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"Gregory Aleksandrovich Potemkin, 'Cyclops' as he's known in court circles. Some say he employs black magic to maintain his hold on her-he's always consulting shamans, dashing off to monasteries, going into trances. He's something of a mystic, given to black moods, sudden rages, the occasional vision. The visions somehow always seem to portend something beneficial to himself."

"Why do they call him Cyclops?" I asked.

Rostopchin smiled and took a sip of wine. "He lost one eye a number of years ago," he said. "It's quite ironic, actually.

The Ukrainian possessed a marvelous talent for mimicry, and the Orlov brothers brought him to Catherine's attention, thinking he would amuse her. He

promptly set about mimicking the Empress herself. The brothers were horrified. The lady was delighted-she found him wonderfully wry and witty. He became a regular visitor
at
the Hermitage, where Catherine entertained."

"And?"

"And the Orlov brothers grew intensely jealous of the gigantic, ungainly lout who was encroaching on their territory.

There was a fight. All five of them set upon him, it's said, beat him soundly. That's when he lost his eye. If anything, the black satin patch he wore afterwards merely improved his appearance. Potemkin has the reputation of being the ugliest man in all of Russia."

"A reputation justly deserved," Bryan Lloyd said, strolling casually into the drawing room.

"Ah, our young English friend!" Rostopchin exclaimed.

He made as though to approach his guest. Lloyd held out a warning hand.

"Kiss my cheeks again and
I'll
punch you," he promised,

"even if you
are
my host."

Rostopchin cackled, vastly amused. Bryan grinned and allowed the count to shake his hand.

"An enchanting boy, this one," Rostopchin declared.
"I
don't know whether to spank him or give him a glass of wine. Perhaps I'll just send him up to his room with milk and cookies. It's already past his bedtime."

"Keep it up and you're going to find yourself in one of my headlocks. I'm famous for 'em at Oxford."

Rostopchin pounded him on the back and gave him a glass of wine. The men had clearly warmed to each other, badinage aside. Bryan looked particularly appealing in brown leather pumps, white silk hose and snug tan knee breeches, his vest and frock coat of the same tan broadcloth.

The latter had rich brown velvet lapels and cuffs.

His dark blond hair was neatly brushed, his lean, attractive face aglow with youth and vitality.

"So you've met Potemkin?" his host inquired. "They say he frightens little children. Did you flee in terror?"

"Hardly, although I must confess I wouldn't care to run into him in a dark passage. His face is ravaged, his body bloated. He's enormous, lumbering about like an ungainly bear. Curious thing about it-the women find him absolutely irresistible. There's no accounting for it."

"Women are strange that way," Rostopchin observed.

"The man's a monster of ugliness, and they're swooning left and right from Catherine on down. He's slovenly, lazy, a complete lout in his personal habits, and they pant after him like-uh-like dogs in heat. Must be some kind of magic."

"Women are attracted by other things besides physical appearance," I informed them.

Both men gave me amazed looks. I took another sip of wine.

"Potemkin obviously has other attractions," I contin.

ued. "He's said to be quite intelligent. Maybe it's his mind that appeals to them."

"The man does have an incredible mind," Bryan admitted.

"Don't know when I've ever encountered such- hypnotic intelligence. Listening to him talk I quite forgot what he looked like. Fellow held me spellbound. He has a voice like velvet, deep and dark yet softly caressing. I have to confess I found him thoroughly fascinating, if a little frightening. "

"So he
did
frighten you," Rostopchin said eagerly.

"Made me a bit uneasy," Bryan admitted. "He took a fancy to me, decided to take me under his wing and make me feel welcome. He was friendly and attentive and gracious, all warmth, but I somehow had the feeling he was a cat and I was a mouse and he was amusing himself with me. The man has strange powers-I can't really explain it."

Bryan shrugged and finished the rest of his wine. The neatly brushed blond waves were already beginning to follow their natural bent, one wave tilting toward his brow, soon to slant across it. Most young men his age would have been tongue-tied and intimidated in such opulent surroundings, but Bryan was as relaxed as he would have

been in his rooms at Oxford, completely at ease.

"Our young friend moves in exalted circles," Rostopchin remarked, almost as though he were reading my mind.

