"Are you still in there?"

"I cannot imagine where else I would be." It was a brave attempt at a light response, but tears were heavy in her voice. "Where are we?"

"At my house," he replied, holding the door. "Come."

Polly stepped out of the carriage, forgetting her sore feet for the moment in her fascinated contemplation of her surroundings. This was not the London she knew, which was a city of plaster and lath buildings on narrow, crooked streets, the gables protruding so far over the lower floors that they formed a roof across the lanes. Here, the light from the lantern showed her a broad, paved thoroughfare and a mansion of warm brick and white stone. Polly did not think she had ever seen so many windows in one building. The gentleman must be a very important man, as well as a rich one, to have a house with so many glazed windows. Her luck had certainly turned. On one thing she was resolved-this opportunity was not going to slip through her fingers. She was going to stick closer than his shadow to this influential gentleman until he had helped her to achieve her goal.

Nicholas missed the speculative, determined look she gave him; he was too occupied with the insensible jarvey, who seemed to have lapsed into stertorous sleep and was like to freeze if left to sleep off his intoxication. A night standing still on the street would not do the horses much good, either. At last he managed to get some sense out of the man, although he appeared to have no recollection of the past hour or of what had led him so far from his usual beat. He pocketed the two guineas Nicholas, troubled by conscience, gave him, clicked his tongue at his horses, then slumped back against the seat as the carriage moved off. Trusting that

the beasts would know their own way home, Nicholas turned back to his other, rather more bothersome, responsibility.

She stood huddled in his coat, her face white and tear-streaked-a fact that did not appear to mar her beauty in the least, Nicholas thought distractedly; it simply aroused in him an overpowering desire to take her in his arms. She was rubbing one bare foot alternately against the other leg in a futile effort to reduce their exposure to the frozen ground. Nicholas swung her into his arms, telling himself that it was simply the practical solution to her problem.

"Oh!" Polly said in surprise. It was not at all an unpleasant sensation for one who had never before been offered a helping hand in the seventeen years of her existence. "Am I not heavy?"

"Not excessively," replied her bearer with credible insouciance. "Sound the knocker."

Polly grasped the heavy brass door knocker, banging it vigorously. The sound of bolts scraping followed almost immediately, and the door swung open at the hand of a young footboy whose sleep-filled eyes and crumpled livery bore witness to his inability to stay alert while waiting up for his master's return.

"You may go to bed, Tom," Nicholas said, walking straight past him, ignoring the startled stare at the bundle in his arms.

"Yes, m'lord," the lad muttered as Nicholas strode to the stairs.

"Are you a lord?" his burden asked, realizing with a slight shock that despite the intimacies they had shared, she did not know his name. If he was, indeed, a nobleman, then he would be even better placed to help her than she had hoped.

"As it happens. Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, at your service." She chuckled at the absurdity of this dry formula of introduction, and he looked down at her, recognizing that same infectious smile that had so entranced him earlier. He had intended sending her up to the attics to find a bed with the servants, but they would all be asleep, the place in darkness,

and she was still chilled to the bone, not in a fit condition to explain herself to strangers-even if a reasonable explanation could be found. With a half shrug, he entered his own chamber, where a fire glowed in the hearth and the soft light of wax tapers in a many-branched candlestick offered a welcoming light.

Polly gazed, awestruck, at the luxury of the huge feather bed with its embroidered hangings and carved bedposts. "The walls are painted!" she exclaimed as he set her on her feet. She ran across the smooth, waxed oak floor to examine the scenes and designs delicately worked in blue and gilt on the wooden paneling. "How pretty." Suddenly the image of her straw pallet in the airless cubbyhole beneath the stairs at the Dog tavern rose vivid in her mind. How could there be such contrasts in the same city? The delight and excitement in her novel surroundings withered, and the cold, miserable exhaustion she had felt in the carriage returned.

Nicholas saw the shiver and the quick turn of her head as if she would hide something from him. He went over to the bed, bending to pull a truckle bed from beneath. "You may sleep here tonight. Margaret will know what to do with you in the morning."

At that she swung round. "Who is Margaret?"

"The lady of the house," he responded.

'"Your… your wife."

"My brother's widow. She keeps house for me."

Polly wondered why the information should be such balm. "I do not wish her to do anything with me in the morning," she informed him. "With you as my patron, I will be introduced to Master Killigrew at the king's playhouse, and he will see what a good actor I am." She sat on the truckle bed, massaging her feet. "Then, if you do not wish to continue being my patron, once I am established I will find someone else. It is usually so, is it not?"

Nicholas felt his jaw drop. It was not as if the plan was extraordinary. Since the king had decreed three years ago that only women should play female parts in the theatre, the young and attractive, talented and not so talented, had cho-

sen the stage as offering the shortest path to a noble husband or a wealthy keeper. There were men aplenty, both rich and noble, eager to pay whatever was required, not excluding marriage, for the attentions of the most desirable of these frail creatures. Nicholas was in little doubt, also, that one look at this ravishing girl, once she had acquired a measure of polish, and Thomas Killigrew, who managed the king's company, would not care whether she was accomplished or not-and neither would the audience. Indeed, it was not inconceivable that if she played her cards aptly, this erstwhile tavern wench from Botolph's Wharf could find her way, via some nobleman's bed, into the intimate circles of the court of King Charles.

And then the idea hit him-brilliant in its simplicity. What if she could be steered into one particular circle-into Buckingham's circle, to be precise-where she would hear certain things, things that she could be encouraged to divulge to Nick's own faction? Could they possibly make an unwitting spy out of this exquisite vision who had materialized so serendipitously out of the fetid fogs of the back slums? A frown buckled his forehead. He would need to tread very carefully. She would have to be groomed for the part and maneuvered in the right directions. He would put it to De Winter and the others, but in the meantime she could not be permitted to move prematurely.

"It is possible that we may be of service to each other," he said carefully. "However, if you wish for my assistance, you must agree to put yourself in my hands. You may have to do things that you do not care to, at first, but you must promise to trust me, and do as I bid."

Polly looked puzzled. "I do not understand why there should be difficulties. You have only to introduce me to Master Killigrew in the morning. I will do the rest myself."

"No," he said, firmly and decisively. "It is not as simple as that." His eyes narrowed as he saw that beautiful, sensuous mouth harden. "Do you know your letters?"

A tinge of color touched the high cheekbones. She shook

her head, dropping her eyes to her lap. "Books and teachers have not come my way, sir."