Catherine's Girl

Catherine Roman's chauffeur pulled in front of my house in a black Escalade to transport me to Mrs. Roman's country estate for a weekend visit. Because of a surprise snowstorm, I had canceled my Friday appointments. Nevertheless, I wore my business suit and traveled lightly at Mrs. Roman's behest. Climbing in, I nodded toward the SUV. "Strong and elegant, like Mrs. Roman."

Martin Covington, Mrs. Roman's chauffeur, looked so out of context I almost laughed. His thin, delicate features reflected no humor, and his pursed lips turned down at the corners. Martin, probably in his mid-40s like Mrs. Roman, looked a couple of inches shorter than her five-ten height. His chauffeur's uniform clashed with the idea of an SUV.

After I buckled up, he negotiated the snow-covered road. "Thanks for the lift."

"Let her pamper you. Mrs. Roman invited you so she could coddle you. If you resist, she'll destroy you."

"I'm fine, thank you. And how are you." I couldn't resist the sarcasm.

"Forget the small talk. I'm briefing you for meeting Mrs. Roman."

"Thanks."

"I used to be her girl."

"Beg your pardon?"

"She hates my real name. Calls me Martha."

"I'm Francis. Really. Francis Prince." We shook hands. "My friends call me Frank, but I'll always be Francis to Catherine the Great. She probably spells it with an e."

"You get the picture." He smiled for a moment before his mouth turned down. "Mrs. Roman sold me to a mistress in the City."

"Sold you?"

"I'm history at the end of this week. She wants you."

"Hold on. She can't just sell you." I looked out the window. A cottage half a mile off the highway reminded me of Dr. Zhivago. My mind returned to Martin's revelations. "She blackmailing you?"

"Yeah," he grimaced. "Not that she has to." Martin turned off the highway to a long driveway—practically a service road—leading up to an ornate, colorful mansion on a small hill. The bulbous, swirl turrets—like giant machine-poured ice cream—reminded me of photos of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.