Likewise he was looking at Tanya as if he couldn't believe his eyes, but then he groaned, demanding of his friend, "You gave up without even trying, didn't you? But you don't have to settle for that, for God's sake," he said in disgust, jerking his head toward Tanya. "I will procure the dancer for you myself."
It took Tanya a moment to comprehend that she had been insulted in the worst way. She wasn't supposed to be pretty, but common decency kept a man's mouth shut about it. But to be made to feel that she wasn't good enough to be the rug they would walk on—that hurt, more than she would have thought possible. That she could be hurt by a few insensitive words, and from a stranger no less, also infuriated her. Two emotions that didn't sit well together raged within her.
Who did they think they were, these strangers, the one sure she could be bought, the other sure no one in his right mind would want to buy her? She wanted to disappear. She wanted to retaliate. First she had to get off the lap of the dark one.
She settled on two out of three, since the arms that had held her were now loosened. She rose with as much dignity as she could muster, carefully placed the gold coins on the table, and mindful that The Seraglio had witnessed a scene just last night and didn't need another, she turned to leave. A wise decision she could have been proud of, but her anger suddenly got the better of her and she swung around and slapped the golden Adonis with all her might.
What happened then was swift, no one's reflexes lagging. Vasili raised his arm with the clear intent of slapping her back, Stefan leaped up and caught his arm, while Tanya unsheathed her knife. But for once she didn't care to make good on her threat, didn't even demand that they leave. While they both stood unmoving, staring at her knife, Tanya backed away, turned, and ran out the back door.
As soon as the wench was gone from sight, Stefan turned on his friend with a snarl. "Vasili, you are about as sensitive as a pig!" At the same instant, Vasili burst out incredulously, "That bitch pulled a knife on me!"
"Not surprising, since you were about to hit her," Stefan noted with disgust.
"Deservedly, after she slapped me."
"Which you deserved."
Vasili shrugged and then grinned. "What does it matter, as long as you have forgiven me my loose tongue. Now, would you like me to find the dancer for you?"
"Idiot, that was the dancer."
Only the merest widening of Vasili's eyes showed his surprise, before he said imperiously, "Then I returned to save you just in time. You may thank me later."
Chapter 5
After hearing Serge's discouraging news that the Dobbs woman was another lead who had been dead many years, Vasili had been in favor of returning to The Seraglio last night, but Stefan had talked him into waiting until the morning. It was ironic that they had been so close to their quarry without even knowing it. But the woman's husband, the owner of the tavern and their only remaining hope for some solid information about Tatiana, had lived in this town for over twenty years. He wasn't going anywhere.
The truth of the matter was that Stefan was embarrassed to face the little dancer again, after he'd sat there and let her be wounded by Vasili's arrogance. Granted, he'd been amazed into momentary speechlessness by Vasili's insensitivity, but that was no excuse. He'd chosen the wench for the evening, so he should have protected or at least spoken up for her sooner than he did.
Of course, it had not taken him long to understand why his friend had been upset enough not to care whom he insulted. Vasili had seen the entire situation as being his fault because of his earlier remark, and so had tried to correct it as swiftly as possible, and contempt was a specialty of his, developed to perfection.
At any rate, Stefan didn't want to return to the tavern until he could be assured the wench wouldn't be there, which was this morning, while the place wasn't open for business. Yet who should open the door to Serge's pounding but the very one Stefan had hoped to avoid. And what did she do upon seeing them standing there but immediately shut the door, and none too gently.
It was a new experience for all four of them, having a door closed in their face, and they each reacted differently.
Serge became aggressive, asking, "Shall I break it down?"
Before anyone answered, Vasili voiced his indignation. "More audacious behavior by the wench. Do you still maintain she doesn't deserve to be put in her place, Stefan?"
Stefan was purely disgusted with himself, for his first reaction to that closed door was relief, which smacked of cowardice, something no one in his right mind could ever accuse him of. Accordingly, his tone was a bit clipped when he shot back, "And what is her place, my friend? She's not a Cardinian peasant, you know."
