He grinned, preening a bit. His tall white leather boots were gleaming. His white breeches fit like a second skin. The short white tunic was adorned with gold braid, and the waist-length white cape casually draping his broad shoulders was lined with cloth of gold.
“I wear this old uniform to aggravate the princess,” he confided. “It fits perfectly even after all these years.”
He was still holding my hand, clasping it strongly, as excited and aglow as a small boy with delicious mischief in store. Lucie stood beside me with a bored expression. Her uncle gave her a small nod, barely acknowledging her presence. If he noticed her remarkable transformation, he gave no indication of it. Music from the ballroom lilted quietly throughout the house, and servants were leading guests into the adjacent drawing room where food was being served.
“Is exciting evening, this,” Orlov said. “I show them all that Orlov still gives the grandest parties. Is like the old days.”
Releasing my hand, he beamed, went to give a hearty bear hug to a doddering, silver-haired ex-diplomat with a plethora of ribbons and decorations on the breast of his shiny black coat. Carriage wheels crunched on the drive outside, and within a matter of minutes all the other guests had arrived save the guest of honor. She would, of course, be late, I thought. The foyer was filled now, guests chattering in small groups before moving into the drawing room, servants passing among them with trays of champagne. Lucie and I were the recipients of many a curious glance, I noticed, everyone clearly wondering who we were and speculating about our relationship to the count.
“Ah, here is the princess!” Orlov exclaimed as a carriage was heard coming up the drive. “Is necessary for her to make the Grand Entrance.”
A grand entrance it was, Princess Dashkova sweeping regally through the door with a handsome blond student on either side, one of them holding her black velvet cloak, the other her spangled black lace fan. A hush fell over the crowd as Orlov clicked his heels together and greeted her with great ceremony. She gave him her hand. He lifted it to his lips. Her old-fashioned black gown was completely overlaid with shimmering black spangles. A stunning diamond and emerald necklace rested against her flat collarbone. Matching earrings dangled from her lobes. A spray of emerald and black egret feathers was affixed to one side of her coiffure with a diamond and emerald clasp. Her lips were painted a vivid red, and they formed a condescending smile as she took in Orlov’s uniform. She was clearly Not Impressed.
“I see she’s brought her students with her,” I remarked.
“Perhaps she hires them by the season,” Lucie replied.
I turned, surprised by the bitchiness. Her expression was still bored. She raised her fan, unfolding it, waving it gently to and fro. Orlov motioned to us, and we went over to pay our respects to the princess, Lucie casually plucking a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant as we approached. It was still difficult for me to associate this gorgeous, worldly creature with the nervous young girl I knew, but young people love to assume all sorts of roles.
We greeted the princess. She swept her eyes over us, nodded, dismissed us. A huge square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds flashed on her left hand. Her perfume was too strong, her makeup too thick and poorly applied, but she was an impressive figure nevertheless, with those glittering, imperious green eyes and that imposing carriage. Orlov told her how delighted he was that she had been able to come and added that there were many old friends eager to see her. Dashkova took her fan from the blond retainer, clicked it open and looked excruciatingly tolerant as Orlov led her away. Lucie and I were left standing with her two youthful companions.
The blond with brown eyes grinned. Not very tall, he was sturdily built and glowing with ruddy health. His hair was thick, the color of wheat, his cheekbones broad, his mouth full and pink and sensual. Perhaps twenty-one, he wore his formal attire with flair but looked as though he would be much more comfortable kicking a ball on a playing field than escorting an aging Russian princess to a grand soirée.
“John Hart,” he said, introducing himself.
“How do you do, Mr. Hart. I’m Marietta Danver.”
“I know. I remember you from the theater. And you are Lucie Orlov.”
He turned to her, a grin curling on his lips. Lucie gave him a cold look and the briefest of nods. The other youth, taller, with pale blond hair and thin, rather cruel features, looked at us with icy blue eyes and introduced himself as Reginal Burton. A servant took the cloak he still held over his arm. Princess Dashkova called to them from across the room, and the two students strode over to join her, John Hart turning to give us a parting look. Lucie finished her glass of champagne and wandered off to find another, the skirt of her lustrous buttercup yellow gown swaying like a satin bell. I was relieved when, a few moments later, Sir Harry came over and asked if I would care for some food.
