He didn’t let go of her arm.
At the sight of Leonid, the doormen swung wide the doors to a world of secrets and expense. Heavy drapes covered the walls, folding the large room into a muffled embrace. Gold chandeliers dripped from the ceilings to cast their golden glow across the tables covered in green felt and shuffling cards. Dice flashed around spinning wheels and tumbled across red and black numbers as chips clanked softly in eager palms. When the chips ran out, money and gems of all cut and color were pushed into betting piles.
Svetlana’s stomach clenched with sickness. She’d known from the start, but to see it before her in bloated depravity was enough to make her want to scream. Had they not lost enough?
“Wait. I will find her,” Leonid whispered.
“No need. I see her.” Dislodging from his grip, Svetlana sailed between the tables, ignoring the appreciative glances from drunken boyars and counts, and stopped at a table near the back surrounded by four gentlemen and two ladies. “Hello, Mama.”
Mama jumped from her chair, unexpected surprise registering on her face. A garish clash with her lilac gown and white hair plumes.
“What are you doing here?” She cast a glance at the jewel- and medal-bedecked people behind her at the table. Her shoulders straightened. “That is, allow me to present my daughter, Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky.”
“I don’t care if she’s a scullery maid. Titles are worthless. You owe me eight hundred rubles.” One of the men with a pointy black beard and shiny gold buttons glared at her mother. “Tonight.”
“Count, if you’ll only allow me to pay you tomorrow when I have the funds. You see—”
The count smacked his palm against the table, crumbling the pile of chips in front of him. “Excuses. Do not come to the tables if you do not have funds to participate.”
“I did not come empty-handed, as you well know. It sits there before you.”
“That was from the first two games. You owe me for the third.”
Svetlana’s eye moved to the table. There among the pile of chips and coins was a ruby bracelet that once belonged to her great-aunt and an egg-size topaz brooch that once graced the robes of Princess Sophia Dalsky during the coronation of Empress Catherine II. Her family’s precious few heirlooms, smuggled out of Russia to be used for food, clothing, and shelter. How vulgar they looked discarded there next to the playing cards and empty glasses of vodka, as if they were another stale crumb to be tossed to the ravenous vultures.
Vicious fear twisted in Svetlana’s stomach. Without the jewels they did not stand a chance to survive and escape for good. She leaned down to her mother’s ear, her voice ragged. “Mama, what have you done?”
Mama swept her fan up to cover her mouth so only Svetlana might hear her. “Stop fretting. It is not the last of them, merely the only ones I brought this night.”
“You will ruin us.”
The lines around Mama’s mouth tightened, but as a true lady of breeding, she didn’t allow them to further express her inner fright. She covered that with a haughty sweep of her fan while leveling her gaze at the count.
“As you say, I should not be attending so I will take my leave for the evening and send over a bottle of champagne to soothe any ruffled spirits.”
The count curled his hand into a fist on the green felt table. “Not without paying me first.”
“Your rudeness is intolerable and I will not subject myself or my daughter a minute longer. Come, Svetlana.”
Cursing under his breath, the count lurched out of his chair and came around the table with eyes blazing. Two muscled men with bulges beneath their jackets stepped in and blocked his path.
Sheremetev, along with Leonid, appeared behind his guards with a thin smile. “My dear count. Is there a problem?”
“The so-called princess doesn’t see it fitting to pay me what’s owed.”
“Princess Ana is an honored guest of mine and her honor will not be tarnished.” Sheremetev smiled benevolently at Mama and continued. “It is my own honor that requires all debts to be paid in full in a timely manner and as circumstances dictate by the owed.”
Mama stammered and made a show of opening her beaded purse. “W-well, I don’t believe I have the appropriate amount, but if you’ll allow me—”
“I require payment now. As my honor and circumstances dictate,” said the count. “I would hate to alert the authorities.”
Everyone at the table gasped. Threats were never made against nobility. Only low-class mongrels stooped so low as to bring in the laws of commoners.
Svetlana bristled at the insinuation. Had her family not suffered enough humiliation? “Do you know to whom you are speaking? Peter and Paul Fortress would do well to show you manners.”
The count’s eyes narrowed to slits. His pointy beard made him all the more serpent-like. “Is that how you think to threaten me, printsessa? Perhaps you should drag me back to the Reds.”
“Enough. Count,” Sheremetev said. “Gentleladies will not be insulted in my club. Nor do I allow outstanding debt. If you’ll wait for me at the cashier’s booth, your payment I will bring momentarily.”
Scowling, the count grabbed his hat and cane and pushed through the crowd to the indicated booth.
Sheremetev turned to the table and the wide-eyed guests watching every move and word, no doubt savoring for gossip. “Apologies. There are free bottles of champagne for each of you at the bar. Please, enjoy after this upset.” As they all scuttled away whispering to one another, he looked to Mama. “Dear Princess. What a night you have suffered, and to think the tragedy came at my club.”
In an instant Mama’s haughtiness softened to accommodating. “I know that measly count does not represent you or your kindness. Think nothing of it.”
“I’m afraid I must. You see, there is an outstanding debt to be paid.”
“Of course, but I haven’t managed a winning streak these past few nights—I do believe the count was cheating all this time—and my other funds remain back at our lodgings.” Gripping her purse, she lowered her voice to throw off the listening ears around them. “I do so depend on our friendship. Might I ask for an extension of credit?”
The slightest hint of irritation flashed in Sheremetev’s eyes, but he covered it quickly with a nod and pulled a slim cheque book from his inner jacket pocket. “As I told your daughter, I am here to help.”
The strumming strings of a balalaika and gusli vibrated over a small dance space spread across the back wall where two traditionally dressed women stood. As one, they moved and pirouetted, dipped, and floated to a peasant tune often played among the aristocracy for amusement. Excitement buzzed through the crowd as they watched the performance, grabbing flutes of champagne and shots of vodka as waiters slipped by with full trays. An orchestra, not only on the dance floor, but masterfully played among the guests with Sheremetev’s attention to detail as the conductor. If he couldn’t collect their money at the tables, he’d collect it in drink.
For the briefest moment, the world’s cares and her family’s struggles fell away to the haunting dance steps of a life Svetlana knew before. Her feet longed to move; her legs ached to stretch and bend with the rhythm, her body stretching and twisting with elegant control. Though each step was governed, it was the only time she allowed herself to be liberated.
“You enjoy the dance?” Sheremetev’s question shook her from the fantasy.
Svetlana nodded. “It’s beautiful.”