Broken Wings

by Judith James

  The Palais Royale was the center of Parisian political and amorous intrigue, and one of the most celebrated gambling dens in the world. It was here they launched their campaign of gambling and gallantry, with an eye to replenishing their lost fortunes. The society of professional gamblers that roamed the major courts and cities of Europe had largely forgone the distinctions of birth, the willingness and ability to play deep, being the great equalizer. It was a mobile society of cynical, coldblooded, hardeyed men and women, that lived by their own rules, and Gabriel and Valmont

  fit right in.

  They implemented a strategy that quickly elevated them to the top rank of predators in Paris at the time. They didn't cheat. They didn't need to. Pooling their resources and sharing their winnings they played only those games where skill, attitude, and a cool head, gave them an advantage over their opponents and the odds. Affecting the flamboyant mannerisms and dress of the ancien regime, wearing velvets, silks, jewels, and high heels, tall men both, they towered above most gatherings. Outrageously beautiful, glittering, and painted in powder and kohl, they were always the center of attention.

  Gabriel found himself a cousin again, claimed as the chevaliers not so distant kin. They were widely rumored to be lovers. It was nothing obvious, a smile across the room, a touch on the arm, an unguarded look, and a certain je ne sais quoi of style and manner. Pederasty and incest. Even the most laissez faire of their dissolute society was enthralled by the gossip, which suited them both. The chevaliers family, trying to reestablish themselves and their fortune, were uncharitably dismayed at the prodigal's return, loudly and publicly disowning him. They were dead to him, but their shocked outrage at his scandalous behavior fueled gleefully malicious gossip that both the chevalier and Gabriel welcomed. By drawing attention to themselves, they diverted their opponents from the play.

  A player who was adept at identifying situations where he had the advantage over the casino, could make a good deal of money at vingt-et-un, and Gabriel taught a delighted Valmont his system for counting the cards. Choosing their games, remaining relentlessly sober while those around them surrendered to excess, they pitted sangfroid, knowledge, and experience, against ignorance and reckless self-abandon. Within three short months they had recovered all the fortune they'd left behind in Algiers, and were well on their way to doubling it.

  Gabriel's return to Paris revived feelings and memories he had long thought dead and buried. His nightmares had returned with a vengeance. His sleep was filled with grisly horrors of blood and death; towering waves and snapping bones, and sweet kisses that ended in twisting hatred. Awake, he was plagued with thoughts of Sarah, constantly aware that she was now within his reach, three, maybe four days away. He wondered how she had taken the news of his death, what she was doing now, and if she ever thought of him. He wondered if she'd married again, properly this time, to someone whom her brother would gladly accept, someone worthy of her.

  The thought of her with someone else twisted through him like a knife in the belly. He no longer harbored any illusions though, about who or what he was. He'd come to understand what Sarah had tried to tell him, that as a youth, and even later, he'd never really had a chance to choose for himself. What de Sevigny had done to him years ago was not of his choice, or his making, and when he'd been given the chance it was Sarah that he'd chosen. He'd even started to believe that maybe she was right. Maybe he deserved to love and be loved as much as anyone else did, but he couldn't believe it anymore.

  He'd been given the opportunity to know something better. He'd been given Sarah, and he'd betrayed her with the most intimate gift he had to give. It hadn't been taken, or forced. He'd given it freely, deliberately, to de Sevigny. One kiss, followed by others, to charm, to seduce, to destroy. He'd finally become the whore that de Sevigny and others had always thought him, not for money, not for favors, but for revenge.

  He'd betrayed her, and he'd betrayed himself, and for that alone he'd be too ashamed to look her in the eyes, but there was more. Nothing had mattered after that. He had killed, cold, mechanical, and merciless, dealing death and being paid for it.' Even now he preyed on the weak and the pathetic. He was familiar enough with the rituals of selfdestruction and despair to recognize them in others. He saw it in the faces of the foolish boys and desperate men who haunted the casinos, seeking the perverted solace of debasement and ruin. He knew them intimately, and he preyed on them, using their weakness to his advantage, and helping them along their way.

  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 chevelier'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 Dieul 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 hi
m. 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 Pve 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 chevaliers. 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 cheri," 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 hotblooded 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.