When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  It took a stunning, shocking event in real life to divert the gossips from their latest succulent morsel, and when news of the Menshikov massacre reached St. Petersburg two days later, the Orlov—Potemkin rivalry was immediately overshadowed. As horrifying detail after detail was revealed, a frightened and uncomprehending court could talk of nothing else. Their rarefied, greenhouse world suddenly seemed all too vulnerable, and their pampered existence had been threatened. What happened to the Menshikovs could have happened to any of them, they knew, and shudders of horror ran through the marble corridors.

  Count Alexander Menshikov and his wife Sophia had been bright stars in Elizabeth’s court, brilliant favorites with their own cliques. Alexander had been a particular pet of the gouty, depraved old Empress, a virile lover who helped her forget enroaching senility and the inevitable loss of power. Sophia was one of Peter III’s playmates and openly scornful of the dull German princess he had married. Nevertheless, after the coup, Catherine had not banished them. Elizabeth and Peter were gone and the dull German princess sat on the throne, but Menshikov and his wife, now in their fifties, were still welcome at the Winter Palace. Some claimed Catherine kept them around to remind her of the old days and the determination that had enabled her to triumph against all odds. No longer dazzling, yet colorful and popular, the Menshikovs had continued to shine, their viperous wit and vivacity amusing a tolerant Empress who was far too busy to bear grudges.

  Two months ago the Menshikovs had temporarily retired to his estate in the north so that he could recover from “a slight illness” that, the gossips claimed, was actually syphilis. With them were their three daughters, their sons-in-law, six grandchildren, their private physician, and Countess Anna Pastukov; Sophia’s widowed sister. A week and a half ago, while the Menshikovs and entourage were having a late breakfast, a band of over two hundred peasants had swarmed the estate, yelling like madmen, waving pitchforks, scythes and hoes. The household servants were hacked to pieces. Countess Sophia, her sister and daughters were brutally raped unto death, then dismembered. The physician and the three sons-in-law had been shot, beheaded, the children impaled on pitchforks, and Count Alexander Menshikov had been dragged outside and crucified as the peasants set fire to the house.

  The smoke from burning buildings had brought a troop of the Imperial Army to the scene several hours later. Broken, battered, bleeding profusely, Count Menshikov was still alive on his rough wooden cross and was able to gasp out details of the massacre before dying in the arms of the officer in charge. The peasants had disappeared, not a trace of them to be found, but the army had made horrible reprisals nevertheless, riding into villages, rounding up men, questioning, killing, burning huts. Over five hundred peasants had been slaughtered during the days that followed.

  “It will be a long time before these peasants dare strike again,” Count Razumovsky declared, sipping a glass of brandy. “Catherine has ordered four more battalions to the north. They will flush out this Pugachev soon enough and bring him to St. Petersburg in chains.”

  “Were—were the peasants Pugachev’s men?” I asked.

  “More than likely,” Razumovsky replied, “but it was an isolated incident. He hasn’t begun his march. None of the neighboring estates were attacked.”

  “Pugachev has vowed to march to St. Petersburg within the year,” Prince Danzimov informed us. “He claims he’ll burn everything in his path. Any word from your brothers, Orlov?”

  “A message arrives from Alexis this afternoon,” Gregory said. “He tells me everything is quiet in our part of the country. This massacre takes place almost a hundred miles west of his estate. My brothers Feodor, Vladimir, and Ivan have had no trouble either.”

  “Your own estate is near them?” Prince Danzimov asked.

  “We are brothers. We have estates close by each other. Is a conclave of Orlovs in the north. Many cossacks.”

  Countess Razumosky shivered dramatically. We were still at the dining table with our guests, three nights after the reception at the Winter Palace. Countess Razumovsky was a skinny, horse-faced woman with far too much makeup and an elaborate coiffure, her lime green gown festooned with silver lace. Her husband was a stalwart giant in his late fifties, his table manners as deplorable as his onion-scented breath. Prince Danzimov, an attractive bachelor in his thirties, was accompanied by Countess Panin, a sultry-eyed widow with pouting lips. Count Boris Naryshkin and his wife Natalya completed the party, both of them stout, superior and terribly grand.

  “Poor Sophia,” Countess Razumovsky said. “She was a dear, dear friend, you know. She begged Peter and me to visit them. If his duties at court hadn’t been so heavy we might actually have gone.”

  “Not likely,” her husband said. “I couldn’t abide either of them. Vicious parasites. Gadflies, without an ounce of substance between them. Still, a horrible way to die. They say Menshikov was forced to watch his wife and daughters being raped, saw his grandchildren impaled.”

  Countess Razumovsky shivered again. Countess Panin idly examined her diamond and emerald bracelet, finding it difficult to hide her boredom. Footmen stood by discreetly in the grand marble dining room with its frescoed ceiling and glittering chandelier. We had dined magnificently from golden plate. My duties as hostess had never been so difficult.

  “The Menshikovs will be avenged,” Prince Danzimov remarked. “Finding Pugachev and stamping out this insurrection is Catherine’s first priority. There’ve been peasant rebellions before, of course. This is nothing new.”

