Jo Goodman (2 page)

"Bourbon."

Garret held up his hand and caught the attention of the woman who was wending her way between the benches and tables and groping hands of the regulars. "Bourbon," he said. "Two." Except for a brief nod she barely acknowledged his order. She was slapping at the meaty fist that had caught the hem of her skirt. Garret watched a moment then turned his attention back to his brother. "Not your usual sort of place."

"It serves my purpose."

Garret felt the full force of his brother's flinty stare. God, but those blue-gray eyes of his were piercing. To be on the receiving end of that stare was to stand accused, even when no formal charge had been made. Garret didn't flinch. Censure from his older brother might have caused him to do so in the past, but tonight, with Graham so clearly out of his element, perhaps even out of his mind, Garret let the look pass without reacting. "Tell me about your purpose, Graham. I'll try to keep an open mind."

Graham considered that was unlikely. He caught the movement of the barmaid out of the corner of his eye and waited until the drinks arrived at their table before he began. He had chosen Gilpin's tavern in Charleston harbor because it was precisely the sort of place he'd made a practice of avoiding. He was unknown here. Even though his name and likeness had been front-page fodder for every large city newspaper these last three months, Gilpin's was a place not far from his own home where he could disappear with relative ease.

His ill-fitting clothing, the scuffed boots, the dark sable hair badly in need of cutting, lent him the safety of anonymity among the crowd that frequented Gilpin's. These men were not necessarily rough or threatening; they were by and large down on their luck and apathetic as only hopeless men can be. Graham did not expect trouble this evening. The odds were against him being recognized and even greater that anyone would be moved to do something about it.

Graham had taken some pains to shed his disreputable, slightly dangerous image. Studying Garret's choice of clothing, he wished his brother had been as thoughtful. "You might have made some attempt to fit in," he said.

Garret fingered his dark mustache then smoothed the edges as he considered Graham's words. "I didn't know what this place was until I got here. Anyway, you're supposing I don't want to be noticed. Frankly, I wouldn't care if the entire patronage of this tavern recognized me and turned on you. If I've a mind to, or you give me cause, I'll stand up tonight and point the finger at you myself, Graham. You're a traitor. You've betrayed friends and family. You've betrayed the South." Garret picked up his drink. He held the glass up to the flickering lantern light and examined it for fingerprints left by the previous tippler. Satisfied that it had been wiped off, if not washed, he raised it to his lips and took a large swallow.

Graham permitted himself a thin smile as he watched a flush wash over Garret's handsome features. It was a shame about the mustache. It hid the beads of perspiration that Graham suspected were dotting his brother's upper lip. Graham almost laughed outright when Garret raked back his dark hair with one perfectly manicured hand and attempted nonchalance. "Not the smooth stuff you're used to," Graham said softly.

"I don't see you drinking it."

Graham lifted his glass but not long enough to consider its cleanliness. He saluted Garret, his mouth curving in a vaguely twisted smile, his eyes ironic. "To your health and good fortune, little brother." Then he belted back most of the bourbon in a single swallow.

Garret laughed in genuine amusement as Graham made a small choking sound and his eyes actually watered. "Serves you right," he said.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Graham pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "Granddaddy makes better swill in that contraption he hides in the woods." He shoved the handkerchief out of sight again and finished his drink. "God," he said feelingly, looking around the poorly lighted tavern. "I hope I'm never so numb I don't know bad bourbon when I taste it." He raised his glass and motioned to the barmaid. He raised one finger—looked at his brother, who expressed horror at first, then took up the challenge—then raised two.

"As long as we know it'll kill us," Garret said, shrugging. It didn't appear anyone else in the tavern was cognizant of that fact. Poor bastards. Garret settled his lean frame comfortably in the high-backed wooden chair, stretching his legs diagonally under the table and folding his arms across his chest. It was only as an afterthought that he noticed his posture was a mirror image of Graham's.

Eleven months separated the birth of the brothers. Except for that distinction it was often remarked they could have been twins. They were of a similar height, both being an inch over six feet. They shared the same richly colored hair with the texture and sheen of sable and even darker brows and lashes. Their features were well-defined with the kind of bone structure that lent itself to sculpture during the Renaissance. The mustache that Garret had grown when he was away at school was an obvious distinguishing feature now. There were other differences though, some subtle, some not, that kept those of close acquaintance from mistaking the brothers.

Graham's aristocratic features were not softened by his eyes as Garret's were. Garret's eyes had but one hue, a deep oceanic blue that drew notice like the inexorable pull of a tidal undertow. Graham's flinty, blue-gray stare kept others at a distance, even when his congenial manner, or rakish appeal beckoned them in. Graham Denison cultivated acquaintances, not friends. Garret's admirers
were
his friends.

"Did you tell anyone you were meeting me?" Graham asked.

Garret shook his head. "I kept it to myself," he said. "Not because you asked me to, but because I didn't want to bring your shame on me. Grandmother might have understood. Father, perhaps, though I doubt it. But no one else, Graham. Grand-daddy's disowned you. Mother, if she comes out of her room at all, won't allow anyone to mention your name. You're dead to them. What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Graham didn't answer immediately. "Alys?"

"You shouldn't bring her up, Graham. You're dead to her, too. You really don't have the right."

"She was my fiancée. I think that gives me some rights."

"In the past tense. We both know she broke off with you before this sad bit of business was ever brought to light. Alys is very happy with the choice she's made."

Graham's features gave no indication what he thought of that. "When's the wedding?"

"June." Garret offered a slight smile. "Mother says it's just what we need at Beau Rivage to put this other affair behind us."

"That would be me."

Garret nodded. "No one ever accused you of being slow off the mark." He took a short swallow of his drink and noticed that familiarity with the bourbon did not improve its taste. "I think you'd better get to the point of this meeting, unless you're trying to be caught out."

