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Crystal pendants glittered on gilt wall sconces where candles glowed warmly, and a superb Boucher portrait of Louison hung over the cream marble mantlepiece, that young lady as sensuous and scantily clad as any of the shepherdesses, a garland of flowers her only attire. The total effect of all this was excessively grand and erotic, and as I fastened my dress I wondered about the other women who had occupied these seductive quarters. Twice widowed, with no legitimate heirs, Count Vasily Rostopchin was, according to Lucie, a notorious womanizer with an insatiable

appetite for ballet dancers, opera singers and winsome coquettes, devouring them as another man might devour chocolates. The delightful pastime, though typically French, had become so obsessive and prolific in Rostopchin's case that even Catherine had expressed her disapproval, and she was hardly prudish. As a result, Rostopchin was no longer welcome in St. Petersburg and spent much of his time in Paris where his appetites were understood and his lavish generosity greatly appreciated by its many recipients.

Rostopchin, I knew, had been an ardent supporter of Catherine's and, like Orlov, instrumental in putting her on the throne. In the old days, before Orlov's fall, the silver-haired count had been one of the most important men at court, fawned upon and feared by all who hoped to win favor. Banished from the court, all his influence gone, the aging Russian nobleman accepted his lot with a goodnatured shrug and continued to enjoy himself immensely.

Unlike Orlov, he never pined for glories lost. According to Lucie, who had provided all this information, he was far too busy enjoying pleasures of the present to regret what was gone. 'Despite the difference in their ages, he was Orlov's clesest friend and looked upon the younger man as his son. Rostopchin was one of the few people in the world Orlov genuinely respected.

Moving over to the full-length mirror in its ornate gilt frame, I examined myself critically. The gown was truly spectacular, the full puff sleeves falling off the shoulder, the forni-fitting bodice cut daringly low. The waist was snug. The skirt spread out in splendor, golden spangles glittering against yellow gauze and silk. My hair was piled on top of my head in a stack of sculpted coppery red waves, three long ringlets dangling in back. I had applied a touch of pink to my lips, a suggestion of blush to my high cheekbones, and my eyelids were lightly brushed with pale brownish mauve shadow. The woman who gazed back at me was unquestionably mature, the sapphire eyes dark, disillusioned, full of sad wisdom, but I had no doubt Count Rostopchin would appreciate my efforts to please him.

A wry, self-mocking smile played on my lips as I picked up one of the elegant crystal bottles of perfume. Who do you think you're fooling? I asked myself. You're not wearing this dress for Rostopchin, you're wearing it for Orlov.

The perfume was subtle and seductive, bringing to mind sun-kissed roses and naked flesh. I dabbed it behind my earlobes, between my breasts, applying it a bit more generously than I ordinarily did.

"I think I'll just forget about dinner tonight," Lucie said. "I couldn't possibly go down now."

I turned. She had opened the door so quietly I hadn't heard her. Standing in the doorway, she looked at me with a distinctly peeved expression.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Are you feeling ill?"

Lucie sauntered on into the room, her satin gown rustling softly.

"I feel positively wretched," she confessed. "I intended to go down and dazzle everyone with my splendor, and now, after seeing you, I realize I'll be merely a shadow to your sun."

"Nonsense," I said.

I replaced the crystal stopper in the perfume bottle, set the bottle aside and sighed. Lucie observed me with critical eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side.

"No one has a
right
to be so gorgeous," she complained.

"You look positively magnificent, Marietta."

"You look rather magnificent yourself," I told her.

Lucie frowned, looking touchingly young as she stepped over to the mirror I had just vacated. Her hair was pulled back from her face, cascading down in back in a rich tumble of golden brown waves. The pale tan shadow on her lids made her eyes seemeven more exotic, and light pink rouge accentuated her lovely high cheekbones. Her mouth, currently pouting, was a soft shell pink, and the scattering of light, almost invisible, golden tan freckles across the bridge of her nose added a piquant effect.

"I hate this gown," she said. "I don't know why I ever let you persuade me to buy it."