  “They should all be shot,” Count Naryshkin said dryly.

  His attitude was only too typical of his class, I thought, biting back a retort. I was horrified by the fate of the Menshikovs and felt that the perpetrators must have been frenzied and crazed with a lust for blood, but I knew all too well the conditions that had driven them. Slaughtering hundreds of innocent peasants was not likely to help the situation.

  “Catherine is altogether too indulgent,” Count Razumovsky observed. “Building schools, hospitals, trying to educate the peasants—it can only give them ideas. These programs for The People are foolhardy and a terrible drain on government.”

  “Would you have her build more palaces instead?” I inquired.

  “Better palaces than schools for peasants,” Count Naryshkin said. “These people have the mentality of oxen. Oxen, at least, serve a useful purpose,” he added, sipping his brandy.

  “I, for one, will sleep much easier now that she’s sent four battalions north,” Countess Razumovsky said. “I was simply distraught when I first learned the news. I had visions of bloodthirsty peasants rampaging through the halls of the Winter Palace.”

  “This will never happen,” her husband assured her.

  I was vastly relieved when, finally, we left the table and adjourned to the drawing room. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace. Dozens of candles burned in elegant sconces. More wine was served. Countess Panin was still bored, a sulky, seductive creature in her low-cut leaf brown velvet gown. She wasn’t any happier when Prince Danzimov idly sauntered over to me. I was standing alone, apart from the others.

  “You seem preoccupied,” he observed.

  “I have a lot of things on my mind,” I said truthfully.

  It was after eleven. Would they never leave? I had made all the arrangements and Bryan was probably skulking around in the gardens at this very moment, waiting for my signal. Prince Danzimov smiled. Tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular build, he had glossy black hair, deep gray eyes, and attractive features, the nose Roman, the mouth full, the jaw strong. He was a bit too polished, a bit too suave and far too conscious of himself.

  “I understand,” he said.

  I gave him a surprised look. “You do?”

  “You’re concerned about the future.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Orlov may soon be occupying his old quarters in the Winter Palace. Where does that leave you?”

  “You’re very perceptive, Prince Danzimov,
” I said.

  “I fancy I understand women.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  He was so very predictable. I knew what he was going to say before he said it, and I played the little game, answering by rote. How surprised he would be if he knew how tedious I found him.

  “I’m a very wealthy man,” he told me.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Not as wealthy as Orlov, of course, no one is, but I’ve always managed to keep my women in satisfactory style. They’ve never been without jewels, expensive gowns, a lavish apartment.”

  “How pleasant for them.”

  “I keep them satisfied in other ways, too.”

  “Oh?”

  He smiled. “I could give you references.”

  “Countess Panin, for example?”

  “Sonya and I are merely—consoling each other. Both of us are currently unattached.”

  “I see.”

  “I could be very good to you, Miss Danver.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  He smiled again, bowed and sauntered across the room to join the other men in their discussion of politics. Countess Razumovsky and Countess Naryshkin were avidly talking about dressmakers, the horror of the Menshikov massacre quite forgotten. Countess Panin looked as though she might expire from boredom at any moment. The ornate silver and blue enamel clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick. It was a very cold night. Bryan was probably freezing. Lucie was undoubtedly biting her nails.

  It was another hour before our guests finally departed. Gregory and I bade them goodbye in the magnificent entrance hall, and when they were gone he turned to me with a pleased smile. He looked splendid in his navy blue brocade frock coat and breeches, the sky blue waistcoat embroidered in silver.

  “They all believe I will soon have my old power,” he informed me. “Razumovsky tells me of these shipping concessions he longs to control. Naryshkin says we need a very strong man in the Treasury. He could manage finances much better than the present comptroller.”

  “And they think you’ll soon be able to get these things for them.”

  “This is so. They both hint I will find it most profitable.”

  “I suppose you’ll receive a hefty share of the spoils.”

  “This is how it works,” he told me. “Everyone is happy. Everyone is rewarded.”

  “Prince Danzimov wanted something, too.”

  “Oh? He does not mention it.”

  “Me,” I said. “As soon as you discard me.”

  Gregory grinned, not at all bothered. “Danzimov is quite the ladies’ man. He does not miss an opportunity. I—uh—cannot blame him for making this advance. You are most beautiful tonight in this bronze velvet gown.”

  “It’s growing late,” I said. “I think I’ll go on up to my room.”

  “I will accompany you.”

  “It isn’t necessary, Gregory.”

  He took my arm and led me toward the sweeping marble staircase. “It gives me pleasure,” he said huskily.

  “We made an agreement, Gregory.”

  “Is true. I agree to pay you very generously. I keep my word.”

  We were moving up the stairs now, his hand grasping my elbow lightly. His palm was warm against my flesh. He smelled of silk and body moisture and that familiar male musk I had once found so heady. I knew very well what he had in mind. Damn, I thought, tonight of all nights he wants to turn seductive again. Do men never think of anything but assuaging that urge?

  “I’m not talking about the money,” I said as we reached the landing. “We agreed it would be—merely a business arrangement.”

