Having heard the title of nobility, the men behind the table rose confusingly to their feet. “Pardon, Your Royal Highness, but you cannot—”
Svetlana’s slim eyebrows spiked beneath the froth of her hat veil. “I am not a royal highness. I am Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky MacCallan, Duchess of Kilbride.”
Crikey, it was impressive when she rolled out her full title. Released from mourning clothes, she was terribly beautiful to behold. With her silver upswept hair, dress and hat the color of the sky reflecting off a glacier, she moved like a queen of the north. And she had come. Wynn was struck with wonder and fear at the same time.
He stood, but a low railing separated them as she glided up the central aisle.
“What are you doing here?”
She ignored him and kept her attention on the board members. “I have received evidence showing that the surgery performed by Dr. Edwynn MacCallan is not to blame for the death of Lieutenant Harkin.”
Unable to sit in the presence of a standing lady, Dr. Stan shuffled from one short leg to the other. “Your Highness, er, Your Grace. A wife cannot testify against or in favor of her husband.”
She waved a gloved hand at the inconsequential matter of law. “I have the evidence to prove that the purpose of this board is complete idiocy.”
The board members harrumphed with indignation as Dr. Stan tried to keep the peace. “Be that as it may—”
“Do you not wish to hear the truth for yourself, or are you more eager to condemn a man, a well-respected physician, for doing what was required of him as a surgeon? Are you so petty in your antiquated mindset that you need to quiet any who might propose advancements in medical knowledge when the true culprit lies at the feet of no one save a German gun?”
One had to admire her technique. Straight for the jugular. But it could cost them everything.
“Svetlana,” Wynn hissed.
She ignored his warning. “How many of you sitting there can boast of never having a patient die on your operating table? Or soon after due to complications unforeseen?”
“Svetlana.”
The orthopedist sniffed. “I have never had an expired patient.”
She ignored him too. “Lieutenant Harkin was a tragic case, but he believed in Dr. MacCallan’s ability to heal him.”
Sighing, Dr. Stan adjusted his eyeglasses as they slipped down his small nose. “As moving as your spousal support is, Your Grace, we simply cannot allow you to speak for your husband or to submit evidence that should have been turned over when this case first opened. It is against procedure.”
“I received the letter only yesterday, so you must excuse the tardiness, though not the validity.” Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew two slim envelopes. One was addressed in delicate script and the other carried the broken seal of St. Matthew’s Hospital in London.
“It is against the law and holds no weight in this decision. More to the point, women simply are not allowed in these proceedings. Your word cannot be counted.”
“Women indeed. It is no wonder your board proves incompetent.” Sweeping aside, Svetlana motioned Leonid forward. “Then allow me to introduce Leonid Sheremetev, boyar of Muscovy. I don’t believe you have the same qualms for him speaking.”
Of Moscow Leonid might be, but nobleman he was not. The board members would know nothing of that, but it got their attention. His friend sauntered up the aisle in a finely cut suit that slimmed his pudgy waistline and stood next to Svetlana. What were these two up to?
“I Leonid Sheremetev.” Leonid’s boom knocked the white hairs back in their chairs. “This proof Mac no guilty. He true surgeon. He fix me after Reds shot in back alley.” Fishing inside his somewhat wrinkled shirt, he pulled out a piece of metal on a chain looped around his neck. “This here bullet.”
The extracted slug winked a dull silver as it spun delicately on its expensive gold chain above the thick turf of Leonid’s chest hair.
“Congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Sheremetev,” Dr. Stan said, “but I don’t believe a bullet will drop the charges leveled against His Grace.”
“Bullet no proof. I only show Mac fine handiwork.” Leonid’s lips flattened with derision as he tucked away the bullet and took the envelopes from Svetlana. He passed them to Wynn across the rail divider. “This proof like she say. Late or no, you take and read.”
Wynn scanned the letters. Hope trembled inside him. “It’s an updated autopsy report for Harkin. It claims he died from an undetected shell fragment lodged behind his right lung that became infected after my surgery. After he was cleared for release from hospital.” He passed the papers to Dr. Stan. “It wasn’t heart surgery complications that killed him.”
Dr. Stan stared at the letters in his hands, uncertainty flitting across his face. If he took the letters as evidence, it would go against the law of the board, but if he refused he would be sentencing a potentially innocent man.
“I . . . How ever did you obtain this?”
Svetlana smiled coolly as if she’d been waiting for him to inquire all along. “I had the very great pleasure of meeting Mrs. Roscoe while en route from Paris to England on board a troop ship shortly after I was married. She had been visiting her husband in France, a Colonel Richard Roscoe, whom you may know better as the new head of administration at St. Matthew’s Hospital, the very place where Lt. Harkin was recovering.
“We’ve kept in touch and she was quite distressed to hear of my husband’s current circumstances. After she discussed the matter with her own husband, Dr. Roscoe was instrumental in ordering a more thorough autopsy that fully clears Dr. MacCallan of malignant surgery due to an unrelated and unseen fragment of shell.” She pointed a gloved finger to the papers in his hands. “You may read the redacted and new report for yourself along with a personal note from Dr. Roscoe.”
“But how did . . . ”
“Women like to talk.” Svetlana shrugged a dainty shoulder. “Shall I wait outside in a more appropriate area while you come to the obvious conclusion?”
Dr. Stan waved a distracted hand as he frowned at the papers in his hands. “Best if you did, Your Royal, er, Princess, er, Madame.”
Wynn reached for her hand. “Svetlana, wait. What you’ve done . . . How can I ever tell you—”
“Say you love like she love you, Mac.” Leonid apparently thought it wise to insert himself into the narrative once more.
Wynn’s eyes didn’t leave his wife’s face. “Is that true?”
Beneath the veil, Svetlana’s eyes swept to Wynn’s. Pink stained her cheeks. Not in a restrained anger sort of way, but in a no forthcoming denial sort of way. Was that why she had come? Because she loved him? His heart soared. Lana . . .
“Love make later. Now I tell about Papochka and Bolshevik chums. You like I say chums? I pick up English words now. Fish chip. Blimey. Spot o’ tea.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It make no matter. You know my papochka never concern politics, only money. Whoever have money, they come to bar. So Bolsheviks come. Plot and plan and hunt for noblemen émigrés. Kidnap back to Russia for execution. Papochka mad when Angel left. She make much money for him. Now gone, he want revenge, so make deal with Bolsheviks take her to Russia and execute. Papochka get revenge while hands clean of dirty work. I there. I hear whole deal, so rush to warn Mac and Angel. They save my life. I return favor.”