“
“I countess. Command you.”
“Apologies, your ladyship, but I believe you’ve had enough to drink and I’m fresh out of vodka.”
“Never run dry in Russia. It flow like River Neva to Petersburg palaces. It still Petersburg. No call Petrograd. War never changed that. It no change me countess.” She poked herself again. “Countess Pletnyovna. You kiss.” She swung her hand up to Wynn’s face, smearing her fingers across his lips.
“A pleasure to meet you, Countess, but I have a rather important matter to attend to.”
“I many important matters in Russia. Balls, parties, operas. Here, nothing. Sit. Wait for home return. Live in palace with many jewels. All gone now.”
“My sympathies for your loss, Countess. Please, excuse me.” Wynn tore himself away as a far-off mist clouded her eyes. Whether from the drink or the memories of diamonds lost, he couldn’t decide. Most likely both if forced to give his professional diagnosis.
Wynn angled his way to the VIP table where Sheremetev was customarily found holding court. Dodging a harried waiter with a loaded tray, he sidestepped into a cluster of men smoking cigars. He could handle all manner of smells from gangrene, to putrid flesh, to chlorine gas bubbling first thing in the morning, but being able to endure cigar smoke was not one of his nasal-suffering attributes.
“
It hadn’t taken long for Wynn to decipher that Russian word and the universal response being announced as a physician achieved. An unequal mixture of awe and suspicion that undoubtedly led to—
“
“It’s turning red because you’re touching it.”
“But it red.”
Not wanting to give a formal examination standing next to the dance floor, Wynn gave the spot a once-over to ensure the man wasn’t suffering a lethal mole, then gently tugged the shirt back down.
“I see no cause for concern. However, if you’re distressed about its appearance, you may come to Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur tomorrow. Give my name, Dr. MacCallan, and one of the physicians will attend you.”
Frowning dubiously at being put off, the man went back to poking his side with his cohorts as audience. Wynn moved quickly through the crowd before another potential patient required medical attention. It never failed. Attend a party and before long he ended up in a side room taking consultations without even a glass of punch to remind him why he’d come in the first place.
At last he arrived at the circle of sidearm-strapped men guarding Sheremetev’s private booth. “Evening, gents. I see you haven’t moved since last I saw you.” It wasn’t uncommon for a club, hotel, or fancy restaurant to have discreet crowd control should the need arise, but the stipulation was always discreet. These men made no bones about their inclusion and intent to the establishment. An unsettling insight into the owner himself.
One of the guards grunted and peeled back an inch of the velvet curtain that sectioned off the private table. A few words of Russian and the curtain pulled back as a man wearing a thick coat and a tall wool hat like many of the émigrés he’d seen in the Alexander church basement slid from the booth and slunk away. The guard grunted for Wynn to enter.
“Our own savior. Come in. Come.” Managing to surround himself with his own atmosphere, Sheremetev assembled himself in the center of the booth with his bulbous belly pushing against the table. He was dressed in immaculate evening clothes that were too fine for wartimes with the same double-headed eagle stickpin glistening from the folds of his white ascot. Like a drop of blood on snow. A ruby that size could feed the entire 8th Arrondissement for a month.
Wynn stepped into the cordoned-off space and remained standing. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“Never could you intrude. Our business at conclusion.” The folds around Sheremetev’s eyes twitched as they followed the man out of the club. “Heat addling him.”
“Perhaps he should have taken off his wool hat. It’s nearly thirty-three degrees Celsius outside.”
“Russians these days wear all worldly goods no matter temperature wherever go. One never know.”