The Southern Devil Page 2

  “She’s looking at his jewelry,” Jessamyn had said, terror and cynicism creeping into her voice, a note Morgan had never heard from her before. “It’s the same look Uncle James gets when he sees a pigeon at the racetrack, ripe for the plucking.”

  He’d swung around to stare at her and met Cyrus’s eyes. His elder cousin had looked equally appalled.

  The next day there’d been a great uproar when Heyward Tyler found his wife’s bed empty just before dawn, upon his return after an all-night poker game. A search of the entire riverboat established that she and Forsythe had disembarked, just in time to catch a riverboat bound for New Orleans.

  Jessamyn’s face had turned gray when she’d heard and yet seemed alarmingly unsurprised. Morgan and Cyrus had drawn together on each side of her in a silent vow of protection.

  After that, she’d quietly accepted only those with the highest standards of personal honor and duty into her circle of friends.

  He hadn’t seen Heyward or Jessamyn since ’61. He’d barely spoken to her the two days he’d visited here in ’61, since most of that time had been spent talking politics with her father. She’d been a fifteen-year-old girl then, still looking more like the tomboy he’d grown up with than a Southern belle.

  If he’d been looking for her now, he’d have sought the scrawny eleven-year-old tomboy he’d ridden with, fished with, and laughed with. She also had one of the cleverest minds he’d ever had the pleasure of dueling with. The three of them—himself, Jessamyn, and ever-reliable Cyrus, his orphaned cousin—had been inseparable whenever they’d been in the same town. None of them had ever been able to lie to each other.

  They’d parted only when Morgan’s father obtained an appointment for Cyrus to West Point, as the simplest way to provide for him. Cyrus’s rigid sense of honor had been honed there to an almost ridiculous edge. Why, he’d refused to resign his commission when Mississippi seceded. Instead he’d stayed in the Federal army and was now fighting for the Union in the East.

  But Jessamyn was Southern born and bred. She’d understand and help him.

  Morgan rode quietly into Memphis just before sundown, his worn clothing and tired mare confirming him as the country bumpkin his forged pass proclaimed. He dodged clumps of suspicious, well-armed Federals, saying he was looking for a midwife for his pregnant wife—and tried not to think about how recently they’d eaten and he hadn’t.

  He eventually eased his way into the expensive old residential district above the river, where bankers and cotton brokers had once strutted and preened as they watched fortunes pass up and down the Mississippi. Here, the Tyler mansion glimmered in the brief December twilight, its white columns shining like a beacon above the street. A green wreath hung on the front door. Smoke rose from a back chimney, carrying the delicious scents of pork and other culinary delights.

  Morgan’s heart shifted and his breath caught. It looked exactly as Longacres had at Christmas, while his mother was still alive before dying of yellow jack.

  A riverboat’s whistle sounded, snapping his head up and around toward the Mississippi River, less than a mile away. There a troopship headed north, full of convalescent Federal soldiers.

  Morgan cast a last, wary glance around from under his wide-brimmed hat. A soft cluck to his patient mare set her into motion again and they headed for the kitchen door, not the front door which he’d always used before. He tied the mare’s reins to a hitching post, promising her treats soon. If he knew anything about the Tyler household—and Jessamyn in particular—there’d be delicacies for visiting horses. After all, they were famous for “the gold of Somerset Hall,” their famous horses that Heyward had somehow managed to keep together despite every calamity and thieving hand that war could bring.

  After a wry glance at himself in the window—he certainly didn’t look like an Evans of Longacres anymore—he knocked politely on the door, straw hat in hand.

  The tiny cook opened the door, immaculately clean from her crisp white apron to the brilliant scarlet turban atop her head.

  He sniffed deeply, unable to help himself. Heaven on earth rolled through his nose in the glorious aromas of baking bread and roast chicken.

  She started to give him a commonplace greeting but her golden eyes narrowed, looking even more feline in her petite face. He recognized her immediately from his visit in ’61: Cassiopeia, the houseman’s wife.

