The Last Rose Pearl: A Low Country Love Story (Low Country Love Stories Book 1)

by Grace Walton

  “What about your parents, Dylan?” It was an innocent enough question. “Where are they?”

  “They're dead.” The words were automatic. He opened the door for her, but added nothing else.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be. They died a very long time ago.”

  The town servants scurried about. They were preparing the double parlors. There was a flurry of dusting and snatching white covers off the furniture. A black man who looked to be a house servant was using a tool to attach the knocker to the solid cypress door.

  Dylan escorted her to a lovely, graceful curving staircase. He stopped at its foot and said, “I'll be out most of the afternoon and evening. Don't look for me until tomorrow.”

  “Where will you be?” She was puzzled and not a little put out. After all, they’d just arrived.

  “I’ll be out.”

  Rory's chin lifted rebelliously. “Don't go to O'Steen's Tavern.”

  He bowed to her and promptly left her standing alone in the foyer.

  She watched him make his way down the flight of stone steps leading to the street. She meant to ignore him and his bad manners. She meant to swan with terrible dignity up the stairs. But her anger got the better of her. She turned throwing what she hoped would be a withering sally down at him.

  “You are a horrible man.”

  “And you are very beautiful when you're angry Rory Windsor. Remind me to vex you more often.” He didn't turn to see the effect this announcement had on her. He just kept walking away. If he had, he would have seen Rory's back stiffen as if she’d been struck.

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan remounted the rangy black gelding being held patiently outside the barn by a little servant boy. The boy stood silently in awe of the tall white gentleman. From his seat on the horse, an amused Dylan watched the child.

  The boy finally worked up his courage and asked, “Is you Goliath?”

  “Who are you?” Amused at the impertinent question, Dylan countered with one of his own.

  “I'se Ben sir.” The urchin's eyes were still pinned to the man on the horse. “Miss Aurora done read me a story about you out of her Bible. You the biggest man I ever seen so's I reckon you must be that old mean Goliath.”

  “If I remember my Bible stories right, wasn't Goliath slain by a boy named David?”

  “What 'slain' mean?” Ben reached up to pat the arching neck of the restive gelding.

  The horse was clearly tired of standing. He sidled to one side, then danced to the other. A nervous lather had appeared at his mouth as he played and worried his bit.

  “It means killed,” Dylan explained to the child. “Didn't David kill Goliath with a sling?”

  The boy nodded in agreement. “Yes sir, I believe I do remember Miss Aurora saying you got killed by a little bitty boy like me. I never could understand how a big man like you let a little bitty boy kill you. That weren't too smart,” Ben observed sagely.

  Dylan grinned at this line of thinking before saying in a perfectly serious way, “If Miss Aurora said Goliath got killed, I guess I'm not him. I'm still alive.”

  “That's a fact,” replied the boy impressed by this logic. “You reckon you's his brother?”

  “I have two brothers Ben.” Dylan wheeled the horse around to leave. “But neither one is named Goliath.”

  “They as big as you?”

  Dylan laughed, nodded, and started the gelding down the street at a controlled canter. Although Rory had expressly warned him against going there, Dylan set out to find O'Steen's Tavern. If British sailors were kidnapping Americans and impressing them into service in the British navy, it seemed like a good place to look for information about illegal guns. It wasn't hard to find the disreputable saloon. He came upon a drunken sailor stumbling across the road and asked him.

  The man threw an unsteady arm in the direction of the wharves and slurred, “Up to the right mate. You can't miss it.”

  Dylan looked ahead and to the right. He saw a seedy gray clapboard house perched on an outcropping near the river. Over the door in rough blue letters was the name, O'Steen's Tavern. Outside several broken-down nags with heads hung low shared a rail space with one or two high blooded horses. The door to the establishment hung open crookedly by its one remaining hinge. From the inside, Dylan heard someone trying to sing a fractured sea chanty.

  He got down from the black and looped the reins around the rail. Then he loosened the horse's saddle girth so it could rest comfortably. This done, St. John walked into the dark malodorous tavern.

