“You look lovely,” I told her.
“I was eager to wear it. This morning I felt carefree—sometimes I do, sometimes not. I wanted to ride my horse. It was rude of me not to share the carriage with you.”
“Nonsense,” I replied.
“My uncle and I had a race. Vladimir and the others were very perturbed because we flew on ahead and could not be properly guarded. My uncle was upset because I won. He pouted and said he was getting old, and then he laughed and said he would win next time.”
“Sir Harry told me you are an excellent horsewoman.”
“Yes, I ride much. I ride fast. It is good cure for melancholy, I find. It sets the heart free and drives away the sadness. It is good to feel the wind sting the face, to feel the great animal beneath you, under your control. Do you ride?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “I once spent quite some time on a mule.”
Lucie looked startled. “A mule? This long-eared animal that makes a hee-haw noise?”
I nodded, amused by her description. “It was several years ago, in America. I was riding through the wilderness on an overgrown trail called the Natchez Trace.”
“This on a mule?”
“I grew very fond of her.”
“There were Indians?” she asked.
“Savage Indians. They almost got me,” I said quite truthfully. “I hid in a cave until they went away.”
Lucie’s violet-blue eyes were wide with dismay, then disbelief. She shook her head, smiling, convinced I was teasing. I smiled back, pleased to see the girl so lighthearted. A little way ahead of us four heavily laden coaches lined up at the side of the road, varnished golden brown wood gleaming in the pale sunlight. Servants in white and gold were opening doors, fetching various items, carrying them to a shady spot beneath a spreading oak where carpets and cushions had already been laid. Vladimir and the other guards had selected a spot for themselves farther on behind more trees, where they were already noisily consuming roasted chickens and passing bottles of vodka.
“Come,” Lucie said, taking my hand. “We will go sit under the tree. I am frightfully hungry after my ride. Our chef prepared a special picnic lunch for us before we left the inn.”
The white rugs patterned in yellow and gold that were spread out over the grass were the same from the night before in the private dining room. The cushions were plump and white and soft. Lucie took off her hat and plopped down, reclining with one elbow propped on a cushion and looking very indolent and young. I sat down in a more dignified manner, spreading my blue and violet striped skirts. Leaves rustled overhead. An acorn dropped into my lap. Flecks of sunlight and shadow danced about us, and the smells of grass and bark and root were mingled with the marvelous smell of freshly baked pastry as one of the servants placed a fancy white wicker hamper on the edge of the rugs. I wondered idly if we were going to dine on gold plate.
“My uncle tells me you had a lovely meal together last night,” Lucie remarked.
“It was very pleasant.”
“I had the headache,” she said. “I preferred to stay in my room and see the lovely presents he brought me from London. My uncle is very good to remember to bring presents. Is this grammar correct?”
“It will do nicely.”
“All the time my French improves. One day I will learn to speak English, too. My uncle likes you very much. He says I am most fortunate to have so enchanting a friend.”
“That was very kind of him.”
“He makes you uneasy?” she asked.
The bluntness of the question startled me. “Why—not at all,” I lied. “He was—he is very charming.”
“He is overbearing sometimes,” she said quietly. “So much energy he has, so much vitality—it is unsettling often to strangers. He is rough and loud like the swaggering soldier, but he has many tender sentiments as well.”
The subject of our conversation marched over to us with long strides, his cloak flaring behind him like white-lined gray wings. In a jovial, mock-exasperated voice he informed us that in order to humor “this maddening clerk” he had agreed to talk about boring things while they ate. They would have chicken and stout fare with the men and leave the delicacies to us. He would pine for our company the whole time, he assured us, and then, with martyred expression, left to rejoin the persistent Sir Harry.
“Sir Harry has to badger my uncle much,” Lucie said, smiling. “My uncle does not like the business matters.”
“That’s quite apparent.”
“He gives in, though. He knows Sir Harry knows best.”
