Broken Wing (2 page)

As for himself, well, the sooner the brat was gone, the better. He would be free at last. Free to leave, to look to his own best interests … Ah, Christ! Why bother pretending? Hooking the decanter with two fingers, he tipped it up again, draining the last few drops before hurling it to the cobblestones below. He chortled in drunken glee at the sound it made as it shattered and scattered into thousands of tiny pieces. Take your enjoyment where you can, boy. You’re naught but a catamite, and a whore. There’s nothing to live for, no one who cares, and your pleasures are few and far between.

He settled back again with a grin. He was as stupid as any of them. He’d let himself pretend that Jamie Boy was his family. It had given him reason to go on from one day to the next, and though he was glad, truly glad, and deeply relieved that the boy would soon be gone, he dreaded it, as well. It was a bone-deep dread, a stomach-clenching terror of returning to the desolate, lonely void where he’d lived most of his life.

Maybe, once the boy was gone, he’d find the courage to give himself some peace. Not here, though. No. He had a distant recollection of being by the ocean, skin pricking, the smell, and taste of salt. It was the only peaceful reminiscence he owned. He guarded it jealously, embellishing it with memories borrowed from books and other people’s stories until it took on a luster and familiarity that felt like home. That’s where
he’d go when the time came. He would journey to the ocean, lay himself down, and let the water wash him clean. He was so damn tired. Oh, Christ! He wasn’t crying, was he?

As if to mock him, a drop of rain, fat and gelid, splattered against his cheek, mingling with his own hot bitter tears. It was followed by another, and then another. Clouds were racing overhead now, and thunder moaned and grumbled in the distance. Good God, but drink could turn a fellow into a maudlin fool! Needing to piss, tired of self-pity, tired to the bone, he dragged himself stiffly to his feet.

Taking one last look at the angry sky, he sketched an elegant, mocking bow to whichever almighty sadist ruled the universe. Crossing his arms over his chest, shirt wet with blood, rain, and tears, he made his way back toward the sounds of shrill laughter, and the soft moans of men and women in pleasure and in pain. Opening the door, he stepped inside. Moist and seething, it smelled of whiskey and rum, tobacco and semen. It smelled like sex and desperation. He grinned. It smelled like home.

Sarah, Lady Munroe, was also known as the Gypsy Countess, a moniker given her on account of her unfortunate parentage and her even more unfortunate behavior. Less than five years ago, the polite world had been shocked and titillated when she left her elderly husband only a week after her nuptials. It was widely rumored since that she dressed as a man, consorted with pirates, and counted among her numerous lovers her own half brother, Ross. All but the last charge were true.

She glanced at her brother now, in commiseration. Their plush, well-appointed carriage jolted and shimmied, rattling teeth and bone, as they made their hurried approach to Paris. Just ten years ago, the streets of this city had run red with blood as its citizenry turned on their betters in an excess of patriotism and democratic fervor, hacking many of them to pieces. Now, poised on the cusp of a new century, these
bloodthirsty idealists, finally sated and shocked by the efforts of that ravenous matriarch, Madame Guillotine, looked for reassurance and order. Their attention had been drawn to a sallow young Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte. Brilliant, charismatic, and politically astute, he was fast becoming a force to be reckoned with on the Continent, and a cause of great concern to Britain.

None of this had any negative impact on the commerce and custom of the finer Parisian brothels. Uncertainty, danger, and war were aphrodisiacs, and brothels were operating to capacity, catering to the well-heeled and providing delicious diversions to suit any need, regardless of political orientation, or sexual preference. It was to just such a place, Madame Etienne’s,
Maison de Joie
, that Ross and Sarah now hurried in hopes of finding their younger brother.

“Oh, God, Ross, do you really think it’s him? Could it be after all these years?” Sarah closed her eyes, desperately wanting to believe it, and desperately afraid of what it meant if it was true. The thought of the innocent child she’d played tag and soldiers with, living in such a place these past five years, filled her with horror.

Ross reached across, patting her hand. “I have very good reason to expect that it is, my dear. Our agents have done a thorough job of investigating. This child is the right age and coloring, and they indicate there’s a striking family resemblance. They’ve been
able to trace his route from London to the Continent. He arrived at Madame Etienne’s a month after James disappeared.”