  Inside were perhaps twenty men in various stages of intoxication. A few clung to a rough plank bar. Some leaned against the bar. Some propped their unsteady elbows on it. One had managed to mount it and sat at one end presiding like a conductor over the others. These men were obviously a choir.

  Their voices were in the process of torturing a ballad when an argument broke out about the lyrics. A couple of half-hearted punches were exchanged before O'Steen broke up the brawl. He was a banty legged Irishman with a clay pipe jammed in his mouth, and a filthy apron tied around his ponderous middle.

  “Git out ‘o me tavern.” He accentuated his words with kicks and slaps. “Git out ye ugly son of a poxy harlot.” He shoved two of the offenders out the door. This had the effect of quieting the rest.

  Dylan found a table in a shadowy corner and sat down to observe. He started scanning the room. Two men whispering quietly at a nearby table caught and held his attention. They were dressed in rich brightly-colored coats, clearly out of place in this low establishment. One of the men was nervous and ill at ease. He constantly monitored the door and all the others in the room. Dylan's attention moved to the slatternly barmaid who pushed dirty blonde hair away from her temples and swayed over to his table.

  “What'll you have pet?” It was obvious she was willing to give him much more than a drink.

  Before he answered, Dylan smiled up into her heavily kohled eyes. Barmaids were a good source of information. “I’ll have whatever you’re serving, if you'll sit with me.”

  He sounded very British and very aristocratic. There was a deep, raspy quality to his voice that made her shiver. She swallowed and nodded before she went to fetch the drink.

  While she was gone, Dylan studied the two secretive men. In the gloom of the pub, he saw them. One of the men was slight and spoke intently to his friend. It seemed he was trying to calm the agitated fellow. The nervous one twisted his hat and rose to leave just as the woman returned.

  “Here you go ducks.” She put a shallow, thick-lipped glass before Dylan. Then she put another one down at the seat beside him for herself. He didn't rise, but pulled the chair out in an invitation. She didn't need any more encouragement. She hurriedly took the seat and began a professional line of chatter.

  “Where're you from luv?” There was a definite 'come hither' look in her eyes. She fluttered blackened eyelashes and smiled in his direction.

  He took a slow sip of the drink. He watched her carefully above the rim of his glass. “London”

  “Ohh, luv you're a long way from home.” Even though she had a set patter, one she used to proposition men. This time she truly was interested in his answer. “What'd you say your name was?”

  He decided to take a calculated risk and see what he could shake out of the woodwork with his reply. “Lord Dylan St. John.”

  Her eyes widened, and her lower jaw dropped. Her squawk captured the attention of everyone in the place. “Lordy, yer a bleedin' duke.” Her careful flirtatious facade crumbled with his announcement.

  “No, that would be my uncle.” He never used his title. Although as he was the duke's oldest direct male relative, certainly it was his right. But now he used it to pry out any information he could.

  Some of the sailors at the bar became alarmed and fled out the door. Anyone English meant impressment to them. And O’Steen’s had a bad reputation for that practice. The barmaid struggled to stand and bob an awkward curtsy at the same time.
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  But the more interesting reaction to his words was from the two suspicious men seated across the room. The slight dark man who had been comforting his table-mate rose and gave Dylan a small formal bow. The hat twister turned immediately away from St. John so his face could not be seen. Presently, he managed to slink out the door never turning once to reveal himself.

  Over the course of the next several hours, Dylan sat quietly at his table drinking, watching, and waiting. In the end, his patience paid off. Withdrawing a deck of cards from his vest pocket, he began casually to shuffle them. At first, no one seemed inclined to play, but finally a group gathered at the table. To his satisfaction that group included the small dark man whose friend had fled earlier.

  “Gentlemen would you play a game of whist?” He indicated the empty seats with one hand. They were eager to assent. Not only was this stranger to Savannah a member of the aristocracy. Which many verbally abhorred, being fine Americans, but sought after nonetheless. Better yet, he had the look of old money, which was eternally popular. And whist was, after all, a game where large amounts of coin frequently changed hands.