We did not dine on gold plate but, instead, on beautiful china that might have graced the table of Louis XV. There was a cold, creamy asparagus soup and marvelous flakey pastries filled with liver pâté. The chicken wings baked in a honey glaze were delicious, as were the eggs in aspic and the enormous ripe olives. A bird scolded us from a leafy branch as we ate, and I was not surprised to see a parade of ants march across the rugs. We drank cold, sweetened tea served in glasses of ice, a most eccentric drink but quite refreshing, and for dessert there were small, square chocolate cakes iced with almond paste and filled with raspberry preserves.
“Your chef is incredible,” I said, dipping my fingers into the crystal finger bowl thoughtfully provided. “I’ve never had such food.”
“He studied many years in France,” Lucie informed me. “Once he cooked for the Empress, but my uncle lured him away with much money. He grumbles at all this travel and the difficulty in getting ice.”
“The cold tea—”
“He calls it iced tea. It is his invention. The Englishmen are sure he is mad, spoiling their national beverage this way. Would you care for another glass?”
“Oh, no. I’m far too full.”
Lucie gave a languorous sigh and lolled back against the cushions. “Me, too. I am replete. This is a good word?”
“A perfect word.”
Plucking a blade of grass, she toyed with it for a moment and then began to idly stroke her cheek with the slender green stalk. Her lovely face had a pensive expression, and her eyes seemed to be gazing at some vaguely disturbing memory. She sighed again and, tossing the grass away, sat up and folded her arms across her knees.
“I am sad that we get to London so soon,” she said.
“But London is a very exciting city. Why should you be sad?”
“I will not be seeing you again. I make a wonderful new friend, and so soon I must give her up. Once again I will be alone.”
“I am sure you will make many new friends, Lucie.”
She did not reply. A long golden brown wave fell across her cheek. She lifted a graceful hand to brush it aside.
“I am happy for you, though,” she said, gazing into the distance. “You have this man. You have someone who loves you.”
“One day soon you will have someone, too.”
Lucie shook her head, as though such a thing were unthinkable, and then, abruptly, she picked up her hat and stood. As she put it on I got to my feet, too. One of the servants came over to start gathering up the picnic things. I brushed my skirt, bewildered by these sudden shifts of mood. When she had adjusted the hat, Lucie turned to me with a bright smile, but her face seemed strangely hard despite the forced gaity.
“I will see about my horse now,” she said quickly. “We will be sharing the carriage the rest of the way. We will talk nonsense and munch sugared almonds and be—and be very merry.”
Lucie hurried across the grass to the area where the horses had been left, their reins tied loosely to an improvised post. What a strange, enigmatic creature she was, I thought, so young and vulnerable, and yet … yet there were times when those lovely, slanted eyes were full of wisdom, full of secrets I felt she would share with no one. The girl was charming and kind, and there was a poignant quality about her I found quite touching, yet it was as though an invisible cloud hung over her, obscuring the sunlight. I was convinced there had been some tragedy in her young life, one that had left deep scars.
As it would be some time before the servants had everything packed into the carriages, I decided to take a short stroll. Beyond the trees there was a narrow stream. I walked toward it. The thin sunlight bathed the boulders, flecks of mica glistening, and burnished the pale green grass with silver. Tiny purple wildflowers grew in scattered patches. Wild violets? Walking under the trees, I reached the river and stood on the mossy bank to watch the clear water rushing over the pebbled bed. It made a pleasant gurgling sound, soothing and serene.
Several minutes passed, and I was not aware of Count Orlov’s presence until I noticed his shadow slanting long and black across the ground. I turned. He smiled a hesitant smile, the navy blue eyes humble. There was something on his mind, and he clearly didn’t know how to go about expressing it. I was reminded of an awkward, overgrown boy as he stood there, undecided, his handsome face marked with adolescent torment.
“You wanted something, Count Orlov?” I asked.
“Is—it is not safe for you to wander off alone like this.”
“This is England,” I told him, “not Russia. There are no black bears roaming about, no wolves prowling.”
“Nevertheless, you are under my protection. I would be desolate if anything happened to you.”
