Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (34 page)

In a way, she had.

Elegantly but discreetly embroidered in white silk thread,
the comforter, sheets, and pillowcases all displayed the small
but unmistakable twin-headed eagle crest of the Danilovs.

She sat heavily on the slipper chair, wearily covering her
face with her hands.

So the bedding was the Prince's.

Her mind began to reflect unhappily on the probable course
of events.

If the bed linens were the Prince's, didn't it only make sense
that the pots and pans in the kitchen belonged to him also?

And if they did, wouldn't the furniture? And perhaps even
the apartment itself?

What, then, about the stage roles which she was scheduled
to play at the various palaces? Had they, too, been arranged
through the Machiavellian machinations of Vaslav Danilov?

Could he want her
that
badly?

She gazed at the incriminating bed. Had he provided her
with these ornate bed linens because he expected to share
them with her eventually?

With an immense effort of will she pushed the thoughts
out of her mind, but not before glimpsing the ugly truth that perhaps, just perhaps, she had been cleverly manipulated all
along. And was still being manipulated.

It was something she did not relish. She decided she would confront Countess Florinsky in the morning.

But when morning came, she never got around to asking any questions. Countess Florinsky, all splendid wobbly hat,
sweet flowery toilet water, and bubbling
joie de vivre,
burst in
clapping her hands and crying, 'Hurry, my dear! We're already
late!'

Senda eyed her curiously, wondering at her friend's state of
excitement. 'We've got to go somewhere?' she asked. She
looked down at herself. It was the first she had heard of it,
and she still wore her flannel nightgown.

'Of course. You do need clothes, my dear, if I say so myself,
and I'm afraid this time you'll have to help choose the fabrics.
We're expected at Madame Lamothe's within the hour.'

Senda stared at Countess Florinsky with the same bewilder
ment one might expect on the face of a fairy-tale heroine when
confronted with the tangible assets bestowed upon her by a
benevolent fairy godmother: surprise, awe, wonder, but
above all, fear and confusion. She had the unsettling feeling that velvet gloves had somehow pried her destiny from her
own hands and put it in the hands of others, that things might
never again be as they once had been.

'Really, Flora,' she said hesitantly, 'it's all good and well,
but ... do I really
need
new clothes?'

Countess Florinsky was taken aback. 'Do you
need
new
clothes? My dear, you not only
need
new clothes, but a new
wardrobe, as anyone in society can tell you. From this moment
on you are a star, and as such, you must begin to think like
one. In case you didn't know it, theatrical stars are the fashion plates of our society. What you are seen wearing, both onstage
and off, will set new styles and be copied by others. In fact,
you will
owe
it to your adoring public to be a constant fashion
sensation. In time, people will expect you to wear a different dress every day. Tatiana Ivanova never wore the same one twice. Of course, an entire wardrobe can't be put together
overnight,' Countess Florinsky continued, hooking an arm through Senda's and adroitly steering her toward the bed
room. 'That takes time, but a few things are absolutely
necessary to start. I would say that several dresses for day and
evening wear, a few really good gowns—you never know when
you might need them in this town—and of course, a riding
habit—'

'Riding habit!' Senda looked horrified. What more could
possibly be expected of her? Evidently there was more to
being an actress than simply performing onstage.

Countess Florinsky did not break her confident stride.
'Don't look so shocked, my dear, and for heaven's sake,
do
get ready. We're running quite late as it is.' And with that she
gave Senda a firm prod in the small of her back, propelling
her into the bedroom.

Senda turned. 'But Flora. What about Tamara? I can't leave
her here alone.'

I've already seen to her, my dear. A temporary servant is
on her way. Now, on
your
way!'

So the whirlwind which was sweeping Senda up into its
vortex continued. Perhaps it was a well-meaning conspiracy;
perhaps not. But there never seemed time to sit down and ask
the brutal questions she needed answered so desperately.

'But . . . can I really afford this?' Senda whispered to
Countess Florinsky. It was an hour later, and they sat on gilt
ballroom chairs in Madame Lamothe's plush atelier on Nevsky
Avenue, fingering a rich emerald bolt of extravagantly priced
silk beneath a shimmering rock-crystal chandelier.

