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"Just a couple of minutes. Speaking of wrestling, I used to be quite good when I was at Oxford. Celebrated for my arm lock and my side head lock. Lethal, both ofthem. Once I got him in one of those locks, the other chap might as well have given up. Won every match, I did. Won a lot of pocket money on side wagers, too. Always bet on myself. I was class champion, by the by."

"You went to Oxford?" I said.

"Came down with top honors," he confessed. "Poetry, philosophy, a dab of physics. Took my degree in history.

Specialized in the Assyrian Empire. Not a bloody lot of
use
to me but an entertaining subject just the same. Know anything about the Assyrians?"

"Not a thing," I told him.

"I'll tell you all about them someday."

"I've no doubt you will. In detail. I've rarely met a young man so reticent," I said with sarcasm.

"Or modest," Lucie added.

"What about some more of that brandy now?"

I poured it for him, enchanted in spite of myself. Bryan Lloyd took the glass, nodded his thanks and settled back against the cushions with a look oflazy bliss in those handsome blue-gray eyes. The errant dark blond wave had tumbled across his brow again. With his unruly, silken hair and his youthful, clean-cut features he looked seventeen, only the full swell of that sensual lower lip bespeaking a more advanced age. -

"Can't say I've ever traveled in such style," he remarked, looking around at the luxurious trappings. "All the comforts of home and then some. I'm used to roughing it a bit more-open sleigh, mothy blankets, plodding nags.

That's more my style."

"Exactly why
were
you roughing it out here in the middle of nowhere?" I inquired. "Or is it highly presumptuous of me to ask?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"I've been known to."

"I was on an extremely important diplomatic mission,"

he confided. "My father is chief adjutant to the British ambassador

in St. Petersburg. A very important chap, my

father-number-two man at the embassy. The ambassador is preparing a report to send back home on the living conditions of the peasants and all this unrest that's causing such a flap. He needed some firsthand information, told my father to get it for him. Being the sensible fellow he is, and knowing my desire to see something of Russia besides the drawing rooms, he assigned me the task."

"Oh?"

"No more of this lounging about, sponging off the old man,' he told me. 'If you're going to stay here you might as well make yourself useful." So off I went in my open sleigh, visiting sundry villages, asking questions, making a lot of notes."

"Wasn't he afraid you'd get hurt?" Lucie asked.

"I think that was the idea," the youth informed her.

"Actually, I have a way with people and I'm more than capable of watching out for myself. I found the peasants quite unmenacing, if somewhat uncommunicative. They shared their food with me, let me sleep in their huts with the goats and pigs, always treated me like an honored-if unwanted-guest. Didn't tell 'em what I was up to, of course, said I was gathering material for a book on Russia."

"They understood that?"

"Most of 'em had no idea what a book was. They considered me an eccentric foreigner with a funny accent and a bewildering curiosity about their ways. I always gave the village priest a nice gift, got him on my side. My sleigh was filled with such gifts when I started out," he added.

Young Bryan Lloyd wasn't quite the irresponsible young rogue he seemed to be on first impression. The handsome blue-gray eyes gleamed with intelligence, and I strongly suspected that the cocky manner and frivolous

. banter concealed a cool, tough efficiency. He would never have been entrusted with so delicate a mission were that not the case.

"So you're in the diplomatic service?" I said.

"Not actually. As I said, I was just helping my father out. I'd been visiting him for four months, attending all the parties, charming all the ladies, adorning all the drawing rooms. I was getting restless, leaped at the opportunity to do something besides dress up and scintillate."

"And what did you do before you came to Russia?"

"A bit of this, a bit of that." He shoved the heavy blond wave from his brow. "I spent a lot of time in the theater,"

he said.

Lucie's cool demeanor didn't alter in the least, but her interest was definitely aroused by the word
theater.

"You're fond of the theater?" I asked.

"Fond is hardly the word I'd use. It's a fascinating world, full of maddening, exasperating, infuriating idiots who should have been drowned at birth but happen to be blessed with special magic. Belong in cages, all of

'em. Instead they swagger about in all their splendor, scattering the magic like gold dust for the benefit of lesser mortals."