“I’m famished,” I admitted.
“Quite a party, this,” he said. “Orlov has really put on a lavish affair.”
“It’s been frantic around here all day. The servants have been rushing around in a frenzy. I didn’t realize the party was going to be so grand.”
“The good count believes in doing everything on a grand scale. I see we’re to dine buffet style, in the French manner. I wondered how he was going to seat everyone.”
“He certainly seems to know a lot of people,” I remarked.
“Orlov made a lot of friends when he was—uh—shall we say, in power? He was most accommodating to visitors to St. Petersburg, always ready to do a little favor, grant a little concession, help promote a private interest. He was extremely popular with the English and French, if not with the populace.”
“There are an unusual number of Russian guests, too.”
“Aristocrats who, like Orlov and Dashkova, are no longer in Catherine’s good graces and deemed it wise to move to more pleasant climes. We have a whole contingent of Russian émigrés here in London, a querulous, quarrelsome lot living on pawned jewelry and dreams of vanished glory.”
“Is Catherine really so severe?”
“Only when she’s crossed. She’s basically a warmhearted woman and quite forgiving. Orlov was never officially banished, he can return to Russia anytime, and I’ve no doubt Dashkova will be welcomed back soon enough.”
The enormous drawing room, which took up almost half of the right side of the ground floor, had been wonderfully transformed with brightly colored Russian flags and banners and potted green plants. A huge golden replica of the Imperial Eagle hung on the wall above the buffet tables, swaths of crimson silk draped on either side, and smaller replicas, on the ends of tall staffs, were held aloft by Russian guardsmen stationed against the walls in full military regalia, their gold-trimmed white, black and blue uniforms quite ornamental. Golden epaulettes shimmering, they stood immobile as statues, staring straight ahead and seemingly oblivious to the people swarming about the room.
Russian servants in white velvet livery trimmed in gold stood behind the buffet tables, helping the guests to a rich array of food dominated by a gigantic ice sculpture of an eagle, the center scooped out and heaped with glistening caviar. Luscious arrangements of meat filled golden platters—pink ham, orange smoked salmon, chicken and duck roasted golden brown—and there were pâtés and aspics and steaming soups and vegetables. The dessert table was a wonder to behold with cakes and pastries of every variety.
“I’ve never seen so much food,” a stout, bejeweled woman exclaimed. “I must have one of those rum cakes, one of those cream-filled pastries, too!”
“I’ll settle for more of this caviar,” her companion replied. “I’ve never had better.”
“The count always did have a bountiful table. When we were in St. Petersburg eight years ago we dined at his marble palace, and, my dear, you wouldn’t believe the food. Have you tried the chocolate cake? There’s chocolate cream and almond paste between the layers and, yes, I do believe strawberry jam as well!”
Sir Harry filled plates for us, and
we strolled over to sit at one of the small gilt tables scattered around the room in front of the plants. Sir Harry nodded to various acquaintances, waved to a woman across the room, then concentrated on his food. I spread goose liver pâté on a soft roll, ate a buttered artichoke heart, nibbled on smoked salmon. The noise level grew higher, merrier as dozens of bottles of the finest champagne were consumed and party manners gave way to high spirits. I looked around for Lucie but could see her nowhere. I assumed she had already moved on to the ballroom where dancing had begun.
Finishing his food, Sir Harry patted his lips with a snowy white linen napkin and poured champagne from the bottle a servant had placed on our table along with two sparkling crystal glasses.
“Care for some?” he inquired.
“A little,” I replied. “I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it before the evening is over.”
“Count Orlov tells me he’s asked you to accompany them to Russia as Lucie’s companion.”
“He’s asked me. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”
Sir Harry took a sip of champagne, his face expressionless. “Will you go?”
“I—I don’t think so, Sir Harry. I need employment, true, but I have certain reservations.”