"She's an American peasant. What, pray, is the difference?"
Lazar was laughing by this time, he was so amused, and answered, "Damned if I know, but I'm sure she can tell you. Why don't we ask her?"
"We'll have to break the door down to do that," Serge reminded them.
"I didn't hear a lock turn," Vasili said. "Just open—"
The lock clicked even as he spoke, so Serge asked again, "Shall I break it down?"
With a sound of annoyance, Stefan stepped forward and rapped sharply on the door, calling out, "Mistress, our business is with Wilbert Dobbs, not with you. Kindly—"
"Dobbs is sick," the female voice shouted. "I run the place now, so you'd have to deal with me, and that means you might as well leave."
She'd answered so quickly, it was obvious she'd been listening at the door, knowledge that would have increased Stefan's embarrassment if her stubbornness hadn't just pricked his temper. "Unless you wish to do without a door until this one can be repaired, I would suggest you open it very quickly, mistress!"
Magic words, apparently. The door opened, but the wench stood there blocking the way, hands on hips, one on the hilt of her knife. The knife was still sheathed, but Vasili and Stefan knew how quickly that could be amended, and the light of battle in her eyes said it was likely to be. Her clothes were similar to those she'd worn last night, with merely a different colored shirt, one that cast a gray pallor to her complexion. The bright light of day was definitely not kind to her.
"You speak English real good for a foreigner," she told Stefan directly, not bothering to look at the others. "But you sure don't understand its meaning very well. I told you Dobbs is sick. That means he can't be disturbed by the likes of you."
Stefan took an intimidating step toward her, but she held her ground. Her courage was commendable, but foolish under the circumstances. He was, after all, nearly a head taller than she and in prime physical condition, and she had no idea what he was capable of. His eyes had begun to glow with his annoyance, though he was unaware of that fact, or that it was the reason her hands had started to sweat.
"If you understand English yourself," he said with soft menace, "then understand that we will speak with Wilbert Dobbs because it is imperative that we do so, and nothing you can say or do will alter that. If my own understanding is correct, I believe that means you would be wise to step out of the way."
She hesitated for a long moment, glaring at him, before she said, "Go on, then, disturb a dying man. It's on your conscience, not mine." And she whipped around, leaving the doorway and their presence as quickly as possible.
"You could have at least asked her where the fellow is," Vasili grumbled as he and the others followed Stefan inside.
Lazar chuckled, still finding the situation highly amusing. "It will be easier to find him ourselves, Vasili, than to get any more information out of that one. We have not a palace to search, after all, but a few measly rooms."
"Then let us proceed, by all means. This place is hard to stomach in the light of day."
Actually, it smelled of lye soap, rather than stale beer. Tables were moved aside, chairs upended on them, and the floor was still damp in spots from being scrubbed. The tavern was as clean as it was ever likely to be. Vasili's finding it distasteful was merely a reflection of his mood, primed for ridicule after th
eir unexpected reception.
Up a narrow flight of stairs and down an even narrower hallway, Wilbert Dobbs' voice, raised in complaint about the tardiness of his breakfast, drew them directly to him. He did not sound like a sick man. He sounded like an irate, hungry man.
Lazar was still finding this part of their quest very entertaining, likely because Vasili was not. Close to laughter again, he wondered aloud, "Do you suppose that green-eyed dragon below is the lazy slut he's calling for?"
"Slut maybe, but lazy?" Serge replied. "She's working herself into the grave, if you ask me. She looks about two steps from it."
Serge could be even more blunt than Vasili in speaking the obvious, and having the obvious pointed out so blaringly stirred Stefan's guilt for his sharpness with the girl just now. She did look overworked, cruelly so, and that could be the cause of her bad temper, rather than what had happened last night. At any rate, he shouldn't have let her prod his own temper.
