by Grace Walton
Low Country Love Stories
The Last Rose Pearl
by
Grace Walton
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All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. I am not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Cover Art by Ramona Lockwood
Published By CleanHeart Publishing
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 52:10
Prologue
Romans 11:36
Everything comes from him;
Everything happens through him;
Everything ends up in him;
Always Glory, Always Praise
A tall figure in somber evening clothes moved silently across the shadowed library. It was the chamber of a wealthy man, being furnished richly with leather wing chairs and an imposing satinwood Sheraton desk. The single source of light came from a meager fire sputtering in the grate. Its flickers danced across the wall of expensively bound books shelved behind the desk. Shouts of muffled laughter and the muted strains of dance music filtered through the closed door from the ball in progress on the floor above. The intruder searched the shelves intently. He knelt down to retrieve a specific volume.
The old book sat on the lowest level of shelves. Long sculptured fingers opened it. The dark phantom swiftly scanned an underlined passage. As he slid the volume back into its place on the shelf, low voiced conversation and heavy footfalls could be heard in the hall approaching the study.
The intruder traveled to the small pie crust table by one of the tufted wing chairs. He grasped the crystal decanter resting there. He poured an amber puddle of brandy into one hand. He swore softly as he dashed a small amount of the stinging liquor into his eyes and ran the rest through his hair. The other hand lifted the heavy decanter to his lips. He drank deeply. This done, he replaced the liquor. He moved to the fireplace. He grasped a brass‑handled poker. Raising the poker high above his head, he slammed it down with considerable force on the back of the nearest chair.
Candlelight flooded the room from the opening door. A fair haired man of medium height and his squat companion watched aghast as the poker was struck again and again against the chair.
“Limb of Satan, what's this!” shouted the dandy wrathfully.
“It's the American, Milord,” quietly explained the bald little man at his side.
“What?” Lord Avansley demanded petulantly. The nostrils of his delicate nose flared. He was the epitome of highly bred masculine beauty. His bright guinea gold curls were well-oiled to stay as they were originally placed. His eyes were of a transparent shade of cornflower blue that made ladies sigh with envy, and gentlemen snicker behind their hands.
“St. John, MacAllister's American heir. You remember, Milord. He's been sniffing around her ladyship's skirts for a month or more,” whispered the gnome‑like gentleman as he sidled behind Lord Avansley. Clearly, he was seeking protection from the large violent man before them. Lord Avansley winced at his servant's vulgarity and loudly cleared his throat, twice. This having failed to gain the trespasser's attention, he resorted to speech.
“Sir!”
The big man ceased his abuse of the furniture. He straightened to his full height of several inches above six feet. He turned toward the one who addressed him.
“Avanshely, you have a moush in here,” his deep baritone voice was slurred by the obvious effect of too much drink. He raked his hand through thick black hair in a fruitless effort to restore its disheveled appearance. A lopsided grin settled on his lips. He haphazardly lumbered forward and whispered conspiratorially.
“I wash looking for the water closet, but I musht have made a mishtake, a sherious mishtake. Come in,” he ordered grandly indicating the study with his poker. The others gasped as he missed decapitating by mere inches a bust of Plato resting on the desk. “Thish is not a water closet,” he stated importantly. “Too bloody many books.”
With this statement, he gazed down mournfully at the small man. “Avanshley, there was a moush right there on your chair. I tried to kill him, but I sushpect he got away.” St. John threw his arm companionably around his host's narrow shoulders. He drew the blonde man forcefully into the center of the room.
“Got to find the moush hole you know,” confided the giant into Lord Avansley's ear as the pungent odor of brandy washed over them both in a powerful wave. “That's where the little cowards run off to.”
With that he released the peer and abruptly continued his unsteady search for mice, poker held high above his head in readiness for the kill.
Lord Richard Avansley, eldest son of the Earl of Redmond, breathed deeply from the lilac scented, lace edged handkerchief in his trembling white hand. He addressed his little man of business in a furious whisper, “Hall, get this buffoon out of my house.”
“Milord,” responded the older man beside him. Only the sheen of perspiration coating his round face and the sausage-like fingers tugging at his cravat showed his agitation. “Lady Avansley is to take supper with Mr. St. John. Will it not cause considerable malicious comment if she's left standing there with no one to take her down to the meal?”
Frowning Avansley lifted both of his soft, slender hands to massage his temples as if that gesture might provide him with an acceptable solution to the problem at hand. A yelp of victory from behind them caused both men to jump in fright and turn.
“I found it! I found the bloody moush hole!” This slurred but exultant exclamation was accompanied by the grating sound of the sharp point of a poker being dragged unmercifully across the costly fruitwood paneling in one corner of the library.
The golden haired man's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in distaste. “Enough of this.”
