Broken Wing

by Judith James

The best thing he could do for Sarah was to stay away from her, let her think he was dead, and let her start her life anew. Even though she was just a few miles away, a few days distant, it was an impossible distance, an insurmountable chasm to cross. He couldn’t find his way back. He just didn’t know how. He was well and truly lost. At least de Sevigny had taught him one useful lesson. He had taught him not to feel. All he need do was remember that, and he’d be fine.

  Telling himself that a man who had money had at least some control of his fate, he drowned his turmoil in the ruthless pursuit of perfecting his game, and increasing his and the chevalier’s winnings. Their strategy was not without flaws. The chevalier was inordinately fond of women. Tall women, short women, young or old, strumpet or lady, he felt supremely dissatisfied if he didn’t have at least one to charm, and one more for a grand affair d’amour. Having gone far too long without, he availed himself of the discreet services of a local courtesan, until he hit upon the happy discovery that many ladies were fascinated by his androgynous appearance and enigmatic sexuality. They vied to seduce him, delighting to think that they might have the power to sway him. He delighted in hesitantly allowing them to try.

  “Ma foi, Gabriel! C’est un embarras de richesses! They find that though I am not inclined to be willing, I am ever so willing to be weak. They pursue me unmercifully, beauties each and every one of them!”

  “I am delighted for you, of course, Valmont.”

  “Yes, but how is a man to choose? Which one should I allow to seduce me first?”

  Unlike the chevalier, Gabriel was not willing to be weak. Beautiful and ice cold, there were few who dared challenge his reserve He was not kind to those who did, flaying them with a frigid disdain and an acid wit that frightened others from approaching.

  “Does it really matter, Valmont?” Gabriel asked tiredly. “They seem somewhat interchangeable.”

  “But of course it matters, mon vieux! Great honor will go to the Diana, Hecate, or Artemis who succeeds. More importantly, there appears to be a great deal wagered on the outcome.”

  Gabriel burst out laughing, so unaccustomed to it, it actually hurt. He thanked God, not for the first time, for putting the chevalier in his path. “You are incorrigible, Jacques! By all means, you must choose the one with the longest odds.”

  In the end it was Madame Mercier, a statuesque Diana with a pert nose, golden locks, and pouting lips, who carried the day. What her conversation lacked in depth, she more than made up for in quantity and volume. Gabriel found her company annoying in the extreme, but the chevalier didn’t seem to mind in the least. She accompanied him everywhere, clutching her prize tightly by the arm, preening in front of her rivals and reveling in Gabriel’s obvious distaste, which she mistook for jealousy.

  Intelligence and good conversation were not among the qualities Valmont found necessary, or expected in a lover, and what he did prefer she had in ample abundance. It was most unfortunate then, that her husband, a major stationed just outside of Paris, had the bad manners to object to her affairs. The chevalier soon found himself challenged to a duel.

  “Croix de Dieu! I have no wish to kill a man over such a trifling affair, Gabriel. What on earth is the matter with him?”

  “Mmm, perhaps he doesn’t love or appreciate you as I do, Jacques.”

  “I’m sure that you find yourself very droll, St. Croix, but I do not.”

  “I apologize, Chevalier. It is a serious matter, of course, an affair d’honneur after all. What says your paramour? Perhaps you might allow her to convince you to spare him. Noblesse oblige, and all that.”

  “Unfortunately not, she’s proving to be rather bloodthirsty. She wants me to kill him and marry her, or at least give her a house and an allowance and a carriage. She says he’s been most unkind to her, threatened to throw her out on the street without a sou.”

  “The monster!”

  “Blast you, man, it’s not amusing! She’s threatening to sue me. It’s all becoming very tedious.”

  “I’m not at all surprised. I found her tedious from the moment you introduced her. She is vapid, shallow, and lacking in understanding of anything beyond her own needs. I’m perplexed at what you saw in her.”

  “Yes, well, there are things that most men appreciate in a woman, and I assure you she has them in abundance, and wit and beauty besides.”

  “If she has wit, Chevalier, I can assure you that I have lacked the wit to discover it.”

