Endings and Beginnings: A Risqué Regency Romance (The Gypsy Gentlemen Book 3) Read online

  The Gypsy Gentlemen

  Book III

  Endings and Beginnings

  (The story of Fabyan)

  Sahara Kelly

  Copyright © 2016 Sahara Kelly

  Cover Art Copyright © 2016

  Sahara Kelly, P and N Graphics, LLC

  Author’s Note

  This work was previously published as part of “The Gypsy Lovers”, and has been revised and re-edited for this edition. It wraps up this series of three novels, so Sahara recommends reading them in order to fully enjoy the adventures of these six amazing men. Book I (Honor and Secrets) is available at Amazon.com as is Book II (Control and Compassion) – also at Amazon.com.

  FABYAN

  Chapter One

  As the Dowager Duchess of Kirkwood’s carriage rolled into the outskirts of London, Viktor, Peter and Gyorgy were hard at work on their investigations. Viktor and Peter used their contacts and their acquaintances to solidify their picture of the financial disaster looming over the head of Lord Alfred Eventyde.

  Gyorgy was focused on learning about one particular woman…and to his surprise, he found an interesting trail. One that led to a name he was not pleased to hear used in connection with her—Sir Francis Hucknall.

  They gathered in the evening by the fire in Viktor’s study, seizing the opportunity afforded them for a little privacy. Madelyne and Freddie were doing their social duties and busily encouraging an assortment of gullibly rich ladies to donate to their favorite charity.

  The building had been hurriedly completed, the servants installed, and there was now a dozen or so women temporarily seeking shelter within its walls. Madelyne had named it “The Zentaily House”, which was as close to the Hungarian word for “sanctuary” as she could come.

  “After all, Viktor,” she’d said when he tried to get her to pronounce it correctly. “I doubt that too many of our guests will be Hungarians. Most will be English women desperate for a roof over their heads and a start in a new direction. They’re not going to care what it’s called.”

  Faced with such irrefutable logic, Viktor had done the only thing possible. He’d kissed her.

  His eyes warmed at the memory as he sat with his friends.

  “So it looks as if Eventyde’s affairs are getting shakier by the second,” said Peter. “He’s moving money around, pulling out of some ventures, calling in his debts, even selling off a couple of his hunters. He’s sinking everything he’s got into the shipping line. I can’t see the sense in it myself, but others have made big killings that way.”

  Viktor nodded. “It’s a foolish man’s way to make a fortune…worse than putting it all on the turn of a card, in my opinion.”

  “But…” said Gyorgy thoughtfully. “It does make it a hell of a lot easier to destroy the man. If that’s what you want to do.”

  “Oh I do.” Viktor’s words were emphatic. “Nothing less will suffice.”

  Peter nodded. “We’re in agreement then.”

  Viktor straightened his shoulders and looked at the two men. “It will take but a few words in the right ears. The company will totter. Other investors will probably pull out leaving Eventyde with a handful of worthless stock.”

  “What about the people who work for them? Are we going to be putting a few hundred honest men out of a job?” Gyorgy’s concern was merited given the course they were intent upon pursuing.

  “Not if we time it right,” answered Peter. “That’s the beauty of this little scheme. The ships of this line are at sea right now—there’s only one cargo vessel in port and it’s scheduled to leave tomorrow at high tide. By starting our campaign after it leaves, we can be over and done with before any ships make landfall. The crews will be completely unaware of what’s happening to their company until it’s all over.”

  “And, of course, after Eventyde’s destroyed, we’ll pull it back up to financial solidity with a few more choice rumors.” Viktor’s tone was satisfied. “No harm, no foul. If everything works according to plan, it’ll take less than forty-eight hours to ruin him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Good question, Gyorgy,” answered Viktor thoughtfully. “I think that will be up to my wife.” He shrugged. “So have you learned anything about your mysterious Duchess?”

  Gyorgy stroked his chin. “Several things…none of which I like, and more than a few concerning our old friend, Francis Hucknall.”

  Two heads swiveled rapidly at Gyorgy’s words.

  “Really?” Viktor’s drawl was cool, but his expression intense. “How the hell does he fit in with the Kirkwood family?”

  “Good question. And one to which I don’t yet have all the answers. But there’s something unpleasant going on there. I’ll let you know as soon as I have the truth of the matter.”

  Peter’s lip curled. “If Hucknall’s involved, there’s bound to be something unpleasant. ‘T’is rumored he was involved in the death of two prostitutes recently. But of course, there’s no proof. Money buys silence.”

  “Well, perhaps we’ll end up killing two birds with one stone,” mused Viktor.

  “Not until I find out how Marie-Claire is involved,” cautioned Gyorgy. “I won’t have her tainted or hurt by anything we do.”

  Peter grinned and looked at Viktor. “He’s got it bad.”

  Gyorgy snorted. “This from a man who runs when his wife simply blinks in his direction?”

  Peter held up his hands in the classic fencing gesture of a man acknowledging a hit. “You’re right. One flash of those green eyes and I’m lost. I admit it.” He grinned at Gyorgy. “And it’s wonderful.”

