The gown, purchased in London, was light tan satin with pencil-thin brown stripes. The short sleeves were puffed, the neckline modestly low, and a brown velvet sash emphasized her slender waist, the skirt swelling out over the gauzy brown underskirts. It was very English, elegant in its simplicity, and she had never looked lovelier nor so young and vulnerable.
“I should have worn something scarlet,” she said.
“The gown is perfect, Lucie.”
“I look like a child!”
“You look sweet and demure, exactly the kind of young woman a man like Bryan Lloyd would find interesting.”
“Who cares what he thinks?”
“Englishmen find innocence far more intriguing than worldliness,” I told her. “He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
“I haven’t been innocent in years.”
“Bryan doesn’t know that,” I said.
Lucie gave me an exasperated look. I smiled.
“I saw the two of you walking in the gardens earlier, Lucie. You seemed to be very deep in conversation.”
“He wanted to see the statues,” she replied. “I agreed to show them to him. Hardly a thrill, I assure you. He did nothing but talk, talk, talk the whole time and scarcely glanced at the statues.”
“He seemed to be glancing at you quite a lot,” I remarked.
Lucie opened one of the bottles of perfume, smelled the fragrance, oblivious to my comment. I knew she wanted to discuss Bryan, but she was too contrary to confess her interest in the lanky blond youth. She dabbed a bit of perfume on the back of her wrist, set the bottle down.
“I wonder if I should wear some jewelry,” she said idly.
“At your age jewelry isn’t necessary.”
“I feel thirty-five.”
“You look sixteen.”
“So does he,” Lucie said, “but he’s actually quite mature and terribly intelligent, too. Even profound at times. Don’t let that boyish manner fool you.”
“It hasn’t.”
“He’s quite serious about his career in the theater, Marietta. He has some marvelous ideas. I shouldn’t be surprised if he became a very successful playwright.”
“Nor should I.”
“He has so much energy, so much zest. Just listening to him exhausts me. His talk is fascinating though,” she admitted. “He’s interested in so many things, has such a wealth of knowledge. Of course, he’s terribly boastful.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“He’s the best playwright, the best wrestler, the best dancer. Are all Englishmen so egotistical?”
“The majority of them.”
“I suppose he is rather attractive,” she conceded.
“Rather,” I said.
“But much too young.”
“Much,” I agreed.
“He thinks he’s a man of the world, ever so experienced. All the ladies fall in love with him. He has to fight them off with a stick, he says. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”
“Rarely.”
“He has had experience, though,” she said.
“Oh?”
“A woman can always tell.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Do I really look all right, Marietta?”
“You look lovely, Lucie. Are you ready to go downstairs?”
“I want to work on my hair a bit more,” she said. “You go on down, and I’ll join you in a little while.”
A few minutes later I was moving down the graceful curving white staircase with its pale golden carpet. Magnificent crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, shedding radiant light on the hall below. The walls were covered with sky blue silk, divided by magnificent gilt-framed ivory panels painted by Fragonard in soft pastel colors. Stylish ladies swung in flower-garlanded swings, skirts billowing to reveal well-turned ankles and shapely limbs, while handsome cavaliers in plumed hats and satin watched from the ground. Lovely floral rugs of pink, pale blue and lime green were scattered over the highly polished parquet floor, and Boulle tables held bouquets of fresh-cut flowers and a collection of exquisite Sèvres figurines.
I was examining one of the Fragonard panels when Count Vasily Rostopchin stepped into the hall, resplendent in pale rose brocade and frothy beige lace. With his powdered wig, thin, painted face and lascivious eyes, he personified the degenerate French courtier. As is often the case, the frilly, effeminate attire merely served to emphasize his thorny, still potent virility. A licentious old roué he might be, but he was affable and good-humored, and I liked him.
“Ah, Miss Danver,” he said in his dry, raspy voice. “Alone, I see, and looking like a goddess. If we hurry, we can dash up to my bedroom and have a quick tumble before any of the others come down.”