  Horror crossed her face but she quickly wiped it clean. What the hell was wrong?

  Then she pursed her lips, looking him over like a particularly scrawny turkey. That was more what he’d expected—a grudging acceptance, as befitted a country bumpkin begging a meal in the city.

  She held the door open and stepped back, her voice as neutral as if she were announcing the time of day. “Best come in, Mr. Evans.”

  Morgan scraped the mud off his boots and stepped inside. A slender young woman was silhouetted against the hallway leading into the main rooms.

  His heart thumped and his body came alert at the sight of those curves. He blinked, quickly adjusting to the dimmer light indoors.

  “Morgan?” It was Jessamyn’s lilting voice but grown almost husky for a woman. She came all the way into the warm kitchen, holding out her hands to him. “What on earth are you doing here? Is anything wrong?”

  For a moment he stopped breathing but her looks were as burned into his brain as her form was stamped on his eyes.

  Good God, what a beauty she’d become at seventeen. She looked like the goddess Diana, slender and curved, lithe enough to leap into the saddle and ride all day. Her face was a pure oval, with great green eyes, a straight little nose, and curving red lips, surrounded by raven black hair that he longed to thread his fingers through. Or better still, cup her face in his hands and kiss her until her heart was pounding as hard as his was now.

  For the first time, his father’s endless lectures on the duty to sire sons, as the Evans of Longacres, sounded like an enjoyable task.

  He’d never had many opportunities to be around women. He’d left for Arizona before he’d investigated the opportunities in the slave quarters. There, his father had made him swear not to sire a half-breed as the price for riding with Cochise, which his fifteen-year-old self had thought an easy price to pay. Oh, he had some experience with the gentler sex—he’d tumbled two since the War started, both of whom had made it more than clear they were available. But Jessamyn was different. Their fathers had been classmates at Harvard and their marriage was first planned above Jessamyn’s cradle. All he had to do now was name the day and she’d be his.

  “Jessamyn,” he began and looked at her more closely. She was thin, too thin even for her. Her mouth was drawn tightly and her eyes were red. She seemed to be on a knife edge of control and physical strain.

  He started again. “Jessamyn, honey. It’s good to see you but…” He tried to think of a polite question.

  Her green eyes were enormous, as they roamed over him. “Are you well? Are you wounded? Have you eaten? Did you ride here? How is your horse?”

  Morgan chuckled, a little hoarsely, but mightily glad to see some return to normalcy. Trust Jessamyn to be concerned about his mount. “I’m well and my horse is well enough. There’s nothing wrong with Honey that a few days’ rest won’t cure.” He didn’t add he’d stolen her on his way into town from a man who’d been mistreating her.

  Jessamyn pulled herself together with a visible effort. “I’ll dish you up a big bowl of soup and some fresh bread, plus some milk, since you must be very hungry.”

  Morgan’s stomach rumbled an enthusiastic assent and he seated himself on a bench at the battered table, while she prepared the simple meal with the ease of someone who’d spent a great deal of time in this room. The house was oddly quiet, too, as if it lacked the dozen or more house servants it had always known before.

  As promised, his bowl was filled to nearly overflowing, while an entire loaf of bread was placed on the table beside a crock of butter and a pitcher of milk. He swallowed hard and ru
bbed his hands on his legs, trying not to grab anything on the table. He said a simple prayer, and a moment later, his mouth was too fully occupied to form words.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he offered when his first rush had slowed.

  She smiled slightly but didn’t deny it.

  “I knew Uncle Heyward had been invalided out. But Great-Aunt Eulalia’s latest letter strongly suggested I visit him soon. So I begged leave to visit.” Morgan crossed his fingers under the table that Jessamyn wouldn’t suspect he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

  Her face turned white and shuttered. “Great-Aunt Eulalia is, as always, entirely correct. Would you like some honey with your bread?”

  He glanced at her sideways. But if Uncle Heyward’s health was a difficult topic, there’d be time enough later to discuss it when he’d gained the courage to broach it. He nodded agreement and she rose to fetch the sweet.

