The Ice Swan полностью

Still standing, Wynn set his bag on the table and took the opportunity for a diversion as he examined the injury.

“The entry and exit have scabbed over nicely. You don’t require the bandage any longer, but keep the area clean and try not to put pressure on the shoulder. You should regain full use of it soon, as long as you stay away from scrapping.”

“Wound no matter for family honor,” Leonid said.

“I’ve seen enough honor injuries to last me a lifetime. Don’t add anymore to my needless count.”

“Try. No promise.”

“Taking good care of patients, Dr. MacCallan. Well they taught you at University of Glasgow.” At Wynn’s look of surprise, Sheremetev nodded. “My information gleaned from eyes and ears everywhere. Like knowing you top class four years in row, and submit thesis paper your second year with detailing surgical intervention of heart disease.”

“Putting Heart Disease Under the Knife,” he’d titled his two-hundred-page thesis. Congenital heart disease and damage to the four inner valves caused by rheumatic fever were difficult to diagnose at best, and most physicians remained skeptical of delving further than need be. A mystery, they said, that risk dictated remain so. Rigid old jossers. The heart was simply another part of anatomy, an unexplored territory of the human landscape. His paper lambasted their fears and stodgy practices that refused to concede evolving knowledge. His professors had been astounded. By the absurdity of such radical thinking and from a second year, no less, who believed himself capable of putting forward said absurdity.

While Leonid slid his shirt back on Wynn returned the unneeded bits of bandage to his bag and snapped it shut. “Dare I ask if you read my thesis?”

“Nyet, but had man on it. Consider his self expert with hearts now.”

“He was probably the only one to read it. I was certain my professors burned it in the courtyard along with the other heretical texts.”

“Heretics. Groundbreakers. One in the same.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Duke of Westminster? He believe in your groundbreaking theories for recommending you a position at Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur where he patron. Ties with him and your father go back to Eton College, da?”

“Mr. Sheremetev, has there ever been a time when your information was not mistaken?”

“Nyet.” The confident old man poured himself another vodka and downed it. He rolled the bottom of the drained glass around in circles, leaving wet marks on the tablecloth. “I can use man like you. Never know when needing physician, and I resting easier having your talent call on. Medical attention lacking to my countrymen this far from home.”

A private client list with a powerful patron at the top. Many physicians dreamed of such an opportunity, but Wynn wasn’t one of them. It was too safe, too predictable. Outweighing all other considerations, he had no desire to be pinned under Sheremetev’s thumb. The man was powerful, the epicenter of the Russian world he’d shrewdly created here in Paris. Wynn had seen enough to piece together precisely how this world was held together and he wanted no part of it.

He also knew better than to offend his host with outright refusal. “It’s my honor to attend any in need, though my duties are prioritized at hospital with the Tommies.”

The fleshy folds of Sheremetev’s neck twitched as he signaled for the velvet curtains to be drawn open. “Who this Tommy demanding all your time?”

“Tommy Atkins is a common reference for British soldiers. The military loves its jargon.”

In a jargon foreign yet becoming increasingly familiar to Wynn’s ear, Russian peeled from an opening door that had been obscured by large potted plants. Two burly men in evening dress escorted a woman in glittering gold who swayed laughing between them. A shimmering vision of silver glided down the stairs behind them. Svetlana.

Gone were the tattered rags and ill-fitting dresses that were naught to behold in the wake of this gown that skimmed over every curve and elegant line like pouring water. A magnificent armor that made her appear all the more fragile. Pale jewels winked at her throat, ears, and scattered among the fine swirls of hair pinned up to showcase a swan-like neck. A princess in all her glory, leaving Wynn precious little room to be anything other than struck by awe.

Princess Ana tittered in French as she swatted at her handlers, who were not the least bit perturbed by her antics. Discretion no longer a viable option, having drawn the attention of most of the room, the guards did their best to shield her from curious eyes while steering her toward the exit, but she was having none of it.