While making their way through Belgium they had heard of a church on the outskirts of Paris that was taking in White émigrés, but upon arrival there had only been space enough in the basement for them to sit back to back in hopes of sleeping. Mama had demanded—loudly—that serene princesses of relation to the tsar himself deserved an entire corner to themselves. It hadn’t taken long for threats to come. Svetlana had sneaked out her family and Mrs. Varjensky in the middle of the night and led them into the city only to find themselves beneath the floor of another church.
“How is your leg?” Mama’s expression softened, but the sunlight streaming through the window was not kind to the lines on her face. Her skin was soft and smooth as a young girl’s in Petrograd, but the passing months had left their wearisome marks.
“It will heal.”
“God give you strength. Rest now.”
Svetlana took Marina’s offered hand and lowered herself once more to the pallet. Marina folded her shawl and propped it under Svetlana’s ankle. “I’ll see if I can find something to make the tea for you and Mrs. Varjensky. Try to close your eyes.”
Every fiber in Svetlana’s body cried out for rest the way it did after a long day of dancing. But unlike the familiarity of a ballet barre to push her onward, nothing of comfort was to be found here. Nothing but unrest and danger. They could stay no longer.
Chapter 3
Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. Princess. A Russian princess. Princess Svetlana of the silver hair and arctic eyes who didn’t smile. Svetlana of the too many names who wanted no one to find her.
But Wynn had found her and she’d been a constant on his mind ever since.
“Wake up, Your Excellency. You’re in a daze.” Gerard ribbed him.
Wynn blinked. Drying soap suds covered his hands. “Sorry. Mind elsewhere.” He quickly rinsed off the lather and dried his hands with a fresh cloth. The sounds of cleanup from the surgery thumped in the room next door.
“Let me guess. Somewhere far north of here with the strains of a balalaika playing in the background.” At Wynn’s frown, Gerard rolled his eyes and stuck his hands under the steaming stream of water. “If you’re to woo a lady of Russian origins, you might as well start learning her culture. Women appreciate that sort of attention to detail. I’ll lend you my copy of Pushkin.”
“I see the rumor mill is already churning.”
“How can it not? I hear the lady puts a glittering diamond to shame.”
“Was it also mentioned that said lady had a large glass fragment embedded in her tibialis anterior muscle?” Wynn tossed a clean towel directly at his mate’s head. Or that she’d had the strength of a soldier not to cry out in pain when he’d yanked said glass from her leg?
The towel knocked Gerard’s glasses sideways. “Ah, so that’s why you walked her home. Going to see her again?” Adjusting the wire frames, his large eyes blinked behind the glass.
“I’m taking medicine to her and the other patient who came in with her.”
“Good play. Always need a reason to make a second impression. Or so I’ve been told. Never gotten a chance to make one myself.”
“The fact that I’m treating them for wounds makes no never mind.”
“Of course, that too.” Gerard tossed his towel in the bin with the other used ones and followed Wynn out of the washroom and into the carpeted hall where nurses bustled with supply trollies. “Is she staying nearby?”
Wynn stopped himself from nodding. Svetlana had taken great pains to hide her family, to the point of foregoing their titles, and had been terrified at his discovery. Whatever hunted them, they were safe enough at the church. Yet he had no desire to usher in needless fear by giving them away.
“Near enough. Seems to be quite a few of her countrymen on the run.”
“Who can blame them? The people are revolting, and their tsar abdicated to a mob who is keeping him and his family locked in a palace like prisoners. The whole country is in turmoil. I hope they set it right again and soon before Germany takes advantage of the chaos. The Allies need stabilizing in this war.”
They rounded the corner to the administrative hall. Hotel staff once operated within these small offices that were now overrun with dead-on-their-feet medical staff. Wynn opened the door to their designated office, switched on the light, and immediately regretted it. Ignoring the mounds of paperwork was easier in the dark.
“Speaking of stable, that first lieutenant who was brought in from machine-gun wounds has a heart stutter,” Wynn said.
“He took six bullets to the chest. I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
“I don’t feel right about it.”