"You seem to know a great deal about it," Lucie said coolly.

"Enough to know a man's mad to get involved in that world."

"Oh?"

"Ever hear of a play called
The Complaisant Wives?"
he asked her.

"I'm afraid I haven't."

"Neither have I," I said.

"It was a marvelous play," he informed us, "full ofwisdom and sparkling with wit, packed with dramatic conflict.

Belongs with Dryden, Congreve, Goldsmith, the best.

It opened in London six months ago. The audience threw rotten tomatoes at the stage. The journalists who came to review it actually chased the poor author out of the theater.

Brandishing
knives,
" he added.

"What did he do?"

"Only thing he could do-fled the country."

"And came all the way to Russia."

"How did you guess?"

"I'm quick that way," I said. "So you wrote a play?"

"Penned every immortal word, shaped every phrase with my sweat and blood. People don't appreciate quality in the theater," he said glumly. "They want fireworks and foolery, nothing more. Next time that's what I intend to give 'em."

He gave Lucie a sidelong glance, trying his best to impress this lovely young woman who sat across from him with such regal bearing, but Lucie wasn't about to let herself show the slightest curiosity. Ignoring him, she gazed out at the ice and snow flowing past the window as we sped along. Bryan Lloyd was clearly perplexed. I could tell that he wasn't accustomed to being ignored by youthful members of the opposite sex.

"You plan to write another?" I asked.

"Imagine I'll have to," he said. "Can't let myself be remembered solely as the author of that fiasco. I learned a lot from the experience, made dozens of mistakes, know how to go about it now. I've got several ideas. Imagine I'll set to work with a vengeance as soon as I get back to·

London."

Lucie was seemingly fascinated by the passing scene, gazing with rapt attention at snowbanks and icy trees.

Bryan Lloyd curled his lower lip, frustrated at his inability to arouse her interest. I smiled to myself, amused by the

. age-old game both were playing. I couldn't resist a bit of deviltry.

"You must know a lot of people in the theater," I said.

"Far too many of 'em. Madmen all."

"Have you ever met Mrs. Robinson?" I asked.

"The Divine Perdita? She was one of the complaisant wives! She wrecked my play, the slut! I was an unknown playwright and the management thought she would draw in the crowds and she condescended to appear in the piece after demanding positively absurd changes in the third act. The play called for
ensemble
acting, everyone holding up his end, working together, and La P. turned it into a onewoman

vehicle, hamming all over the place and totally ignoring the rest of the company. Wretched woman! I'd love to strangle her!"

Lucie couldn't resist that. She had to come to the defense of her idol. She turned to look at him, her face beautifully composed, and when she spoke her voice was cool and level.

"I've seen Mrs. Robinson act," she said. "I saw her as Jacintha in
The Suspicious Husband."

"Yes, she went into that immediately after
Wives."

"I think she's a wonderful actress."

"She's an ambitious little slut who happens to have a nice face and a passable voice and a knack for meeting the right men. Sheridan put her where she is. Quite taken

.with her, he was, made her his protegee, used his influence to promote her career. She's used him shamelessly, but she's about ready to dump the old boy now. Has her cap set for the Prince of Wales, she does, and I've no doubt she'll eventually snare him."

Lucie didn't believe a word he said. A pale pink flush tinted her cheeks, but she refused to let him see her ruffled.

She brushed an imaginary speck of lint from her violet brocade skirt, adjusted her soft gray furs.

"I shouldn't doubt he'd be interested in her," she replied.

"Mrs. Robinson is a remarkably beautiful woman." "

You think so?"

"She has an ethereal quality."

"Ethereal!" he scoffed.

"I wouldn't expect you to appreciate it."

"You ought to see her without make up," Lloyd told her.

"She looks like a startled poodle. Everything you see on stage is artificial, including her bosom. Even all decked out and bathed in soft light she's not one-tenth as lovely as
you
are. You could probably act her off the stage as well.

Almost any woman with a decent voice could, and you've got a wonderful voice, full of color and interesting shadings."

