It was a Fabergé egg made of glossy emerald and gold filigree. Inside was a miniature of St. Basil’s Cathedral in dazzling colors of sapphire, ruby, turquoise, tourmaline, and diamond. Wynn stared in stunned silence.
“I think he likes.” Sheremetev thumped him on the back to the crowd’s roar of laughter. “A toast! My son Mikhail Leonid on
name day. To man who saved life, and to angel who shining between them.
“
Sheremetev shifted his attention to Svetlana, causing the orbit of onlookers to mimic him. “And for you, our dear princess, whatever heart’s desire will be wish to grant.”
As with any diplomatic service, she’d keep first introductions modest. To request his help now would be a hand overplayed. Such entreaties required a delicacy of timing. “Sir, your kindness and hospitality are more than enough. Please do not think on it again.”
“I must think on it, be assured. For own good.” Tweaking her sleeve so the beads jangled together, he disappeared into the haze of vodka bottles and cigarettes. Leonid trailed at his heels.
Svetlana eased a breath out. She’d done it. One step closer to safety.
The crowd bumped back to their tables jabbering incoherently over the music, leaving her and Wynn alone once more. Alone with their prize platter of beets.
“I do believe you’ve firmly ingratiated yourself into the White émigrés’ society. Do not be surprised to find requests for house calls from them,” she said.
“They’ll be sorely disappointed to find I’m not a general practitioner.”
“It matters not. By tomorrow morning you will achieve near-saint status.”
“I’d settle for a dance with you.” Smoothing his face to one of grave solemnity, he bowed and held out his hand. “My dear princess, might you honor me with this waltz that has finally played to a rhythm my feet can comprehend?”
A waltz was difficult to resist and one of her favorites, a reminder of days filled with grace and elegance. It had nothing whatsoever to do with him or the way he looked in evening dress. Or so she told herself. “A pleasure, Marquess.”
Taking her hand, he hesitated with the Fabergé egg in his other hand while sizing up his jacket pocket.
“It’s quite safe on the table. No one in this entire room would dare touch it under Sheremetev’s protection.”
Placing the egg in the center of the table, Wynn guided her to the dance floor and she once more found herself in his arms. This time his palm was warm against hers.
“Quite a party. Are all Russian get-togethers like this?”
“Truthfully, I have never entered a place such as this. It is as if they have forgotten the war exists outside.”
“The extravagance is a wee bit surprising, but then again these Sheremetevs don’t seem to do things in half measures. Still, it makes one wonder.” He looked around with a slight frown puckering his forehead. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I believe so.”
“Not worried about the Bolsheviks, are you?” Svetlana’s hand slipped in his. He caught it and held tight, forcing her attention to him. “Is that why you won’t trust me? I might be the enemy?”
Memories of that red night with Petrograd burning around her and screams renting the streets flashed through her mind rapidly as gunfire. The aftermath of horror, of starving, of freezing, of hiding among beasts to avoid capture snapped at her heels. Always the same nightmare relived each time she closed her eyes.
“You don’t understand. You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t, but I can promise—”
“You cannot commit promises on things you know nothing about. Your world is of sterile hospitals, treating patients, and a home tucked safely on an island across a channel from war. This is not your world. These, the White émigrés, we are not your people. I am grateful for all you’ve done, truly, and I’m glad Leonid was able to express his gratitude for you saving his life, but you should take your leave after tonight.”
He had the gall to look not the least bit taken aback. “And miss the opportunity to become the premier physician to the fleeing nobles of Russia? Not likely.”
“This is nothing to jest about. You do not belong here. Please see to your priorities elsewhere.”
“Rather snobbish of you.”
“Do not make this more difficult than need be. You have your place as I have mine. I see no reason for our paths to cross again. After this evening we will say goodbye.” It was for the best. It had to be. Her life was without certainty, a position she despised. She would not allow a man, a near stranger, to rock her further from the shaky ground upon which she hovered, and Wynn MacCallan came at her with every ability to distract her focus.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon.”