He was quite sincere. I was touched by his protectiveness. He stepped closer, still hesitant. The boyish quality somehow emphasized his virility, augmented the potent sensuality. He was so very large, a golden colossus. Tall myself, I felt almost petite alongside him. He smelled of sweat and leather and dust, and his hair was slightly damp, gleaming like dark gold in the sunlight.
“Did—did you and Sir Harry have a profitable talk?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I agree to make the investments, if only to get him to discontinue the—” He hesitated, frowning. “If only to have him stop the pestering. He is very pleased and I hope to enjoy my lunch then but he takes out the papers and goes on and on with the explanations. I long to grab him by the neck and choke him, but I listen with the patient expression and agree that it is a very wise thing to make these investments.”
I smiled. “Poor Sir Harry.”
“I—I wished to speak with you privately,” he said.
He looked utterly miserable. I half expected to see him twist the toe of his boot in the ground.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Is about the box,” he began.
“I’m sure you realize why I couldn’t accept so expensive a gift, Count Orlov.”
“I—yes, I realize this when my servant returns it to me this morning. I fear maybe—maybe you misinterpret this gift. I fear maybe you take offense. This worries me.”
“There’s no reason why it should,” I said.
“What you think is most important to me.”
“You hardly know me, Count Orlov.”
“This does not matter.”
I waited. He apparently had some sort of explanation he wished to make, and it was very difficult for him to find the right words. We could hear the rattle of harness in the distance, the stamping of horses, the gruff shouts of men as they prepared to resume the journey. Thin, wavering yellow-white rays slanted through the trees, bathing the scene with a softly diffused light. A bird swooped gracefully across the stream, perching on a rock on the opposite bank. I was growing more and more uncomfortable as he continued to hesitate. He seemed to be looking into the past, and there was a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose.
“I have this box made a—quite some time ago,” he said. “I commission the finest jeweler in St. Petersburg to fashion it for me. I intend to give it to a very special person, but—but something happens and I do not give it to her. All this time I keep it, waiting for someone else who is very special to give it to.”
“I’m flattered, Count Orlov, but—”
“I do not mean it to give the offense. I wish only for you to have it as a token of my admiration. I do not expect the favors in return. I fear maybe you think this.”
His voice was a husky, guttural purr. Heavy lids drooped over eyes full of concern. Standing there in the softly diffused light, hands resting lightly on his thighs, he exuded an appeal so strong it gave a true meaning to the word magnetism. He actually seemed to draw one to him, and one had to actively fight that forceful pull. I turned away from him, gazing at the water, and when I spoke my voice was much too crisp.
“I wasn’t offended, Count Orlov, nor—nor did I misinterpret your gift. I simply felt it would be improper for me to accept it.”
“I wish only to please.”
I turned around, cool, composed, safely behind the invisible wall I had managed to throw up. He sensed that wall. It pained him.
“You are angry?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“I make the blunder. I realize this now.”
“It’s unimportant, Count Orlov. Please forget it. I really think we should go back now.”
“Yes, the carriage will be ready. I am glad we clear this matter up between us. We shall have a pleasant journey to London.”
It was going to be a damned uncomfortable journey for me, I thought as we started toward the road. The ground was rough, uneven. Orlov took hold of my arm to assist me, as though I were still an invalid. The skin of his fingers was like rough silk as they gripped my upper arm. I wanted to pull free, run ahead, but that would only have made matters worse. In a few hours I would be in London and free of these fascinating, bewildering Russians who had come into my life so bizarrely. In a few hours, if I were lucky, I would be in Jeremy’s arms and nothing else would matter.
Chapter Five
London was brown and tan and dull, pewter gray, spread with thickening violet shadows beneath a dreary, cloud-filled late afternoon sky. London was the stench of the river and rotting wood and fish, the squalor of the slums with masses of unwashed humanity jammed into incredibly filthy hovels, the cool elegance of majestic squares with lofty trees and formal flower beds and marble-porticoed mansions. It was vice and vitality, fever and furor, boisterous brawls, constant congestion, the most dangerous, the most exciting, the most stimulating city on earth. I felt that excitement in my bones as the plain private carriage took me through the labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets. Gin-soaked bawds yelled hoarsely, hawking baskets of rags. Thieves and harlots began to crawl out of the shadows as evening approached. Toffs in satin and velvet frock coats strutted like lords, lace handkerchiefs held to their nostrils, swords at the ready.
