Broken Wings

by Judith James

  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 was 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.

  Gabriel walked home, to all outward appearances a model of calm indifference, but his heart slammed inside his chest and the blood was roaring in his ears. He had no awareness of crossing the busy street, or brushing coolly by those who sought to greet him. She had been here, in London, just before Christmas! He might have walked right past her on the street. While he and Valmont were presiding over the debauchery on St. James Street, she'd been shopping, going to her lectures... waiting ... for him. She was here, in London, now!

  He'd been certain she would think him dead, that she'd be long since remarried. There was nothing to stop her, no record of their marriage besides a note in Davey's logbook, but she'd told Killigrew that she was waiting for someone, that she'd made a promise. It seemed that she'd kept it, even after three long years. As long as it takes, she'd said. He should have known. Sarah always kept her word.

  He felt like weeping. What folly had possessed him to come here? It was a small world and they both existed on the fringes of it. If he stayed they would be bound to meet. How could he possibly face her? The thought filled him with joy and dread. He knew if he saw her he'd lack the strength to do what he must. Shaken, he sought out the library and poured himself a stiff drink. He was tossing back his third when the chevalier found him.

  "Bon soir, mon vieux. You are the talk of the ton this evening. They say that you frightened the piss out of George Seymour. Literally!"

  "He was annoying me, Valmont. What of it? I did him no permanent harm."

  "You seem a great deal on edge these days, my friend. I had hoped la belle, Barbara, would soothe your nerves. Is there some problem? Something you wish to discuss?"

  "As a matter of fact, there is. I've been thinking of returning to the continent."

  "Mais non, mon ami! I like it here, very much. There is nothing left for me in France. I have no desire to leave. How can you even consider it? You are rich! You have a beautiful mistress and a magnificent home! What more could you possibly want?"

  "You needn't come with me. This life doesn't suit me. I have a mind to acquire a ship. I will be happy, of course, to leave you my share of the house."

  "You would return to piracy? Have you taken leave of your senses, Gabriel? Do you not recollect what we went through to escape such a life?"

  "Do not lecture me!" Gabriel snapped, and instantly regretted it. "Your pardon, Jacques. I'm sorry to be so churlish, but as you've noted, I've been somewhat distracted as of late. This life is destroying me. I am far more comfortable with the wind at my back. I envision becoming a merchant captain, not a privateer."

  "Well, you don't have to decide it all this evening, do you? I will pardon you if you come and join me for dinner. We have a full house tonight, and Monsieur Villeneuve has outdone himself. If you are tired of Barbara, there are plenty of others to choose from. After your heroics at Brooks, there are several young women, and one or two young men, eager to swoon at your feet. And you needn't feel guilty. I will do my very best to console her."

  "Yes, Ja
cques," Gabriel sighed, "I am sure that you will." He followed Valmont to the dining room. Half of Brooks was there, curious and vicious, tittering as they recounted Seymour's humiliation and eager to see if St. Croix would provide any further entertainment. Lady Wilmont was quick to lay claim to him, gripping his arm and guarding him jealously, hissing if anyone, male or female came too close. For once he was grateful for her cloying possessiveness. At least it kept them all at bay.

  Sarah stood outside the magnificent house, watching the carriages pull up, watching their glittering occupants mount the stairs and go inside. Her first reaction upon hearing Ross's news had been a stunned elation. She'd recognized instantly that it was true. Somehow, Gabriel had survived. She'd never been able to accept that he was dead. It was more than the denial typical of those who grieved. It was the connection she had felt from the first moment she'd met him in Madame Etienne s library. It continued to hum and pulse deep inside her. She hadn't known where he was, but she knew that he was, and so she'd searched, and she'd waited.

  Her joy, however, was mixed with confusion, hurt, and a steadily mounting anger. A few discreet inquiries through Ross's London factotum, had turned up a Monsieur St. Croix, new to London since last autumn, and currently residing in an opulent home on Chesterfield Street. It had to be him. He'd been in

  London, just a few blocks away, while she'd shopped and visited, completely unaware. Before that he'd been in Paris. He'd been no more than a few days away from her for almost a year, and he'd never once come to see her, to tell her that he loved her, or let her know he was alive. He'd not even written. Anger and pride told her to seek out William Killigrew, or to turn around and go home, but she needed to see for herself. She needed to be sure. Unexpected, uninvited, she mounted the stairs and stepped inside.

  It started with whispers and continued in a rustling of silk and lace, as elegantly attired dinner guests craned their necks to see. Gabriel blanched and stiffened, white with shock, and rose unsteadily from his chair.

  Lady Wilmont, sensing a rival, rose with him, still clutching his arm. "Goodness me, look whose come to call. It's the Gypsy countess! Killigrew's latest discard.."

  "I would like you to leave. Now!" Gabriel commanded, his voice clipped and cold.

  "You heard him," the woman draped on his arm gloated. "This is a private gathering and you were not invited."

  "I meant you, Barbara," he said, removing his arm from her grasp, ignoring her gasp of outrage. He met Sarah's eyes. He couldn't look away. He could hardly stand. Her look was assessing, questioning, guarded. There was no trace of the warm smile he remembered from his dreams. It took a tremendous effort of will to keep his voice even. "Good evening, Sarah. You've tracked me to my lair." He stretched his arms wide, an amused smile on his face, but his eyes were hard and dangerous. "Well, my dear, have at me. It's what you came for, isn't it?"

  There were snickers throughout the room, but neither of them was aware of anything but the other.

  Sarah's heart squeezed painfully, her throat and chest were aching, and she fought to hold back tears. Whether she felt joy, hurt, or dismay, she couldn't say. His gaze was cold, with no hint of welcome. He was the elegant, disdainful stranger she remembered from Madame Etienne's. She wondered if her Gabriel was any part of him now. How could he be, and have left her to suffer as she had? How could he be, and not take her in his arms? How could he be, and stand there now, beside his mistress?