"What is this?" Vasili demanded impatiently. "That impudent bitch isn't worth our curiosity, particularly when the whereabouts of the princess could be revealed in a matter of moments."
"Or not," Serge pointed out, though he reached for the door handle. "And I would just as soon have delayed another 'not.' "
"Damn you, Tanya!" they were greeted before the door finished its inward swing. "What excuse. . ."
The words died off as the four men filed into the small room, crowding it with their size. Wilbert Dobbs jerked up in his bed, no easy feat with his bloated body.
"Here, now, how'd you get in here?" he blustered, though there was a marked improvement in his tone of voice, a deference for his betters, which they personified in the richness of their dress as well as their bearing. "Tanya knows I don't want no visitors."
"If you refer to the wench below, then you may absolve her, for she did her best to turn us away," Lazar volunteered. .
"Not good enough," Dobbs snorted. "All right, then, let's hear it. What do the likes of you fine gentlemen want with me?"
"We are here on a matter concerning your deceased wife," Lazar answered.
"Iris? What, has she been bequeathed something by that fine family that disowned her for marrying me?"
Dobbs laughed at the thought that something might finally have come out of that mistake. Iris had married him in desperation because her rich lover wouldn't have her after she got with child. Dobbs had thought she'd add a little class to the tavern he'd just opened in Natchez, so he'd jumped at the chance to offer his name. But she'd lost the brat and got slovenly after that, so they'd both lost out on the bargain.
His hope of a belated inheritance was quickly dashed, however. "We know nothing of your wife's family, Mr. Dobbs," he was told by the same man. "Our interest is in the woman with whom she departed New Orleans nearly twenty years ago."
"The crazy foreigner?"
"Your wife mentioned her to you, then?" Lazar asked.
"I met her myself when I caught up with Iris."
He didn't like being reminded of that time his wife had run away from him, going home to New Orleans to beg her folks to take her back, futilely as it turned out. He'd had every intention of beating her senseless, despite the fact that she was returning to him. But she'd had that foreign woman with her who'd died of the fever within hours of his finding them, and the woman's baby. It had galled him to forgo beating her, but Iris had needed her faculties intact to care for the baby. And the baby had been more important at the time, for he'd already decided to keep it. In a few years she'd be as good as any slave, and she'd cost him nothing.
As he recalled how he'd come by Tanya, his expression turned wary and his tone became belligerent. "There's not much to tell about that woman. She didn't have a penny to her name, but she managed to talk Iris into taking her along with her, even though the going wouldn't be easy traveling by wagon. But Iris always was softhearted. "
"With a direct river route between New Orleans and Natchez, why was your wife traveling by land and without escort?" Lazar asked.
"She didn't have the fare for no riverboat either, not that it's any of your business. But she'd gone down there with the wagon, my wagon. She's damn lucky she didn't sell it—" Dobbs fell silent with a scowl, aware that he was saying more than they needed to know, but having already blurted out so much, he confessed, "The wife thought to run off from me, but realized she had nowhere to go. She was coming back when I found her camped along the river road, trying to nurse the woman. But she was burned up with fever, and shouting all kinds of nonsense about assassins and kings, mostly in languages we'd never heard before, and mostly about failing her duty, whatever that was. She died in her sleep that night, and that's all there is to tell."
"I think not, Mr. Dobbs," said the clipped voice of the dark man with the devil's eyes. "You forget to mention the child."
More than the others, who were all too serious-looking by half, this man unnerved Dobbs with his strange, piercing eyes. He seemed to be in the grip of some powerful emotion, tightly controlled, but frightening just the same. The same intense emotion was apparent in all of them, really, just more obvious in this one, but it made Dobbs wonder what was so important about the information they sought and why, after all these years, they were even seeking it.
His expression still wary, but his tone more affable, he said, "I didn't forget. It's just a sad thing to remember, is all. There was a baby, yes, but it caught the fever from its mother. There just weren't nothing me or Iris could do to save it, much as we tried. "
Chapter 6
"Dead!?"
