celadon's unmasking, peruke lost in the fray.
Nicholas stepped onto the stage from the wings. "Come." He took her hand. "We have no more time to waste."
"Come where?" Polly protested, following willy-nilly, tripping over her feet. "I must change and-"
"No, you need not."
"But I do need." She pulled back on his hand, trying to orientate herself in the real world. For three hours she had lived in another universe, and now Nick was behaving in a
most extraordinary fashion. There was a grim purpose about him that set butterflies dancing in her stomach.
"Nick, if you are still vexed about what I said-" she began tentatively.
"I have decided to overlook it on this occasion," Nicholas interrupted, marching her toward the rear door of the theatre. "You'll not say it again."
"Oh." She skipped to keep pace with his long stride. "But, please, where are we going, and why may I not change?"
"We do not have the time," came the succinct reply. They emerged through the stage door onto Drury Lane, where Kincaid's coach stood waiting, Richard De Winter and Sir Peter Appleby beside it.
"Good even, Polly," Richard greeted cheerfully, opening the carriage door.
"Good even; and you, Sir Peter." Bewildered, Polly returned the courtesies in an automatic mumble.
"Seldom have I enjoyed such an afternoon at the theatre," Sir Peter said. "You surpassed yourself, Polly."