The first act was drawing to a close. Having gotten things into a complicated mess through flirtation and innocent coquetry, the effervescent Perdita waved her fan, tossed her powdered curls and airily bewailed her fate as the curtain came down. The applause from the pit was thunderous, punctuated by cheers, that from the boxes considerably more restrained. The houselights were lighted and the ebullient crowd downstairs began to tromp out noisily to gossip, flirt and drink during the interval. Many of the gorgeously attired women sitting in front of the exclusive boxes preferred to remain on display while their escorts fetched champagne, ices and boxes of chocolates, but I was far too restless to remain sitting. Orlov and Sir Harry were already standing. The count helped me to my feet, Sir Harry performing the same service for Lucie, and we left the private box with its velvet hangings and plush appointments.
“You are enjoying the play?” Count Orlov inquired.
“It’s quite amusing,” I replied.
“I love it!” Lucie exclaimed. “I don’t understand all the words, but it’s beautiful, like a jewel box come to life!”
“Mrs. Robinson is quite the rage,” Sir Harry said dryly. “All the beaux are mad for her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she landed herself a royal protector ere long.”
The ladies who went on stage were, I knew, paid very small salaries, and in order to keep themselves in velvets and jewels, in coaches and fancy apartments and servants, they had to rely on the generosity of admirers. Some of them maintained virtue of sorts and relied on their talent to get ahead, but the majority were glorified courtesans. Sheridan’s admiration and patronage had certainly helped advance the extravagantly gifted Perdita.
Women in sumptuous gowns and men in full sartorial splendor thronged in the hallway, moving toward the stairs. Gems flashed. Skirts rustled. Plumes waved. The air was close, filled with the scent of perfume, powder and sweat, and a merry din rose. Gentlemen took out their snuff boxes. Women chattered like magpies. Lucie took it all in, thrilled by the gaudy glamour of the scene, and I noticed a number of men casting appraising glances in her direction. Eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, she was radiantly beautiful in her new satin gown.
Count Orlov took my arm as we moved down the wide, carpeted staircase to the crowded foyer below. He was wearing English-tailored black broadcloth breeches and coat, the lapels black velvet, and his white satin waistcoat was embroidered with white silk flowers. A lacy white jabot spilled from his throat. He was an impressive, imposing figure, half a head taller than any other man there, and if the men admired his niece, Count Orlov was the recipient of dozens of languishing looks from the women. Totally unaware of the stir he was causing, the count devoted his attention exclusively to me.
“You are not having the good time,” he said quietly. “Your cheeks are too pale. There are the light blue-gray shadows on your eyelids. Your eyes have the sad, faraway look.”
“I have a bit of a headache,” I confessed.
“Is not good, this. The champagne will help.”
“I really don’t think I care for any, Count Orlov.”
“You will have some,” he said sternly.
Turning to Sir Harry, he instructed him to wait with Lucie and me beside the marble column and then sauntered off through the crowd to fetch our drinks. People moved aside to let him pass, the women whispering behind their fans and casting longing looks in his wake, the men sizing him up, wondering who he was. Still excited by what she had seen on stage, Lucie chattered with considerable animation, and I was pleased to see her so lighthearted. Sir Harry answered all her questions about the English theater, amused by the girl’s vivacious manner.
“I would like to be like this Mrs. Robinson,” she declared. “I would like to be on the stage and wear the lovely gowns and have everyone love me like they love her.”
“The life of an actress is a hard one indeed,” Sir Harry told her. “It isn’t all adulation and applause.”
“I wouldn’t care. I would work very, very hard.”
“I’m sure you would,” Sir Harry said in his driest voice.
She sighed, and some of her animation vanished as she realized what an impossible dream it was. Her violet-blue eyes became wistful. She was an aristocrat, an Orlov, and the freedom and frivolity of the stage wasn’t for the likes of her. I reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Lucie smiled, looking younger than her seventeen years. Her uncle returned a moment later, and she sipped her champagne quietly.