The incredulous exclamations came at Dobbs from two different directions at once. He didn't know whether to elaborate on what he'd said or demand some answers of his own. But his hands had begun to sweat, his brow, too, not because he was lying, but because those devil's eyes were trying to see right inside his head. He was sure of it.
He cleared his throat, surreptitiously wiping his palms on his blanket. "What's your interest in that baby? You're all kind of young to be the father, ain't you?" No answer came, which unnerved him even more.
And then the blond one, whom he'd barely noticed because his handsomeness made him seem less dangerous than the others, flung a retort at him. "There was only one grave found, the woman's. A mere pile of stones, guaranteed to crumble. "
The contempt in that voice, making it sound as if Dobbs had been deliberately inept, got his dander up.
"What was I supposed to do, dump her in the river?" Dobbs demanded. "When you don't have no shovel, you make do in these parts."
"There was still only the one grave, Mr. Dobbs," observed the one with blue eyes.
"The baby didn't die the same day. We'd already moved on."
The questions came at him from all of them then, and he had barely enough time to answer one before the next was shot at him.
"How many days later?"
"A few."
"Exactly?"
"Two, dammit!"
"What time of day?"
"How the hell should I remember?"
"What time did he die, Mr. Dobbs?"
"He? What he? She's a girl."
"She is? Or was?"
"Was! Was! What the hell is this? It don't make a peck of difference what she was, or what time she died. She's dead—that's all you need to know!"
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Dobbs. We require proof."
"Proof that you will have to supply, Mr. Dobbs, since you claim to have buried her."
"In other words, Mr. Dobbs, you will have to lead us to her grave."
Dobbs stared at the three who had just spoken as if they were crazy. But they were serious, dead serious. The dark one with the unholy eyes hadn't said a word during the interrogation, nor did he now. He just watched, and listened, and made Dobbs even more uneasy with his silence.
"I can't lead anyone anywhere," Dobbs told them, for once glad it was true. "I haven't left this room in six months, not since—"
"The nature of your illness has little
bearing," he was informed with a distinct lack of sympathy. "We will supply you a comfortable conveyance, and pay you for your time."
"It wouldn't do no good," Dobbs insisted nervously. "I put that baby in the ground, since she didn't need but a tiny grave, easy enough to scrap out with a sharp rock. But there weren't nothing to leave as a marker, and with twenty years come and gone, even with that other grave to judge the distance by, I'd never find—"
"You needn't explain further," the dark one cut in. "Thank you for your time."
As soon as it was said, they all turned and left the room. Dobbs fell back on his pillow, finally wiping his brow. He couldn't imagine what that had been all about, but he hoped never to go through it again.
At the top of the stairs, Stefan paused to state the obvious. "He was lying."
"Yes," Lazar agreed. "But why?"
"There can be only one reason," Serge said.
Their minds traveled the same path and came to the same appalling conclusion. It was Vasili who burst out, "Don't even think it! She's a tavern whore, for God's sake, and ugly"
"She has the right color eyes," Lazar pointed out.
He was no longer the least bit amused.
"There are probably a hundred women with green eyes in this town alone," Vasili insisted. "And besides, that horrid female downstairs cannot possibly be only twenty years of age. She's thirty if she's a day."
"Hard work can age anyone," Serge said. "And even her name, Tanya, is—"
"Enough!" Stefan hissed. "We each of us know how proof is to be established. I would suggest we establish it one way or the other, rather than argue the possibility."
Vasili still protested. "But even to consider her is insane. "
"There is nothing to consider if she is the one we seek, Vasili. You know that as well as I."
"Then I would just as soon not find out," Vasili replied. "But then I can't believe for a minute that she's the one. Mere circumstance doesn't make it so.
"But the crescent moon on her left cheek will."
"Damn you, Stefan! All right, if you insist on looking for it, you will do so without my help. I refuse to go near that foul-tempered wench again."