“It’s an extremely rugged trip. Even traveling in luxury as you would be, surrounded by every comfort, there would be innumerable hardships. Once you reach the Russian border the conditions are—uh—exceedingly primitive, and the trip to St. Petersburg is more than half the journey.”
“I’m not afraid of a little discomfort,” I told him. “I’ve endured my share of hardships, believe me. I—I’m just not sure it would be wise.”
“It’s a vast, barbaric country, full of dark superstitions and seething violence. There’s a thin crust of civilization and culture in St. Petersburg, a few other places, but beneath that crust—” He shook his head. “Russia for the most part is still in the Dark Ages, despite the efforts of Peter the Great and Catherine.”
“Were I thinking of going, your remarks would hardly be encouraging.”
“Russia is no place for an Englishwoman alone,” he said bluntly, “particularly one as lovely as you, if you’ll forgive my saying so. I have quite a few connections here in London, Miss Danver. I would be delighted to help you find suitable employment.”
“Why—thank you,” I said, touched by his offer. “I’ll very likely call on you in a day or so.”
Sir Harry nodded and stood up, placing his napkin beside the plate. “It will be my pleasure to be of service. And now, if you’re finished, I’ll introduce you to some of these people. They’re all quite curious about you.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
During the next hour I chatted with an aged Russian countess in dowdy brown lace and yellowed diamonds, a stout ex-ambassador who bellowed in bullish tones and half a dozen others. Sir Harry and I were soon separated, and I was left to fend for myself as Orlov was fully occupied. I saw Princess Dashkova a number of times as the crowd parted, the tall, thin blond always at her side. She seemed to have lost John Hart. I still hadn’t spotted Lucie. I suspected that she had slipped up to her room after making an initial appearance, and I longed to do the same as yet another guest engaged me in conversation and subtly plied me for information about Orlov, assuming I was his mistress.
Little by little the guests abandoned the drawing room and moved into the huge ballroom with its pale ivory walls and blue ceiling spangled with gold stars. Half a dozen chandeliers hung suspended, crystal pendants shining in the blaze of candles. Silver cloth draped the walls, and baskets of pink roses filled the air with heady fragrance that couldn’t quite cloak the odor of sweat and damp powder. Orlov was dancing with an attractive brunette in blue, the wife of a retired aide, and he cut a dashing figure indeed in his white and gold uniform. He moved with exuberance and lithe animal grace, executing the steps of the dance with polished skill.
There was polite applause when the music stopped. Orlov thanked his partner profusely and then, seeing me standing in front of the great white wicker basket of roses, he strode over to join me, the short white cape swinging from his shoulders, gold lining flashing.
“Is a great success, isn’t it?” he said, smiling a happy smile.
“Everyone seems to be having a lovely time.”
“Even Dashkova is impressed, though she tries to hide it. Is like the parties I give in St. Petersburg, everything lavish, everyone happy. You are having the good time, too?”
“A splendid time,” I lied.
The music started again, a lovely, lilting piece. Before I could protest, Orlov took my hand and led me onto the floor, grinning at my surprise. We began to dance, and after a moment I was caught up by the music. His eyes held mine as we moved, smiling eyes, full of warmth and affection, and I smiled back, enjoying myself for the first time. The chandeliers glittered, flashing rainbow spokes, and the room seemed to swirl, a blur of pink and silver and ivory as we whirled on the polished parquet floor. When the music finally ceased, I was startled to find that Orlov and I were alone on the floor, the other couples having stopped one by one in order to watch us. They applauded now. Orlov bowed, grinning anew, and I tried hard to hide my embarrassment.
“We show them, eh? All the men envy me, dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I was the target for quite a bit of envy myself, several of the women watching resentfully as Orlov lifted my hand and brushed it with his lips. The musicians began to play again. Couples moved onto the floor. I begged off when Orlov asked for another dance, saying I would much prefer a glass of champagne. He led me off the floor and went for it himself. A thin, horse-faced Englishwoman in pale green squinted her eyes to get a better look at me, the tattered white and green plumes atop her steel gray coiffure waving as she turned to whisper something to a plump woman in plum-colored velvet.