  “You are being too harsh, Gabriel! You expect too much of her. Women don’t think as we do. Most of them are charming, silly creatures, and meant to be enjoyed as such. One mustn’t blame them for things that are foreign to their nature, or beyond their abilities and comprehension.”

  “That’s arrant nonsense, Valmont. I know a woman whose understanding is as great as any man’s, and superior to most.”

  “Do you really? Who is she? Have I met her?” Valmont was surprised and keenly interested. The only time he’d heard Gabriel speak of a woman was when he’d been delirious.

  “Leave it be, Jacques. It’s of no importance.”

  There was a note of finality to the statement that told the chevalier the subject was closed. He knew Gabriel well enough by now, not to press. Still, he was fascinated by the inadvertent revelation. Apparently there was a woman in his inscrutable friend’s past.

  “Perhaps it’s time we leave Paris,” Gabriel ventured. “There’s talk the peace won’t hold, and I’ve a mind to try London rather than get caught up in Napoleon’s latest madness.”

  “Really, my friend? Do you imagine I would just abandon my lover? Am I so cold? Is my love such a timorous and superficial thing?”

  “Yes. It is,”

  “You do not believe that I love her?”

  “I believe it’s the adventure you love, Jacques, not the woman.”

  “Your pardon, mon vieux, but what would you know of such things? From what I’ve seen, you love women not at all.”

  Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. “Stay then, Valmont. Murder the poor major and marry your trollop if you feel you must.”

  Two days later they took the packet boat from Calais to Dover, and a few days after that they were settled in comfortable bachelor’s lodgings on St. James Street.

  Despite decades of fairly constant warfare, and recent concerns about Napoleon’s buildup of forces along the coast, the British aristocracy’s love affair with gambling and all things French continued unabated. Gabriel and the chevalier found themselves welcomed, just two more Frenchmen lost in the crowd who had emigrated from Paris over the past decade.

  Their new lodgings placed them in the immediate vicinity of three of the most prominent men’s clubs in London. Establishing themselves quickly at Brooks, chosen for its wealthy members and reputation for sensational gambling, they applied the same principles that had served them so well in France. It was even more effective in London, as the British were more enamored of their drink. By the start of the New Year, they were well enough situated to purchase a house on Chesterfield Street. With the house came dinner invitations, a mere trickle at first, mostly from expatriate acquaintances of the chevalier’s. These were rapidly followed by a stream of others, as their flamboyant dress, flagrant good looks, and blatant wealth made them irresistibly appealing to a bored and jaded ton, eager for novelty and gossip.

  “We are accepted everywhere, mon vieux,” The chevalier remarked triumphantly a month after their move.

  “Veni vidi vici,” Gabriel said with a tired smile.

  “Perhaps I shall marry one of these pretty little English heiresses and settle here. What do you think, St. Croix?”

  “I think they invite interesting foreigners to their parties and balls as a form of entertainment, Chevalier. They don’t marry them, particularly when they are the focus of the kind of rumors attached to you and me.”

  “I am not some arriviste, Gabriel! My family’s lines can be traced back to Charlemagne. I am extremely well bred and very wealthy, and as
my cousin, so are you. It is more than enough to ensure that any youthful indiscretions will be forgiven,” he added with a grin.

  “I am not extremely well bred, Jacques. My lines can be traced back to the gutter.”

  “What nonsense, mon cher! How droll you are at times. You are all that remains of the ancient line of St. Croix, and our families have been intermarrying for generations.”

  Despite their respectable fortunes and ancient lineages, the scions of the families Valmont and St. Croix found themselves welcome at the clubs as guests, but not as members. Rather than ingratiate, placate, and graciously lose in the hopes of smoothing the path to membership, they chose to start holding their own informal card parties, inviting the outrageous, the witty, the wealthy, and the wild.

  The house on Chesterfield Street was large, comfortable, and tastefully decorated, backing onto an elegant square. They equipped an upstairs room with a magnificent billiard table, and the drawing room and salon were furnished in the style of Louis XIV. The library and a number of smaller private rooms were furnished with inviting armchairs and sofas for those who preferred comfort to elegance. Valmont was able to secure the services of a Monsieur Villeneuve, a superb French chef. When all was ready, they began holding court, plying their guests with sumptuous food, the best wines, most entertaining conversation, and more to the point, the deepest play in all of London.

