"Stefan." The warning came from behind Tanya. "It is still only circumstance."
He looked over her head to the man behind her. "It is much more than circumstance, Lazar. What more do you need to hear?" Silence was his answer. Stefan's eyes dropped back to Tanya. "Were both Dobbses with your mother when she died?"
"Yes," she replied, still confused over the last question he'd asked her.
"Why is that?"
"They were traveling together at the time."
"From where?"
"New Orleans."
"By riverboat?"
"No, wagon." He was looking at Lazar again, triumphantly. Tanya couldn't hold back the incredulous thought any longer. "Do — do you know who my parents are?"
"It is possible — if you carry a certain — birthmark that is — hereditary."
She didn't even notice his hesitation over those pertinent words. She was trying to tamp down her excitement, because what he was suggesting was just too unlikely to be true. And yet — ever since she'd found out that she was unrelated to Dobbs and Iris, she'd wondered about her real parents, where they came from, what they were like, who they were.
It had been frustrating beyond belief that Iris couldn't tell her more than she had, couldn't recall her mother's name though she'd been told it, couldn't recall her name either, not all of it. But then Iris had been upset at the time with her own problems as well as those of the dying woman she'd agreed to help. So Tanya couldn't blame her for not retaining those memories. But that left Tanya with a burning curiosity, unsatisfied.
Other girls had backgrounds, rich in detail and color. Her life was a blank page begun in a tavern. Now here were four strangers hinting at knowledge she craved as much as, if not more than, her independence. To finally have a real identity, a family history, possibly even relatives still living — a birth date! It was just too wonderful to be true, and if she allowed her hopes to be raised, she'd be doomed to disappointment. And to have it all hinge on a birthmark?
Tanya had been staring blankly at the wide chest in front of her while her thoughts whirled. But years of self-preservation enabled her to catch sight of the hand raising to lift her chin to reclaim her attention, and she jerked back instinctively, before the carefully applied makeup on her face could be disturbed. Stefan took her movement personally, however.
As accustomed as he was to rejection, he still felt bitterly disappointed that this girl couldn't bear his touch, even impersonally, for unlike the others, he found that he was fiercely glad that she could be the one they sought. Of course, he kept forgetting that she was a whore and utterly unsuitable to be a queen. He wouldn't forget again.
He turned away from her and changed places with Lazar, giving him a curt order. "You ask her."
Lazar was convinced by now that it was unnecessary to go any further in their questioning. The others obviously felt the same, for Vasili was leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, slowly pounding his head against the wood. Serge was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his head lowered in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Stefan was merely furious. But no wonder. If the girl could scorn him now, as they'd all just seen her do, imagine her degree of disdain when she knew who she was.
Lazar certainly was no happier about it than the others. It was unfortunate that she wasn't the beauty they'd been led to expect, but that was nothing compared to what she was, a common performer, a barmaid — a whore. Jesus, the knowledge would probably kill Sandor, that this was what had become of the child he himself had sent away and would now force his son to marry.
No, Lazar needed no further answers or visual proof for himself, but just for the record. Accordingly, he afforded Tanya the first respect she'd had from any of them. Standing before her, he bowed formally and introduced himself, though he left off his title. He would have taken her hand and brought it to his lips, but she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a narrow-eyed look which warned him off. It took him only a moment to realize that she thought he was making sport of her. Vasili's derisive laughter in the background did nothing to disabuse her of it. Lazar decided not to try.
"Can you tell us, mistress, if you possess any unique birthmarks?"
"One, but I wouldn't call it unique."
"Will you describe it, please?"
"It's a pink patch on my skin, the size of a large mole, but smooth."
"And located where?" When she blushed, Lazar decided she just wasn't describing it right and assured her, "The location is important, mistress."
"It's on my — in the area of my—"
"You may simply point to the area," he offered as she got even pinker.
Scowling now in her embarrassment, she snapped, "My arms are covering it just now."
"Covering?" He frowned, staring at her chest. "But — no, you have another mark."
"No, I don't."
"But you must have," he insisted.
"Well, I don't!"
Tanya was definitely angry now. As she'd known would happen, her hopes had been dashed. What they were looking for, she obviously didn't have.
"I don't understand—"
"For God's sake, Lazar," Vasili cut in. "You have your answer, twice repeated. Let us be grateful and go before it changes. "
"A splendid idea," Tanya agreed, though no one was listening to her.
"It makes no sense at all. Everything points—"
"Coincidence, just as I said before."
"With two women dying in the same way, around the same time, and that old man upstairs burying them both?"
"Bizarre, certainly, but not impossible," Vasili said.
"Hasn't it occurred to either of you," Stefan remarked, "that, considering the location of the mark, she may never have seen it?"
"Of course!" Lazar chuckled.
Vasili wasn't so amused. "Dammit, Stefan, why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"
"Because we are here to discover the truth, no matter how distasteful we may find it."
Tanya stiffened, recognizing another insult when she heard it. By the time Stefan stood in front of her again, her green eyes were glittering with ire. But his eyes were softly glowing as well, for he was still reacting to her earlier rebuff. So her anger didn't bother him. In fact, he was delighted that he'd caused it.
"We are certain of you identity, mistress. The mark that will prove it should be found on the underside of your seat, on the left cheek. It will no doubt require a mirror for you to examine it, but go and do so now, and do so carefully, so you may return and describe the mark to us."
"And if I won't?"
"Then you may possibly be offended when we locate the mark ourselves, to end all doubt, you understand."
She was quickly learning that he could be as cruel as Vasili in his remarks. Her cheeks flaming, she hissed, "You bastard," but he merely crooked a brow at her, showing her how. little it mattered to him that he'd insulted her — again. "What happens if the mark is there?"
"Then you will return with us to Cardinia."
"Where is that?"
"It's a small country in Eastern Europe. It's where you were born, Tatiana Janacek."
A name. Her name? God, this was becoming real again, her hopes soaring again. "Is that why you're here? To take me back?"
"Yes."
"Then I have family there? They sent you to find me?"
"No." His tone softened for the moment. "Regrettably, you are the last of your line."
Up and down, these hopes. Why did she let herself be lured in by possibilities? All right, no family. But a name, a history — if they were telling the truth, and if she had the mark.
"If I don't have any family left, then why did you bother to find me?"
"These questions are pointless, mistress, until you prove to us all, yourself included, that you possess the mark that names you a Janacek."