Svetlana inhaled. “Sheremetev?”
Leonid nodded. “Muscovy branch. You come, da? Both.”
Wynn hesitated. “I may be on shift—”
Svetlana grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “Da. We will be there.”
Before Wynn could decipher the cryptic vice around his hand, Leonid Sheremetev of the White Bear’s infamous vodka fell back on his pillow with a loud snore.
Chapter 6
“We will be there.”
Svetlana marched across the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral courtyard, her too-short beaded skirt whipping around her ankles. What had propelled her to say such a preposterous thing? If the good doctor couldn’t attend, all the better for her expressing her family’s need to the Sheremetevs for their influence. Hers was a matter of delicate and deadly proportions that must be handled with discreet care. Wynn was a complication she could ill afford. Yet the moment she had the opportunity to cut him loose, she had grabbed his hand in panic and assured his continued presence lest Leonid revoke the invitation.
No more. After tonight’s meeting, she would be well on her way to providing safety for her family, and the reoccurring brushes with Dr. MacCallan would be a thing of the past.
“If you hurry like that, we’ll arrive before the party begins,” Mama huffed behind her.
“It’s a bit late for that. The party started an hour ago.” A hairpin bounced off Svetlana’s exposed shoulder. With no ladies’ maids at hand, she’d found it exceedingly difficult to achieve a formal hairstyle based on her own talent. Or lack of.
“A lady does not arrive at the designated start of an event. It is within her best interest to be announced once all the other guests have arrived. That way all attention is given to her entrance.”
It had taken less than three seconds for Mama to discover the card from Leonid Sheremetev. The woman could sniff out a societal invitation a drawing room away. She had gasped and nearly fainted in a flutter of excitement. This was it. Their fortunes were about to change as they reentered the social circle they were entitled to, and she wasn’t allowing Svetlana to enter alone.
Mama had traded an emerald bracelet and two gold rings for two gowns from a countess who had managed to escape Russia with her trunks. A pearl choker was paid to a peasant seamstress to have one of the gowns fitted. Mama chose her own for the alteration, claiming Svetlana’s was passable and such cheap satin wasn’t worth the price of another necklace.
Rounding the front of the grand church, the fading blue of dusk settled on a carriage pulled by two white horses. A driver hopped down from his perch and opened the door.
“Compliments of Dr. MacCallan, who has been detained at the hospital and conveys his deepest regrets.”
What was that discomforting feeling of disappointment settling in Svetlana’s stomach?
Mama stepped into the carriage as if she were owed nothing less than a fine ride waiting for her. Like old times. Inside, she squealed at a single white rosebud on the seat.
The driver looked at her and then to Svetlana. “Apologizes, mademoiselle. I was told only one passenger, and the flower—”
“It’s quite all right, monsieur. The doctor was unaware of my guest.” As much as she was unaware of this tremulous expense. Carriages were not easy to come by in the city—much less horses—with all wheels and hooves needed for the war effort. Why must the man insist on surprising her? Even in his absence she could not find distance from him.
“But of course. S’il vous plait.” The driver offered her his hand and helped her inside. Climbing to his perch, he gave a command and the horses set off.
“The physician’s manners have improved in the treatment of nobility, even if he is bourgeois.” Mama anchored the rose to her gown with a pearl-tipped pin that had been secured to the shortened stem. “At least there’s more room. Carriages easily become overly populated.”
The fluted white petals spiraled to a ruffled center of pure cream. The sweet scent pirouetted under Svetlana’s nose with images of spring gardens, rain showers, and violin strings. She could almost feel the velvetiness gliding under her finger. Had Wynn picked it out himself? Catching herself, she turned away and stared out the window as darkness descended on the streets. What did it matter if he sent a hundred roses? They meant nothing, as did this carriage. What mattered was meeting one of the wealthiest and most influential families in all of Russia that night. If anyone could help her family’s dire situation, it would be them. If anyone could gather information about Nikolai and Papa, the Sheremetevs could.
The rose scent wafted closer. Svetlana clenched her hands in her lap against its enticement. She never should have bared her vulnerability to him. But the rain and fear and his soothing manner had weakened her defenses, which should have remained impenetrable. Yet the crack came as bits of her slipped through and into the solace between them. In that suspended moment she’d felt the relief of release to another who understood—understood and provided steady ground when her own feet shifted beneath her.
A flitting moment of weakness, that’s all it was. She had more important matters at hand.
Before long, the carriage stopped and the door opened to a white bricked building with a green metal-and-glass awning fanning over two dark wood doors. There were no windows.
“Is this the correct address?” Mama squinted at the façade. “It looks deserted.”
Svetlana moved up the short flight of stairs and read the gold plaque next to the door. The White Bear. She pulled Leonid’s card from her beaded purse. The names matched.
Out of nowhere a hand plucked the card from her fingers. The hand quickly morphed into an arm and then a barrel-chested man who looked like he could stop canon fire by himself. From the looks of his face he probably did.
“You may enter,” he boomed in Russian. He returned the card and opened one of the doors.
They entered a small room with dark paneling and low-lit sconces on the wall. A woman dressed in a traditional Russian kokoshnik and sarafan stood behind a counter on the left.
“Can I take your wraps?” she asked. Accepting their outer garments, the woman indicated a somewhat hidden door at the back of the room. “Have a pleasant evening.”
The door swung open to a blaze of red, gold, and green. A swell of music and laughter carried them inside to an imperial palace of decadence. Red carpets sprawled across the floor to the dark green walls that swept to a gold-leafed ceiling that refracted the dozens of crystal chandeliers. Dark booths lined the walls while a step down to a lower tier was dotted with tables draped in snowy linens and candles ensconced in glass. Men dressed in formal white tie and women dripping in silk and jewels crowded every space available while cigarette smoke and music wove between the cracks, enticing couples to the dance floor.
“Are we not to be announced?” Mama complained over the din. No one noticed.
“I do not think this is the kind of place for announcing,” Svetlana said as a waiter sped past them with a loaded tray of drinks. She resisted the urge to slide her feet into third position, which always produced a grounding effect.
“Then what sort of place have you forced us to?”
“Mama, remember we are not here for frivolities. We are here to assess if this Sheremetev can help us out of the church cellar and find a safer place to live in Paris, but he is not to know our true intentions or our true titles until I deem him trustworthy enough to confide in. Mama, are you listening?” In fact, her mother was not once a tray heaped with caviar and chocolate truffles had swerved in front of them. Without warning, Svetlana’s stomach rumbled with the unfilling portions of cabbage and celery stew she had sipped hours before. The last time she’d eaten a truffle … Her stomach rumbled louder.