by Grace Walton
He paused to study the other man's reaction. Seeing none, he continued. “Most probably Avansley may be shipping arms to the United States by broken trade routes. His ships are stopping at several obscure ports before they reach the United States. In that way, he’s disguising the fact that the goods are British and illegal. Once the guns are in an American port, locals do the rest. It's likely the gunrunners are well connected in our own country. Most likely, they’re Loyalists who've been biding their time waiting for some lucrative opportunity to help England. They’re men with the resources to store and move large quantities of hardware. If you can establish Avansley's main contact and port, we can eliminate the gun running. Countless lives will be saved, if you’re successful.”
“Arthur stop, I don’t need convincing,” he growled. “I wouldn't be sitting in a dirty little toad hole on the wrong side of the Thames, if I didn't know the nature of the game we play. Where am I going, and what will I be doing once I get there?”
Bassett slumped down further in the chair. If his tall friend accepted the rest of the plan as easily, Bassett would count himself lucky indeed. With this thought in mind, he plunged ruthlessly ahead.
“Avansley is scheduled to leave for Savannah within a month. If my instincts prove correct, that's his port of operations. The tale is put about he's interested in acquiring a rice plantation in the Low Country. That is, of course, a lie. I want you to be there watching him. Discover who our traitors are. Once that is done, we'll begin a concerted effort to bring this charade to an end. Connor takes over at that point.”
“What's he got to do with this?” It was a cold demand.
The elder man chuckled mirthlessly and answered, “You and Connor have been playing the same game, as you call it, on different continents for ten years now. From what I'm told he's no more thrilled about the prospect of working with his brother than you are. Don't worry lad, he's up to your weight.”
If Dylan was unsettled by this revelation, he revealed nothing. “Keep talking old man,” he said. Those apparently lazy eyes of his glittered with frightening new lights.
Arthur frowned and swallowed. He sensed the danger building in the other man. Bassett didn't like Dylan in this mood. It made him too menacing and too unpredictable by half. This wasn't going to make the rest easy to explain.
“As I said we need you in Savannah, but not on a St. John vessel. That would be too obvious. I've arranged your passage with an independent captain who can sail within two days. Can you meet that schedule?”
“I will settle my business affairs,” Dylan nodded. “What's my story? I can't just show up in Savannah.”
“True,” agreed Bassett, “Captain Windsor and I have settled on a perfectly feasible excuse for you to travel to Savannah.” Here he hesitated not knowing how to go on.
“Tell me,” taunted Dylan in a low quiet drawl.
The other man smiled brightly, not deceiving his intelligent friend at all, and uttered the words he’d been dreading all night. “You'll be traveling with Captain Windsor to meet his younger sister, your betrothed.”
“No,” he said. The tight restraint he exercised was evident in the smooth, deadly velvet of his voice. “No women,” growled St. John. He rose and went to brace his hands on the mantle. He stared down into the hypnotic flames. “Arthur I told you. After Celeste Avansley, there would be no more women.”
“But Dylan you'll be at sea for three months.”
“Arthur,” he didn't turn from the fire to acknowledge Bassett, “Your and my definitions of ‘no’ are worlds apart. Yours merely spans a few weeks, whereas mine easily stretches off into eternity. I don't like using women. I'm tired of standing at dawn in the cold, wet grass of a dueling field. I’m done with politely deloping while some wild-eyed old man tries to avenge his straying young wife's honor by blowing my head off. The answer is no.” His words were cold, clipped, and final.
“It will be different this time,” coaxed Bassett.
Before he could continue Dylan interjected, “It's never different, no.”
A lengthy torrent of convincing words charged out of Bassett's mouth. “There'll be no husband this time. Her brother suggested this scheme. There'll be no dalliance at all, none whatsoever. She'll know from the first it's merely a ruse, a means for you to gain acceptable entrance into Savannah. After you've given Connor the names of the gunrunners, she'll jilt you to the surprise and delight of all her neighbors. Her prestige will be greatly increased at having had the wealthy Heartless St. John in hand and having refused him. You'll go merrily on your way. Word of a gentleman,” promised Arthur, his eyes showing how earnestly he believed it could all be accomplished just that easily.