My bags had already been delivered to The White Hart. Count Orlov had insisted I spend the night at the imposing beige and white mansion he had leased—everything was prepared, it was late, I was weary—but I had firmly, politely refused his hospitality. I had to get to The White Hart as soon as possible. Very well, if I insisted, he would send me in the Orlov carriage with six of his men as bodyguards. I shook my head, adamant. We faced each other in the gorgeous white and gold drawing room, for the carriage had come directly to the mansion on London’s most exclusive and aristocratic square. Frustrated, furious—Count Orlov wasn’t accustomed to being defied—he had finally given an exasperated sigh and had one of the English servants who came with the mansion hire a common hackney and sent me off with great reluctance. Four of his men, in English attire and armed to the teeth, trotted alongside the carriage as runners, ready to slaughter any ruffian who threatened the precious cargo—me.
Count Orlov had given me no choice about this last detail. I would have the four bodyguards or I wouldn’t be allowed to leave. He would tie me hand and foot. He would lock me up in a closet. I would have proper protection or I wouldn’t set foot outside the house. I had given in. We had had wine in the drawing room as we waited for the hackney to arrive. Lucie, tearful, hadn’t touched hers. I had given her an emotional hug before I left and promised to try and see her again before I left London. The girl had looked absolutely crestfallen as she stood there on the steps beside her uncle, waving forlornly as the rattling hackney pulled out of the drive. P
oor Lucie. I would never learn the dark secrets that caused those violet-blue eyes to be so soulful. I would think of her and her uncle often, but I was mightily relieved to be out of their colorful, exotic, dazzlingly rich and emotionally charged orbit.
The shadows were growing thicker, black nests of shadows filling the alleys, gathering in corners, and the city took on a raw, raucous air as darkness fell. I was secretly relieved to have the stalwart, scowling runners as the hackney passed sordid gin shops and taverns, noisy brothels and gambling dens. The streets were so congested that our progress was slow, the runners moving at a lazy trot as the driver cracked his whip and fought his way through the tangle of carts and coaches, sedan chairs and wagons. Horses neighed, rearing. Drivers yelled obscenities at each other. The shrill, cacophonous din was as much a part of the city as the music of church bells and chimes. One quickly grew immune to it, and I hardly noticed as we continued on our way.
Another few minutes and I would be at The White Hart. We passed over an arching stone bridge. I smelled the Thames. More gin shops and brothels, a park, a slightly wider street lined with shops and stalls, lighter, slightly less traffic. Do hurry. Do hurry. Would he be there? Would he look up when I opened the door of the room he had taken? Would he make some jaunty quip as I moved toward him? Would we squabble playfully before he crushed me into his arms and made passionate love to me? Please let him be there. Please let him forgive me. We’ve been through so much together, and I love him so. I love him so. Almost there. Down a twisting, cobbled street with weathered signs hanging over shops. Torches beginning to burn as pitch black darkness shrouded the city. A thin white fog rising from the river. I love him with all my heart and soul, and I will never, never let him out of my sight again. If only he’s there. If only he’s there. Please let him be there.
After what seemed hours the battered old hackney pulled slowly into the yard of The White Hart. My nerves were ajangle. I was so excited, so apprehensive, I could hardly climb out. My knees threatened to give way beneath me as I stepped onto the uneven cobbles. The yard was a dark gray-brown, spoked with the yellow lights streaming from the windows of the inn. There was a strong odor of horses, hay and old leather. Chickens clucked. A dog barked loudly. Ivy clung to the worn brick walls, rattling quietly in the breeze, and the old sign hanging over the door creaked on its hinges. The front door opened. A servant appeared. I felt a wave of dizziness, and I realized that I was exhausted from the long trip to London.
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