The fluted white petals spiraled to a ruffled center of pure cream. The sweet scent pirouetted under Svetlana’s nose with images of spring gardens, rain showers, and violin strings. She could almost feel the velvetiness gliding under her finger. Had Wynn picked it out himself? Catching herself, she turned away and stared out the window as darkness descended on the streets. What did it matter if he sent a hundred roses? They meant nothing, as did this carriage. What mattered was meeting one of the wealthiest and most influential families in all of Russia that night. If anyone could help her family’s dire situation, it would be them. If anyone could gather information about Nikolai and Papa, the Sheremetevs could.
The rose scent wafted closer. Svetlana clenched her hands in her lap against its enticement. She never should have bared her vulnerability to him. But the rain and fear and his soothing manner had weakened her defenses, which should have remained impenetrable. Yet the crack came as bits of her slipped through and into the solace between them. In that suspended moment she’d felt the relief of release to another who understood—understood and provided steady ground when her own feet shifted beneath her.
A flitting moment of weakness, that’s all it was. She had more important matters at hand.
Before long, the carriage stopped and the door opened to a white bricked building with a green metal-and-glass awning fanning over two dark wood doors. There were no windows.
“Is this the correct address?” Mama squinted at the façade. “It looks deserted.”
Svetlana moved up the short flight of stairs and read the gold plaque next to the door. The White Bear. She pulled Leonid’s card from her beaded purse. The names matched.
Out of nowhere a hand plucked the card from her fingers. The hand quickly morphed into an arm and then a barrel-chested man who looked like he could stop canon fire by himself. From the looks of his face he probably did.
“You may enter,” he boomed in Russian. He returned the card and opened one of the doors.
They entered a small room with dark paneling and low-lit sconces on the wall. A woman dressed in a traditional Russian
“Can I take your wraps?” she asked. Accepting their outer garments, the woman indicated a somewhat hidden door at the back of the room. “Have a pleasant evening.”
The door swung open to a blaze of red, gold, and green. A swell of music and laughter carried them inside to an imperial palace of decadence. Red carpets sprawled across the floor to the dark green walls that swept to a gold-leafed ceiling that refracted the dozens of crystal chandeliers. Dark booths lined the walls while a step down to a lower tier was dotted with tables draped in snowy linens and candles ensconced in glass. Men dressed in formal white tie and women dripping in silk and jewels crowded every space available while cigarette smoke and music wove between the cracks, enticing couples to the dance floor.
“Are we not to be announced?” Mama complained over the din. No one noticed.
“I do not think this is the kind of place for announcing,” Svetlana said as a waiter sped past them with a loaded tray of drinks. She resisted the urge to slide her feet into third position, which always produced a grounding effect.
“Then what sort of place have you forced us to?”
“Mama, remember we are not here for frivolities. We are here to assess if this Sheremetev can help us out of the church cellar and find a safer place to live in Paris, but he is not to know our true intentions or our true titles until I deem him trustworthy enough to confide in. Mama, are you listening?” In fact, her mother was not once a tray heaped with caviar and chocolate truffles had swerved in front of them. Without warning, Svetlana’s stomach rumbled with the unfilling portions of cabbage and celery stew she had sipped hours before. The last time she’d eaten a truffle … Her stomach rumbled louder.
“Svetlana Dalsky!” Leonid forced his way through the crowd, his flat face lifting in charismatic pleasure. “I thought you never to arrive! And look. Most beautiful woman in our place.” He kissed her on both cheeks, careful to keep his cigarette from catching her hair. “But where doctor? He not saving other gunshots?”
“He was called to the hospital but sends his deepest regrets and well wishes on your name day celebration.”
“That is sad, but now I smoke. Do not tell this.” He took a defiant puff and looked behind her. “This is who?”
“Allow me to present my mother, Ana Dalsky.”