The gown, purchased in London, was light tan satin with pencil-thin brown stripes. The short sleeves were puffed, the neckline modestly low, and a brown velvet sash emphasized her slender waist, the skirt swelling out over the gauzy brown underskirts. It was very English, elegant in its simplicity, and she had never looked lovelier nor so young and vulnerable.

"I should have worn something scarlet," she said.

"The gown is perfect, Lucie."

"I look like a child!"

"You look sweet and demure, exactly the kind of young woman a man like Bryan Lloyd would find interesting."

"Who cares what
he
thinks?"

"Englishmen find innocence far more intriguing than worldliness," I told her. "He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"I haven't been innocent in years."

"Bryan doesn't know that," I said.

Lucie gave me an exasperated look. I smiled.

"I saw the two of you walking in the gardens earlier, Lucie.

You seemed to be very deep in conversation."

"He wanted to see the statues," she replied. "I agreed to show them to him. Hardly a thrill, I assure you.. He did nothing but talk, talk, talk the whole time and scarcely glanced at the statues."

"He seemed to be glancing at you quite a lot," I remarked.

Lucie opened one of the bottles of perfume, smelled the fragrance, oblivious to my comment. I knew she wanted to discuss Bryan, but she was too contrary to confess her interest in the lanky blond youth. She dabbed a bit of perfume on the back of her wrist, set the bottle down.

"I wonder if! should wear some jewelry," she said idly.

"At your age jewelry isn't necessary."

"I feel thirty-five."

"You look sixteen."

"So does
he,
" Lucie said, "but he's actually quite mature and terribly intelligent, too. Even profound at times. Don't let that boyish manner fool you."

"It hasn't."

"He's quite serious about his career in the theater, Marietta. He has some marvelous ideas. I shouldn't be surprised if he became a very successful playwright."

"Nor should I."

"He has so much energy, so much zest. Just listening to him exhausts me. His talk
is
fascinating though," she admitted.

"He's interested in so many things, has such a wealth of knowledge. Of course, he's terribly boastful."

"I've noticed that."

"He's the best playwright, the best wrestler, the best dancer. Are all Englishmen so egotistical?"

"The majority of them."

"I suppose he is rather attractive," she conceded.

"Rather," I said.

"But much too young."

"Much," I agreed.

"He thinks he's a man of the world, ever so experienced.

All the ladies fall in love with him. He has to fight them off with a stick, he says. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?"

"Rarely."

"He
has
had experience, though," she said.

"Oh?"

"A woman can always tell."

"You're probably right."

"Do I really look all right, Marietta?"

"You look lovely, Lucie. Are you ready to go downstairs?"

"I want to work on my haira bit more," she said. "You go on down, and I'll join you in a little while."

A few minutes later I was moving down the graceful curving white staircase with its pale golden carpet. Magnificent crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, shedding radiant light on the hall below. The walls were covered with sky blue silk, divided by magnificent giltframed ivory panels painted by Fragonard in soft pastel colors. Stylish ladies swung in flower-garlanded swings, skirts billowing to reveal well-turned ankles and shapely limbs, while handsome cavaliers in plumed hats and satin watched from the ground. Lovely floral rugs of pink, pale blue and lime green were scattered over the highly polished parquet floor, and Boulle tables held bouquets of fresh-cut flowers and a collection of exquisite Sevres figurines.

I was examining one of the Fragonard panels when Count Vasily Rostopchin stepped into the hall, resplendent in pale rose brocade and frothy beige lace. With his powdered wig, thin, painted face and lascivious eyes, he personified the degenerate French courtier. As is often the case, the frilly, effeminate attire merely served to emphasize his thorny, still potent virility. A licentious old roue he might be, but he was affable and good-humored, and I liked him.

"Ah, Miss Danver," he said in his dry, raspy voice.

"Alone, I see, and looking like a goddess. If we hurry, we can dash up to my bedroom and have a quick tumble before any of the others come down."

"I fear it would be much too exhausting for you, Count Rostopchin. All those stairs."

"There's a broom closet in the back hall. One of my favorite places, that closet. If the walls could talk-"

"I'm sure my ears would burn," I said.