"My father's a diplomat," Bryan replied. "I grew up meeting the rich and powerful. Something I found out early-they're just like everyone else, only richer, more powerful. I say, mind if I have another glass of wine?"

"Help yourself," his host said.

"Rarely tasted better. French, isn't it?"

"The very best vintage. Carefully imported."

"Thought so," he said. He refilled his glass to the brim.

"Anyone else want more?"

"No thank you," I said.

"Drinking is one of the few vices I fail to overindulge in," Rostopchin confided. "Finish the bottle if you like."

"Might do that," Bryan said.

"He's also quite talented," Rostopchin told me. "I have a keen interest in things theatrical, and a friend of mine sent me a copy of'his play. I read it only a few weeks ago."

"You
did?"
Bryan called from across the room.

"I was speaking to Miss Danver, child."

"You actually read my play! What did you think of it?

Be frank."

"I've always had a fondness for complaisant wives.

Yours were most engaging, if a bit too chatty for my taste.

Offhand, I'd say it probably read better than it played-too much talk, not enough stage action."

"Everyone's a critic," Bryan moaned.

"Still, an impressive achievement for a lad not yet dry behind the ears. I've no doubt your next play will be a rousing success."

Lucie and her uncle joined us a few minutes later, the latter looking incredibly handsome in pearl gray velvet breeches and frock coat and white satin vest embroidered in black. He gave me a polite nod, seeming not to notice my gold-spangled yellow gown. I felt a sharp pang of disappointment

as he engaged Rostopchin in conversation and

ignored my presence completely. I drank another glass of wine, damning all men, telling myself I couldn't care less if they all dropped offthe face of the earth. Lucie seemedto share my opinion.

"Look at him," she snapped, "drinking like a fish!"

"Bryan does seem to enjoy his wine," I agreed.

"No manners at all! Just waved at me when I came in, then poured himself another glass. And I put this white rose in my hair just to impress him."

"It's lovely," I said.

"I wanted to look innocent."

"You do, dear."

"To hell with him!."

"I know exactly how you feel."

The dining room was done in white and gold with a pale salmon pink ceiling and ivory panels painted with delicate salmon, orange, tan, and brown flowers. A majestic chandelier hung over a table set with magnificent golden cutlery and white and orange Sevres etched with gold. The meal was served by footmen in white satin knee breeches, salmon frock coats and powdered wigs. The food was as gorgeous as the setting and marvelously delicious, although I had little appetite. The conversation was general, dominated, of course, by the cocky young Englishman who, prompted by our host, blithely expressed his opinions of Russia and all things Russian.

Lucie sat in stony silence, picking at her food, making no attempt to be social. Her uncle was amiable and relaxed, delighted to be here with his old friend, but he wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much as he pretended. I saw that immediately. Despite his easy smile, his good-humored chuckles and his affable manner, he was preoccupied, giving only part of his attention to the amenities. He glanced at me every now and then, his navy blue eyes friendly enough, but the invisible wall was still there.

I might as well have been wearing sackcloth. My sumptuous gown was totally wasted. So was the elaborate coiffure, the tantalizing perfume. I felt like an utter fool, and I vowed to forget all about Count Gregory Orlov. I would be cool and polite. I would give him the three months I had promised to give him, collect my salary, and leave this bizarre, bewildering country as quickly as possible. I toyed with my fillet of sole, pushing a piece through a pool of rich creamy wine sauce, longing for the meal to end.

Gracious, garrulous, teasing young Lloyd and urging him on, Count Rostopchin seemed completely unaware of the undercurrents affecting the rest of us. He was, I sensed, a simple, uncomplicated man with a great capacity for pleasure. Inept at intrigue, free of complex emotions, he gadded through a gilded world of fashion, frivolity and fleshly indulgence, a preposterous old scoundrel without a serious thought in his head, immensely likeable nevertheless.

The courts of Europe were filled with his kind. He turned to me now, smiling a roguish smile.

"More wine, Miss Danver?" he inquired.

"No, thank you," I replied.

"I'll have some more," Bryan said.

."You've had quite enough," our host told him. "One more glass and you'll undoubtedly start telling us about your next play. Eat your fish like a good little boy."

