straw of the cobbles, was vanished under a pristine carpet. Nicholas followed her, laughing at the enthusiasm that plunged her headlong into a drift. Other folk appeared on the lane, blinking in the snow's dazzle, calling jovial greetings. One or two snowballs were thrown-a sport that instantly appealed to Polly. She was engaged in a merry battle with a couple of stable lads, her newfound dignity cast to the four winds, when Richard De Winter appeared, astride a powerful beast who clearly made up in strength what he lacked in elegance as he highstepped his way through the drifts.

Lord De Winter was privileged to witness the moment when his old friend, habitue of the court of King Charles, received, full in the face, a snowball thrown by a laughing girl who pranced, taunting, in the snow, neatly evading all missiles directed at her. Nick, with a roar, descended upon the dancing sprite, retribution clearly in mind, and Polly, squealing, took to her heels, her cloak flying out behind,

"Oh, what a joyous sight it is to see children at play," mocked Richard.

Kincaid ceased his pursuit at the sound of the familiar voice and turned, laughing, brushing snow from his face and coat. "Why, Richard, you are well come, indeed. And intrepidly so. The streets are passable?" A snowball flew through the air, struck De Winter's mount squarely on the neck. The horse threw up his head with an annoyed whinny, and both men swung round on the culprit.

"I beg your pardon," Polly said, one hand pressed to her lips, eyes wide in apology. "It…it seemed to leave my hand of its own accord." She plowed through the snow toward them. "Lord De Winter, I bid you good day." She reached up a hand, smiling with genuine warmth. Her hood fell back, offering him an unhindered view of that radiant countenance framed in a braided coronet, glinting richly gold under the. sun's glow. "Pray grant me absolution, sir. I had not quite realized that playtime was over."

"There is nothing to absolve," he responded cheerfully,

swinging from his mount. "Think you that one of your playfellows could be persuaded to have a care for my horse?"

Nicholas beckoned one of the lads, and the animal was handed over. "Polly, see if the goodwife has the makings of a punch bowl, will you?"

"Why, yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord. Will there be anything else, my lord?" Polly curtsied in the snow, gathering up a handful as she rose. She patted it thoughtfully between her hands, smiling benignly.

De Winter, with a punctilious care, straightened the lace edging to his glove. Nicholas said, "Mistress Wyat, would you be so good as to request Goodwife Benson to supply me with the makings of a punch bowl? I should be forever in your debt." Polly tossed the snowball from hand to hand, debating.

"It is always wise to recognize when one has won a point," De Winter said softly. "Even in sport."

Polly cast him a sharp glance, met smiling gray eyes, and chuckled, tossing the snowball to the ground. "You give good counsel, sir. Come within and warm yourself. I will see what can be coaxed from our hosts." She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and the Bensons' apartments, and Nicholas ushered his friend to the parlor abovestairs.

"Some considerable transformation," remarked Richard, stepping over to the fire.

Nicholas did not assume that he was referring to Kincaid's new surroundings. He nodded. "She shows great ease at adapting. I do not think that Killigrew will find anything amiss."

"And the chains.-…?" Richard took snuff, discreetly avoiding his companion's eye.

"Are in place." Kincaid strolled to the window, looking down at the lively scene in the street. Was it possible for those chains to become mutual bonds? He had intended to lead an innocent along the paths of love, to kindle passion in her and teach her the infinite joys of fulfilling that passion. Thus would he forge the chains of love that would ensure her loyalty. For himself, he had intended to consummate a

desire he had felt since he had first laid eyes upon her. He had consummated that desire, and looked forward with intense pleasure to its continued satisfaction. But something was getting in the way of his clear thinking. It was Polly herself-that candid, mischievous, loving elf who seemed to be weaving chains of her own.

"Ye'll forgive a somewhat personal remark, Nick, but she'll be of little value to Killigrew, or to us, with a swollen belly." De Winter surveyed his friend's rigid back, remembering the play he had interrupted in the lane. It had a quality that had little place in the formalized relationship of keeper and mistress.

Nick turned slowly, offering a rueful smile. "You may rest assured that at the expense of a slight diminution in pleasure, I am taking the precaution that will prevent such a happenstance."

De Winter simply nodded. "I am come from the court, where I have been immured these last two days whilst you have been disporting yourself. It would appear that Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham are become fast confidants."

"That is hardly good tidings, my friend." Nicholas tossed another log onto the fire. "Had they been pulling against each other, the evil influence of each upon the king would be rendered less harmful. Together…" He shrugged.

"They will encourage him to incalculable foolishness," continued De Winter. "If they support Monmouth's legitimacy, and persuade the king to set himself up against Parliament, they will bring the country to the brink of another civil war. The people will not stand for it, Nick."

"I am aware of it."

"And you are still minded to avail yourself of any opportunities Mistress Wyat might afford for circumventing the duke?" De Winter spoke casually. "You are in a better position now to assess how skillful she might be in attracting and keeping Buckingham's attention."

"You may rest assured that she lacks none of those attributes that will appeal to Buckingham," Nick said, in a voice as dry as fallen leaves. Sensual, passionate, uninhibited…

What man could resist her? Why the devil was the thought so distasteful?

"So when do you intend effecting the introduction to Killigrew?"

"I see no reason to delay," Nick said. "Once she has a new wardrobe, one more suitable for an aspiring actor. What she has left to learn, she will learn rapidly enough under Tom's instruction."

The door opened at this point, and Goodwife Benson came energetically into the chamber, carrying a tray laden with brandy, hot water, lemons, and spices. She was followed by Polly, bearing a large punch bowl and ladle. "Is it a brandy punch ye'll be wantin', my lord? I've rum, if ye'd prefer it."

"Thank you, but brandy will serve admirably," Nick assured her, moving to take the heavy bowl and ladle from Polly. "If you'd set the tray beside the fire…" The woman did so, cast a critical eye around the room to ascertain that all was in order, before bobbing a curtsy and hastening out, her stuff gown swishing with the vigor of her stride.

Polly settled herself on a three-legged stool before the fire and drew the punch bowl toward her. "I was taught to mix a tolerable punch," she informed the two men with a serene smile, reaching for the brandy.

Nick regarded her quizzically. "I am not sure that is entirely wise. The last time I had drink of your mixing-"

"That is unjust!" protested Polly. "As it happens, the drink to which I assume you are referring was not of my mixing."

Nick smiled at her. "I spoke in jest, moppet."

"Aye, I am aware." Pushing the bowl aside with an impatient gesture, she came to put her arms around his neck, placing her mouth firmly on his. "And I would forgive you even if'twere not a jest."

"This is not going to get the punch mixed," observed Richard pensively, kneeling on the hearth to set about the task himself.