  Unlike the clubs on St. James, women were welcome, and many came, some accompanying their lovers, and some to enjoy the company and to play. Although most were demimondaine, there was more than a sprinkling of adventuresome society ladies amongst the mix. It was a dissolute and jaded crowd, wealthy, bored, and addicted to alcohol, gambling, and sex. They enjoyed their own company, they enjoyed the women, and they lost their money. The barbed and vicious wit, lavish meals, and plentiful alcohol kept them coming back.

  To Gabriel it quickly became a hollow farce. Sometimes he could detach himself and watch it with a cool curiosity, similar to what he experienced in battle. His wit was at its sharpest then, acid and corrosive, flaying whichever unfortunate drew his attention, to the delighted amusement of the rest. At other times he was gripped with an emptiness and despair so profound that he could hardly move or speak. He would withdraw then, usually to the library, and try his best to lose himself in drink.

  Jacques was becoming concerned. Throughout their adventures on the Barbary Coast, slavery, warfare, escape, and whatever had happened with de Sevigny, Gabriel had shown little or no emotion. It had seemed unnatural at the time, but he’d come to accept it as simply a part of the man’s nature. Now he wasn’t as sure. Ever since their arrival in England, St. Croix had become increasingly moody and edgy. He was drinking more, though never when he played, and he had found him on occasion, staring into space with a grim and haunted look in his eyes.

  Jacques knew all too well, that it did a man little good to reflect on the past, particularly when it was a violent and a bloody one. When such moods overcame him, he sought his comfort in warm and willing women, losing himself in an ecstasy of sex and pleasure. He had yet to see Gabriel do either, and it worried him. He found him in the library, drink in hand, staring vacantly into the fire. “Bon soir, mon ami. Our guests have sent me to track you to your lair. There is one in particular, a golden-haired Amaterasu, who pines for you mightily.”

  “You are referring to Lady Wilmont? That ravenous bitch won’t leave me alone.”

  “Forbidden fruit, spiced with sin and malice. Who can blame her? You have no interest in her, then?”

  “None, Valmont. Do as you wish. Who else is with us this evening?”

  “We are graced by the usual, mon cher, various knaves, whores, sluts, and bitches, and then there are the women. Will you join us?”

  “Not right now, Jacques, perhaps later.”

  It was much later before Gabriel finally stirred. The house was quiet at last, and the pale light of dawn was edging through the drawn curtains. He started down the hall to his room, not expecting to sleep, but the ritual would at least pass some time, when he heard moaning from one of the private rooms. Damn it, it was past time for guests to leave! Didn’t they have their own homes to go to? Gabriel stalked down the hall and flung opened the door. The chevalier lounged in a comfortable overstuffed armchair, a drink in one hand, his other resting on the lustrous crown of Lady Wilmont’s head as she knelt between his thighs, applying herself to his pleasure. They both looked up at his entry.

  “Pardonnez moi,” he said, bowing and turning to go.

  The lady smiled provocatively, an icy blonde with blue eyes as cold as his own. “Perhaps you would care to join us, St. Croix?”

  “No, merci, madame. Je suis de trop,” he said, withdrawing from the room and closing the door.

  “What is wrong with him, Valmont?”

  “Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about, mon chéri,” Jacques whispered, groaning with pleasure as he guided her back to the task at hand.

  Despite Gabriel’s pointed disinterest, Lady Wilmont would not leave him be. Surprisingly, the women of the ton were far more persistent than their hot-blooded French counterparts, they refused to take no for an answer. Beautiful, cold, and emotionally detached, he was considered somewhat of a rare trophy. All the women who frequented their establishment wanted him, and some of the men, as well. His contempt and rejection served only to pique their interest, and as he grew increasingly weary, his refusals grew evermore cruel.