Lucie, of course, was far too sophisticated to respond as he had hoped to this obvious ploy. Coolly ignoring the flattery, she picked up her book and began to read. Bewildered by his lack of success, Bryan Lloyd curled his lower lip again, arched One smooth eyebrow and promptly went back to sleep until the next meal. I smiled, tucking the fur lap robe back aroung his long legs. Lucie lowered her book

. and gave me a withering look. Exasperated she might be, but I doubted she would find the rest of our journey quite as tedious and boring.

STANDING AT THE ELEGANT FRENCH WINDOWS

of my bedroom, I gazed out at Count Vasily Rostopchin's celebrated gardens, patterned after those Le Notre had created at Versailles. In full bloom, they must have been spectacular, but now the carefully terraced flower beds were covered with snow, the formal walks layered with ice.

Marble fountains were still. Lily ponds were frozen.

Magnificent

nude statues seemed to shiver on their pedestals, the bizarrely shaped evergreen topiary shrubs providing the only touch of color. Light was fading now, violet-gray shadows spreading over the snow, the pewter sky streaked with amethyst banners that blurred softly as the pale silver disk of sun disappeared.

Time to start dressing, I thought, turning away
from
the windows. Earlier I had luxuriated in a bath for over an hour and now wore only a thin petticoat of pale yellow silk, the half dozen gauzy yellow skirts swaying as I moved over to the beautiful cream and gold wardrobe where a servant had hung the clothes I would wear during our brief visit with Count Rostopchin. Each garment had been carefully pressed, handled with loving care. I took down the pale yellow silk gown completely overlaid with a deeper yellow gauze appliqued with floral patterns in glittering gold spangles.

I smiled, thinking of our reception when we arrived this afternoon. Our host had greeted Orlov as he might greet a long-lost brother. The robust cries, vigorous punches and bear hugs had brought a particularly fierce wrestling match to mind, with the thin Rostopchin definitely getting the worst of it. In his powdered wig, sky blue satin and frothy cream lace, he looked as fragile as a porcelain doll, and I feared he might break as Orlov pounded his back and caught him in a crushing hug. In another country such hearty physical displays of affection might have elevated eyebrows, but in Russia it was the norm, the more rugged the male, the more demonstrative his manner. Friendship among men was a joyous thing to be celebrated with gusto.

Gusto gave way to courtliness as Count Rostopchin turned to welcome Lucie and me to his home. Restrained, refined, he kissed our hands, the epitome of the gracious French gentleman. Following the example set by Catherine herself, Rostopchin, I discovered, was enamored of everything French. Young Bryan Lloyd had been amused to note Rostopchin's high-heeled shoes with their diamond buckles, his perfumed handkerchief and painted face, had been less amused when Rostopchin greeted him as proper French gentlemen his age greeted young boys. The youth's expression was a sight to behold as the count took him by the shoulders and planted a resounding kiss on each cheek. Lucie had barely been able to restrain a titter.

Remembering Bryan's blush, his silent outrage at this treatment, I smiled again. All dignity, he had explained to the fifty-seven-year-old count that he was not a
petit
garcon,
was, in fact, pushing thirty. Rostopchin elevated one plucked brow and said he had taken Bryan for a choirboy.

That delighted Lucie. It made Bryan long to murder the foppishly attired but extremely virile Rostopchin, who made matters worse by patting the youth on the head and informing him that the nursery had been made ready for him. Though blessed with a marvelous sense of humor himself, Bryan Lloyd did not appreciate being teased about his ultrayouthful appearance. He had sulked for over an hour, vowing to grow a beard in self-defense.

Count Rostopchin's obsession with things French had.

caused him to turn the interior of his vast house into a replica of one ofthose exquisite mansions outside Paris where French nobility held court. The cream, gold and shell pink bedroom assigned to me was a perfect example of the renovation.

The pink walls were divided by gilt-framed panels depicting elegantly clad shepherds disporting with scantily clad shepherdesses in flowery glades while plump nymphets and cupids beamed with approval. Painted in soft pastel shades against a cream background, the panels, by Boucher, had been originally commissioned by Madame de Pompadour. The soft blue rugs patterned with dusty pink flowers and delicate green leaves had been specially woven for that lady, while the magnificent cream and gold furniture had belonged to her successor, the voluptuous Jeanne Du Barry.