"I seriously doubt that," he replied. "The broom closet is out?"

"I'm afraid so, Count Rostopchin, I wouldn't want to wrinkle my gown."

He looked utterly crestfallen, then resigned. He sighed.

I smiled, enjoying the light badinage as much as he.

"I suppose I'll have to suffer," he said.

,"It seems you must."

"It shan't be easy. You're a delectable piece, Miss Danver."

"I'm pleased you think so."

"As a quick topple seems to be out of the question, perhaps you'll join me for a glass of wine while we wait for the others."

"I'd enjoy that."

He led me into a white and gold drawing room that might have been transported in its entirety from Versailles.

Mirrors gleamed in golden frames. Crystal pendants shimmered with diamond brilliance. Another

Fragonard, a portrait of Madame de Pompadour, hung over the white marble mantel. I admired it as he poured the wine. .

"You like Fragonard?" he inquired, handing me a delicate glass of sparkling amber wine.

"His work is lovely indeed."

"The panels in the hall once graced the apartment of the Marechal Due de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

A most appropriate title. Now there's a man

who's always enjoyed a succulent piece-still does, even in his eighties. He may be diminutive-not much taller than a twelve-year-old-but that's never prevented him from enjoying a multitude of delicious liaisons and dalliances with the world's most beautiful women."

"Indeed?"

"He was Louis XV's closest confident, you know, supplied the King with mistresses. Sampled them all himself first, of course."

"Of course."

"Good friend of mine. Had a devilish. time getting the panels from him. The old scamp flatly refused to part with them for any amount of money. I finally won them from him at cards."

"Cheating, no doubt."

"I always do. It's a fine art. Did you happen to notice the Boucher in your bedroom?" he asked.

"The portrait of Louison? It's a splendid work."

"Presented to me by the lady herself," he said proudly.

"She was Irish, you know, Louise Murphy of Dublin, a cobbler's daughter who wound up in Paris at the ripe age of eleven and quickly became Boucher's favorite model.

Pompadour

saw one of the paintings and decided the lass was .

just the morsel to perk up the King's flagging appetite."

"Oh?"

"She was a clever one, Pompadour, realized Louis was no longer interested in her sexually. Rather than risk hav.

ing a serious rival, she decided to provide him with nubile girls who would satisfy his appetite and present no threat to her position. Louison was one ofthose selected. She kept the King happily occupied, eventually had three children by him. It was all quite casual, Louison entertaining a number of other gentlemen during those periods when King Louis didn't require her services."

"I see."

"Delightful girl," he said. "Had a positive penchant for jewels, rubies in particular. I smothered her in 'em. I'd like to smother
you
in 'em."

"I've never cared for rubies," I said.

"Emeralds?"

"Can't abide them," I confessed.

"Diamonds, then. Never met a woman who wouldn't do anything to acquire a strand."

"You just have," I told him.

Count Rostopchin looked crestfallen again and poured himself another glass of wine. I felt wonderfully at ease with the charming old reprobate. The beige lace at his throat and wrists billowed as he crossed the room to stand beside me after pouring his wine. His rose brocade vest and frock coat were superbly cut, embroidered with floral designs in dusty rose silk.

"Gregory has done very well for himself," he remarked, his eyes admiring me.

"I'm Lucie's companion, Count Rostopchin, not her uncle's mistress."

Rostopchin elevated one thin, carefully plucked brow.

"It's been a long time since I've seen him, but he can't have changed
that
much."

"He's been very considerate," I said.

"Gregory's always been considerate, but he's never before been in close proximity to a gorgeous creature like you without making a conquest-by fair means or foul. The ladies were generally willing, I might add."

"I'm not surprised."

"It got him into no end of trouble."

"So I've heard."

"Catherine finally had her fill of his infidelities, alas, gave him the gate. I fear he's never gotten over that. All these years he's been traveling about, plotting ways to win her favor again. I happen to know Catherine still thinks of him fondly, but it's much too late. The Ukrainian has firmly enslaved her."

"The Ukrainian?"