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The garnet velvet had crossed the Atlantic with meand Jeremy-and it had been in the trunk on top of the carriage when I had left him in London to go to Hawkehouse and when Ogilvy and I began that return trip and I had urged him to go faster, faster, faster still ... The gown had come all the way to Russia in a troika, had been transported from St. Petersburg to this brooding, somber north country. Standing in that fitting room in New Orleans while Lucille pinned up the hem, I had been absolutely confident about the future. I would go to England, I would marry Derek Hawke, and I would live happily ever after

... and here I was wearing the gown, planning to escape a madman who, at any moment, might tell his henchman to murder me.

The watery silver blur shimmered, solidified, and I was looking into the glass again, seeing the pinned hair, the drawn face, the eyes full of ruthless determination. I removed the pins from my hair and brushed the thick waves until they fell into a lustrous tumble. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I pulled on a pair of dark gray leather boots that reached to mid-calf. They had pointed toes and high heels and were lined with fur, elegant but very sturdy boots much like the ones Vanya had given to me on the road. I took down the heavy, dark silver-gray mink cloak with its generous hood and gray satin lining, draping it over the chair, placing a pair of soft gray leather gloves on top of the glossy folds.

Everything ready now, all preparations made, nothing to do but wait, and that wasn't going to be easy. I moved back over to the window. The feathery spiral I had seen on the horizon was darker now, definitely smoke, I determined.

What could be burning? Restless, nerves beginning to grow taut, I decided to go downstairs and see about dinner.

Carelessly cooked, indifferently served, meals were hardly a high point of my day, but I intended to have a solid meal tonight even if I had to cook it myself.

As I started down the stairs I heard a confusion out front, horses stamping on the drive, voices yelling loudly, footsteps pounding. I paused on the landing, curious, and then the front door banged open and two gloriously handsome gods burst into the hall, both tall and stalwart and glowing with vitality. I had never seen either of them beo fore, but I recognized them at once as they stamped snow o from their boots and shook their broad shoulders and filled the air with crackling energy that was almost visible. Both had been here at the house twice before, on the day after we arrived and two or three days ago, but I hadn't seen them on either occasion.

The taller of the two had golden brown hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard and flashing navy blue eyes. He was attired in dark brown velvet breeches and frock coat and a gold-embroidered brown brocade waistcoat, a rich brown fur cape slung around his shoulders. In his mid-forties, he had the vigor of a much younger man and the mannerisms of a hearty rake who loved wine, women, and war with exuberant

relish. This was Count Alexis Orlov, Lucie's father, almost as magnetic as his brother Gregory had been, in a much earthier, more primitive way.

His brother Feodor was leaner, not quite so tall, with dark yellow blond hair and lively brown eyes beneath drooping lids and arching brows. Although the coloring was different, the build slighter, Feodor more closely resembled Gregory feature by feature. In blue velvet and short black fur cape, he exuded the Orlov magnetism, but there was a total lack of refinement, a crude, brutal aura that proclaimed him a tough, a bully, a man who used his fists instead of his head and took pleasure in punishing those weaker than he.

"Gregory!" Alexis roared.

"We waste time!" Feodor protested. "We should already be on our way after these butchers!"

"We need Gregory's help. If we're to exterminate them we need a stronger force."

"I have fifteen men, you have twenty. Gregory won't help us. He's gone off his head, you know that as well as I do!"

"Shut your mouth, Feodor! Gregory's having a bad period, we all do, it's the family curse, but he's not balmy.

He's merely depressed and drinking too much. Come out, Gregory! Your brothers are here!"

"The peasants will get away!"

"Control yourself, Feodor. You'll be able to spill your share of blood soon enough. We'll catch up with them and you can kill to your heart's content."

"We waste time!" Feodor repeated. "They are on the run already and instead of charging after them we come here to reason with a madman!"

"Our brother is not mad!"

"You're an idiot yourself, Alexis!"

Alexis doubled up his fist and banged Feodor on the side ofthe head and Feodor crashed against the wall and stumbled against a table and a large vase tumbled off and shattered on the floor. Eyes flaming dangerously, Feodor let out an enraged roar and charged his brother with fists flying and Alexis nimbly sidestepped and threw an arm out and caught Feodor around the throat and slung him around in front of him, holding him securely as Feodor squirmed and flailed his arms about, trying to break free.

