“Dr. MacCallan. Marquess, or whatever you wish to be called—”
“Wynn.”
“I think it best—” A sequined hip swung into her, knocking her practically onto Wynn’s lap. He steadied her, but not before her lips came dangerously close to grazing his neck. He smelled even better at this proximity. She jerked upright in her chair and smoothed her skirt before her hands could tremble. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive when a lady falls into my arms.” A charming quip for every situation. The flame in his eyes warmed to pure gold. “I very much wanted to escort you tonight, but I hope the carriage eased your troubles.”
“It was very thoughtful for you to think of us in that way. We are grateful.”
His brow creased. “We?”
“My mother insisted on attending with me.” Svetlana inclined her head to where her mother lounged in Sheremetev’s booth guzzling wine and preening like a peacock too long displaced from her court of honor. Some things never changed.
Wynn followed her gaze. “Ah, I see your mother got the flower I sent you.”
“It was lovely.” Svetlana touched the spot on her gown where she would’ve pinned the flower, then quickly brushed at it. Did she imagine him wooing her? Certainly not. “I wanted to correct the misunderstanding, but that often leads to greater troubles, and Mama is rather—”
“Difficult?”
“Unchangeable.”
Wynn turned back to her, expression softening. “I’m almost glad you’re not wearing it. You would shame any rose daring to call itself lovely.”
This man and his charm!
As the dancers took their bow, a parade of chilled buckets filled with champagne, trays loaded with food, and stacks of cigarettes in silver cases arrived at their table with Leonid leading the grand procession just in time to save her. The atmosphere, having grown densely warm over the past several minutes, eased.
“Enjoy party, da? Eat, eat.” Leonid lifted a tray lid to expose a mountain of deep red and passed it under Wynn’s nose. “Delicious.”
“Is that pickled beets?” Wynn’s questioning gaze lifted to Svetlana.
She shrugged, sending her blousy sleeve sliding down. “Pickle everything.”
Hesitating under Leonid’s waiting eye, Wynn forked a single beet and tucked it into his mouth. His expression shifted as he chewed and swallowed, followed by a quick gulp of champagne.
“I’ve never had beets prepared that way.”
“You honorary Russian now. Eat beets and cabbage. Drink vodka.” Leonid tried pushing a glass of vodka into Wynn’s hands.
“No, thank you. Have to stay sharp in case I’m called to operate, but in the meantime allow me to present something to you.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Wynn pulled out a small package wrapped in gauze and tied with twine. “Sorry about the wrapping. I couldn’t find proper gifting paper, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed to your name day celebration. Which I’m still not clear about.”
“I named after saint. Anointed day on calendar he has. His day. My day. It same. Like birthday.” Leonid tore off the gift wrapping and howled with delight at the bullet cartridge in his palm. “Is mine?”
Wynn nodded. “I found it on the footpath behind you. Thought you might like a souvenir. Many of the soldiers do when they’re wounded.”
“Soldiers see enemy across line, no back of alley.” Words steely, Leonid’s fingers curled over the bullet. “They pay.”
“Do you know who attacked you?”
“Nyet, but soon. No have crazy streets like Moscow, or Petrograd, or Novgorod. Papochka bring peace here now.” Leonid’s expression softened as he patted Svetlana’s hand. “No Bolsheviks here, Angel. Trust people, da? Trust me.”
A look dawned across Wynn’s face as he settled back in his chair and gazed at her. She glanced away as he probed into her, overturning truths she wished to remain hidden and safe.
“He is here! Here is famous surgeon saving my son’s life.” Sheremetev barreled through the throng with thick arms spread wide and switching to English for Wynn’s sake. Anyone not coherent enough to leap from his path was knocked out by his rotund belly. Seizing Wynn by the shoulders, he hauled him to his feet and into a hug that could have cracked ribs. “Owe you everything. Tell me, what I do for you? I get anything for show appreciation. Name it only.”
“Your son alive is all the gratitude I need, sir.”
“Englishmen too modest. Come, come. Accept humble token.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers and a finely wrapped box appeared in his fleshy palm. “For you. It great insult to refusals.”
It was a Fabergé egg made of glossy emerald and gold filigree. Inside was a miniature of St. Basil’s Cathedral in dazzling colors of sapphire, ruby, turquoise, tourmaline, and diamond. Wynn stared in stunned silence.
“I think he likes.” Sheremetev thumped him on the back to the crowd’s roar of laughter. “A toast! My son Mikhail Leonid on name day. To man who saved life, and to angel who shining between them. Na Zdorovye!”
“Spasibo,” Wynn managed. The drunken audience cheered with delight at his Russian. An easy crowd to please.
Sheremetev shifted his attention to Svetlana, causing the orbit of onlookers to mimic him. “And for you, our dear princess, whatever heart’s desire will be wish to grant.”
As with any diplomatic service, she’d keep first introductions modest. To request his help now would be a hand overplayed. Such entreaties required a delicacy of timing. “Sir, your kindness and hospitality are more than enough. Please do not think on it again.”
“I must think on it, be assured. For own good.” Tweaking her sleeve so the beads jangled together, he disappeared into the haze of vodka bottles and cigarettes. Leonid trailed at his heels.
Svetlana eased a breath out. She’d done it. One step closer to safety.
The crowd bumped back to their tables jabbering incoherently over the music, leaving her and Wynn alone once more. Alone with their prize platter of beets.
“I do believe you’ve firmly ingratiated yourself into the White émigrés’ society. Do not be surprised to find requests for house calls from them,” she said.
“They’ll be sorely disappointed to find I’m not a general practitioner.”
“It matters not. By tomorrow morning you will achieve near-saint status.”
“I’d settle for a dance with you.” Smoothing his face to one of grave solemnity, he bowed and held out his hand. “My dear princess, might you honor me with this waltz that has finally played to a rhythm my feet can comprehend?”
A waltz was difficult to resist and one of her favorites, a reminder of days filled with grace and elegance. It had nothing whatsoever to do with him or the way he looked in evening dress. Or so she told herself. “A pleasure, Marquess.”
Taking her hand, he hesitated with the Fabergé egg in his other hand while sizing up his jacket pocket.
“It’s quite safe on the table. No one in this entire room would dare touch it under Sheremetev’s protection.”
Placing the egg in the center of the table, Wynn guided her to the dance floor and she once more found herself in his arms. This time his palm was warm against hers.
“Quite a party. Are all Russian get-togethers like this?”
“Truthfully, I have never entered a place such as this. It is as if they have forgotten the war exists outside.”
“The extravagance is a wee bit surprising, but then again these Sheremetevs don’t seem to do things in half measures. Still, it makes one wonder.” He looked around with a slight frown puckering his forehead. “Are you enjoying yourself?”