I made polite conversation with Count Orlov and Sir Harry, my mind elsewhere. Yes, it was a nice crowd and yes, the theater was beautiful and no, I had never been to the Drury Lane. I saw a man across the room, his back to me. He was wearing a splendid blue suit. His chestnut hair was rich and glossy. My heart seemed to stop beating. He turned to speak to a woman in violet satin and black lace, and I saw his face. He was quite attractive, but he wasn’t Jeremy. How many times during the past two weeks had I caught a glimpse of someone who reminded me of him? How many times had I felt this same, stabbing sensation in my chest?
“—wish you would reconsider, Sir Harry,” Count Orlov was saying.
“It’s out of the question. Much as I enjoy your stimulating company, much as I admire your country, I’ve no intention of returning. I’ve put in my service, I’ve done my bit, and I’ve earned a spell of peace and quiet. No disrespect, my dear Orlov, but being with you is like being on the edge of a volcano. One always fears another eruption.”
“This is unfair, Sir Harry!” Orlov protested. “Me, I am the most amiable, the most generous of men. If you come to Russia with me as my personal financial manager, I pay you a fortune.”
“And I would be an old man within a year. No, Orlov, you must do without my services once you leave this fair isle.”
Orlov scowled. It was apparently an argument they had had many times before. He looked like a big, petulant child, and Sir Harry looked weary and wryly amused. The crowd was beginning to thin as people returned to their seats. We finished our champagne and a waiter took the glasses. As we were moving toward the elegant staircase, Orlov saw the woman in red. He froze. He seized Sir Harry’s arm, squeezing it so tightly Sir Harry winced. The woman stared at Orlov with dark green eyes that seemed to glitter with malicious pleasure.
“This woman!” Orlov exclaimed. “She haunts me!”
“I had no idea the princess was in England,” Sir Harry remarked. “Prowling through the libraries and galleries, no doubts, conferring with our leading intellectuals and politicians.”
“She is a meddlesome fool!”
“Meddlesome she might be, fool she isn’t. Diderot called her the most intelligent woman in Europe, and he knows whereof he speaks.”
“Damn! She is my fellow countryman. I must make the courtesies.”
“It would seem so,” Sir Harry replied.
Orlov looked vastly uncomfortable as the woman continued to stare, a smile now curving on her wide, thin lips. Accompanied by two attractive blond youths in black-and-white formal attire, she was thin and bony with a sallow complexion and an undernourished look. Her face was painted, her black hair swept up and worn atop her head in a stack of curls. Diamonds flashed at her throat and ears. Her deep red velvet gown left her bony shoulders bare and emphasized her flat bosom, the skirt spreading in layered flounces like the petals of a rose. Undeniably ugly, she nevertheless had a commanding presence and a bearing that could only be called regal. One sensed abounding energy and formidable intelligence and suspected a venomous wit.
“Might as well get it over with, Orlov,” Sir Harry said lightly. “I doubt seriously that she will bite you, though she’s rumored to have fangs.”
Reluctantly, Orlov moved forward, stopped in front of the woman and clicked his heels. The woman nodded and lifted her hand. Orlov took it and brushed it with his lips, all gallantry.
“Princess Dashkova! It is a surprise to see you here.”
“It is a surprise to see you, too, Gregory darling. I h
eard that you were doing quite a bit of traveling, but I never expected to see you in London. You are as handsome as ever.”
“You look the same, too,” he told her.
The princess laughed a dry laugh. “Knowing you, Gregory, I’m certain that isn’t meant to be a compliment.”
Her voice was brittle, laced with cynicism, but her French was flawless and without the faintest trace of a Russian accent. The handsome blond youths standing on either side of her, though fetching, were so overshadowed by her presence as to be almost invisible. In her way, Princess Dashkova had almost as much magnetism as Orlov, though hers was totally asexual.
“What do you do here?” Orlov asked.
