Svetlana hurried down the corridor after him. Despite her long legs, her pace was no equal to his.
“Has it do with Harkin?”
“Most likely.”
“But you’ve given your statement.” Her words hit his retreating back.
“They want it again.”
“Has something in the report changed that they need you to verify? Why so many inquiries over a single death when your profession deals in tragedy every day?” She had not been privileged to see the business side of medicine for long, but what she had glimpsed consisted of mounds of paperwork, hidebound old men, and red tape. So many rules on how and when to save a life. If a life was lost due to a broken rule, the fury of repercussions would be great indeed. And if that life had been unnecessarily put at risk— “Do they suspect he was killed?”
“There’s been no mention of foul play.”
“Then I am coming with you.”
That stopped him. He turned around to face her. “No, there’s no need. I’ll be back in a few days. Besides, your mother needs you.”
“So do you.” She swallowed against a charge of emotion. She needed him to know that he was her choice despite events threatening to persuade him otherwise. “It meant nothing. When Sergey kissed me. Nothing has been reciprocated on my part.”
The coolness melted from his eyes and pooled to soft green. He trailed his fingertips along her jaw like a sculptor admiring his creation. Svetlana leaned in to his touch, marveling at his ability to center her as the one woman in his world.
“You’re so beautiful. Have I ever told you that? Looking at you, I lose my bearings between heaven and earth.” His husky voice ached with desire. Svetlana laid a trembling hand over his heart to show him she felt the same, but the movement shifted something in his eyes. The molten gold cooled and his touch dropped from her face. “Even if the moment is a fleeting indulgence.”
He was retreating from her again. Pulling into himself while keeping her at arms’ length. Too much separation and they might never find a way back together.
“Please allow me to come with you to London.”
His gaze swept over her face as she saw his mind whirling with conflict. Yes formed on his lips, but at the last he shook his head. “I need you to stay here. When I get back, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
Unease sprang to her heart. “Explain what?”
“Will you trust that I have only your best intentions in mind?”
“I trust you completely. As I hope you do me.”
In answer he leaned down and brushed his cheek against hers before pressing a kiss to her skin. He lingered for the briefest moment before walking away. Svetlana cupped her hand over her cheek, longing to hold a part of him close since she could not hold the man himself. Steps apart again.
If she wished to close the distance, she would have to take matters into her own hands. That started with getting to the bottom of the medical board and their continued harassment of her husband. To do that, one needed to know the right people, and as before in Russia, she had begun to cultivate her own notable list in her new country. Striding with purpose to the library, she sat at her writing desk and pulled out a crisp slip of cream paper with the Duchess of Kilbride seal embossed in gold at the top. She may not be able to solve the torment in her husband’s mind, but she could try to bring peace. She dipped her nib in the ink and set it to paper.
Dear Mrs. Roscoe,
I deeply appreciate the rose bulbs you included in your last package. They shall make a splendid addition to my garden come spring, and I hope you will accept my invitation to see them in full bloom on an extended stay at Thornhill.
If I may be so bold, I wish to shorten my pleasantries in order to bring a matter of great importance to your knowledge and perhaps request a favor of the most generous kind. I understand that your husband has recently taken the position of hospital administrator at St. Matthew’s in London . . .
Chapter 25
Rain slashed down the windows of the Royal Medical Academy in east London. It turned the mounds of snow into gray slush that clogged the footpaths and splattered the buildings with icy sludge from each passing motor car. Situated on the corner of some highbrow street crossed with a priggish lane, the RMA had towered as a goliath in all its white limestone and colonnade glory since 1684, presiding over the health and advancement of medicine for mankind. More correctly, advancing the field when the governing old whitebeards deemed such advancements worthy of the cut. Everything not worthy was immediately thrown out like yesterday’s chips or newspaper.
Which was precisely how Wynn found himself sitting on a bench outside the delegation hall staring at his bullet-punched kopek. For nearly five days he’d sat in that tomb of a chamber under the grilling eyes of the medical board directors and answered question after question about his education, training, experience during the war, political leanings, religious beliefs, readings, and everything else they could think of to suss out whether he was of sound mind to perform surgery.
The implication of such a finding should have been the single point to occupy his mind, but it wasn’t. His thoughts remained fixated on Thornhill, or rather within Thornhill. The instant that telegram arrived to summon him to London, he’d gone in search of Svetlana.
And found that weasel kneeling at her feet. The same weasel who had barged into their home, wrapped his arms around Wynn’s wife, and kissed her for all the county to witness. She’d said it meant nothing to her, but that didn’t stop Wynn from wanting to beat the miscreant black and blue.
Guilt hit Wynn hard and quick like a punch to the rectus abdominis. Was he wrong to have married her when she waited for Sergey? A man she’d known for years, another Russian? Wynn braced his arms on his knees and hung his head. If given the option, would she wish to free herself of the marital contract and leave with Sergey? She had grounds to obtain an annulment. Wynn squeezed his hands together as his fingertips turned cold. Could he let her go when she’d come to mean so much to him?
“Not going to be sick, are you?” Gerard. His old friend had finally returned from war-torn Paris only to find a summons waiting for him to give a report on one Dr. Edwynn MacCallan, with whom he assisted in surgery that fateful day last summer. After giving his testimony of the events, Gerard had sat in the upper galleys as Wynn’s moral support.
“No.”
“Thinking about what’s going on behind those doors?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like you’ve diagnosed your dog with one week to live?”
Wynn heaved a sigh and pocketed the coin. “I’m in love with my wife.”
“Oh. Hard time that.”
Wynn lifted his head and stared at his friend. “How would you know?”
“I’ve got brothers, haven’t I? They’re always going on about the misery of the old ball and chain, then follow it up with adamant declarations of love. Which is then followed up with a pint.” Gerard plopped on the bench and scratched a freckled hand through his ginger thatch of hair. “Do you need a pint?”
“No.”
“You might after today.”
Wynn jerked upright, every nerve on edge. “Why? Have they said something?”
“No. At least not while I was in there. Bickering back and forth. It’s enough to make a man’s head explode.” Gerard’s thin shoulders sagged as he rolled his homburg hat between his hands. “The truth is, mate, they don’t know what to do with you. Half the room is for tossing you in the tower, and the other wants to reinstate you with a formal apology by saying death is a part of our practice and you’ve always been a man to uphold your oath to do no harm.”