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us.”
    Jacqueline hadn’t taken her eyes from Kent. “What part are you playing?” she asked.
    â€œBuckingham.” Kent barked again. “Very appropriate, eh? I insisted on the role. The duke is one of the strong suspects for the murder, you know. His behavior was damn peculiar; first his solid support of Richard against the Woodvilles—he was one of the first to urge that Richard take the crown. Then suddenly he is leading a rebellion against his former ally.”
    â€œIt was peculiar behavior.”
    â€œNot at all,” Kent said promptly. “Buckingham wanted to be the power behind the throne. Richard wouldn’t stand for it. So Buckingham decided to play Kingmaker with Henry Tudor, who might prove more malleable. Perhaps he planned to claim the throne himself, after he had made use of the Tudor. Perfectly sensible plan.”
    â€œIt makes more sense than you do,” Thomas said, scowling. “Ignore him, Jacqueline; he’ll argue on either side of a question just for the fun of it. No more debate, colleagues, until the formalities are over.”
    There were only three others to be introduced. Donald Ellis, a chubby man with eyes of luminous innocence, wore gorgeous purple velvetand a crown. A pastor of the Church of England, he had chosen to portray the lusty, virile Edward IV. Thomas’s eyes, meeting Jacqueline’s, saw the amusement in them and knew she had not missed the implications. The roles played by these people had meaning on a number of levels.
    John Rawdon looked alarmingly like Abraham Lincoln, even to the wart on his cheek. He was a Harley Street specialist who was prominently featured in the newspapers because of his advocacy of natural foods. His reputation as an internist made it difficult for his exasperated colleagues in the medical profession to denigrate his recent enthusiasm. Certainly the doctor was a living testimonial to his eating habits; his tall, thin body moved with the vigor of a young man’s, and his coarse black hair had not a touch of gray. His head was uncovered; the chaperon, a cap with a formal version of the medieval hood, was flung back over his shoulder and attached to his belt by a long liripipe. His velvet skirts did not suit his vigorous stride; he kept kicking them out of the way as he walked. He represented the last Lancastrian King. Saintly, feeble Henry VI.
    Then the last member of the group rose from behind the grand piano, which had hitherto concealed all but his head and shoulders.
    Alone of the men, Philip Rohan had chosen to wear the short tunic. And short meant very short. It was belted in at the waist like the long robe, but its skirts were only six inches long. The rest of Rohan was covered by tights as revealing as those of a dancer. Thomas couldn’t even suspect him of padding the tights. The ripple of muscle fore and aft indicated that the shape was all Rohan. And Jacqueline was taking it in with fascinated interest.
    Finally her eyes moved up from the pale-gray tights to the green-and-silver tunic, with its padded sleeves and fur-trimmed neck. Rohan’s chest was broad enough without the extra width of the sleeves; he looked almost wasp-waisted. The chaperon, which he wore on his head, was very becoming. The fall of cloth along one side of the face softened features that were too hard for conventional handsomeness, but which had a rakish appeal. He too wore his hair long. It was fair, so pale a gold that it looked like silver, and as fine as a girl’s. But there was nothing girlish about the rest of him.
    â€œWell, well,” he said softly, surveying Jacqueline as candidly as she had observed him. “What a pleasant surprise. I expected any expert Thomas collected would be hawk-nosed and hideous.”
    â€œYou are an actor, of course,” said Jacqueline.
    â€œHow did you know?” The deep, controlled voice quivered with amusement. “I am also Hastings, Richard’s best