  Tempted to take a lover if only to put an end to it, he cynically considered telling the chevalier first, so that he might lay a wager on the timing and the gender. In the end, he chose Barbara, with her ice-cold eyes, because it kept them all guessing, including Valmont, because they were able to come to an arrangement that suited them both, and because they were both whores.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Gabriel hated the coming of spring. It was a time of hope and new beginnings, and its cheerful fecundity seemed to mock him, emphasizing all that was sterile, barren, and crumbling in his own life. It was when he had first met Sarah. If anyone had told him four years ago that he would travel the world, accumulate riches, own a fine home, and be welcomed in the highest reaches of society, he would have named them lunatic or fool. Yet here he was, and none of it meant a thing. Sick of his home and the company he kept, sick to death of his mistress, he left the gathering and made his way to Brooks, hoping to read the paper and have a coffee in peace.

  It was more crowded than he would have expected this early in the evening. William Killigrew, now the Earl of Falmouth, was holding court. Gabriel returned the man’s nod with a curt one of his own. Notorious for his womanizing and reckless disregard for protocol and danger, the earl’s vices did not extend to excess in gambling or in drink. He had attended a few of their soirees; indeed, it was he who had first brought Barbara Wilmont, but he was not a regular. There was an intelligence and civility to the man that Gabriel liked.

  Glancing through the paper with disinterest, he debated heading to the gaming tables when Sir Charles Seymour entered, loud, obnoxious, and out of breath.

  “Killigrew! It’s been a while. One hears you are to be congratulated!”

  “Thank you, Seymour, although it’s ancient news by now. The old bastard met his maker more than six months ago.”

  “Oh, yes. That, too. I was alluding, however, to your latest conquest. The word about the ton is that you bagged the Gypsy countess. She’s arrived back in town, you know.”

  Gabriel stiffened and rose to his feet.

  Killigrew laughed and motioned the footman to bring him another drink. “Has she, indeed? I must pay her a call. As for the rest, I wish it were true, Seymour. I certainly tried hard enough. Unfortunately, the lady actually was a lady you see, and although I enjoyed her company in some ways, she was not of a mind to allow me to enjoy her in others.” Every one burst into laughter except Gabriel, who stood watching, intent and still as stone. Killigrew noticed his interest and wa
s perplexed. The man was said to be indifferent to gossip, whether it was about him or anyone else.

  “Upon my word, Killigrew, you’re slipping then, don’t you know. I had the use of her when she was gadding about London just before Christmas, and a hot little piece she was, I assure you.”

  “Did you indeed, Seymour? Permit me to say that I find it most unlikely. She was at pains to inform me that she was waiting for some fellow she’d made a promise to. I can scarcely credit that a woman of such exquisite taste could have been referring to you.” There was another burst of laughter and a heightened sense of anticipation. A duel seemed likely, and wagers were being laid.

  “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

  “Indeed, sir. I am, sir.”

  Flustered, acutely embarrassed, and deathly afraid, Seymour tried to bluster his way out. “This is preposterous, Killigrew! You are being absurd! There’s no need to protect her honor. Everyone knows she’s little better than a whore.”

  The Earl of Falmouth sprang from his chair to issue a challenge, but before he could, the deceptively languid Monsieur St. Croix leapt across the room and one-handed, lifted Seymour off the floor by his throat and slammed him against the wall. It seemed there was a great deal of strength hidden underneath the flamboyant clothes and face powder.

  “You offend me, Seymour. Dare speak of her again and I’ll kill you,” he said in a pleasant, conversational tone.

  Gasping for breath, his feet struggling to find purchase, Lord Seymour disgraced himself by wetting his breeches. Gabriel lowered him to the floor and stepped back, his eyes glittering with deadly promise. Catlike and lethal, every inch the hardened mercenary, he strode from the room, oblivious to the astonished babble of voices, and the amazed looks that followed him.

  The Earl of Falmouth narrowed his eyes and sat back down, reaching for his paper. How extraordinary! St. Croix was known for his detachment and icy reserve. One certainly didn’t expect strong reactions from him of any sort, let alone in regard to a woman. Nor did one expect him to possess such strength and speed. It appeared that more than his tongue was dangerous. It was worth remembering. He speculated as to whether the man might be Lady Munroe’s misplaced paramour. It seemed unlikely that such a cold and distant chap could have ever been the lover of a woman as warm and vibrant as Sarah Munroe. Still, there were clearly some hidden depths. He wondered briefly if he was morally obliged to write and tell her of his suspicions. He shook out his paper and began to read, deciding that he was not.