"Gregory!" Alexis called. "Come see your brothers!"

Feodor gurgled, his face bright pink. Alexis relaxed his hold and patted his brother affectionately on top of the head, which infuriated Feodor all the more. The drawing room door opened, and Gregory came staggering out, his face a sickly gray, moist with sweat. His hair was moist, too, clinging to his skull like a wet, tawny cap. He stared at his brothers, blinking, the haunted eyes gradually filling with recognition.

"Alex-Alexis. Fe-Feodor. You come to see me. You come to see your poor, unhappy brother. You are not the shadows, this I know. You are standing in my hall."

"See, Feodor," Alexis said. "He is drunk, but he knows who we are. Are you all right, Gregory?"

"Why are you strangling our brother Feodor?" Gregory asked.

Alexis chuckled, releasing his brother. Feodor coughed and spluttered, a furious look in his eyes, but he made no further attempt to strike back.

"Our little brother gets too big for his breeches," Alexis explained amiably. "I have to discipline him, as when we are boys. Always he must be kept in line with a blow on the head."

"This is so," Gregory agreed.

Feodor glared at his siblings with burning resentment.

Alexis punched him playfully on the shoulder.

"We have come for your help, Gregory," he said. "It is most urgent. We need your men, all of them."

"You need my men?" He spoke the words slowly, as though trying to determine what each meant.

"The peasants are on the rampage again. Pugachev's men. Early this afternoon a mob of them attack the Vasilchikov estate, twenty miles to the west. They butchered the men, raped and killed all the women, set fire to the house, yelling like demons. One of the manservants managed to steal a horse and rode to my place."

"Pugachev," Gregory said.

"The Imperial Army is nowhere in the vicinity. We're going to ride after these butchers ourselves, exterminate them once and for all. We need your men to ride with us."

"Pugachev," Gregory repeated. "Yes, I remember this name. He makes my Catherine very upset."

"He's raving!" Feodor exclaimed. "His men won't take orders from anyone except him! I told you we were wasting
our-"

"You wish another blow on the head!"

"Look at him! He's-"

"Yes," Gregory said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

"Yes, it is the answer! I will take my men and ride after this peasant who makes all the trouble! I will capture him and take him to her in chains, and then my Catherine will be grateful-she will see-she will-"

His voice broke, and he nodded, unable to contain his excitement.

Standing in the shadows of the landing, looking down, I saw that wild gleam in his eyes as the obsession gripped him anew. Most of the pallor had left his ravaged face. Damp tawny locks were splayed across his brow. In his high gray leather boots, his soiled gray velvet breeches and the loosely fitting white lawn shirt damp with perspiration, Count Gregory Orlov was an utter ruin, all grandeur gone, and he bore very little resemblance to that magnificent, golden creature I had first seen in England.

"Yes!" he cried. "This is what I will do! My Catherine will lavish me with honors again! New triumphal arches will be erected in my name! I will shine with glory!"

Gregory turned and staggered back into the drawing room, and loud noises poured through the open door. A piece of furniture was knocked down, falling to the floor with a bang. Glass shattered. He cursed, an enraged roar.

His boots stomped heavily as he stumbled about. Something metal clattered on the stone hearth, and he roared again. Alexis and Feodor exchanged looks, Alexis tolerant, not at all perturbed by his brother's peculiar conduct, Feodor consumed with impatience. After a few moments, Gregory burst back into the hall with a black fur cloak slung around his shoulders,waving the sabre that had been hanging over the mantel. Feodor ducked. Alexis beamed with approval and pounded Gregory on the back.

"All the time I know you will help us!" he declared.

"Come!" Gregory cried. "We get my men! We ride after this monster who threatens my Catherine!"

He whirled the sabre in the air. Feodor threw open the front door. The Orlov brothers charged out of the house.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

UITER pANDEMONIUM PREVAILED DURING

the next hour as horses were saddled, rifles distributed, equipment fetched, campfires put out, cossacks yelling with demonic glee. Staggering, waving his sabre on high, Gregory Orlov was in the middle of things, shouting demented directions, urging his men to hurry, hurry.