Orlov returned with two glasses of champagne, and we talked pleasantly for a while, watching the dancers. He was enjoying himself immensely, and I was pleased that his party was going so well. It obviously meant a great deal to him. After we had finished our champagne, he reluctantly took leave of me in order to dance with the ex-ambassador’s wife, and, feeling one of my hairpins coming loose, I left the ballroom and went to the elegant powder room at the end of the foyer. The two women I had noticed earlier were standing in front of the long mirror that covered one wall, the woman in plum velvet opening various bottles of perfume and sniffing them as the one in pale green adjusted her plumes.
“… who she is,” she was saying. “She’s dreadfully common, of course, probably one of his expensive trollops.”
“Orlov always did have exquisite taste in women, and you’ll have to admit she is gorgeous, Bessie.”
“That hair can’t be natural, no one has hair that rich a red, like molten copper. I happen to know that dress came from Paris. She’s probably a French whore he picked up in—”
Catching sight of me in the mirror, the plump woman blushed and gave her companion a violent nudge. The other looked up and, when she saw me, gave me a frozen stare. I smiled politely. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then the two women bustled out of the room, the one still blushing, the other with her nose in the air. Immune to such comments and not the least perturbed, I sat down at the glass and adjusted the loose hairpin, smoothing back a wave, fluffing a long ringlet. I looked up as the door opened and was not at all surprised to see Dashkova in the glass.
“Miss Danver!” she exclaimed, pretending surprise. I knew full well she had followed me to the powder room. “I was hoping we would have the opportunity for a little chat.”
Her thin red lips smiled, but her eyes remained hostile. Her spangled black gown shimmered as she moved over to stand beside me, opening a box of powder, dabbing a bit on her cheeks. I continued to toy with my ringlets, waiting, my expression cool. Dashkova put the powder puff down, examined her face and then pretended to notice my necklace for the first time.
“I
see Gregory is still as generous as ever,” she remarked. “That’s a lovely necklace, my dear. The stones are perfect with your eyes.”
“Thank you,” I replied, not bothering to tell her the necklace was borrowed.
“Have you known him long?” she inquired.
“Not terribly long.”
“Then I suppose the enchantment is still in effect. Gregory can be wonderfully enchanting in the beginning, simply sweeping a woman off her feet. The bruises come later.”
“Are you speaking from experience, Princess Dashkova?”
“Heavens no!” She was appalled. “I have far too much good sense to ever get involved with a man like Orlov—I prefer my men less stupid, more polished—but I know a number of women who have been involved with him, including Empress Catherine of Russia.”
“You were her friend, weren’t you?”
“Until that man came between us! The way he used her! If you could have seen him—lounging in her private rooms, casually opening official documents and deciding which ones she should read, ordering her about as though she were his own personal slave, demanding this, demanding that. It still makes my blood boil!”
“That’s quite apparent.”
“He beat her, too. Did you know that? Slapped her about whenever he took the notion, once almost strangled her when she refused to have his apartment redecorated. There were bruises on her throat for a week—no amount of makeup could cover them.”
She picked up a pot of rouge, examined it, put it down, very close to losing that haughty control. I didn’t believe a word she said, but I was fairly sure of her motives. After all these years she still hated Orlov, and she would make trouble for him any way she could. Thinking I was his mistress, she hoped to turn me against him. I gave my hair a final pat and and stood up, amused by the transparency of her ploy.
“I find it rather surprising the Empress would tolerate such treatment,” I said.
“Catherine always did need to be dominated by her men. It’s a perversity not at all uncommon to very strong women. She rules the country with an iron hand, painfully aware of her awesome responsibility. In her private life—in the bedroom—she prefers to let someone else wield the power. It’s an unfortunate weakness, often undermining the public good. The new man, Potemkin, is even worse than Orlov in that respect, though at least he has a brain and, so far as I know, doesn’t batter her about.”
When Love Commands Page 13