“I fear it would be much too exhausting for you, Count Rostopchin. All those stairs.”
“There’s a broom closet in the back hall. One of my favorite places, that closet. If the walls could talk—”
“I’m sure my ears would burn,” I said.
“I seriously doubt that,” he replied. “The broom closet is out?”
“I’m afraid so, Count Rostopchin, I wouldn’t want to wrinkle my gown.”
He looked utterly crestfallen, then resigned. He sighed. I smiled, enjoying the light badinage as much as he.
“I suppose I’ll have to suffer,” he said.
“It seems you must.”
“It shan’t be easy. You’re a delectable piece, Miss Danver.”
“I’m pleased you think so.”
“As a quick topple seems to be out of the question, perhaps you’ll join me for a glass of wine while we wait for the others.”
“I’d enjoy that.”
He led me into a white and gold drawing room that might have been transported in its entirety from Versailles. Mirrors gleamed in golden frames. Crystal pendants shimmered with diamond brilliance. Another Fragonard, a portrait of Madame de Pompadour, hung over the white marble mantel. I admired it as he poured the wine.
“You like Fragonard?” he inquired, handing me a delicate glass of sparkling amber wine.
“His work is lovely indeed.”
“The panels in the hall once graced the apartment of the Marechal Due de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. A most appropriate title. Now there’s a man who’s always enjoyed a succulent piece—still does, even in his eighties. He may be diminutive—not much taller than a twelve-year-old—but that’s never prevented him from enjoying a multitude of delicious liaisons and dalliances with the world’s most beautiful women.”
“Indeed?”
“He was Louis XV’s closest confident, you know, supplied the King with mistresses. Sampled them all himself first, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Good friend of mine. Had a devilish time getting the panels from him. The old scamp flatly refused to part with them for any amount of money. I finally won them from him at cards.”
“Cheating, no doubt.”
“I always do. It’s a fine art. Did you happen to notice the Boucher in your bedroom?” he asked.
“The portrait of Louison? It’s a splendid work.”
“Presented to me by the lady herself,” he said proudly. “She was Irish, you know, Louise Murphy of Dublin, a cobbler’s daughter who wound up in Paris at the ripe age of eleven and quickly became Boucher’s favorite model. Pompadour saw one of the paintings and decided the lass was just the morsel to perk up the King’s flagging appetite.”
“Oh?”
“She was a clever one, Pompadour, realized Louis was no longer interested in her sexually. Rather than risk having a serious rival, she decided to provide him with nubile girls who would satisfy his appetite and present no threat to her position. Louison was one of those selected. She kept the King happily occupied, eventually had three children by him. It was all quite casual, Louison entertaining a number of other gentlemen during those periods when King Louis didn’t require her services.”
“I see.”
> “Delightful girl,” he said. “Had a positive penchant for jewels, rubies in particular. I smothered her in ’em. I’d like to smother you in ’em.”
“I’ve never cared for rubies,” I said.
“Emeralds?”
“Can’t abide them,” I confessed.
“Diamonds, then. Never met a woman who wouldn’t do anything to acquire a strand.”
“You just have,” I told him.
Count Rostopchin looked crestfallen again and poured himself another glass of wine. I felt wonderfully at ease with the charming old reprobate. The beige lace at his throat and wrists billowed as he crossed the room to stand beside me after pouring his wine. His rose brocade vest and frock coat were superbly cut, embroidered with floral designs in dusty rose silk.
“Gregory has done very well for himself,” he remarked, his eyes admiring me.
“I’m Lucie’s companion, Count Rostopchin, not her uncle’s mistress.”
Rostopchin elevated one thin, carefully plucked brow. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, but he can’t have changed that much.”
“He’s been very considerate,” I said.
“Gregory’s always been considerate, but he’s never before been in close proximity to a gorgeous creature like you without making a conquest—by fair means or foul. The ladies were generally willing, I might add.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“It got him into no end of trouble.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Catherine finally had her fill of his infidelities, alas, gave him the gate. I fear he’s never gotten over that. All these years he’s been traveling about, plotting ways to win her favor again. I happen to know Catherine still thinks of him fondly, but it’s much too late. The Ukrainian has firmly enslaved her.”
