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.
The vicious thrill of violent anger sang in Wynn’s blood, but it wasn’t enough. His ferocity demanded consumption in full. He turned on Sergey.
“Is that how you remaining Russians fight? No wonder all the intelligent ones fled your pathetic existence.”
Sergey withdrew a revolver from his jacket and yanked Svetlana closer to his side. He caressed the gun barrel down the side of her cheek, mussing the veil covering her face.
His wife’s whimpers of panic cut sharper than any finely wrought blade. Blood thundered into Wynn’s curling fists. “Let her go.”
“I never wished it to come to this.” Sergey stroked Svetlana’s cheek with the gun barrel. “I’m sorry,