The Irish Warrior

“That’s the third one in a sennight,” muttered one. “Left without paying.”

A few di

sgruntled ayes followed. The statuesque owner, Esdeline, her name as French as her bearing, sat on a tall stool, presiding over the conference, silent and utterly still, her graceful features rigid and stony.

“With the regiment that’s been about the past few days, things have been better ’an usual.” That from the small one who’d looked scared coming downstairs. Finian heard Senna shift on the bench beside him. “They always pay, and good.”

Another girl looked at her pityingly. “Aye, but they shan’t be camped here forever. They’ll move out, and just come back every now and then, like usual. Maybe once a moon.”

“Balffe always comes back regular,” said the shy one softly.

Senna’s face shifted around to look at Finian. It was paler than a moment ago. Balffe, she mouthed silently. Finian shrugged.

Esdeline reached out a long arm and brushed a wisp of hair off the girl’s pale face. “Go wash, Máire,” she ordered, but her voice was soft. She added, “Use my soap, the lavender.”

Máire’s face lit up. Senna shifted again, more sharply.

Someone else grumbled, not cruelly, but in an angry, disheartened tone, “Och, we could bathe in lavender every night and that wouldn’t make ’em pay us.”

More grumbles.

“I am not surprised to hear that,” Senna said suddenly, quite loudly. “Sad, but not in the least bit surprised.”

Chapter 36

Finian turned in shock. Senna was already on her feet. He grabbed for her arm, but she started across the room before he could make contact.

He shoved his heels into the floorboards and willed himself to keep his seat. Leaping up and clapping his hand over her mouth as he dragged her upstairs would probably draw too much attention. And if he dragged her outside, they’d be captured in seconds.

Every one of the prostitutes was staring at her as she marched across the room. They looked about two steps removed from anger, more shocked at the moment than anything.

“Sad?” snapped one of the prostitutes. What was once probably a very rosy, bright complexion appeared gray and washed out. “What the ’ell are you to be sad over? What business is this o’ yours?”

“None of it.” Senna reached the bar counter. “And ’twill not be any of yours, either, given another twelvemonth.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What I am talking about is that this is no way to run a business.”

A few of the more experienced women formed a tuneless Greek chorus of shock. “What?”

From the background, the tall, regal-looking woman watched in silence.

“That is, if things keep up this way,” Senna clarified. “If they deteriorate even a dram, I give the place six months.”

“Some of us ’ave been ’ere three years,” wailed one young woman plaintively.

“Six months,” Senna said firmly, then looked at the owner, who sat regarding her with a graceful face that might have been carved from marble.

“Hush, Mary,” said the woman who’d thrown the jug at the officious debtor. She turned to Senna, interested but wary. “I suppose you know a lot about running a business?” Finian, back at the table, groaned. “What would you have us do?”

“Charge more,” Senna announced.

A dumbfounded silence swept the room. “What?”

“Most assuredly,” Senna said, and even from this distance, Finian could tell that her gaze went a little distant, as she started figuring. He settled back in his seat. There was nothing he could do to stop this from unfolding however it was going to unfold.

And truly, he admitted, his plan had very little chance of success. He had no idea how provoking these prostitutes offered a better chance, but, to his own surprise, found he was content to trust to Senna in this.