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Orlov will find him for her. She will become the mistress of a fine estate, and she will forget all about this gawky English boy who has the scattered brains and the empty pockets."

"I see."

Orlov shrugged, as though to rid himself of a trivial subject.

"This is not important. I have the great news to tell you."

"Oh?"

He beamed again, the exuberance returning in full force. He bounded over to the desk and picked up the creamy white card he had been studying and waved it in triumph.

"It has happened!" he exclaimed.

I was silent. He waved the card again.

"Tomorrow night there is to be a reception for the Turkish ambassador at the Winter Palace. It is a very important affair. The invitations are delivered by hand! Count Gregory Orlov and Miss Marietta Danver are requested to attend. Catherine can wait no longer. I bait the hook very carefully. She bites at last!"

Chapter
Seventeen

ALTHOUGH I WAS NATURALLY CURIOUS, I

wasn't at all excited about going to the Winter Palace. I had seen enough aristocratic Russian splendor to last me a lifetime, knowing as I did how the rest of the country lived.

Orlov was excited enough for both of us, I thought, touching one of the coppery red waves Monsieur Andre had so painstakingly arranged. All day long Gregory had been full of excited anticipation. I wondered if Catherine was really as easy to manipulate as he thought. Somehow I doubted it. At any rate, we were going to see her at last'

and he was confident he would soon be occupying his old apartment at the palace.

I was ready to play my part. The French hairdresser Orlov had summoned had spent over two hours doing my hair, pulling it back sleekly from my face and sculpting the waves in back, leaving a dozen long ringlets to spill down between my shoulder blades. He had affixed a delicate platinum spray over the right side of my head, in front of the waves. It curled from my temple halfway across my crown, the fragile wire tendrils shimmering with two dozen magnificent diamonds. I hadn't the rank to wear a tiara, but I doubted there would be a tiara in the palace more stunning than this superb ornament, which complemented my coiffure and emphasized its artistry.

Monsieur Andre had wanted to help me with my

makeup as well, but I had firmly refused. The Russian ladies I had seen wore far too much, their faces obviously painted, and I preferred a more natural look. The Frenchman wrung his hands and insisted I would look pale as a ghost, but as I studied the results in the mirror, I knew I had made the right choice. I needed no coat of powder, no crimson rouge, no black satin beauty patches.

Stepping back a few paces, I turned this way and that, giving the gown a final inspection. The gorgeous light tan brocade had a rich metallic sheen and was lavishly embroidered with exquisite flowers in orange, brown, bronze, and thread of gold. It had cost the equivalent of two hundred English pounds a yard and was the richest, most sumptuous material I had ever seen. The unusually full skirt swelled over a dozen bronze gauze underskirts, and with its elbow-length bell sleeves that dropped offthe shoulder, its daringly low-cut heart-shaped bodice and snug waist, the gown was a masterpiece, no flounces, no ruffles, no garlands of ribbon to distract from the incredibly luxurious cloth.

Well, Marietta, I told myself, if you're going to make an Empress jealous you're certainly dressed for it.

Leaving my rooms, I walked down the hall and slowly descended the curving white staircase, the extremely full .

skirts swaying, rustling with a crisp, crackling noise..

Gregory was waiting for me downstairs, and the look in _ those deep navy blue eyes told me he was more than pleased. He looked splendid himself in dark brown brocade breeches and frock coat and a cream satin waistcoat embroidered

with gold and brown floral designs, pale cream lace dripping from his cuffs and spilling from his throat.

He took my hand, helping me down the last two steps.

The wide pink mouth curved in an appreciative smile.

"Almost perfect," he said.

"Almost?"

He tilted his head and looked at me with a mock frown.

"Something is missing-ah, yes, diamonds. Not enough diamonds."

"The hair ornament is gorgeous, Gregory."

"I think you will like it when I purchase it for you.

Still-come with me. We will see if we can make you perfect."

Still holding my hand, he led me into the drawing room and over to a table on which sat a long, flat case. He let go of my hand and looked at the case as though wondering how it got there. Very playful. Very boyish. He opened the case, his eyes widening in mock surprise. I watched him lift the necklace out of its bed of velvet. The diamonds seemed to drip from his fingers in a glittering cascade that flashed and sparkled in a shimmering white and gold blaze. He smiled. He held it out with both hands so that I could more properly appreciate its spectacular beauty.