  He nodded, tightening his grip on my arm, guiding me down the hall. “This is so.”

  “You agreed not to come to my bedroom unless I invited you.”

  He chuckled playfully, ever so amiable, convinced the legendary Orlov charm would win him the prize. We reached the door of my room. He let go of my elbow and turned me around so that my back was to the door and I was facing him. Eyes gleamed darkly, full of warmth. The wide pink mouth curved in a provocative smile.

  “We make an agreement, yes, but I think you want me as much as I want you,” he murmured.

  “You’re quite mistaken, Gregory.”

  “It has been a long time since Rostopchin’s,” he said in his huskiest, most seductive voice. “I think of that night often.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “I wonder how I could have been such a fool.”

  He frowned. “This is not a nice thing to say, Marietta.”

  “I’m sorry if you’re offended.”

  “We had a glorious experience that night.”

  “It was rather glorious,” I agreed, “but things are different now.”

  Candles flickered in wall sconces in the hall. His face was softly brushed with shadow. He moved closer, placing a palm against the door on either side of me, his arms making a prison, his chest almost touching my bosom. I had to tilt my head back to look up into those sensuous eyes.

  “You are a very desirable woman,” he crooned.

  “I’m very tired,” I said.

  “We make love. I make you feel good.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I throb for you. Look.”

  I looked. He did indeed.

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “You would leave me in this condition?”

  “I have a suggestion, Gregory.”

  “Yes?”

  “Go play with yourself.”

  My frankness startled him, as I had intended it to do. He looked dismayed, then offended, then extremely angry. I reached behind me, opened the door and, slipping from under his arms, stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind me. “Damn!” he roared. He pounded his fist against the door and then stormed down the hall. I sighed, thinking how peaceful it would be to live in a world without men. No fencing, no feinting, no fighting off unwelcome passes. First Prince Danzimov, then Gregory. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was already after midnight. Bryan was probably longing to strangle me.

  Moving quickly through the bedroom and into the dressing room, I fetched a fur cloak and retraced my steps, cautiously opening the door and peering up and down the hallway. No one in sight, but many of the servants were still up, and Gregory was undoubtedly prowling about downstairs, slamming things around, fuming at my lack of response. It was imperative that no one see me. Not daring to use the main staircase, I hurried down the hall and turned into a narrow side corridor that would eventually lead to the back hall. I felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, and my footsteps rang much too noisily on the uncarpeted floor.

  Passing a bank of windows, I saw that it had begun to snow heavily outside. Only a few candles were burning in the back hall, and the walls between those dim yellow pools were washed with shadows that seemed to shift and slide ominously. The hall went on forever, and my heels still rapped with the sound of gunfire. I paused to take off my shoes and moved on much more quietly, shoes in hand. Long moments passed before I finally reached the servants’ staircase, a dark black pit, totally unlighted. Gripping the smooth wooden banister for guidance, I cautiously began my descent.

  It was freezing cold. Even in my fur cloak I shivered, moving slowly, step by step, my hand sliding along the banister. It was so dark I couldn’t see anything, the darkness a palpable thing that seemed to swallow me up, the air black and damp, stroking my face. I couldn’t risk a candle. Careful, I warned myself. Be very careful. There’s a turn here, and the stairway branches off to the left. You don’t want to fall and break your neck. Following the curve of the banister, I turned to the left, and I could see misty yellow light below, a faint haze from candles in the lower hall. Relieved, I took a deep breath and moved down another step, then froze as I heard shrill laughter. My heart seemed to stop beating as the diabolical sound rose, echoing weirdly in the enclosed space.

  “—wouldn’t dream of it. What kind o
f girl do you think I am?”

  “I know what kind of girl you are. Peter told me all about what went on in your attic room last night.”

  “He never!”

  “He said it was bliss. Come on, Lizzie. Let me sample a bit of that bliss. I’m much stronger than Peter. Much nicer, too.”

  One of the maids appeared at the foot of the stairs, a plump, buxom creature with curly black hair and rosy cheeks. I had never seen her before, but the servants were trained to do their work silently, invisibly, and except for those who actually waited upon us, remained out of sight. Lizzie was joined by a strapping footman whom I had seen before, a blond giant with roguish brown eyes. He curled his arm around her waist, squeezing her tightly. Lizzie laughed again.

  “Come on, lass. Give us a kiss.”

  “I oughtn’t!” she protested. “You’re a cocky brute, Ivan, much too sure of yourself.”

  “Give us a sample of bliss.”

  He swung her around and planted a lusty kiss on her lips and the girl struggled valiantly and lost the battle and giggled when he finally removed his mouth from hers. He plunged a hand into her bodice. She squealed, trying to slap the offending hand. He squeezed her breast, grinning wickedly. Lizzie sighed, melting at last, and Ivan curled an arm around her shoulders and led her up the steps toward me. Panic gripped me. I moved quickly back up to the landing and huddled against the wall and prayed they would be too preoccupied to see me in the darkness.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Ivan told her. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time.”

  “Had your eye on Betty, too, didn’t you? That isn’t all you had on her.”