“Your French hasn’t improved any, I see. You really must learn verbs, darling. To answer your question, I’ve been at Oxford, brushing up my Greek and Latin and making a few friends.”
She indicated her companions with a nod. Orlov curled his lip.
“Women are not allowed to attend this college,” he said.
“I didn’t attend, darling. I merely stayed.”
Orlov scowled, finding it difficult to hide his animosity. That these two were long-standing enemies would have been obvious to even the most casual observer. Princess Dashkova seemed to delight in his discomfort, the cynical smile never leaving her lips as he shuffled uneasily and clearly wished he were anywhere but in her presence. When Sir Harry brought Lucie and me to be introduced, she gave him a nod, arching a thin black brow as her glittering dark green eyes swept over us.
“I see you still travel with an entourage, Gregory,” she observed. “Who are your pretty companions?”
“This is Miss Marietta Danver. She is a friend. This is my niece, Lucie. Sir Harry Lyman you know.”
“It’s been a long time, Harry,” she said.
She gave him her hand to kiss, pointedly ignoring Lucie and me. I was too disinterested to be insulted, but a soft pink blush tinted Lucie’s cheeks. One of the young men eyed her with considerable interest, and, aware of it, she lowered her eyes demurely. Princess Dashkova apparently deemed her companions too insignificant to bother introducing them, but I guessed that they were students. I could guess, too, the services they performed, for her ugly, fascinating face had an undeniable stamp of depravity.
Sir Harry kissed her hand. “How are you, Princess Dashkova?”
“Restless as ever, Harry. You know me. I never change.”
“Enjoying your banishment?” he asked.
“Finding it profitable. Travel is always broadening, and I’ve met some extremely interesting people.”
“One hears you’ve become thick with the French Encyclopedists.”
“I find them most stimulating,” she replied. “Intelligent men are all too uncommon nowadays.”
“Any plans of returning to Russia?”
“I’ve written to Catherine. I’ve no doubt she’ll relent in a year or so. Considering the state the country’s in now, she may well want me to return. She hasn’t forgotten the services I rendered in the past. And you, Gregory?” she asked, turning to him. “When do you plan to return to the homeland?”
“I leave in two and a half weeks,” he grumbled.
“Oh?” She arched her brow again. “But then you were never officially banished, were you, darling? Just deposed.”
“The play is about to resume,” Sir Harry pointed out. “We really should get back to our boxes.”
“Quite true,” the princess replied. “I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of this heady, intellectual fare. We must get together and talk over old times before you depart, Gregory.”
“I will give a dinner at the house I have rented,” he told her. “One of my servants will call on you.”
“I’m staying at The Golden Swan, darling, on the Strand. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Gathering up her two young men, Princess Dashkova turned and moved up the staircase with back straight and head held high, every inch a regal personage. The youth who had shown such interest in Lucie turned to give her a final glance, his brown eyes full of speculation. Lucie did not lower her eyes this time but, instead, looked back at him boldly. Neither of the men noticed it. I was startled by that frankly sensual challenge I had seen in her eyes but, a moment later, felt certain I had imagined it. Orlov scowled as he watched Princess Dashkova disappear around a curve in the staircase. He looked as though he longed to commit murder. Sir Harry smiled his dry smile.
“The princess always did know how to needle you, Orlov. You really shouldn’t let her bother you so.”
“This woman is poisonous!”
“Yet you plan to give a dinner for her.”
“She is a fellow countryman,” Orlov said glumly. “It is a necessary courtesy. I would prefer to be shot.”
The play had already resumed when we returned to our box. Lucie seemed to be lost in thought, no longer enraptured by the stage, and I could feel her uncle sulking behind me. The charming Perdita fluttered and flitted and radiated an effervescent charm, now in pink satin, now in white, and the play eventually reached its climax and ended in a thunder of deafening applause causing the chandeliers to shake. Crystal pendants tinkled overhead as Mrs. Robinson took half a dozen curtain calls and accepted bouquets of roses. Orlov was still in a grumpy mood as we left the box, and Lucie looked overstimulated, like a little girl who has stayed at a party too long. Orlov went outside to summon the carriage, and Lucie went with him, holding wearily on to his arm. I waited in the foyer with Sir Harry, weary myself as brilliantly dressed, chattering people streamed past us on their way out.