Calmly, first things first, I went to the kitchen and sliced beef and bread and ate it with a wedge of cheese and a glass of milk. I found Grushenka and insisted she eat, too, and afterwards we stood at the hall window upstairs, watching the frantic activity below.

"They're all leaving," she said. "I don't understand."

"There's been another massacre, Grushenka. The Orlovs are going after the peasants who committed it."

"Those-those dreadful people. One ofthem comes to the village several months ago, tries to enlist the men, get them to join Pugachev's band. The men of our village run him out, want no part of the trouble he brings."

"You know about Pugachev?" I asked.

The girl nodded. "Everyone in these parts knows about Pugachev. Some say he is a saint. Others say he is a devil.

He is "going to free Russia of tyranny, he claims, and this he does by burning and killing, not-not just the aristocrats but our own people as well, the servants who work in the houses and any peasant who defies him or disagrees with his methods. He brings nightmares into our lives."

In the courtyard below Mitya and the other two grooms were leading the horses out. The horses neighed and reared, alarmed by the noise and confusion. A cossack leaped onto his steed, shouting lustily, tumbling to the cobbles as the horse bucked. Most of the men had been drinking vodka all day and were as drunk as Orlov, waving their sabres wildly. Several fired pistols into the air, and one began to fire at the chickens, who scattered about the yard in a frenzied panic. It was a crazy, disorganized pageant of frantic activity, but eventually all the cossacks were armed and mounted, some weaving perilously in the saddle, others clutching their horse's necks for support, and Vladimir appeared to help Gregory mount, speaking to him in a low, inaudible voice.

Both men glanced up toward the house, Gregory impatient, Vladimir intense. Vladimir said something else and Gregory muttered an indifferent reply and swung into his saddle with surprising agility. Vladimir nodded and stepped back, looking toward the house again. Feodor and Alexis walked their horses over to stand beside Gregory's.

Gregory shouted an order, waved his sabre in the air, and the procession charged toward the drive, hooves thundering on the cobbles. A moment later Vladimir stood alone in the deserted yard with its litter of broken glass and the blackened ruins of campfires. The thunder of hoofbeats could be heard in front, growing fainter and fainter as the sound receded, and finally a brooding silence prevailed once more, broken only by the cluck of chickens.

"He-he left that Vladimir behind," Grushenka said, worried.

"Probably three or four others as well," I told her, "but that still lessens the odds against our being caught. Don't worry, Grushenka. It will be much easier now with Orlov and the cossacks gone."

"I'm growing nervous again," she confessed. "I –I have this strange feeling something is going to happen."

"You're just apprehensive. In only a few hours we'll be in the sleigh, on our way to St. Petersburg. You go on downstairs now and-go on about your business as though nothing were afoot."

"Mitya-he said he would meet us outside the kitchen door at ten."

"And we'll be there," I said.

Grushenka left me, and I gazed out at the courtyard for a few more minutes. Vladimir had disappeared. The chickens had stopped clucking and strutted about idly, pecking at the food scraps they found among the cobbles. The house was unnervingly still. I felt as though I were on a vast, deserted ship becalmed in the middle of a motionless sea. I was every bit as apprehensive as Grushenka had been, far more apprehensive than I cared to admit to myself. With Orlov gone, Vladimir would be keeping a much closer watch over me, that I was sure of. Instead of making our escape easier, Orlov's departure with his brothers and the cossacks only made things worse. Vladimir would very likely station himself in the hall outside my bedroom door.

Well, I told myself, you'll simply have to deal with it.

You're not going to lose your courage now.

Time seemed to hang suspended. Ten o'clock seemed an eternity away. Going back to my bedroom, I fetched the book and took it back down to the library and checked to make sure the rifle and powder horn and bags of ammunition were still behind the chair. The room was full of deep purple-black shadows now, the smell of old leather arid dust stronger than ever. The house was so still, the silence so ominous. My nerves were on edge. I almost expected someone to leap out from the shadows and seize me. A board creaked, as though the deserted ship were settling on the still water. How was I going to endure this agony of waiting? With each passing minute my courage, my resolve seemed to grow weaker.