He glanced out the window, troubled and far more aware than Sarah of what that meant. “We must be prepared, Sarah. He’s not likely to recognize us, and he’ll not be the child you remember. He has doubtless been through an ordeal. He may be … damaged in ways that—”

“Shhh,” she interrupted, gripping his hand. “Think of it, Ross! After all this time, we’ve found him. If he doesn’t remember, then we’ll remind him. If he’s hurt we’ll heal him, and by God, we will bring him home!”

Leaning back into the cushions, Ross nodded in agreement, some of his anxiety subsiding. She would have made an excellent commander, he reflected. She had the ability to look at a complex situation and find its heart. He thought about what she’d said and prayed to God it would be that simple.

The warm spring day gave way to the cooler shadows of late afternoon as they wended their way through the city, silent, lost in thought. It was a city of contrasts. Beautiful boulevards verdant with spring buds were lined with stately homes girdled with black wrought-iron fences and window boxes riotous with color. Scattered among them were abandoned dwellings, defaced and looted, with broken gates and tumbled walls, the detritus of revolution and civil strife.

As they approached the city center, they passed narrow alleys crammed with tanners and fishmongers. The stench that escaped them joined the clatter of carts and the screeching of merchants in a noxious tumult of smell and noise that left Sarah feeling nauseated. The congestion grew heavier as they advanced through bustling neighborhoods lined with shops and restaurants, crowded with the scent of flowers, freshly baked bread, and the pungent odors of tobacco, coffee, and perfume. Everywhere, swelling crowds argued, haggled, and socialized. It all reminded her of some great, rushing, bellicose beast. This beast had swallowed her brother.

It was well past four in the afternoon, and the city had quieted as its inhabitants sought their dinner, when they finally arrived at Madame Etienne’s. The elegant town house, with its cream brick façade and rose-trimmed windows, perched on a corner on top of a hill, as if guarding the warren of alleys and narrow streets below. There was a large balcony on the second floor and a smaller one on the third. A liveried doorman stood at attention. A knocker in the form of a grotesque gargoyle was the only hint that the house was anything other than a benign and sober, private domicile.

Sarah shivered. “How innocuous it looks,” she mused aloud. It should look more foreboding, ominous and dark with crenulated towers, like a witch’s house, or an evil castle from a fairy tale. Her palms itched, and she had to concentrate to breathe. Ross, his face grim, helped her down from the carriage.

A diminutive redheaded man stepped forward to shake Ross’s hand. “Mr. Giles, of Bow Street, sir. My partner, Mr. Smythe, is inside with the boy.”

Sarah’s cousin and Ross’s best friend, known to his intimates as Gypsy Davey, had arranged the paperwork they needed to travel to France, and it was he who had first suggested they try the services of the Bow Street Runners. A relatively new development in the world of law enforcement, the runners were known to take private commissions and their reputation was excellent. The investment had been well worthwhile. In four short months they had produced results where the past four years had proved barren.

“Mr. Giles, may I present my sister, Lady Munroe?”

“An honor, ma’am,” Mr. Giles said with a bow. “It’s not that many would bother bringing a lad home from a place like this.”

Sarah stiffened. “Why ever not, sir?”

“No offense, milady, just speaking the God’s truth.”

“How is the lad?” Ross cut in before Sarah could respond.

“He seems surprisingly well, sir, under the circumstances. Not the best-mannered little jackanapes, but the lad has spunk. He doesn’t appear to be much the worse for wear.” Blushing, he cast a glance in Sarah’s direction. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. Shall we go in, sir? Ma’am? He’s waiting in the drawing room with Mr. Smythe. The old harridan, Madame Etienne, is in
the library.”

A sour-faced majordomo, stiff, formal, and elegantly attired, ushered them into a spacious entrance hall with a lofty ceiling and black and white marble-tiled floors. The walls were hung with paintings featuring some of the more notorious scenes from classical myth. They followed him through a sumptuous salon decorated in silk wallpaper, depicting men engaged in amatory acrobatics with a variety of partners, both male and female. The overall impression was one of opulent debauchery.