"There's going to be trouble," Bryan growled. "I must warn you that I have absolutely no compunction about beating up a man old enough to be my grandfather."

"Grandfather! I'm not a day over forty-five. These wretched lines and. wrinkles you see marring my handsome visage are the results of riotous living, not encroaching old age. You're an impudent pup, sir!"

"And you're a liar. Forty-five? What a hoot!"

"I may adopt him," Rostopchin confided. "He's a joy."

"He's also drunk," Lucie said sullenly. -

Bryan gave her a glowering look and decided to ignore the remark. Orlov chuckled. The footmen removed our plates and brought in the next course. I felt as though I were trapped inside a gilded cage and longed to flee, but I managed to maintain a polite, social composure, almost screaming with relief when the meal was finally over and we adjourned to the enormous library done in pale blue, white, and gold, thousands of leather-bound volumes fill, ing the lacquered white shelves. The men had brandy. Lucie sat down at the pianoforte and began to pick out a plaintive tune. I wandered about examining the wonderful
objets d'art,
still feeling trapped.

"You admire these things?" Orlov inquired.

Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed. Lucie was still at the pianoforte, studying a piece of music. Rostopchin and Bryan were cackling over a folio of pornographic engravings, and I was gazing disconsolately at a Sevres porcelain of a splendidly attired courtier ardently embracing a plump shepherdess in pink. Immersed in thought, I hadn't been aware of Orlov's approach, and I looked up at him in surprise.

"I-I've always admired fine porcelains," tsaid. "Count Rostopchin's collection is particularly lovely."

"This is so," he said.

He hadn't the least interest in porcelain, didn't so much as look at the superbly detailed example I had been gazing at. The dark navy blue eyes with their heavy, drooping lids never left my face. The lids made him look indolent, lazy. I had never realized before just how seductive those eyes were, so dark a blue, blue-black, so attentive, making one feel so ... so female and fragile. I lowered my gaze, feeling a faint blush tint my cheeks.

"I notice you do not eat much tonight," he said.

"I wasn't hungry," I replied.

But you noticed, I said silently.

"Does this mean you do not feel well?"

"I feel fine," I said.

"The journey is very hard on you. Soon it will be over."

"Yes."

Lucie began to finger the keys again, idly picking out a tune. Across the room, Rostopchin and Bryan had taken down another heavy folio and opened it on a table. The room was so large, the others so distant, that Orlov and I might have been alone. I seemed to be having trouble with my breathing, my bosom rising, straining against its silken prison, my nipples taut and hard as Orlov continued to gaze at me with lazy eyes. Dozens of candles created pools of golden light. The room seemed suddenly very warm, almost overwhelmingly so.

"You are uncomfortable?" he asked.

"Not at all," I lied.

He was standing so close, so close I could feel the warmth of his body and smell his skin and sweat and hair and the scent of velvet. He looked at me, and I couldn't meet those eyes, couldn't look into their depths and read the message there. I looked at his mouth, wide and firm and fleshy, curving full and pink. I remembered the touch of those lips. I tried to forget. I remembered how insistent,

./' how assertive they had been, forcing my own apart so that his tongue could thrust and probe. The wine, I told myself.

I had far too much wine. I feel weak. I feel dizzy. The room is so warm.

Bryan said something I couldn't make out. Rostopchin cackled.

"I –I like your friend very much," I said.

"Yes, Vasily is a good friend indeed."

Why was he standing so close? I could ... I could reach up and touch that broad, flat cheekbone, the skin stretched so tautly across the bone. I longed to do just that. I caught my breath, my nipples rubbing against silk. The sensation was like a subtle caress. Orlov was fully aware of my discomfort,

but he did not step back. He was so very large, so solid and muscular, his body exuding brute strength, making me feel small, vulnerable. Damn him for doing this to me, I thought, and I felt a touch of panic as smooth silk softly tormented my expanding nipples.

"He is very fond of you," I remarked.

Did my-voice tremble? Why did my throat seem to ache?

"Vasily is the only one of my friends who remains loyal after my fall," Orlov said. "The others, they fade away like shadows, but Vasily remains my friend,"