hat 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?

Learning that Tomilova had died soon after her arrival in this country was a shock to them all. She was to have contacted Sandor only under the direst emergency; otherwise there was to be no commu­nication that could be intercepted and lead the Stam­boloffs to the last Janacek. Was her imminent death not considered an emergency? But who would have thought she might die, and worse, done so before the child was old enough to care for herself, or even old enough to know whom to contact?

According to Rousseau’s sister‑in‑law, the bar­oness and the infant, assumed to be hers, had spent no more than two days with them after making Ma­dame Rousseau’s acquaintance. But she had not been well, having barely recovered from a fever she had contracted on the journey to America. She was suf­fering delusions of grandeur one moment, persecu­tion the next. She claimed to have been robbed of a fortune in jewels her very first night in the city. But when she learned of the yellow fever that could run rife through New Orleans, killing indiscriminately, she became nearly hysterical, insisting she could not stay there another day.

“My sister could make no assurances that she would listen to,” the bearer of these bad tidings told them. “The lady made arrangements on her own to leave the city, but when she told us who with and to where, we tried even more to dissuade her. The woman she meant to travel with was steeped in scan­dal for marrying white trash. But would your bar­oness take heed, or care that the area she intended to travel through was the most lawless in the land? We suspected her fever had returned, she was be­having so erratically. We even offered to keep the child, for its own protection, but the lady was simply not open to reason. 1, for one, wasn’t the least sur­prised when her body was brought to us for proper burial less than a week later, because my sister’s calling card was the only thing found in her purse. She’d been left on the side of the road, only partially covered by rocks, as if that Dobbs woman had at least tried to bury her.”

Another name to track down, and the only piece of good luck yet, if it could be considered such, was that this Dobbs woman’s destination had been right here to the town of Natchez. But would she still be here after twenty years had come and gone? The Rousseau sister had never heard of her again, and she’d been living here ten years herself. And if she was here, would she know what had happened to the child?

Serge had been sent to speak with the town officials as soon as they returned to town, hopefully to find an answer or two to those very questions. If not, then they would all begin tomorrow to canvas the town, a tedious task, as they had learned in New Orleans. The possibilities were endless, but uppermost in all of their minds right now was the simple fact that the princess might never be found, might even be dead, and as much as the king had hated coming here to fetch her, he did not want to go home empty‑handed.

“I have decided that table over there has the best view of the stage,” Vasili remarked as soon as he rejoined them. “Shall we bribe the occupants into a trade... or simply confiscate it? After all, royalty has its privilege. Even these peasants can understand that.”

“When we have been traveling incognito?” Stefan countered dryly.

“So we have.” Vasili sighed. “Then I suppose we must just take it. Might also has its privilege.”

“The devil you will,” Lazar hissed, coming instantly to his feet. “My chair has an unobstructed view of the damn stage. Here, take it!”

“If you insist, my friend.”

Stefan grinned to himself at how subtly Vasili had maneuvered that, with Lazar merely gritting his teeth, relieved that he wouldn’t have to draw his sword in their defense—yet. They all had a degree of arro­gance, Stefan would be the first to admit, but Vasili used his like a weapon sometimes, with precision and skill, and a good deal of amusement. Lazar knew that. How could he not, when they had been together since childhood, suffering the same court tutors, the same training, the same enemies. They thought alike, they were alike, they were the best of friends. Lazar just had trouble concentrating on more than one thing at a time, and presently, he had made up his mind that both Vasili and Stefan were eager for trouble as a way to relieve their latest frustration, and he was determined to worry about it.

Lazar also hadn’t realized that Vasili had already found an outlet for his tension—this show. His desire for Lazar’s better seat had been very real. He was caught up in the anticipation of the crowd that was growing impatient at the delay in the entertainment.

The performance was supposed to have started by now. More patrons were noisily banging on their tables in complaint. But perhaps the wait would be worth it. Perhaps this harem dancer was as good as she was touted to be. And whom was he kidding? She had to be a rank amateur, merely giving her interpretation of what she supposed the famed harem dance would be like. These Americans wouldn’t know the difference, however, and Vasili was easily pleased, which was fortunate, for Stefan was afraid there’d be the devil to pay if Vasili’s present eagerness turned to disappointment.

He leaned toward Stefan now to whisper, “It was confided to me that the dancer can be had for a few coins. If she is even one tenth as good as my Fatima, I will request a private performance.”

Lazar heard that and scowled. “You take too many risks with these whores, Vasili. Three in New Orleans, one on the steamship, now this belly dancer. You’ll take home a souvenir from this country that will have you scratching your—”

“Lazar has been bitching since we walked in the door,” Stefan interrupted before Vasili’s changeable temper took a turn for the worse. Those two had been known to go at each other with murderous intent before they realized what they were doing and fell over laughing about it. “He cannot believe that we are here merely to swill this horse piss they call beer and watch an ignorant foreigner make a ridiculous fool of herself up on that stage.”

“Put that way, I would have doubts myself,” Vasili said, his light brown eyes laughing as he turned to Lazar. “You see what your bitching has brought us? You know how vicious Stefan can be when he is annoyed with us.”

“Jesus, Vasili,” Lazar groaned exaggeratedly as he slumped down in his new chair. “Why don’t you just ask him to cut us to ribbons?”

Vasili turned back to Stefan, wide‑eyed with innocence. “Was I prodding you, my friend?”

“You were trying,” Stefan replied inscrutably. “But then the braying of an ass has never bothered me.

“I see what you mean, Lazar.” Vasili winced. “Cut to the bone.”

“If you both don’t shut up, you will miss the show entirely.”

Vasili glanced at the stage and sat forward, the teasing forgotten. The crowd erupted into applause at the same time, which brought Lazar up, alert and then dumbfounded as he too stared at the stage. Stefan, however, scowled as the dance progressed. Whatever else he had expected, he had not thought he would want the wench for himself.