  He hesitated when the bread was three-quarters gone. Jessamyn simply set another loaf from the pantry down in front of him and refilled the milk pitcher.

  “Please eat as much as you like,” Jessamyn said gently, her Tennessee drawl flowing through the simple words, as she sat back down across from him. “We’ve plenty of food at least.”

  His eyes shot to hers. “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged as if there were some things too painful to discuss fully. The afternoon sunlight showed lines on her face, of experience and grief, which made her look far older than her seventeen years. “We sold the town house to a cotton broker from St. Louis, who’ll take possession on January first. As part of the arrangement, he’s sending us food.”

  He froze, before setting his bread down unbuttered. But the Tylers had always been extremely rich and very careful with their money. He knew how much others had lost, including his own family. But he’d always thought the Tylers’ homes would survive, especially Somerset Hall, their great stud farm. “How bad is it?”

  Her eyes met his, dark green and decades older than her years. “Dollar-wise? Father lost his business to the War.”

  And when it broke out, you’d been raised as his heir, with your beautiful horses and your ambition to become the finest female sharpshooter of all time…

  “But we still had all the knickknacks here and at Somerset Hall, plus hope that the War would be over soon. So I sold a piece here and a piece there. After Father was invalided out…” She stopped, swallowing hard.

  Morgan rose and cleared the table, then sat back down cautiously, respecting her courage and her ability to keep the household and stud farm together. Heartsick himself about whatever Uncle Heyward’s illness was, he wouldn’t add to her burdens by asking her to describe it now.

  Jessamyn blinked back tears. “Father seemed—adrift for months afterward. Then his cancer began to grow faster and faster, sucking away his life and what remained of the business. We’ve sold everything possible, trying to find a cure for him.”

  His heart stopped. “Uncle Heyward has cancer?”

  She nodded. “His mouth and jaw. Please be cheerful when you see him. There’s a New York doctor who might help but he’s very expensive. We’re selling Somerset Hall in two days to cover the cost.”

  “The gold of Somerset Hall?” he groaned. The great cool barns with the beautiful, friendly horses and the green paddocks? The marshes where he’d shot ducks with Uncle Heyward and his father and Cyrus—and Jessamyn? The house of a thousand happy memories—sold?

  “Everything’s being sold for Father,” Jessamyn repeated, a catch in her voice. “There is no other way. Father leaves tomorrow to complete the sale and Cyrus will be here within the week to escort us to New York.”

  “Good God,” Morgan said harshly, his throat tightening. Longacres had been burned by Sherman’s army earlier that summer. He’d wept with rage and grief when he’d heard, as he’d mourned other casualties of war. But he’d rejoiced when Somerset Hall escaped the same fate, thanks to its Tennessee location. Losing Somerset Hall for cold, hard cash was a sickening fate, like watching a mentor begin work in a gambling den.

  Then the rest of Jessamyn’s words sank in. She and her father would leave for New York within the week, escorted by Cyrus. If Cyrus caught him here, that pillar of rectitude would probably arrest him as a Rebel, despite being his cousin. Still, if he didn’t return to Forrest with Grierson’s orders within a few days, his friends would die.

  His jaw tightened and he brought himself back to the present. He had to find those orders quickly.

  Cassiopeia surged back into the room, her apron strings crackling behind her. As soon as she saw Jessamyn’s tear-stained face, her eyes snapped to Morgan’s with a ferocity that would have bored holes into a brass cannon. “Mr. Heyward is awake now and asking for Mr. Morgan.” Her glance at Morgan said she wasn’t sure why.

  Jessamyn nodded and stood up. “We’d best go immediately.”

  He followed her down the hall, trying not to look too closely at those gently swaying hips. Her scent, lavender water and roses, mixed with a trace of the horses she loved and something ineffably Jessamyn herself, was more than enough distraction. He’d rehearsed this meeting a hundred times on the ride here but now all he could think of was one lissome female.