“The Ukrainian?”
“Gregory Aleksandrovich Potemkin, ‘Cyclops’ as he’s known in court circles. Some say he employs black magic to maintain his hold on her—he’s always consulting shamans, dashing off to monasteries, going into trances. He’s something of a mystic, given to black moods, sudden rages, the occasional vision. The visions somehow always seem to portend something beneficial to himself.”
“Why do they call him Cyclops?” I asked.
Rostopchin smiled and took a sip of wine. “He lost one eye a number of years ago,” he said. “It’s quite ironic, actually. The Ukrainian possessed a marvelous talent for mimicry, and the Orlov brothers brought him to Catherine’s attention, thinking he would amuse her. He promptly set about mimicking the Empress herself. The brothers were horrified. The lady was delighted—she found him wonderfully wry and witty. He became a regular visitor at the Hermitage, where Catherine entertained.”
“And?”
“And the Orlov brothers grew intensely jealous of the gigantic, ungainly lout who was encroaching on their territory. There was a fight. All five of them set upon him, it’s said, beat him soundly. That’s when he lost his eye. If anything, the black satin patch he wore afterwards merely improved his appearance. Potemkin has the reputation of being the ugliest man in all of Russia.”
“A reputation justly deserved,” Bryan Lloyd said, strolling casually into the drawing room.
“Ah, our young English friend!” Rostopchin exclaimed.
He made as though to approach his guest. Lloyd held out a warning hand.
“Kiss my cheeks again and I’ll punch you,” he promised, “even if you are my host.”
Rostopchin cackled, vastly amused. Bryan grinned and allowed the count to shake his hand.
“An enchanting boy, this one,” Rostopchin declared. “I don’t know whether to spank him or give him a glass of wine. Perhaps I’ll just send him up to his room with milk and cookies. It’s already past his bedtime.”
“Keep it up and you’re going to find yourself in one of my headlocks. I’m famous for ’em at Oxford.”
Rostopchin pounded him on the back and gave him a glass of wine. The men had clearly warmed to each other, badinage aside. Bryan looked particularly appealing in brown leather pumps, white silk hose and snug tan knee breeches, his vest and frock coat of the same tan broadcloth. The latter had rich brown velvet lapels and cuffs. His dark blond hair was neatly brushed, his lean, attractive face aglow with youth and vitality.
“So you’ve met Potemkin?” his host inquired. “They say he frightens little children. Did you flee in terror?”
“Hardly, although I must confess I wouldn’t care to run into him in a dark passage. His face is ravaged, his body bloated. He’s enormous, lumbering about like an ungainly bear. Curious thing about it—the women find him absolutely irresistible. There’s no accounting for it.”
“Women are strange that way,” Rostopchin observed.
“The man’s a monster of ugliness, and they’re swooning left and right from Catherine on down. He’s slovenly, lazy, a complete lout in his personal habits, and they pant after him like—uh—like dogs in heat. Must be some kind of magic.”
“Women are attracted by other things besides physical appearance,” I informed them.
Both men gave me amazed looks. I took another sip of wine.
“Potemkin obviously has other attractions,” I continued. “He’s said to be quite intelligent. Maybe it’s his mind that appeals to them.”
“The man does have an incredible mind,” Bryan admitted. “Don’t know when I’ve ever encountered such—hypnotic intelligence. Listening to him talk I quite forgot what he looked like. Fellow held me spellbound. He has a voice like velvet, deep and dark yet softly caressing. I have to confess I found him thoroughly fascinating, if a little frightening.”
“So he did frighten you,” Rostopchin said eagerly.
“Made me a bit uneasy,” Bryan admitted. “He took a fancy to me, decided to take me under his wing and make me feel welcome. He was friendly and attentive and gracious, all warmth, but I somehow had the feeling he was a cat and I was a mouse and he was amusing himself with me. The man has strange powers—I can’t really explain it.”
