Wynn set Ana on her feet. She flicked him away and started down the stairs on wobbly legs, clutching the walls for balance.
Wynn hurried to take her elbow. “Your Highness, allow me to escort you downstairs. The passage is dark and the steps less than stable.”
She slapped his hand away. “How many times must I command you to unhand me? Because you are a physician does not give you the right to manhandle as you see fit.”
A light flickered at the bottom of the steps as a small figure dressed in white appeared. “Mama? Svetka? Est-ce vous?” Marina, the younger sister.
“Oui.” Svetlana took her mother’s arm and led her down the remaining steps.
At the bottom each sister took a side to support their drooping mother and walked her into the cellar space that had become a dank home for the lost refugees. The smell of warm, unwashed bodies and linen hung pungent in the air, punctured only by snores and sleeping snuffles.
Wynn followed closely behind should the older woman’s sway turn into a drunken sprawl. “She’ll need plenty of water. Keep an eye on her when she sleeps and lean her on her side.”
Svetlana’s eyes narrowed over her shoulder as she looked back at him. “We are well-versed in the care of our mother during these times.”
“She said herself it’s been some time since she last imbibed. The alcohol will have absorbed into her blood much quicker.”
Whispering to her sister, Svetlana released her mother’s arm and turned to brush past Wynn. “A word.” She headed for the stairs and didn’t stop until she’d reached the courtyard. Shadows seeped through the trees and lingered over the stones with revered silence.
“It is time for you to leave.”
“Your mother—”
“Is not your concern.”
“You’d prefer I left her slumped in the gutter after she’s been to the bottom of the glass more than once. At a less than reputable place, I might add. Or mayhap you’d like to defend yourself against the rats prowling around after curfew in hopes of easy prey. Is that what you mean to tell me?”
“I have told— What do you mean by disreputable? The Sheremetevs are one of the most respected families in all of Moscow.”
“This isn’t Moscow. People do what they need to in order to stay on top. Have you not wondered why his club is able to stay open all hours of the night when the entire city is shut down for curfew? Have you stopped to take a good look at the men he surrounds himself with?” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You need to be careful. It wasn’t a stray bullet that found Leonid that day.”
“You have proof of this?” She studied him, not backing down.
“It’s more of a gut instinct. Or will you tell me it’s no concern of mine?”
“Precisely. You, on more than one occasion when your interfering presence was not required nor desired, have not heeded my words to stay away, for here you are.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Wynn leaned against the wall. The rigors of Harkin’s surgery and Svetlana’s ever-present need for a battle of wills was catching up with him.
“Yes, here I am. Doing what I thought was a kind deed only to be slapped with ingratitude.”
“You harbor deep needs to be thanked with boundless applause and simpering. How do you sleep at night without accolades drifting you off?”
“First of all, something cannot drift you off. One simply drifts of their own accord. Secondly, you respond with nothing but snobbery. Is that what qualifies for manners in Russia? The ruder you are to a person the more refined that makes you? If so, you are the most refined lady I have ever met.”
Her eyebrows shot up, then slanted down in a scowl.
“You are the most exasperating man I have ever met. Unable to take a simple no because your opinion on the matter outweighs all else. Pride won’t allow you to admit that you have overstepped the mark, as you have done repeatedly since first we met.”
“Well, that’s put me in my place. You’re getting rather good at it, Princess.” Pursuing a woman was bound to offer a few scrapes to a man’s efforts, particularly a woman such as her, but when the bruised ego tempted him to lash out, it was time to withdraw his cards from the game. He shoved off the wall and conjured a smile. “Good night to you then. Remember to eat your apples. Helps keep us pesky doctors away.”
Chapter 8
The time had come.
Svetlana had waited patiently, putting in social appearances over the past several weeks in order to aid her cause. Delicate matters required precise timing, and the less frantic one seemed the more likely their matter was to be met with favor. She wasn’t accustomed to asking favors, but there was a first time for everything.
“How is it a daughter of Russia refuses partaking in her national drink?” Sheremetev poured fresh vodka into his glass, then set the bottle back in the bucket of ice standing at the ready next to his private table.
“This daughter prefers to find culture in her homeland’s tea.” Svetlana raised her podstakannik and took a tiny sip. It was the first time since leaving her homeland that she’d been served the traditional Russian clear glass for admiring the tea’s color, with an elaborately decorated silver bottom and handle to keep from burning the hand. Despite the glass’s beauty, the warm liquid gurgled past the tightness in her throat. “I find it soothing.”
“Is soothing what you require?”
She’d rehearsed her speech over and over, yet pride proved difficult to overcome. It scolded her to find another way. But there was no other way. She’d tried and failed, with the only recourse now to humble herself and ask for help.
She scanned the White Bear’s crowded floor. Russian nobility swarmed every inch like bees in search of honey, their nectar consisting of cigarettes, drink, dalliances, and sharing sad stories of their former lives. Music set them buzzing as if the tunes could pluck them from misery and cast them into a pretense of joy for one evening. Only, these evenings were never once. They happened every night. The same people. The same drinks, dances, and mindless conversations. What so many sought as the comfort of the familiar, Svetlana found raw as sand against skin. They, too, once had their pride, but eventually found themselves where she was now. If there was any hope to be found, it was to one day find her dear friend Sergey sitting among them, for without his selflessness she never would have escaped.
Beneath the table she slid her feet to third position to steady herself. “I confess I find myself in turmoil. My family, like so many others, lost much when we fled Petrograd. I worry every day how I will keep our heads above water.”
“In leaving Moscow years ago to travel the world and increase the Sheremetev prosperity, I wanted to open a place of familiarity and comfort for my fellow Russians as they traveled abroad. Then two years ago when I brought my boy to join me, it was the first time he’d left the soil of his birth. With him came the first waves of èmigrès. I knew then I could use my connections to help those of our kind who lost everything.” He leaned forward, catching the light on his ruby stickpin. “A lady must never worry about such things. I have promised to help you in any way I can, and for as long as necessary I will continue to do so.”
Svetlana smoothed a hand over her watered-silk dress. One of the many ways he’d helped her family, plus food supplies and silk bedding. Quite the stir it had caused among those in the church basement, not to mention jealousy. Svetlana had protested at the extravagance that would place them in debt to this man they barely knew, but Mama would hear nothing of it. The Sheremetevs are famous for their benevolence, she’d claimed. Benevolence was one thing, but running up a tab was not something Svetlana wished to carry.