The library was a welcome relief from the calculated lasciviousness of the rest of the house. Paneled in oak, it contained book-lined walls, an imposing fireplace, and furniture comfortably appointed in rich brocades and plush velvets. There was a large desk, and behind it sat a tiny, steely-eyed, silver-haired woman who, if not for the gleam of avarice and contempt in her eyes, might have been mistaken for someone’s dowager auntie. She didn’t bother to rise, but motioned regally for Ross and Sarah to be seated.

“Tea? Brandy, perhaps?”

“We did not come here to socialize, Madame Etienne,” Ross said.

“No? Well, then, to business. You wish to see the boy. First, let me tell you this matter has been a great nuisance and I shall expect compensation, whether the boy is related to you or not. You should also know he has cost a pretty penny to feed, to clothe, and … to train.”

Ross stiffened slightly, and leaned forward. “Be very careful, Madame,” he warned softly. “If this boy
is
my brother, it means you have kidnapped, and held imprisoned, the heir to an English peerage. You will hand him over to me immediately, without question, and my sister and I will take him home, or I give you my word, I will most certainly see you … compensated.”

Momentarily nonplussed, Madame Etienne drew back, blinked, and then rallied, her malicious smirk replaced by a look of wounded innocence. “But, monsieur, this is ridiculous! I did not kidnap the boy. I rescued him! I did not imprison him. I gave him a home! You make such threats! To me, who has nursed and cared for the poppet, fed and clothed him when he had no family to turn to. Of course, if he is your brother, you must take him. I have only meant well by the boy.”

“We wish to see him, Madame. Now!”

Madame Etienne motioned to the servant standing silently at attention by the door. “Bring the boy, Henri,” she snapped.

An uncomfortable silence followed, relieved only by the monotonous ticking of the clock and the distant sounds of Paris. All eyes turned when the door opened with a slight click, and a young boy, delicate featured, towheaded, and slight of stature, stepped hesitantly into the room. He was accompanied by a beefy dark-haired man who looked like he’d be more comfortable in a boxing ring. “Good evening, Governor, milady.

Mr. Smythe, at your service. May I present young James here?” he said, encouraging the boy forward with a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Sarah and Ross rose as one, stunned the moment had finally come. There was no question. He was taller and his face had lost its childish roundness, but the brilliant green eyes and hint of freckles were unchanged. A handsome child, he was the spitting image of their father.

Eyes narrowed with hostility, the boy glared at the bawd before turning to examine the strangers who had sent for him. His gaze was direct and self-assured, and he eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

Ross noted with relief, and some degree of surprise, that there was nothing servile about the lad, no hint of depravity. There was caution and distrust, but no fear. Mr. Giles was correct. Somehow, remarkably, the boy seemed undamaged. “Good afternoon, James. Do you know who we are, and why we are here?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Gabriel says you’re my parents and you’ve come to take me home,” Jamie answered with a hint of challenge.

“We are not your parents, James, but we
are
your family. My name is Ross. I’m your half brother and the Earl of Huntington. This is your sister, Sarah, Lady Munroe, and we’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

“It took you long enough to find me,” Jamie said, unimpressed.

“Yes, Jamie, we know,” Sarah interrupted. “Do you remember me? We used to play soldiers together a long time ago.” The boy looked at her with a gleam of interest but shook his head, no. Sarah stepped forward impulsively, enveloping him in her arms. “Well, I remember you, Jamie, and I’m so glad we’ve found you at last.”

Jamie’s face turned crimson, and after a moment’s surrender, he pulled away.

Ross clapped him on the shoulder. “I know we seem like strangers now, lad, but that will change soon enough. Give it a bit of time. We are family, and you’re safe now. That’s all that matters at the moment. We shall all be well acquainted by the time we get you home. Mr. Smythe? Please inform Mr. Giles, and ask him to alert the coachmen.”

“What about Gabriel?”

“Gabriel?”

“I’m not leaving unless he comes, too, and I’ve not had my dinner,” the boy stated emphatically. His lips took on a mulish cast as he prepared himself for battle.

Sarah reached out a hand to ruffle his hair but he pushed it away. “Calm down now,” she said in a soothing voice. “Who is Gabriel, Jamie?”

Madame, who had been watching everything with calculating eyes, answered for him. “He is one of my prize employees, highly sought after by the men and women who frequent this establishment.”