He motioned toward the entrance of the study. “Hall, fetch a pair of the larger footmen, and escort Mr. St. John to his carriage.” Avansley's lips twisted into an ugly sneer as he saw the shock written plainly across his servant's face. “We both know that Lady Avansley doesn't want to eat with the clod,” he put crude emphasis on the word, “she wants to…”
Hall, not stopping to hear the entire condemnation scurried out of the door. Momentarily, he returned with the required footmen to find Lord Avansley rooted in the same spot watching the big drunken American fumble clumsily with the poker.
“Help Mr. Hall see Mr. St. John to his carriage. He has been overcome by the heat of the ballroom.”
The two burly servants strained under their burden. They carried, pushed, and dragged the large jug-bitten gentleman to a discreet side entrance.
Finally Mr. St. John was confined within his carriage. The little man-of-business gave a disgusted sniff. He peered into the dark interior to assure himself the American still breathed. Hall was met by both a deep rumbling snore and a solid wall of alcoholic fumes. Convinced his distasteful duty was done. He pounded the coach door with a pudgy fist giving the silent driver instruction to go.
The handsome black carriage, drawn by four matched greys, rolled out onto an otherwise empty dripping street. Two lanterns mounted above the front wheels scattered light onto the thoroughfare. The coachman was barely able, with strength and force of will, to keep the horse
s under control and the conveyance on the road. As the driver turned the coach onto Oxford Street, he heard a sharp rap on the roof. It was a prearranged signal he'd heard many times before.
He sawed back on the reins to slow and finally halt the team. Soft muttered curses from the driver concerning the questionable parentage of the greys filled the gloom as the occupant of the carriage climbed easily up onto the seat beside the grumbling coachman.
“Dylan these nags have mouths as tough as a twist of field-hand's tobacco. Tell me again, why did you relieve Percy Gladstone of them?” complained the dark driver.
“I’ll not repeat the story.”
“Then help me understand. You said Lady Avansley insisted you buy them after she saw them in the park. There was some silly nonsense about them matching the color of your eyes? Tell me, please tell me, you did not buy these beasts at the behest of that stupid woman?” The words were heavy with disbelief.
“What do you think?”
“That's the problem. I never know what to think with you,” grumbled the smaller man. He gently slapped the soft leather reins onto the sleek backs of the mottled horses. The black coach rumbled out of Mayfair. Neither man spoke. Finally, the companionable silence was broken again by the driver.
“You’re bloody ripe Dylan. I hope all of this was worth something tonight. You smell like a Cheapside tart.” Lysander waved one gloved hand before his wrinkled nose. “Playing at being a sot again were you?”
His only reply was a steady granite stare. Even masquerading as a drunkard, Dylan St. John was a force to be reckoned with. Sander looked at him and acknowledged the man was still an enigma to him and probably always would be.
Only a handful of people, including the coachman, knew his history. Even so, St. John had many acquaintances spread over three continents who were convinced they knew him intimately. The charade that was his life was so pristine, so well-constructed. It fooled them all.
The men knew him to be a calculating gambler, a bruising rider, and a veritable devil with the ladies. St. John was a good man to guard your back in a fight, but never a man to cross. The women conversely saw a man compelling enough to send shivers down an old maid's spine with just a lazy smile.
He wasn't really handsome in the conventional society mode. Not like Richard Avansley who was all gilt curls, soft white hands, periwinkle blue eyes, and delicate sloping shoulders. No, he was nothing like Richard Avansley. St. John’s face was predatory rather than pretty.
It was whispered by some that he possessed a curious heart-shaped birthmark. Few were bold enough to comment on it, and those who did quickly learned it was not a fit subject for discussion. He'd gained the sobriquet Heartless St. John in part as a pun played upon his oddly shaped and placed birthmark. But several of the Prince’s set insisted it was mainly because of his callous dealings with women.
Taken at a glance, Dylan St. John was a hard formidable man to be sure. Many things to many people, but never unguarded. The childhood vow made years ago in a Virginia churchyard destroyed all softness in him. The explosive report and sulfur smell of a gunshot, in addition to the sight it produced, were a searing brand. The vow was a matter of survival. Since then, no one was allowed to get close enough to injure him. No matter how reckless he may have appeared on occasion to the world at large, St. John lived his life within strictly enforced limits set that painful morning.
His companion beside him on the high coachman's perch, lacked his inches, but spoke with the same cultured neutral cadences. This was odd indeed for a black man in London.
“Dylan, I can tell by your satisfied smirk you’ve found something of value to Bassett. Give over, tell me,” he demanded.
St. John shrugged into the great coat the other man handed him. He said nothing. He stared forward as if no question had been asked of him.
“If I'm going to risk my life helping you, at least I should have the satisfaction of knowing what I'm risking it for,” argued the older man. “I'm getting too old for these suicidal games you indulge in.”
“Go home.”
“I promised Mariah,” responded the driver.
A shuttered look immediately fell over St. John's face. His eyes became hard granite chips. The words he spoke were clipped and cynical. “She is dead. You are not. I neither require nor desire a wet nurse. If you are inclined to return to Virginia for your comfort and safety, then by all means do so posthaste with all my goodwill.”