“Arthur, this stinks of a dunghill.” He grimaced with distaste. “Her brother suggested this madness?” he questioned skeptically. “What's he getting for being so accommodating with his sister?” The disdainful emphasis he gave to the word left no doubt as to his assessment of Windsor's character.
Bassett joined him to stand by the grate and hedged, “I haven't an inkling. He's to meet with us both tomorrow and discuss terms.”
“Terms?” The acid in St. John’s voice could have eaten away the rust on a shipwreck’s anchor. “What time do I meet this paragon of brotherly virtue?” He turned retrieving his greatcoat and gloves from the chintz chair.
“Tomorrow, my office, ten o'clock,” answered the man by the fireplace.
St. John curtly nodded to indicate the discussion was now at an end. Without a backward glance, he strode out the door and down the creaking stairs to the noisy taproom below.
“Lysander,” he issued a brusque command that suffered no argument as he roughly shouldered his way through the crowded stinking room. Sander rolled his eyes, paid his shot, and followed in the big man's wake.
Upstairs in the private parlor Arthur Bassett resumed his seat on the battered old chair. He furiously tugged his ear. Lying to a friend is never easy he admitted, necessary perhaps but never easy.
Chapter One
The next day saw a morning dreary as the night before it had been. A weak lemon sun struggled unsuccessfully to sear through the suffocating fog and coal smoke hovering over the streets and holding London prisoner. Most people with any pretense of gentility were safely tucked behind brick walls and glazed windows. They enjoyed one last porcelain cup of tea, tankard of foamy ale, or they still lay abed blissfully unaware of the forlorn day born to them a scant two hours before. Not so Captain Graham Windsor.
Even on a day such as this, St. Katherine's Docks were a restless hub of activity. Rough looking characters of all colors and sizes were hustling about loading and unloading the variety of sailing vessels hugging the massive harbor. Street merchants marched up and down the road fronting the docks loudly hawking their wares.
“Cher‑ry Ripe!”
“Lemmmmmons! “
“Ragman comin'. Buy and sell, Ragman comin'!”
“'Ot pies, get your red 'ot pies!”
Graham Windsor surveyed it all from the foredeck of his own schooner ‘The Rozelle’. Named for his much beloved dead wife, the ship was beautiful in the way of all sailing ships. Sleek with spare, graceful lines, her elegant sails down as was right for a lady in port. She, too, was patiently waiting for the dock workers to empty and fill her hold once again so she could be out to sea. The captain watched the slow moving line of men. Though he regarded them with a fierce, determined eye toward possible pillage and theft, his thoughts were actually two thousand miles distant.
He wondered how his sister would be affected by the chain of events he would set in motion this day. Though christened Aurora, she'd always been just Rory to him and everybody else except for a few prissy-tails in Savannah. What would she think of this? More importantly, what would she do? Rory was no milk and water miss to be sure, nor was she easily led or bullied into anything. On the other hand, if she could be persuaded she was helping someone, she'd likely plunge ahead wholeheartedly. And Graham had never know
n his sister to quit something once she had started.
Even as a baby, once her mind was set, she stubbornly worked at something until she was satisfied with the result. Learning to walk for Rory Windsor had not been a casual drawn out affair. It had been a single-minded determined struggle between gravity and her will. Learning to ride, swim, read, and sail had been the same. Nor had she become dour and disillusioned as many strong‑willed Christians were apt to do. Her friendly and mischievous nature was as well known in Savannah as was her determination.
“Prepare her to sail with the tide tomorrow morning. I'll be back aboard before nightfall,” Windsor informed the harassed seaman as he walked down the gangplank. On the busy street, he hailed a hansom cab with the roar that was his trademark. After giving the driver the direction of Arthur Bassett's offices in The City, he settled himself against the stained squabs within.
His cab ambled off in the wake of another vehicle weaving through the crowded London thoroughfares. Windsor unrolled the oiled paper window covering. It was a weak defense against the sickening odors invading the coach from the decaying refuse littering the roadway.
