“You are the most exasperating man I have ever met. Unable to take a simple no because your opinion on the matter outweighs all else. Pride won’t allow you to admit that you have overstepped the mark, as you have done repeatedly since first we met.”
“Well, that’s put me in my place. You’re getting rather good at it, Princess.” Pursuing a woman was bound to offer a few scrapes to a man’s efforts, particularly a woman such as her, but when the bruised ego tempted him to lash out, it was time to withdraw his cards from the game. He shoved off the wall and conjured a smile. “Good night to you then. Remember to eat your apples. Helps keep us pesky doctors away.”
Chapter 8
The time had come.
Svetlana had waited patiently, putting in social appearances over the past several weeks in order to aid her cause. Delicate matters required precise timing, and the less frantic one seemed the more likely their matter was to be met with favor. She wasn’t accustomed to asking favors, but there was a first time for everything.
“How is it a daughter of Russia refuses partaking in her national drink?” Sheremetev poured fresh vodka into his glass, then set the bottle back in the bucket of ice standing at the ready next to his private table.
“This daughter prefers to find culture in her homeland’s tea.” Svetlana raised her
“Is soothing what you require?”
She’d rehearsed her speech over and over, yet pride proved difficult to overcome. It scolded her to find another way. But there was no other way. She’d tried and failed, with the only recourse now to humble herself and ask for help.
She scanned the White Bear’s crowded floor. Russian nobility swarmed every inch like bees in search of honey, their nectar consisting of cigarettes, drink, dalliances, and sharing sad stories of their former lives. Music set them buzzing as if the tunes could pluck them from misery and cast them into a pretense of joy for one evening. Only, these evenings were never once. They happened every night. The same people. The same drinks, dances, and mindless conversations. What so many sought as the comfort of the familiar, Svetlana found raw as sand against skin. They, too, once had their pride, but eventually found themselves where she was now. If there was any hope to be found, it was to one day find her dear friend Sergey sitting among them, for without his selflessness she never would have escaped.
Beneath the table she slid her feet to third position to steady herself. “I confess I find myself in turmoil. My family, like so many others, lost much when we fled Petrograd. I worry every day how I will keep our heads above water.”
“In leaving Moscow years ago to travel the world and increase the Sheremetev prosperity, I wanted to open a place of familiarity and comfort for my fellow Russians as they traveled abroad. Then two years ago when I brought my boy to join me, it was the first time he’d left the soil of his birth. With him came the first waves of èmigrès. I knew then I could use my connections to help those of our kind who lost everything.” He leaned forward, catching the light on his ruby stickpin. “A lady must never worry about such things. I have promised to help you in any way I can, and for as long as necessary I will continue to do so.”
Svetlana smoothed a hand over her watered-silk dress. One of the many ways he’d helped her family, plus food supplies and silk bedding. Quite the stir it had caused among those in the church basement, not to mention jealousy. Svetlana had protested at the extravagance that would place them in debt to this man they barely knew, but Mama would hear nothing of it. The Sheremetevs are famous for their benevolence, she’d claimed. Benevolence was one thing, but running up a tab was not something Svetlana wished to carry.
“Your generosity can never fully be repaid, though I will do everything in my power to do so. I’m afraid I must ask one more tally in our account.”
“It is yours for the asking, Princess.”
Asking. More like groveling. Oh, how she despised it. “The place we are staying is becoming unbearably crowded. Every day refugees pour into the city and there are too few places that will take in Russians. We are forced to live atop one another. It is agony for my sister and mother.”
“For yourself as well, I imagine. A far cry from the Blue Palace that church basement must be.”