"This should do, yes?"

The necklace was like an incredible web of diamonds, scalloped loops suspended from three interlocked strands.

In the center of each and dangling at the bottom were amazing pale golden diamonds, the color of topaz but far more brilliant, each rare pear-shaped pendant larger than the largest grape, gleaming with fiery white-gold sparks. I had never seen its like.

"It-it's magnificent," I said in awe.

"It has a most interesting history," he informed me, shaking the necklace so that the gems flashed and shimmered all the more. "Catherine is most jealous of this Marie Antoinette of France and wishes to outshine her, so she has Maitlev commission this necklace. Marie Antoinette's own jeweler creates it and it is shipped to Maitlev, but there is a problem."

He moved behind me and lifted the long coppery red

'ringlets and fastened the necklace around my throat. It rested heavily against my skin, the gleaming jewels dripping in fiery loops, the pendants dangling, emphasizing the full swell of my breasts, which were half-exposed by the extreme decolletage.

"When the necklace arrives; Catherine's ministers are screaming and pulling their hair and saying she cannot possibly afford so fabulously expensive a necklace. She reo luctantly agrees to economize and Maitlev is left with the necklace no one can afford until Orlov returns and buys it for you."

She's going to love me, I thought wryly. If I'm lucky she'll simply behead me.

He stepped back around and, taking my hands, held me at arm's 'length, admiring me as he might admire a work of art.

"You are the most beautiful woman in Russia this night," he said. "I think you are perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world."

Knowing him as I did, I was still touched, for I could tell that he was completely sincere. I thanked him quietly for the compliment and lowered my eyes demurely, and Gregory squeezed my hands, fetched our fur cloaks, and led me proudly out to the waiting carriage. My skirts were so full that it took some negotiating for me to get through the door. Once we were inside, Gregory had to sit across from me as the magnificent spread of embroidered brocade completely

covered one seat. It was a relatively short drive, and both of us were silent, immersed in our own thoughts.

I could sense Gregory's excitement as he helped me out of the carriage, my skirts crackling as I manipulated them.

It was a beautiful night with a thousand stars hanging in a soft black sky, and rays of moonlight bathed the Winter Palace. I had an impression of acres and acres of stately white marble columns supporting ornate porticos, the windows beyond aglow with golden light. Guardsmen in white uniforms lined either side of the stairway, holding torches aloft to light our way as we slowly climbed the steps, other couples moving ahead of us, more carriages arriving below.

Our wraps were taken from us, and footmen in white satin knee breeches and gold-embroidered white satin frock coats and powdered wigs waited to escort us through a dazzling labyrinth of corridors and public rooms.

Candles blazed, brightly illuminating the palace, and the splendor of it was impossible to absorb. It was like being inside a gigantic jewel box, I thought, each chamber more splendid than the last. We were finally led into a gold and white foyer and handed over to a stony-faced chamberlain whose duty it was to announce us. The huge double doors were opened and the chamberlain moved forward, banging his long staff on the floor.

"Count Gregory Orlov!" he thundered. "Miss Marietta Danver!"

All eyes were upon us as we stood at the top of a shallow flight of marble steps leading into a vast reception room with a sky blue ceiling painted with pink-hued white clouds, the superb oval molding framing it lavish with gold gilt. Half a dozen immense chandeliers shed radiant light, hundreds of crystal pendants glittering, and the creamy white walls were divided by pale pink and sky blue panels framed in gold and overlaid with leafy gilt designs.

It was a spectacular setting for the brilliant, bejeweled crowd who stared openly as Gregory tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and led me slowly down the stairs and into their midst.

Gregory beamed, savoring his moment of triumph. I felt numb, as though this were all happening to someone else.