Graham shifted in his seat. He brushed a thin layer of dust from his jacket sleeve. It was the sort of fastidious, practiced gesture he would have made to remove an errant thread from a crisply pressed jacket. His manner would have affected boredom. That pretense didn't suit his dress or condition now. He smiled without humor. Old habits... "I have no desire to feel the rope around my neck," he said quietly. He eyed his brother. "That's what I could expect, isn't it? If I turned myself in?"

Garret's response was blunt. "If someone didn't shoot you on your way to the hangman. But you knew the risks when you decided to come back here. Why, Graham? Why leave Boston at all? Your exploits were lauded in the Northern papers. I cannot rightly remember all the names they called you. Liberator. Deliverer. Southern Savior. Rescuer of Black Slaves." He paused, his expression considering. "Always thought that last description a bit redundant. Black Slave. It's not really possible to be a white one, is it? We're not bred for it the way they are."

Graham did not respond. Garret was so obvious in his attempt to get a rise out of him that Graham could dismiss it. Not that Garret didn't believe what he was saying. Graham knew he surely did. It was the predominant way of thinking at Beau Rivage, indeed throughout the slave states.

"And what is that name the freed slaves gave you?" He waited a moment for Graham to answer. When his brother remained unmoved by this overture, Garret filled in the silence. "Falconer. I believe that's the name I've read. Yes, I believe it is."

"You may be right," Graham said.

"I'm sure I am. Tell me, Graham. Bitsy. Henry. Old Jake. Evie. Little Winston." He named the slaves that came easily to his mind. He was sure there were others missing from Beau Rivage that could have been added. "Did you help them all out through the Underground?"

"Yes." He saw his brother's surprise and he guessed at the source of it immediately. "You didn't think I'd admit it, did you?"

"Your arrogance continues to exceed your intelligence," Garret said calmly.

"You've always underestimated me."

"Only your backbone, Graham. And maybe your commitment. I didn't think you cared about anything. Certainly you never showed family the same devotion you showed these slaves." With a certain amount of assurance, he added thoughtfully, "How you must hate all of us." He didn't pause long enough to give his brother a chance to confirm or deny it. "Of course the slaves you helped escape from Beau Rivage represent only a fraction of your work. If the papers can be believed, then you had a hand in the escapes of more than two hundred runaways—from all over the South."

"My exploits were exaggerated," Graham said, affecting modesty. "A hundred perhaps. One hundred fifty would be my highest estimate."

A muscle worked rhythmically in Garret's lean cheek. His blue eyes did not hold the same warmth for his brother that he extended to friends. "You think this is amusing, don't you? You're laughing at all of us at Beau Rivage."

"You're wrong, Garret. I don't expect you to believe me, but you're wrong."

With some effort Garret kept a leash on his temper. It wasn't as if Graham had won anything through his behavior, he reminded himself. Noble as his actions might be considered among Northern abolitionists and a few sympathizers in the South, he had alienated everyone else. In the Carolinas, and especially in Charleston, Graham's notoriety as Falconer, the most sought-after conductor on the Underground Railroad, made him a marked man.

Garret couldn't be completely sorry about what had come to pass, and he didn't insult them both by pretending. Graham had effectively removed himself from the position of heir to Beau Rivage. He had done it in a spectacular manner and had been far more successful with this single debacle than Garret had been with a dozen smaller, insistent attempts to oust him from the family business and fortunes.

Still, there was the matter of Denison family honor. Garret couldn't ignore that. "But you haven't come to apologize for the difficulty and embarrassment you've caused us," he said.

Graham knew his brother placed Alys among those he had hurt through his behavior. "No, I haven't. But I would like you to take a message to Grandmother." He saw Garret's lip curl slightly and realized there was almost no chance his brother would deliver the message. Graham said it anyway because it had to be said. For his own peace of mind,
he
had to say it. "Tell her I acted on my convictions," he said. "Like all the Denisons before me"—he eyed his younger brother pointedly—"or after."

"You dare," Garret said under his breath.

Without waiting for his brother to expound on his anger, Graham went on. "I wanted you to hear it from me that I don't have the earring."

Garret sat up now and leaned forward. He swore softly. "It's gone?"

"You mean you didn't know?"

"I don't believe this. Are you telling me you sold it? That's reprehensible, Graham, even for you."

"Actually I was going to tell you I lost it. Otherwise, I might have sold it. I'll need money eventually to stake myself somewhere."

"So you came for money from me?"

"No, I wasn't going to ask. But if you're offering..."

"Go to hell." Garret belted back his drink, glanced at Graham's empty glass and waved for two more.

Graham accepted the bourbon when it came but didn't raise his glass. He was aware that the last swallow hadn't settled very well in his stomach. He sported no mustache to hide the beads of perspiration on his upper lip, and he carried no razor to scrape the fuzz from his tongue. His eyes wandered slowly about the tavern. No other patrons seemed to be similarly affected by the spirits Gilpin passed off as bourbon. But then maybe, Graham reflected, their drinks were gin or watered whiskey. Removing his handkerchief, he touched it to his brow.

Garret didn't ask Graham if he was feeling all right. He didn't care. "I hope you puke all over yourself," he said in disgust. His brother was flushed and pale at the same time. Garret didn't wonder how that was possible. He cut to the core of his anger. "What the hell were you thinking, taking Mother's earring. You know damn well she prizes it. And she means it to be mine."

Graham stuffed the handkerchief under the cuff of his sleeve, where it would be readily available. "That's your point, isn't it? That I took something that belongs to you."

"Exactly. The family's had to tolerate your gambling and whoring and drinking—"

"Careful, Garret, you'll turn my head with your pretty compliments."