She'd brought both into play last night, slashing in a wide circle that effectively separated the two antagonists. She hadn't had to say a single word after that. The planter's son, who was a regular and well aware that she didn't palm her weapons unless she was prepared to use them, apologized for the disturbance and resumed his seat. The sailor, there for the first time, was too surprised to offer any more trouble, and Jeremiah, late into the fray but handy just the same, escorted him to the door.
But despite the ease with which she'd ended the fracas, Tanya's nerves had still been on edge for the remainder of the night, and such extreme tension was debilitating. That was why she'd gone straight to bed as soon as she'd locked up. She could accept violence against herself more easily than she could accept having to dole it out, because receiving it had been a matter of course her whole life. Inflicting some of her own went against her grain. Yet she didn't hesitate to do so when it was necessary, and it had been necessary a number of times over the years, and more often in just the past six months.
In spite of everything she did to appear unappealing to The Seraglio's customers, a drunk sometimes didn't see too well, and all it took was the sight of a skirt to make one think he'd found an available female. She'd had her share of pinches and pawing, for the most part ended with a sharp word or a well-placed cuff to the side of the head. If a man was drunk enough to have blurred vision, he was drunk enough for her to handle. It was those times when she was caught alone outside the common room by men not so drunk, in either the storeroom or the kitchen, or on her way to the stable out back, or even followed into her room once, that she'd had to get serious about protecting herself. But those attempts were made by men who'd known her for a long time, weren't fooled by her normal appearance, and now thought to take advantage of Dobbs' incapacity.
The only good thing she could say about Dobbs was that when he'd been hale and hearty, he'd been a potent discouragement to anyone who wanted to lay his hands on her. Once, he'd nearly beaten to death one of his own friends who had tried to kiss her, and that kind of news spread fast. Not that he had been protecting her virtue then or in other instances. He simply hated fornication with a passion and wouldn't stand for it under his roof. If Aggie and April wanted to accommodate customers in that way, and both of them often did, they made private arrangements. More recently they sneaked off to the stables whenever things slowed down. Dobbs' reaction wasn't normal, certainly, but it was amusing, since Iris had once confessed that it was because he couldn't do it anymore himself. Typical of Dobbs, then, not to want anyone else to do what he couldn't.
Tanya spared only one sigh as she looked over the common room before she got busy. There was also the beer shipment to see to, lunch and dinner to prepare, new candles to order, which required a three-block walk past gambling dens, brothels, and seedier taverns that were open day and night, since The Seraglio was located in one of the worst sections of Natchez. And then, just before it was time to open the doors, April's little brother stopped by to tell Tanya that The Seraglio's main attraction had sprained her ankle and wouldn't be able to perform tonight or any time soon. Just what she needed to hear minutes before opening. A headache began immediately.
Chapter 3
"What in hell are we doing here, Stefan?" Lazar complained as he watched a red-bearded man in fringed buckskins banging on his table with an empty beer mug, crudely demanding that the show begin. "We could have awaited Serge at the hotel, which at least offers a modicum of comfort."
"You have gone slumming before—"
"Not where every mother's son is armed to his teeth," Lazar hissed.
Stefan chuckled. "You exaggerate, my friend, but even so, like Vasili, I'm feeling restless enough to welcome a diversion, no matter its form."
"Oh, God," Lazar groaned, slumping down in his chair. "With both of you seeking trouble, we're bound to find it."
Stefan cocked a black brow. "Who said anything about trouble?"
"A diversion to you is nothing less than a rousing good fight. And I know you are exasperated — we all are after what we learned today. But you, if you will forgive my saying so, are an unpredictable bastard in such a mood."
Stefan snorted without taking offense. Longstanding friends were occasionally allowed to insult him with impunity.
"I assure you I will start nothing that I can't finish."
"Assurances like that I don't need."
"Stop worrying, Lazar. We are here only to keep Vasili company, and to keep from going at each other's throats while we play this waiting game
"And what is Vasili's excuse?" Lazar queried, watching the man in question move casually about the room, speaking to the patrons as if he were a regular.
"He was intrigued by the name of this place when he heard it mentioned on The Lorilie, along with a description of its main attraction. But then he is so homesick he will settle for even the most laughable performance if he can see one single belly undulate."
"That damned concubine Abdul gave him, she does dance like an angel, doesn't she?" A chuckle broke through Lazar's concern. "She undulates even better in bed."
"So you've tried her?"
"Vasili is ever generous... you mean you haven't?"
"Slaves, even freed slaves, are too submissive for my tastes.
Lazar grinned at that opinion. Submissiveness was nice on occasion, as far as he was concerned, especially when you had a termagant for a mistress, which he did. That one he had been glad to leave behind for this journey, but he hadn't expected to be away so long.
None of them had expected it, since their task had been so simple. They had merely to contact a Madame Rousseau in New Orleans. Hers was the one name that had come to Sandor all those years ago, as prearranged, and she was to have led them directly to Baroness Tomilova and her royal charge. A week at the most to pack up the princess, and they would have been on their way home. So simple... except Madame Rousseau had passed away three years ago, and her husband had moved to Charleston.
A week was wasted making inquiries in New Orleans about the baroness, but it was as if she had never been there, for no one remembered her. So they sailed to Charleston to speak with the lady's husband. More time wasted, for the gentleman had become a drunkard since Madame Rousseau's death. He could barely remember his wife, much less some woman he might or might not have met twenty years ago. His only suggestion, petulantly given after a great deal of browbeating, was that they speak with his wife's sister, who he thought, to the best of his recollection, though he wasn't positive, had been living with them at the time in question. The only problem, however, was that she had married ten years ago and moved to Natchez, Mississippi.
So to sail back to New Orleans on the oft chance that Rousseau's doubtful memory might be correct, and journey up the Mississippi River to the old town of Natchez? But what else could they do? Tatiana Janacek had waited all these years to be summoned home to assume her rightful place in Cardinia. She had to be found, no matter how long it took.
However, frustration was keen by this point. They all felt it. But until the new King of Cardinia lost his patience and said to hell with it, no one else would. But that was before their visit to Madame Rousseau's sister this morning at her plantation just south of town, which proved the worst frustration of all because of the incredible tale she had to relate to them.
Now Lazar was for quitting the country and simply reporting the tragedy that had befallen the Janacek infant. Serge was for finding another to take her place, someone more to the king's liking, but the trouble with that was the princess had an identifying mark on her left cheek, her sitting cheek, that Sandor had put there himself. But the cousins, Stefan and Vasili, were adamant still for following every lead, no matter how cold, until there was no place left to look. No telling how many more months could be wasted on that kind of doggedness. And what did they have to go on now but the name of the last person who supposedly had seen the baroness alive?