Marietta Danver, a former convicted thief and indentured servant who had trekked the Natchez Trace on a mule, who had made a perilous journey through the swamps of the Gulf of Texas pursued by cannibal Indians, now in the Winter Palace, waiting to meet Catherine of Russia-it seemed unreal. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be in Texas with Em and Randy, people who were real, people who had suffered and survived as I had, who didn't live in a brilliant, artificial world like carefully nurtured greenhouse flowers. I took a deep breath, preparing myself.

There must have been two hundred people in the room, the women gorgeously gowned and bejeweled, the men as splendidly attired, and an inordinate number of the them were strapping, handsome young military types in fulldress uniform. The Turkish ambassador, in colorful native garb, was surrounded by a chattering clique, but Catherine hadn't appeared yet. I knew from Gregory that, except for state occasions, she liked to dispense with ceremony and the boredom of tedious protocol, conducting court affairs with a breezy informality horrifying to certain of her ministers and those of the old regime who felt it unseemly for an Empress to be quite so 'cavalier.

As Gregory and I moved across the polished parquet floor I could feel the stares and hear the excited whispers exchanged behind fans. I nodded at several people who had dined at the Marble Palace, smiled politely, began to play my role. We were quickly surrounded, for Gregory's appearance here tonight was of tantamount importance in

court circles. Was he to be reinstated? Was Potemkin to be supplanted? Would Orlov soon wield his old power and influence?

The whole structure of court politics could change overnight, and those whose livelihood depended on the favors of those in favor made certain to cover all bets.

Greetings were effusive, compliments lavish, smiles openly fawning.

"Well, Gregory, I never expected to see
you
here again,"

a tall brunette announced. .

Her voice was sarcastic and, amidst all the gushing insincerity, quite refreshing. Rather heavyset, she wore a black velvet gown appliqued with silver leaves, the full skirt parting in front to reveal a cloth-of-silver underskirt.

Well into her forties, she had a round, fleshy face dominated by cynical brown eyes and a sullen scarlet mouth that drooped at the corners. Her heavy eyelids were coated with mauve shadow, and she wore far too much powder, yet she still had a curiously potent sexual allure. One was reminded of a bruised, overripe peach still savory to the bite.

"Ah, Protasova!" Gregory exclaimed. "I thought you would have retired to a nunnery by this time in order to repent of your sins."

"Were I to retire to a religious order, a monastery would be more likely. All those love-starved men."

"You would be the answer to their prayers, Protasova.

No doubt about it. I would like you to meet my friend.

Marietta, this is Madame Protasova, chief lady-in-waiting to Empress Catherine. Protasova, Miss Marietta Danver."

The cynical brown eyes swept over me, missing not a detail.

"I've heard a great deal about you," she said.

"And I've heard a great deal about you," I replied, ever so sweetly.

I had indeed. Madame Protasova was known as

l'epreuoeuse,
"the tester." According to rumor, her job was to test candidates for Catherine's bed. If the applicant showed sufficient strength, stamina, and invention, a favorable report was passed to the Empress. If not, he was summarily dismissed, all hopes of royal favor extinguished. The opulent, aging brunette looked well suited

for her work, I thought bitchily, yet her frankness and re fusal to fawn raised my opinion of her considerably.

"You're every bit as beautiful as they claimed you are,"

she informed me. "I assume that hair is natural. No dye could simulate such a brilliant color."

"It's natural," I said.

"Would that my own were," she retorted. "Living at court is hazardous to hair. Mine turned gray years ago. I'd kill to look like you," she continued, "and if killing would turn the trick I'd lay waste left and right."

"I believe that was a compliment."

"Begrudgingly given," she said dryly. "Well, Gregory, your arrival in St. Petersburg must have been something of a disappointment. No triumphal arches erected to greet you, no gold medal struck by the Imperial mint in your honor. Catherine had all this done in '72," she added, seeing that I was puzzled. "When he returned from a mission in Moscow."

"I treasure that medal," he said.

"One of the less popular issues."

"The arches are still standing."

"In shocking disrepair, I've noticed, and covered with bird droppings."

Gregory scowled, uncomfortable under that .cynical brown gaze. He and Protasova were clearly old adversaries, and he was no match for her. Catherine apparently liked to surround herself with strong, formidable woman, I reflected,. remembering Princess Dashkova in London.