  Still, his experienced eye managed to grieve over the darkened spots on the rooms’ walls where paintings had once hung, the empty corners where furniture had stood and Ming vases had offered bouquets of fresh flowers, the spots on the floor where oriental carpets had rippled like jewels. Only the kitchen had a full complement of furniture and warmth, however homely; everywhere else was a barren shadow of its former glory. He couldn’t find the Sheraton table that he’d knocked over and chipped; even it must have been sold. He shivered and walked faster after Jessamyn.

  She paused outside the library and looked up at him. “I’m so glad you’re here, Morgan, no matter how long you can stay, just to have someone I can talk to again. It’s been so difficult these past months.”

  He patted her shoulder, quelling the hair rising on the nape of his neck. Of course, she trusted him. If she didn’t, given her high standards after her mother’s betrayal…“You can rely on me, Jessamyn.”

  She leaned her head against his chest for a moment, her hands trembling slightly. He kissed her forehead gently, telling himself the chill running down his spine was the normal nerves before the start of a spying mission. They stayed like that for a moment before she pulled away.

  Jessamyn knocked briskly on the door, calling out, “Father, Morgan is here to see you.”

  A dim voice answered, not the stentorian call that he was used to.

  Here in the library, at least, all was as it had been—a sanctuary for masculine minds. Books lined the walls, from the floor to the ceiling. Large, leather chairs invited tired men to take their ease from a long day’s work, with tables close at hand for their refreshments. A bar stood in one corner ready to provide those drinks, whose key a five-year-old Morgan and ten-year-old Cyrus had stolen but been forced to return before they could investigate the bar’s contents. The air was heavy with the scent of pipe tobacco, and the old cabinet was still full of beautiful pipes. At least that hadn’t been sold.

  In the center of the room, Heyward Tyler had thrown his blanket aside and was trying to stand, fiercely gripping his immense armchair. A large bandage was wrapped around his head, supporting his chin. But it couldn’t disguise the ugly bulge protruding from his cheek the size of Morgan’s fist, like a foul beast destroying the great man. The flesh hung loosely now on his once hearty frame. But his green eyes, so like his daughter’s, were still warm and welcoming despite their faded color. “Morgan, my boy!”

  He held out his hand, wavering slightly.

  All the air flew out of Morgan’s lungs. He felt as if his horse had thrown him, sending him somersaulting onto the ground before an artillery battery. He could have received a thousand letters from Great-Aunt Eulalia, rather than a handful, but they wouldn’t have prepared him
for seeing one of his childhood idols at death’s door.

  Three years of near-constant combat gave him the reflexes to cover his reaction. He took a few quick steps across the room and supported his godfather, under the pretext of an embrace, and blinked quickly, forcing back his tears. He’d been prepared to see his father shot down in battle but seeing Uncle Heyward like this wrenched his gut worse than a midnight raid on a munitions dump. “Uncle Heyward,” he choked out, using the old affectionate greeting, despite their lack of any blood kinship.

  Uncle Heyward patted him on the back, in a weak echo of his famous thumps. “You’ll have a glass of port with me, of course.”

  Morgan’s eyes met Jessamyn’s over her father’s head, asking her silently if alcohol was approved.

  She nodded slightly, with a faint shrug. The same knowledge lit her eyes that he knew walked in his: Her father’s death was so close that indulging him in a glass of port made no difference. “The glasses are in the cabinet, Morgan. I’ll leave you two alone, while I see to dinner.” She kissed her father’s cheek and left, closing the door very quietly.

  Morgan carefully lowered the older man back into the chair and tucked his blanket around him, then went for the wine. When he visited friends under the Dying Tree, the place where surgeons placed battlefield wounded destined to die, he always gave them anything they asked for and spoke as quietly as possible.

  Uncle Heyward covered his mouth with a handkerchief, a cough racking his chest, then accepted his glass with much of his old spirit. “Tell me about Longacres, Morgan. I heard you freed the slaves when your father died.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I’ve never owned a slave and saw no reason to start. Father would have said you corrupted me.”

  Uncle Heyward chuckled proudly. The old devil had never owned a slave in his life either. “Have any of them stayed?”