Bryan shrugged and finished the rest of his wine. The neatly brushed blond waves were already beginning to follow their natural bent, one wave tilting toward his brow, soon to slant across it. Most young men his age would have been tongue-tied and intimidated in such opulent surroundings, but Bryan was as relaxed as he would have been in his rooms at Oxford, completely at ease.
“Our young friend moves in exalted circles,” Rostopchin remarked, almost as though he were reading my mind.
“My father’s a diplomat,” Bryan replied. “I grew up meeting the rich and powerful. Something I found out early—they’re just like everyone else, only richer, more powerful. I say, mind if I have another glass of wine?”
“Help yourself,” his host said.
“Rarely tasted better. French, isn’t it?”
“The very best vintage. Carefully imported.”
“Thought so,” he said. He refilled his glass to the brim. “Anyone else want more?”
“No thank you,” I said.
“Drinking is one of the few vices I fail to overindulge in,” Rostopchin confided. “Finish the bottle if you like.”
“Might do that,” Bryan said.
“He’s also quite talented,” Rostopchin told me. “I have a keen interest in things theatrical, and a friend of mine sent me a copy of his play. I read it only a few weeks ago.”
“You did?” Bryan called from across the room.
“I was speaking to Miss Danver, child.”
“You actually read my play? What did you think of it? Be frank.”
“I’ve always had a fondness for complaisant wives. Yours were most engaging, if a bit too chatty for my taste. Offhand, I’d say it probably read better than it played—too much talk, not enough stage action.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Bryan moaned.
“Still, an impressive achievement for a lad not yet dry behind the ears. I’ve no doubt your next play will be a rousing success.”
Lucie and her uncle joined us a few minutes later, the latter looking incredibly handsome in pearl gray velvet breeches and frock coat and white satin vest embroidered in black. He gave me a polite nod, seeming not to notice my gold-spangled yellow gown. I felt a sharp pang of disappointment as he engaged Rostopchin in conversation and ignored my presence completely. I drank another glass of wine, damning all men, telling myself I couldn’t care less if they all dropped off the face of the earth. Lucie seemed to share my opinion.
“Look at him,” she snapped, “drinking like a fish!”
“Bryan does seem to enjoy his wine,” I agreed.
“No manners at all! Just waved at me when I came in, then poured himself another glass. And I put this white rose in my hair just to impress him.”
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“I wanted to look innocent.”
“You do, dear.”
“To hell with him!”
“I know exactly how you feel.”
The dining room was done in white and gold with a pale salmon pink ceiling and ivory panels painted with delicate salmon, orange, tan, and brown flowers. A majestic chandelier hung over a table set with magnificent golden cutlery and white and orange Sèvres etched with gold. The meal was served by footmen in white satin knee breeches, salmon frock coats and powdered wigs. The food was as gorgeous as the setting and marvelously delicious, although I had little appetite. The conversation was general, dominated, of course, by the cocky young Englishman who, prompted by our host, blithely expressed his opinions of Russia and all things Russian.
Lucie sat in stony silence, picking at her food, making no attempt to be social. Her uncle was amiable and relaxed, delighted to be here with his old friend, but he wasn’t enjoying himself nearly as much as he pretended. I saw that immediately. Despite his easy smile, his good-humored chuckles and his affable manner, he was preoccupied, giving only part of his attention to the amenities. He glanced at me every now and then, his navy blue eyes friendly enough, but the invisible wall was still there.
I might as well have been wearing sackcloth. My sumptuous gown was totally wasted. So was the elaborate coiffure, the tantalizing perfume. I felt like an utter fool, and I vowed to forget all about Count Gregory Orlov. I would be cool and polite. I would give him the three months I had promised to give him, collect my salary, and leave this bizarre, bewildering country as quickly as possible. I toyed with my fillet of sole, pushing a piece through a pool of rich creamy wine sauce, longing for the meal to end.
When Love Commands Page 26
