She sipped her tea, the cherries rich against the soured memory of her words. “I’ve asked him to keep a distance. Though he seems a kind man and thoughtful doctor, he is not Russian. He has his people to see to as we do ours. It’s best the two do not mix.”
“That is snobbish.”
“I’m sorry if you don’t agree. There are a great many here tonight who would.”
“They are snobbish too.” He waved a dismissing hand to the throngs of people crowding the tables around them. “Know what I think? You are mad he got close and now you push him away. Forgive Mac. Make things right, then we are all friends again.”
“Circumstances do not allow for such easy diplomacy.”
“
She couldn’t help smiling at his honesty. A sincere trait too often lacking in the aristocracy circles. “I see one good man before me.”
Leonid puffed up his chest and nodded. “That is right. I am good.”
If she stayed much longer, his amiability would have her convinced to repair the rift with Wynn, or worse, enjoy herself in this place. Exhaustion slivered in at the thought.
“It’s getting rather late. I should say good evening.” Rising from the table, Svetlana made for the stairs leading up to the next floor. The hidden rooms where guests disappeared for hours only to return exalted or defeated. Mama more often than not returned defeated.
As her foot hit the first stair, Leonid took her arm. “Where do you go, Angel? This is no way for a lady.”
“Mama is there.”
“I will fetch her.”
“No. I’ll collect her myself.” It was high time she saw for herself what drew everyone’s attention to the ongoings beyond the thick walnut doors draped in red velvet. What illusions captivated Mama to stuff her purse with unpaid bills as if Svetlana wouldn’t find them along with their dwindling money supply.
He didn’t let go of her arm.
At the sight of Leonid, the doormen swung wide the doors to a world of secrets and expense. Heavy drapes covered the walls, folding the large room into a muffled embrace. Gold chandeliers dripped from the ceilings to cast their golden glow across the tables covered in green felt and shuffling cards. Dice flashed around spinning wheels and tumbled across red and black numbers as chips clanked softly in eager palms. When the chips ran out, money and gems of all cut and color were pushed into betting piles.
Svetlana’s stomach clenched with sickness. She’d known from the start, but to see it before her in bloated depravity was enough to make her want to scream. Had they not lost enough?
“Wait. I will find her,” Leonid whispered.
“No need. I see her.” Dislodging from his grip, Svetlana sailed between the tables, ignoring the appreciative glances from drunken boyars and counts, and stopped at a table near the back surrounded by four gentlemen and two ladies. “Hello, Mama.”
Mama jumped from her chair, unexpected surprise registering on her face. A garish clash with her lilac gown and white hair plumes.
“What are you doing here?” She cast a glance at the jewel- and medal-bedecked people behind her at the table. Her shoulders straightened. “That is, allow me to present my daughter, Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky.”
“I don’t care if she’s a scullery maid. Titles are worthless. You owe me eight hundred rubles.” One of the men with a pointy black beard and shiny gold buttons glared at her mother. “Tonight.”
“Count, if you’ll only allow me to pay you tomorrow when I have the funds. You see—”
The count smacked his palm against the table, crumbling the pile of chips in front of him. “Excuses. Do not come to the tables if you do not have funds to participate.”
“I did not come empty-handed, as you well know. It sits there before you.”
“That was from the first two games. You owe me for the third.”
Svetlana’s eye moved to the table. There among the pile of chips and coins was a ruby bracelet that once belonged to her great-aunt and an egg-size topaz brooch that once graced the robes of Princess Sophia Dalsky during the coronation of Empress Catherine II. Her family’s precious few heirlooms, smuggled out of Russia to be used for food, clothing, and shelter. How vulgar they looked discarded there next to the playing cards and empty glasses of vodka, as if they were another stale crumb to be tossed to the ravenous vultures.
Vicious fear twisted in Svetlana’s stomach. Without the jewels they did not stand a chance to survive and escape for good. She leaned down to her mother’s ear, her voice ragged. “Mama, what have you done?”
Mama swept her fan up to cover her mouth so only Svetlana might hear her. “Stop fretting. It is not the last of them, merely the only ones I brought this night.”
“You will ruin us.”