Maybe Rory would see this as a divine mission, he thought hopefully. He was confident she'd fight for an underdog. She'd always taken in any stray animal or person who'd wandered into Savannah. Once she understood that guns were being traded for the promise of guaranteed bloodshed and murder, Rory's protective nature would take over. She'd be forced to help with Bassett's plan. Besides, he assured himself, I've taken every precaution to ensure her safety. Nothing untoward could happen.
The cab rolled to a slow stop. Graham's mind registered the fact that the coachman was grunting and clamoring down from his seat to open the coach door and collect his fare. Graham stepped out and paid the driver. The gruff sailor faced what appeared to be a typical business address. The rose brick building was guarded by a brace of liveried footmen. One gladly opened the heavy carved door.
Upon telling his business to a somber clerk behind a desk some ways within the entrance, Graham was immediately led to the private office of Mr. Arthur Bassett. It looked more like a gentleman's den than the working office of America's Commissioner of Peace. The man in question was seated comfortably at a club table in one corner consuming breakfast.
He stood to invite Windsor to join him at the table. “Captain Windsor come in and sit you down. Will you eat sir?” Bassett indicated the small table while ordering the clerk to see that another cover was laid for his guest.
“I'd welcome a well-cooked meal Mr. Bassett,” Graham allowed settling himself into the chair waiting to be served.
His food arrived. Bassett let the other man savor his coffee for a few minutes before he began speaking. “Captain Windsor, I understand the concern you have for your sister. I can easily supply you with the details you requested about my colleague. In all honesty I'll tell you plainly, I judge Dylan St. John to be an honorable man.”
“I understand sir,” replied the ship's captain after sipping from his steaming cup, “there's no insult intended to you or your man. But my sister will be involved, and I intend to move very carefully for her sake.”
“Understood,” affirmed the one across the table. “I'd do the same were I in your situation.” Bassett launched unemotionally into a lengthy recitation of his friend's history, “Dylan St. John's family background is very similar to yours. His father was briefly a governor of Virginia. Their main residence is St. John Hall near Richmond. The St. John Shipping Company is accounted the largest enterprise of its kind in our country. St. John has two brothers and a sister. He’s the eldest at thirty‑three.” Bassett shrugged. “Women find him attractive. But he’s never married. He was orphaned as a child. His uncle, the Duke of McAllister, brought him to the family seat in Scotland to be raised as benefits a ranking peer of the realm. St. John is McAllister's heir.”
Here Bassett paused to sip from the cup before him. He waited to accept any questions his companion might pose. There being none he resumed his story, always watching the quiet man across the table. “Mr. St. John divides his time between the St. John offices in London and Virginia. I don't consider him an unnecessarily violent man. He has too much discipline for that. But I'll not lie to you Windsor. The man can be dangerous. He works for me. He’s ruthless and highly effective. And for what we are set on, I'd send no one less. I trust him as I trust few others.”
“Will he agree to the proxy marriage?” Windsor questioned in a low gravel‑filled voice.
The sigh leaving Bassett's lips seemed to travel reluctantly upwards from the very pit of his stomach as he admitted, “I don't know. He accepted the idea of a false engagement under some duress. I hesitated to approach him concerning the proxy marriage.”
“He'll not sail on my ship unless the marriage takes place. I'll not have my sister left with her reputation in tatters by this folly. The contract can be easily annulled if he survives, providing no harm comes to her. She'll know nothing of this part of our bargain. As far as she's concerned, they'll be no ties binding her to St. John. But if he dies, I intend to see her inherit his wealth. If he compromises her virtue in any way, however small, the marriage contract stands,” he pronounced finally. There was no room for negotiation or discussion in that statement. Graham Windsor had made up his mind. He would not be swayed.
While Arthur Bassett sympathized with Windsor's dilemma, he very much doubted any man's ability to convince Dylan St. John it would be expedient to marry a woman he'd never met. Much less expect him to write a will naming her the sole beneficiary of his estate. But Graham Windsor was not a man to be trifled with either.
Mr. Bassett plucked a sheaf of ivory manuscript from the top of his desk. He handed it to Windsor saying, “Here’s the will I've prepared for St. John. As you can see it's written exclusively in favor of your sister. It lacks only the signatures, his and ours as witnesses, to be binding.”
