“Find the conductor. Tell him we’re here and give him this.” Snatching off his oversize hat, Sergey tossed the rat man a bag that clinked with coin. “He’ll get the rest when we change trains in London. Should be enough to keep his mouth shut.”
The man shoved the coin bag into his pocket and scampered off, shutting the door behind him.
Nudging a crate out of the way, Svetlana helped her mother sit on a dusty leather bench. Leached of color and droopy, Mama moved like a brittle leaf blown far from its strength of branch and tree. She’d been the same when they fled Petrograd. She wouldn’t survive another trip.
“Bribery and betrayal. How you’ve sunk in the world. The Bolsheviks must be proud,” Svetlana said.
Sergey’s mouth twisted into a cruel line. “I told you never to associate me with them.”
“Then don’t associate yourself! Don’t do this, Sergey. I know you think there is no choice left, but there is still time to find another way. I can help you.” If she could somehow reach the man she’d once known deep inside him, the man too fearful to come out on his own, then she would stop at no length to sway him.
“I understand feeling alone with all burdens weighted on your shoulders and only wanting to keep your loved ones safe. I have lived this horror for a year. Looking back, my actions make me weep for what I was forced to endure, but no matter how dark our circumstances, we cannot allow ourselves to give in to desperation when innocent lives hang in the balance. Please, if it is a Dalsky you require, allow my mother to go free while you take me on.”
“It is too late for negotiation.”
“It is never too late to do the right thing. We can save your family. We can make them safe far from Russia. Wynn has great power as—”
“Do not speak his name to me! This is how it will be. You and your mother will die for my family to live.”
“How do you know your family hasn’t been killed already? How do you know the Bolsheviks will honor their word?”
“Do you not understand? I have no choice but to trust them. If I don’t do this, my family will die for certain.”
Seeing nothing small enough to use as a club, she wielded venom as her weapon. “Then you are no different from these murderous Bolsheviks you claim to hate.”
His eyes darkened to the fury of a winter storm thundering across the frozen tundra. He backhanded her across the face. The blow stung, juddering along her cheek bone and jaw.
The door squeaked open and the rat man slipped inside. He spoke in uneducated Russian. A village mongrel begging for scraps at the table of power. “We go in the fourth carriage. Other boxes filled with coal. Wait for the last call.”
On the platform outside a man’s voice carried over the hissing steam and shuffling feet. “Train six forty-two to London. All aboard!”
“If one of you so much as twitches in attempt to escape, I will not hesitate to kill both of you.” Sergey touched the gleaming handle of his gun. “If your own death lacks incentive, know that I will personally return to finish off the last remaining Dalsky princess. Do I make myself clear?”
Svetlana stood erect, not bothering to comfort the pain throbbing the left side of her face. She had to remain strong for Marina’s sake. Svetlana gripped her mother’s hand and nodded. They couldn’t simply jump from the train. They would have to take care of Sergey first. Terror pounded in her heart as her gaze slipped to the gun. She would take care of him, whatever it came to.
“Last call! All aboard!”
Sergey yanked the veil down over Svetlana’s face. “Can’t have someone recognizing you.” Pushing open the door, he swept his hand with grand invitation. “Onward to destiny.”
Chapter 33
Stealing horses was not an offense Wynn was in the habit of making, but today required an exception. He’d chased the carriage around the corner, but its four wheels and two horses quickly outpaced his two legs.
The horse stood before him like a gift from above. Shouting a promise to its owner to return it, he galloped off, swerving around wagons and motor cars, causing more than one near accident with his lack of fine horsemanship, but ever with the thieving carriage in his sights.
Far ahead, the carriage stopped in front of the train station. A figure in light blue stepped out. Svetlana. Wynn urged his mount forward, but the crush of pedestrians impeded his speed. By the time he reached the abandoned carriage, she was nowhere to be found.
“No luggage this time, Your Grace?” asked one of the station porters who had become familiar with Wynn traveling often to Glasgow.
“Have you seen Her Grace come this way? In a blue dress.”
“No, but I’ve only just come on duty. Lemme ask one of the other lads—”
“No matter.” Wynn jumped off the horse and tossed him the reins. “Hold this horse until I come back.”
Sprinting inside, Wynn pushed his way through the throngs of humanity, uncaring of the disgruntled comments directed at him. He twisted his head this way and that in search of a scrap of blue among the black and gray. Nothing. If that black-livered dog hurt her in any way, Wynn wouldn’t hesitate to choke the life from him.
People knocked into him. Hats blocked his view. He needed to get up higher. Shoving through the crowd, he leapt on top of a pile of trunks.
“Svetlana!” Attention snapped his way, but not a flash of blue. “Svetlana!”
“Your Grace.” One of the station masters hustled over and did his best not to glare at Wynn. One positive thing about holding a title was that no one wanted to insult him directly or inform him what he was doing was wrong. “Might I ask you to come down from there?”
Wynn ignored the request. Politeness could go hang. “Have you seen my wife?”
“This morning I did. Bonny blue gown. So nice to be seeing her out of mourning—”
“Have you seen her again? Just now?”
“Let me think.” The station master tapped his finger against his top lip for an excruciating second. “Aye, I believe I did. She was with two gentleman and a lady. Aye, I’m sure it was her. That blue stands out among all the black I see every day.”
Wynn leaped down, snapping with impatience. “Where did she go?”
The station master stumbled back a step. “I, er, saw her that way.” He pointed to a flight of stairs going down.
Wynn raced over and down the stairs, knocking people aside. The crowd lessened on the lower level as workers moved crates and trunks around the platforms. He ran the length of two passenger trains, scanning the windows, but Svetlana wasn’t there. More trains chugged up the tracks, cargo carriers with grimy faced workers who saw more smoke than sunlight. He twisted his way through the trolleys of luggage and stacks of crates to where a final train huffed at its deserted platform.
A door among a bank of waiting rooms opened and out stepped Sergey and Svetlana, followed by her mother and a tiny rat of a man hustling toward the last train.
“Svetlana!” Wynn ran to her. Thank God he’d found her.
“Wynn!” Face alighting, she took a step to him, but Sergey jerked her back to his side as hatred contorted his face where angry red marks clawed down his cheeks. Someone had made a scratching post of him.
“Take care of him,” he instructed the rat.
Releasing his hold on Ana, who appeared barely able to hold herself upright, the man charged at Wynn, head down and shoulders hunched. Having played a few seasons of university rugby, Wynn braced himself and sidestepped at the last second. His opponent whirled around for another go. Wynn hammered his fist into the man’s face. Bone crunched and blood spurted. He crumpled onto a pile of boxes, clutching his bleeding, broken nose.