  As he dealt the painted pasteboards, Dylan introduced himself to the table. Of course, they had all heard and been vastly impressed with his earlier introduction to the barmaid. They assumed an air of total ignorance and polite surprise to find themselves in the company of a real duke's nephew. After a round of respectful, “Your servant, sir” they began to introduce themselves.

  Of the three men who joined him at the table, Dylan dismissed one immediately. The older thin man on his left was Edwin Lockhart. From Lockhart's rambling conversation, Dylan decided the man was a failing cotton factor. His words boasted otherwise, but Dylan cut through those lies quickly. Moses Fowler on his right was the father of the little brunette Rory had introduced to him earlier. He also seemed harmless. But the gentleman seated directly opposite St. John, hat-twister's friend. He had possibilities.

  “Lord St. John,” his tone was flattering. “I am Alton Hughes. It is quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I also am newly arrived from Mother England.” His accent was brisk and educated.

  Dylan raised an eyebrow in response. But he waited to see what else the little man might say. That eyebrow had the effect of squelching any pretensions Hughes might have been cherishing.

  “I mean to say, is it at all possible you might know my employer? You must surely have traveled in the same circles in London.” He was flustered. “I mean to say, he is here in Savannah also.”

  “Anything is possible Hughes.” Dylan spoke to him as to a servant. “Who might your employer be?” It was said in a bored barely polite voice as he seemed to give all his attention to the cards in his hand.

  “Lord Richard Avansley,” Hughes said hopefully.

  Dylan smiled and nodded. “Yes, I know Lord Richard and his beautiful wife. But I had no idea they were traveling to this godforsaken place too. Why anyone would leave the delights of London to come here, is beyond my comprehension.” He paused to lay down a card then continued. “I needs must be here, arranged marriage you know.”

  All the others at the table nodded in glum agreement. Everyone understood that a man's first duty was to marry well and thereby increase his family's wealth and land. His second duty was to ensure there were sufficient sons to inherit it all.

  Hughes was delighted to find himself in this deep intimate conversation with a peer of the realm. So he eagerly contributed what he knew about the reason for the Avansleys' trip to America.

  “Lord Richard is here to buy a rice plantation,” he confided. “And to take his niece back to London. The old Earl, his father, is making Lord Richard give the chit a come out. Although I haven't the faintest idea where the blunt for a debut is coming from. Poor Lord Richard is rather dipped at the moment. I'm his secretary. I know these things and what's more,” Hughes rattled on boasting of his own importance.

  The other players completely ignored him, recognizing him as a twit. Dylan, however, bought him drinks. He made sure the man won a respectable amount of money. And he quietly analyzed everything Hughes said. By nightfall, Dylan knew that Avansley's finances were in dire straits, that his ship had been loaded in England with boxes marked 'Heavy Machinery', and that Avansley only planned to be in Savannah one week.

  When the game finally broke up around midnight, St. John offered to escort the heavily inebriated Hughes to his lodging. The other men were glad to leave the distasteful chore to him. They quickly scattered. Dylan hoisted the drunken secretary onto the broken-down hack he indicated was his animal. He then tightened the girth on his own black before mounting.

  He led Hughes' horse through the dark streets in the direction of Mrs. Belton’s boarding house. That was what Hughes had mumbled to him before he'd passed out completely. Mrs. Belton herself answered the knock at the front door. And she was in no mood for polite conversation.

  “Is that Mr. Hughes?” she asked belligerently. One rough hand on her ample hip held a lantern aloft so she could see who dared to disturb her sleep.

  Dylan bowed his head and answered her in fluent Russian.

  “What did you say?” The confused dame looked from him to the comatose man who was leaning against him.

  Dylan continued speaking in Russian until the woman's hand flew up in disgust.

  “Are you some kind of Eye-talian, boy?”

  Dylan started to speak when she waved him into the house.

  “Never mind all that gibberish, just get Hughes to his room and get out. It's the one at the top of the stairs. Just put him over the bed and leave. I ain't having no heathen Eye-talians running around my boarding house. This is a high-class place.”