The bearded seaman sat in the companion chair situated by the desk. He thoroughly examined the document. Satisfied with what he saw he grunted, “Have you made any arrangements concerning the wedding?”
“You speak as if it's a given fact that there will be a wedding.” Bassett's exasperation was plain. “If St. John agrees, I have a magistrate available who will do anything for a price, if it's high enough. The whole affair can be resolved today. Will your ship be ready to sail tomorrow?”
“She'll sail on tomorrow's tide with or without your man,” Windsor asserted. A knock at the office door interrupted their conversation.
“Come,” barked the commissioner.
The clerk entered and quietly announced to his employer, “Mr. St. John is here for your appointment, sir.”
“Bring him up Ricks,” ordered Bassett. He walked around the corner of the desk and slowly lowered himself into the seat behind it.
The servant opened the door. St. John entered the room. Walking toward the seated men, his stern face gave away nothing.
“Mr. St. John be made known to Captain Graham Windsor. He masters the ship we discussed last evening.” Bassett's features betrayed none of the worry he felt as he introduced the two men. “Captain Windsor this is Mr. Dylan St. John.”
St. John nodded to Windsor before sitting in an unoccupied chair. Each man measured the other like two fighting cocks circling. They searched for weakness or advantage before one took the initiative to attack the other.
St. John saw before him a clean stolidly built sailor of medium height, dressed in a rough blue wool coat and matching baggy breeches. The pants were jammed into the tops of a scarred pair of black boots. Although much worn, the clothes and boots weren't cheap. The barrel‑chested sailor possessed a wealth of rusty hair. It flowed down and merged imperceptibly into a bushy beard, effectively disguising the lower half of his face. His slightly bulging eyes were a pale watery blue surrounded by stubby almost invisible lashes. His skin was sun and windburned to the same startling shade as his hair. Kindly put, he was not a man to set a woman's he
art aflutter. But for all that he seemed intelligent and reliable.
Windsor, engaged in the same pursuit, beheld one of the tallest, most assured men he'd ever met. A strongly featured face dominated by a pair of hooded quicksilver eyes calmly returned his regard. The cut of St. John's dark blue superfine coat and tight nankeen riding breeches accentuated his lean muscled body. His pristine linen shirt and neckcloth were at once masculine and conservative. The pearl grey waistcoat on top of these was completely unadorned. No garish watch fobs or quizzing glass dangled down. His black hessians were understated, polished to perfection, and undeniably expensive. On the smallest finger of his left hand resided a woman's gold wedding band with a blocky inscription covering its surface. An unforced aura of power and command flowed from this man to those around him. Yes, Windsor decided, Bassett is right. This man is dangerous. But those were not at all the words he spoke aloud.
“Mr. St. John, I'll find you a berth on my ship if you consent to honor all terms of the bargain I've entered into with Commissioner Bassett,” his tone was gruff.
“Captain Windsor, Mr. Bassett explained your desire to create a fictitious betrothal for your sister's protection,” St. John's deep voice conveyed boredom.
“Aye sir, there is that and the other arrangement,” said Windsor.
St. John betrayed no surprise as he gazed blandly toward Arthur Bassett behind the desk. “Other arrangement Arthur?” The soft inquiry was a damning accusation.
The Commissioner cleared his throat and unable to meet St. John's piercing eyes responded, “Dylan, Captain Windsor requires certain documents from you that he feels will absolutely ensure his sister's safety.”
“Does he?” coaxed the deep molasses voice so at odds with the steely glare pinning the older man to his chair.
Bassett shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He sought the aid of Windsor. “Captain explain to Mr. St. John your terms.”
Windsor began aggressively, respecting the other man's strength but not being easily cowed, “St. John, I'm a plain-spoken man. I've no wish to offend you, but I'll say my peace. My sister is a complete innocent. Sweet, trusting, and totally unaware of the evil in this world. Her good name would be lost. Surely you can see that, man? Every mudlark on the docks peddles a broadside with a cartoon of you and some hussy. I cannot see Rory ruined by Heartless St. John.”