  "What I came for, is best discussed in private."

  He was known for the cruelty of his wit, and his guests waited, breath bated, to see her humiliated for her effrontery. But whatever faults he had, however angry he was with her for invading his carefully constructed fortress and forcing this confrontation, there was never any question. He would never show her the slightest disrespect. Nor would he allow anyone else to do so. Although a flash of bitterness showed clear in his eyes, his voice was cool and courteous as he gravely offered her his arm.

  "As you wish, my lady. Come."

  She nodded curtly, and rested her ungloved hand on his forearm. He closed his eyes a moment, fighting to stay on his feet, fighting to stay on his guard, as her touch shattered every nerve in his body. He walked her out onto the veranda, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

  Sarah's heart ached with such pain it felt as if it would burst. It was difficult to breathe, let alone speak. She'd been overjoyed to see him alive, and devastated to see him with his mistress. She wanted to throw her arms around him, hug him and kiss him and never let him go. She wanted to slap him and shake him and rake her fingers down his cheek. She wanted to wound him, as he had wounded her. After all they'd been to each other, how could he?

  "Why are you here, Sarah? This is no place for

  you.

  "I'm here ... I'm here for you. I came here to find you and ... to bring you home."

  Her words almost staggered him. A wild longing pierced his heart, and he almost reached for her, but the last three years had honed his control. He gestured coolly to the open doors behind them, instead. "Well, my dear, you've found me, and I am home, as you can see. Say what you have to say, quickly please. I have guests."

  He was so detached, so remote. Somehow, she remembered how to breathe, and when she spoke her voice was almost as cold as his. "I will come straight to the point then, Gabriel. Where have you been? Why haven't you contacted us? We thought you were dead! How could you have let us go on believing such a thing? How could you be so cruel, Gabriel? You have no idea what it felt like, what we've been through. Davey has been consumed with guilt. Jamie and I... we ... I just can't understand it! Why would you leave us to mourn you? All it would have taken was a letter."

  "But I am dead, chere" he said with a faint smile. "I'm just not buried yet."

  She took a step closer and he backed away. "What's happened to you, Gabe, to make you act this way?" she whispered, reaching her hand out to him, then letting it drop.

  "Please don't think me ungrateful, my dear, to you, or to your family. But the deed was done, the secret out, and the miscreant whipped to the curb. What else was there to stay for?"

  She looked carefully into his eyes, searching for the truth, something, anything, but they were lifeless and empty, like his voice. "I don't believe you," she snapped. "I don't understand why you insist on this charade. If you haven't the courtesy or the courage to tell me the truth, pray say nothing at all."

  She considered for the first time that he was truly lost, forever beyond her reach. He was alive, though, and there was great comfort in that. It was time to go. She would leave him to his mistress and mourn him in a different way. At least now she could move on with her life. Moderating her tone, she continued, "My coming here has been a mistake. I am sorry for having intruded, Gabriel. Please don't let me keep you from your guests."

  He'd never meant to cause her pain. He'd seen the wounded look in her eyes when he stood, with Barbara clutching his arm. He would never have purposely flaunted her that way, but Sarah had come upon him unexpected, taking him by surprise. The hurt and disappointment he saw in her eyes now almost unmanned him, flooding him with a wave of desolation worse than any he'd experienced in all his dark life. But for once, the gods were merciful, and nothing, not his face, or his eyes, or his voice, betrayed him. "I am very sorry to have disappointed you, my dear," he said, and turning on his heel he walked away. Her parting words were carried to him on the breeze, barely audible as he stood on the threshold, poised to leave her and return to the cruel gaiety within.

  "Stay safe, Gabriel, and welcome home."

  Gabriel moved through the dining room, grim-faced and silent, and left, closing the door firmly behind him. The chevalier knew where to find him, and minutes later, he cornered him in the library. "You let her walk away? Are you mad? She is your Sarah, is she not? The one you spoke to while we drifted about the Mediterranean. The woman you spoke about in Paris? She is sans pareille! So lovely, so cool, so hurt!"

  "Mind your own damn busines
s, Jacques! You understand nothing, and it's none of your affair! If you place any value on our friendship, you will never speak of it again." Hurling his glass into the fire, Gabriel stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter

  34

  Sarah returned to the town house and lay awake in bed, blanketed in a deep sadness that was oddly comforting. She was done with weeping, and just wanted to go home. The man she had known, however briefly, had been ruthlessly murdered, replaced by the stonefaced stranger who stood in his place. No... she reflected, that wasn't fair. The hard-eyed warrior was no stranger. He had always been a part of Gabriel. He would never have survived without him. But where was her joyful, tenderhearted lover, the passionate adventurer, her beloved friend? Iam dead, he'd said, and walked away from her, leaving her little choice but to believe it. What had happened to him? She hurt just to think of it. He had suffered and survived so much in his short life.

  "Oh, my poor, dear, wounded angel, may the God­dess find you. May she love you, and protect you, and

  keep you safe from harm," she whispered into the dark.

  "Ah! So that's been my mistake," a soft voice drawled. "I've been praying to the other fellow, cold-hearted bastard."

  She shrieked and sprang from the bed, her heart pounding. He was sitting on the floor, a half-empty wineglass dangling from his fingers, moonlight and shadow tangling his hair. She shrieked again, in anger this time, and threw a pillow at him. "You bastard! You scared me half to death!"

  Shifting the wineglass to his left hand, he deftly caught the pillow and tucked it behind his back. "Tsk-tsk, mignonne, temper."

  She searched for a candle, found and lit the lamp, and climbed back into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. "You're sotted!"