  She retreated to her room on the main floor thinking that, come the morning, Mr. Hughes would have to find another place to stay. She wasn't putting up with these kinds of goings-on in the middle of the night, no sirree.

  Dylan carried Hughes up to his room and laid him across the bed. Finding a candle, he lit it from the fire in the tiny grate. He began methodically searching the room. There was nothing in the man's trunk except another change of clothes. Moving to a primitive desk built into the corner of the room, Dylan found a ledger.

  He flipped the book open and scanned quickly down the columns. It seemed to be a record of Avansley's household expenses. It was just the usual accounting of a household, coal, food, clothing, nothing more incriminating. As he laid the leather-bound volume down, Dylan felt a slight bump in the cover. Reaching for the stiletto in his boot, he made a careful incision beside the curious bump. Working the razor edge of the blade back and forth, he was able to extract an intricate brass key. A grin spread across his shadowed features as he tucked the little treasure into his vest pocket. He pressed the raised leather cover back down, returned the stiletto to his boot, and moved toward the door.

  “Mother?” The voice from the bed had a querulous and lost quality to it.

  A stern fatherly voice answered, “Go back to sleep Alton.”

  Hughes smiled and turned over. “Yes, Papa.” He was snoring quietly as Dylan left the room.

  Walking out into the cold night air Dylan was instantly aware he was not alone. The gelding was throwing his head up and skittishly shifting his hindquarters. There were several large crouching shadows behind the nervous animal. Dylan put one boot into the stirrup hiding the movement of his hand. He withdrew the hidden knife and pushed it up his coat sleeve.

  He judged the attack would come as he started to mount the horse. He was right. A meaty tar-stained hand grabbed his left arm and tugged. Feigning surprise, Dylan allowed himself to be turned around toward the thugs. There were three of them. One he recognized from the tavern had a pistol trained at his head. The other two with knives were strangers, though he could tell by their clothing they were sailors.

  “What do you want?” Dylan cowered and made his voice tremble.

  The rough men hooted sarcastically. One of them spoke, “Look me boyos. He's a big'un, bu
t he's a big scare'un.” The others' laughter was loud in the deserted roadway. When it had slowed to a few snickers, he spoke again.

  “Lookee here Lord Cream Puff,” They all elbowed each other and cackled at that. “I seen all that gold you was flashin’ about at O'Steen's. Hand it over nice-like and I'll try not to mess up your pretty coat with a lot ‘o messy blood.”

  Dylan nodded. “You can have my coin. Just please don't hurt me.” He started to untie the heavy leather purse from his waist. But then he seemed to fumble with a stubborn knot. This went on for several minutes.

  The ruffians were thoroughly disgusted. “Joe,” commanded the one with the pistol. “Come over here and cut the ties on this fool's purse. If we wait for him to get it off, we'll be caught by the Watch for sure.”

  “I ain't going back to jail,” Joe agreed and moved in front of Dylan to slice through the leather straps holding the purse. As soon as the sailor called Joe had blocked the others' view of Dylan, he felt his own knife hand crushed in an iron-like grip. At the same instant cold steel jabbed at his throat.

  “Don't,” Dylan warned him so softly that only the thief heard.

  “Come on Joe, I hear the Watch.” It was a surly complaint. “What's taking you so long? Cut the plaguey strings and come on.”

  Joe's eyes were full of terror as he looked into the cold hard face of the man who held him prisoner. He licked his cracked lips. When he tried to swallow the blade at his throat freed a thin line of scarlet. The warm, heavy drip of blood made a startling contrast to the frigid night air. It caused the sailor to break down completely.

  “God have mercy on my poor black soul,” he sobbed. “I'm kilt.”

  At his cry, Dylan knocked the thief down into the road with the butt of his knife. The other cut-purse startled by the yell aimed his bulky pistol and fired. St. John didn't feel the impact of the bullet. But he knew he'd been hit. It was a very familiar sensation. He knew the worst pain would come later. It always did.