The black man cursed under his breath. They both knew he’d follow St. John into the very mouth of Hell, if need be. Lysander Goodman had made his sister a vow.
St. John merely shrugged, effectively ending the conversation. The rest of their journey through the midnight streets of London was silent. Lysander sat, huddled deep in his driving coat, praying for the thousandth time that he could change the past or at least just one week of it.
Dylan's thoughts were turned toward more productive areas. He'd long ago given up the futility of railing against his past. More important to him now was the cryptic verse he'd read from the book in Richard Avansley's library.
Bassett must surely have some inkling as to what the mysterious verse meant. After all, America's newly appointed Commissioner of Peace had ordered Dylan to ingratiate himself with the Avansleys. He’d even described the appearance and title of the book with the mysterious verse. The Commissioner was sent to London to try to avert tensions between the United States and Britain. Hopefully he would even negotiate an honorable peace, as impossible as the task seemed.
Lysander strained to turn the greys into the short drive of an inconspicuous inn near Southwark. A post boy swinging a grimy lantern darted out from the ramshackle stables to grab the bridle of the right leader. With difficulty, the youngster held the team steady as both men got down.
The lad pulled his forelock to Dylan and whispered, “Ee's in the private parlor waitin' for ye Guv.”
Dylan flipped the urchin a coin as he strode past. Entering what the shoddy sign above the door proclaimed to be the ‘Spotted Sow’, he quickly surveyed the smoky taproom for any possible adversary. Failing to find any, he mounted the creaking steps leading up to the private parlor. Lysander remained downstairs and stood guard.
The parlor was dimly lit. It smelled of wet dog, stale tobacco, and fried onions. By the fire on a faded and sagging chair, a nondescript white haired gentleman sat. He was calmly perusing a day-old copy of the Times. At the sound of the door squeaking open he lowered his paper and greeted his visitor.
“St. John, so kind of you to meet me in such inauspicious surroundings,” he said, his voice similar to the rest of him. Unremarkable, average, neither high nor low, in a word easily forgettable and thus it was perfectly suited for his purposes. His only identifiable characteristic was a rather annoying habit of pulling his ear when he was worried.
Dylan nodded. He seated himself on the stained overstuffed chintz sofa opposite Bassett.
“Well, my boy, I hope you have something profitable to tell me about the state of Lord Avansley's book room,” began Bassett as he clasped a surprisingly gnarled pair of hands around one bent knee. His nostrils sampled the air generously, and he commented drolly, “other than the fact that it is home to a bottle of excellent vintage French spirits.”
“The brandy was necessary,” replied St. John. “There was a volume of old Hebrew translations with a passage underlined just as your contact reported,” he said. “The underlined passage read: The beloved of the chosen Father shall bring them forth from the counting houses.”
Dylan watched Bassett to see if this information had any impact on the Commissioner of Peace. No flicker of emotion showed itself on the older man's bland face, but his right hand snaked up to his ear again. This was a sure sign the meaning was as veiled to him as it was to his operative.
St. John studied the flames of the fire. His long legs stretched out with ankles crossed comfortably before him. A dog yelped fiercely in the stable yard below. Dylan arched one eyebrow at
Bassett in an unspoken question of explanation.
The old man exhaled deeply. He stood to begin slowly pacing the length of the tiny chamber. “Dylan, the work we do is secret. No one suspects your role, and it must stay that way.”
“What’s my new assignment, Arthur?” St. John cut him off bluntly. He knew it would be objectionable. When Bassett dithered on this way, the desired task always involved violence, subterfuge, and a woman. No, he silently argued, not this time, not another woman.
The ones in question were always experienced, mature ‘ladies’ of the world who had access to information Bassett needed. They were never hurt, except for their bruised pride. Most were unaware Heartless St. John had taken anything from them other than what they'd freely offered in a moonlit garden.
Women invariably found him dangerously appealing. It was just another talent of his. He viewed it the same way he did his ability to ride or shoot. He wasn't particularly proud of his effect on women, but he wasn't ashamed of it either.
St. John continued to stare steadily at Bassett. Arthur stopped his prowling and resumed his seat on the dilapidated chair admitting ruefully, “You do cut right to the heart of the matter. I’ll do so as well. Richard Avansley is involved in illicit trade and shipping on our eastern Seaboard. For quite some time, we've known he's been ignoring the embargo limiting trade between the United States and England. That's relatively harmless. Many companies are not averse to increasing their coffers with American currency by bending the law. Lately though, we suspect Avansley's endeavors have ceased to be so harmless. There appears to be a highly-developed network of gunrunners supplying arms to Indian tribes friendly with the British. The Creeks, for the most part, but there’s been some interaction with other tribes as well. Guns are supplied to the Natives with the understanding they are to be used against Americans.”