'Ssssh!' The Countess looked scandalized at the mention
of cost. '
Au contraire,
my dear,' she trilled softly, frantically
fanning her bosom with a pink peacock plume. 'Of course you
can
afford
it, and quite easily at that. Besides, I simply cannot
stress enough how imperative it is that you keep up certain
standards. If what I anticipate will happen does occur, you
will find that you are living . . . well, if not quite frugally, then
far below your means.'

And of course the Countess was proven right. Monsieur
Guerlain, the director of the
Théâtre Français
, sought her out
and insisted she accompany him and a small group of his
friends for an impromptu midnight supper. Before she could
decline, off she was whisked in a whirlwind of furs in one of a flotilla of small red sleigh taxis, racing to the fashionable
Restaurant Cuba, where, over a late dinner of sturgeon,
shashlik, caviar, and champagne, Monsieur Guerlain end
lessly—and to his own surprise, genuinely—praised her talents
to the skies. Senda listened quietly, a part of her detached, as if he were discussing someone else and not her. But of course
they
were
discussing her, and the undetached part of her mind
knew this. Everyone at the huge round table listened raptly to
each and every word of Jean-Pierre Guerlain's dissertation
while she listened politely, first with slight amusement and
then with a growing horror, all the while a gracious smile she
did not feel pasted on her lips as she studied her new mentor's
physical attributes. Whereas Madame Lamothe was a witch
of sorts, surely Monsieur Guerlain was a warlock of equal, if
not even more prodigious, powers. One look at him and you knew for certain that he was larger than life. Marvellously
animated, splendidly special. A sorcerer.

That he was. Jean-Pierre Guerlain had reigned supreme
among the elite of the St. Petersburg theatre for the past twenty-five years; he was to acting what Serge Diaghilev was
to dancing and Rimsky-Korsakov was to music. In Senda, he
realized, he had come across that rarest and most beguiling of
pure illusionists, a natural, authoritative stage presence, as yet
untrained. Which only meant that no well-meaning director
had as yet had the opportunity to ruin her spontaneity, meddle
with her God-given natural talents, or, heaven forbid, teach
her that most disastrous of all catastrophes—bad acting habits
which he would first have to exorcise before turning her into
a true star. Now, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the
role she played with refreshing, if somewhat amateurish fer
vour, baring her innermost soul for all to see. What she lacked
in training, she more than made up for in raw, unadulterated
talent.

Her flawless physical beauty, while only secondary to her
other attributes, was by no means a hindrance. The marriage
of talent and beauty he saw in her . . . well, Senda Bora was
precisely what Jean-Pierre Guerlain was constantly on the
lookout for, and had found only once before.

The excitement he felt was nearly uncontainable.

She was the Kohinoor diamond in the rough. Indeed, with
her natural resources and his vast expertise and unrivalled power, he would single-handedly create Russia's greatest liv
ing theatrical treasure: a living legend. Senda Bora would not
reflect badly upon the Théâtre Français, he decided. Nor
would the healthy sum of money which that fool Count
Kokovtsov had dangled in front of him reflect adversely upon
his bank account.

Within the first few minutes of their meeting, Monsieur Guerlain offered a startled Senda a position near the head of
his elite company's roster of impressive stars, French-language
tutors, and daily acting lessons.

'A gruelling regimen, if ever there was one,' he warned her.

Nearly speechless, and ever practical. Senda could only
wonder aloud: 'Yes, but . . . but how will I be able to pay for
all this?'

'I will provide everything,' he said, gesturing expansively.
'As long as you fulfill your end of the bargain, consider every
thing paid for.'

Senda was too awestruck to take it all in.

'Let us not fool ourselves. You are a very beautiful woman,
Madame Bora. Not only that, but a major talent as well.' He
leaned across the white-draped table, obsidian eyes gleaming
predatorially.

She looked demurely at her untouched dessert, pastry
cream and apricots in an airy, flaky walnut crust. The last thing
on her mind at this moment was food, however beautifully served. She was certain that he was not telling her the entire truth, that he had ulterior motives. She slowly sipped at her
champagne, afraid to drink it too quickly. This was no time to
get light-headed and giddy.