Page 17 of Savannah Royals
“Not everyone is looking for a husband, Florence,” I chime in.
“Don’t even get me started on you.” Florence turns to me. “As if anyone would want to water down their lineage with Catacomb blood.”
A few girls at the table titter uneasily, and something inside me snaps. Florence is so narrow-minded, never looking outside the small, satin-lined box in which she lives.
Target: Florence Vanderbilt.
“You know, Florence,” I begin, “some of us have future prospects that enable us to support ourselves and not rely on a husband to repay our tuition. Marriage is a long-term commitment. I’m certainly not looking to blindly hitch my wagon to the richest fella who looks my way.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry then. Because none of themarelooking your way.”
“Matthew DaMolin was.” I widen my eyes, playing innocent. “Yesterday.”
Florence gapes, silenced at long last.
With the taste of victory on my tongue, I rise from the table. “Excuse me, ladies. I have a piano lesson this morning. Chat soon.”
Inthestillofthe night, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is far from my fingers but playing on loop in my brain. It’s three hours to midnight, and I’m dressed in black from head to toe—a silk blouse that cuffs at my wrists, men’s trousers clinging to my thighs.
“Three guards are inside the office in the carriage house, per usual. Next patrol is in thirty minutes.” Tony steamrolls through his report. “A food delivery truck arrived an hour ago and is parked near the east kitchen, right on schedule. Her Ladyship and darling Harry are inside.” He glances at his stolen watch of the week, a pocket timepiece with a gaudy, embossed lid and heavy chain. He absentmindedly flicks it open and closed. “They ate late tonight because Major Harry had a meeting at city hall.”
Paul moves toward the iron gate. “Let’s get closer.”
Astor Manor is surrounded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence topped with barbed finials. There are no breaches around the perimeter, but ornamental fences only keep honest folks out.
When Paul locks his fingers together, I plant my foot to vault over. I graze the top before dropping down the other side. Abe springs up next, but he balances between spikes. One by one, the boys haul each other over the wall.
We move east around the manor, keeping to the shadows. When we reach the rear, we drop to our bellies and crawl to hide within the opulent landscaping of the sunken neo-Roman garden. From this vantage, we can clearly see into the house. The entire posterior is lined with panels of mullioned floor-to-ceiling windows. Grandiose Roman pillars stand sentinel on the outside portico. At three stories tall and twenty-six thousand square feet with thirteen bedrooms, six fireplaces, nineteen baths, and eight sittingrooms—plus the attached carriage house—Astor Manor is a monstrosity of marble-glazed brick in the heart of Savannah.
Like clockwork, it’s lights-out for Lady Astor in the master bedroom a half hour after dinner, but Harry stays up, working in his third-floor office until almost midnight. When the lamp is finally extinguished, we wait for his bedroom light to flick on, but it never does. Instead, a door on the first floor opens. Light spills into the gardens.
“Fuck,” Paul hisses, dragging us deeper into the brush.
Two gentlemen stride across the portico, pausing to lean against a pillar. One is most certainly Harry. The second is tall with a lanky build and sharp jawline. His suit, even in the dark, appears immaculately tailored. His face is in shadow, but there’s something familiar about him.
“A little late for visitors, don’t you think?” Abe whispers.
“I know him,” I breathe, furrowing my brow as the two gentlemen light a cigarette to share. They’re standing so close, their shoulders brush. “I’m certain I’ve seen him before. At the Academy.”
Harry takes a deep drag on the cigarette, then passes it to his friend.
Tony wrinkles his nose in distaste. “How ’bout you spring for a second light, gentlemen? Honestly.”
The two men finish their smoke, then disappear back inside. Less than ten minutes later, Harry’s bedroom light turns on briefly, then off. Abed at long last.
“Harry is the problem,” Abe says once the house is dark. “Lady Astor is regimented and predictable. She never deviates from her routine, but Harry…”
“Sometimes he’s home for dinner, sometimes he’s not. Some nights he’s in bed by ten, other times he’s up half the night,” I say.
Tony gestures to the portico. “And apparently, some nights he invites mysterious gringos over for bedtime smokes. There’s no pattern.”
We’ve hashed this out a hundred times, and it always comes down to the same thing.
Harry.
It’s almost impossible to pin down a night to run the job with him in the picture. There are certain constants, of course. Dinner is served at seven o’clock sharp. If Harry has a late meeting, it’s pushed back by an hour. Lady Astor is always in bed by nine thirty p.m. and rises promptly at six in the morning. Staff members receive food deliveries on Tuesday and Thursday nights. A donation truck swings by on Monday mornings. The fireplaces are cleaned Monday evenings, and the windows are washed on Friday mornings. The list goes on and on.
“There’s a military patron gala downtown the first Sunday of October,” Tony says. “They’ll both be gone all night for it.”
