“As I said, everyone and everything is mine to know, Princess. Word does not take long to cross my attention.” Sheremetev twitched his finger, and a bottle of vodka and another of red wine appeared on the table along with fresh glasses. “Such as the absence of your doctor. Has the Marquess of Tarltan abandoned us?”
“Only for patients. He is devoted to them. I have the proof.” Leonid raised the cigarette to his lips, hesitated, then ground it into the crystal ashtray on the table. He slid a wink to Svetlana.
“Marquess.” Mama’s tears evaporated as she indicated for a glass of the red to be filled. “I have never heard of this marquess. He is a physician, yes?”
“It’s a noble title in Scotland where he comes from. Below a duke,” Svetlana said. “Which I assume you already know, along with the holdings in his possession.”
Sheremetev tapped the side of his nose. “Ahead of the competition I remain.”
Mama’s accusatory gaze slid to her over the top of the wine glass. She despised being absent of pertinent information. The only thing she loathed more was being intentionally left out. “Well, I see he amounts to more than what I was led to believe. Though why he continues with menial work when the respectability of a title rests on him is beyond my comprehension.”
“I believe he cares more for the title of surgeon,” Svetlana said.
Mama rolled her eyes with exasperation to Sheremetev. “These younger generations have no sense of tradition. Of the demands on retaining their place in society.” She took a sip of her wine and leaned close to Svetlana. “This wine is delicious. When you marry Sergey be sure his shipping business imports this and not the cheap grapes from Italy.”
Unable to listen anymore, Svetlana turned her attention to the crowd who bounced around to the unusual musical combination of piano, violin, tambourine, and balalaika. Drinks, one could assume vodka, flowed like the River Neva and the people mere fish swimming from one frothy bubble to the next, gulping up the offered sips of life. One might never know death, poverty, and war stalked outside.
“Dance, Angel?” Leonid whispered on a puff of cigarette breath. “Parents talk much and say little. These ears of mine are bleeding.”
Svetlana nodded. “I would be delighted.”
On the dance floor, Leonid swept her around in something akin to a waltz with a strange beat similar to what a
“Enjoying the party?” he asked as they whisked past a waiter carrying bowls of caviar. Where had they found these extravagances? It was nothing short of a return to the world she had known, one that had all but disappeared into a dank basement of merest survival. For one night she wished only to revel in the memory of what once was.
“It’s very exciting.”
“Everything is loud and big with
“I’ve never been to a party quite like this.”
“That is because you are from old Saint Petersburg. Whole city filled with walking corpses.” He pretended to snore. He was right. Her home city was one of grand architecture, watercolors, and stale conversation by aristocrats too busy imagining themselves in a French court. The only life that existed was the vein of gossip pumping to keep society upright. “We Muscovite. Know how to live!” He thumped his chest, which garnered a loud cheer from whirling couples.
A slight pain shivered on her shin. The wound from the shard of glass was healing nicely, but it would be some time before the discomfort vanished completely. “Is this what it’s like every night in Moscow? Music, dancing, drinking, and general merrymaking?”
“
“I imagine the Sheremetevs are magnanimous hosts.”
“
“Careful. You open those doors too wide and any ol’ riffraff can walk in.” Wynn stood at the edge of the dance floor, effortlessly relaxed amid a sea of jostling Russians.
“Doctor! How excellent see you.” Leonid twirled them to a stop, his words bubbling out in broken English. “We think no come.”
“I almost didn’t, but things calmed down enough for me to slip out. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”
“Anything for man save life.”