“A most interesting evening,” Sir Harry remarked. “Orlov never could abide La Dashkova, nor she him.”
“I take it they’ve known each other quite some time.”
“From the beginning. Dashkova was almost as important to Catherine’s coup d’état as Orlov himself. She was only seventeen years old at the time but prodigiously intelligent, with a head full of the most astounding knowledge. She and Catherine held marathon discussions about art and politics and science, staying up half the night as they argued every point. Catherine felt, perhaps rightly, that the volatile, effusive girl was her only intellectual equal in Russia.”
“Remarkable,” I said.
“When the palace plots began to brew, Dashkova was in the thick of things. Impudent, courageous, fiercely loyal, she ardently recruited the support of officers and brought dozens into Catherine’s camp. Later, when Catherine had secured the throne and rode herself at the head of the Semeonovsky regiment in full uniform to show her people that she intended to rule like a man, Dashkova rode beside her, also in plumed helmet and full military garb. I fancy it was her greatest moment.”
“It must have been an intoxicating experience for a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“Far too intoxicating, alas,” Sir Harry replied.
He paused as Dashkova moved past, an ermine-lined red velvet cloak wrapped about her, diamond pendants dangling from her earlobes. The black curls artfully piled on top of her head made her seem taller than she actually was. One of the young men carried her red feather fan. The other held her arm, guiding her through the crowd. The princess’s dark green eyes glittered maliciously when she caught sight of us. A wry smile played on her lips as she gave Sir Harry the curtest of nods.
“She’s certainly—striking,” I conceded.
“Striking is the word,” Sir Harry agreed. “Dashkova was never a pretty woman, and her energy, intellect, and demolishing wit have always terrified men. Her husband was little more than a cipher, though he was named Chamberlain after the coup. Dashkova had to—uh—provide financial remuneration for masculine companionship even in her twenties. Catherine showered her with riches, of course, made her a lady-in-waiting, but Dashkova was far too restless to be satisfied with that. She felt she deserved more.”
“I suppose that led to a rift,” I said.
“Eventually. Dashkova wasn’t happy if she wasn’t plotting and scheming. Feeling
the Empress hadn’t treated her fairly, she grew even more restless, more resentful. Catherine adored her and found her amusing for a while, but the day finally arrived when she could no longer smile at the girl’s meddling. Dashkova was packed up and packed off, and the court was considerably quieter.”
“I can see why Count Orlov wouldn’t take to her.”
“He detested her, and the feeling was mutual. She considered him a boastful, boorish lout and was appalled by the influence he had over Catherine. She plotted against him and tried to get the Empress to replace him with someone more suitable.”
“Her own candidate, I suppose.”
“Very perceptive of you, my dear. She paraded a whole platoon of handsome young studs before the Empress, men who could be easily manipulated once they had won favor. Orlov’s hold on Catherine was too strong, though, and the princess was doomed to failure.”
“And this is the woman he’s giving a dinner for.” I shook my head. “Russians!”
“Never try to figure them out. That way lies madness.”
Only a few stragglers remained in the plush lobby, and a moment later Orlov came for us, having already placed Lucie in the carriage. A snarl of carriages jammed the street outside, horses snorting and stamping, drivers yelling angrily as they tried to make their way through the melee. Passengers leaned anxiously out of coach windows, adding to the confusion with their cries, and link boys dashed about, their torches illuminating the garish scene with flickering orange light. Orlov helped me into the sumptuous interior, shoved Sir Harry inside and, slamming the door, took it upon himself to direct our driver out of the tangle. In a matter of minutes we were free, moving down the street at a slow jog. Orlov flung the door open and jumped inside, a wide grin on his lips.
When Love Commands Page 11