  Gyorgy looked at his friends. “You are both lucky men. I envy you. But after this is done, I’ll give you fair warning. She is going to be mine. The next wedding you attend will be that of Gyorgy Vargas and Marie-Claire Devereaux.”

  The sound of quiet applause echoed through the room.

  As one, the three men turned to see a fourth standing in the shadows.

  He was tall, held himself proudly, and there was a touch of silver in the rich brown hair tied back behind his neck. It dappled his neatly trimmed beard and twinkled in the moustache above his mouth.

  He was smiling.

  The three men nearly stumbled over themselves as they rushed to their feet, one name on their lips.

  “Fabyan.”

  *~~*~~*

  Fabyan Szabo felt his smile spreading from ear to ear.

  His friends clustered around him, hugging him, clapping him on the shoulders, wringing his hands with theirs and generally making affectionate nuisances of themselves.

  He loved it.

  Finally, he held up his hand and motioned them all back to their chairs, pulling up one of his own. Anyone would think they’d been parted for years instead of a couple of weeks.

  With simple gestures, he encouraged them to talk, and listened intently as they took turns imparting their news.

  So Viktor had married, as had Pyotr. And both happily by the looks of them. Not to mention the fact that Pyotr had finally accepted his heritage and become Lord Peter Chalmers once again. That was good. A man should face his past demons some time and lay them to rest.

  Peter had shared his secrets with Fabyan one drunken night, and Fabyan knew it was only a matter of time before Peter’s nature forced him to deal with the pain that lurked in his heart. Apparently falling in love with Freddie had done the trick. And Gyorgy?

  Well, there was a man in the throes of passion if ever Fabyan had seen one. He had that “look” about him that told the world he
was on a mission, and wouldn’t rest until he had his woman where she belonged. In his bed.

  Fabyan hid a private smile with his hand as he stroked his moustache.

  He listened to their stories, their adventures and their embarrassed explanation of how it came to be that in such a short time all three had succumbed to a particular woman.

  He just shook his head and let his eyes tell them of his happiness for them.

  He held up two fingers.

  “Lukasz and Matyas?” said Viktor. “I don’t know. Haven’t heard from them. But I’m sure they’ll arrive soon.”

  Peter chuckled. “Probably busy enjoying the favors of a variety of country lasses across the home counties.”

  Fabyan nodded and raised one eyebrow.

  None of the men present missed the question.

  “Yes, we’re plotting.” Peter looked apologetic. “Not like we did in Europe, but plotting just the same.”

  Fabyan leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, folding his hands together and waiting. He was very good at waiting.

  “There are two men, Fabyan. Two men who have shown themselves to be beneath reproach. Both names are known to you…Lord Alfred Eventyde is one.”

  Fabyan’s jaw tightened.

  “Yes indeed,” continued Viktor. “Our host on that eventful night. And the other is his guest…Francis Hucknall.”

  Fabyan gave one short nod. These were indeed men whose existence soiled the ground they walked on. Viktor and the others could have no idea how much Fabyan wanted Eventyde dead.

  It was his secret—his alone, and had remained his secret for many years.

  He turned his attention back to his friends and listened as they detailed their plans. They were sound. Efficient, lethal and effective. At least where Eventyde was concerned.

  He rested his hand inquiringly on Gyorgy’s arm as the conversation turned to Hucknall.

  “I don’t know, Fabyan,” sighed Gyorgy. “I don’t know about Hucknall yet. We can’t touch him financially—he’s too shrewd to let himself fall into that trap. And the man has no reputation left to destroy. I do know that he holds a great deal of power over a number of people. He makes a habit of buying up their vowels, calling them in and accepting their properties in exchange for the debt.” Gyorgy’s expression was one of distaste.

  Fabyan made a light motion with his fingers, as if holding a hand of cards.

  “Maybe…” said Viktor thoughtfully. “The clubs he frequents are not reputable gaming houses, that’s for sure. He seems to know when someone has lost heavily at the tables…but whether he plays or not himself…Gyorgy?”

  Gyorgy pondered the question. “I don’t know. I can find out.”

  Fabyan nodded.

  “And you, Fabyan…will you stay here?” Peter looked at his friend.

  Fabyan shook his head and pulled out a small card bearing a nearby address.

  “Oooh. Very nice, my friend. This would have impressed the hell out of Napoleon’s troops.” Peter grinned.

  Fabyan punched him in the shoulder.

  “Good. You are near enough to keep in touch. We need your counsel, Fabyan,” said Viktor as he glanced at the card. “And I know you’ll want to meet Freddie and Madelyne.”

  Fabyan smiled again at the warmth in his friend’s voice. He did indeed want to meet these two women who had knocked two such confirmed bachelors off their feet and into matrimony.

  They made plans to rendezvous once more the following evening, and parted, Fabyan enjoying the hugs and handshakes as he left Viktor’s home. Truly he was blessed to have such friends.

  As his steps took him through the shadows and down the few short streets to his own apartments, his mind wandered back over their acquaintance and to that fateful night when he’d stumbled on the very drunken group of discontented and angry young men.

  He’d seen their strengths, heard them sob out their weaknesses over their brandy, and watched as the scars had surfaced—some physical, some mental. He knew his own soul bore scars that matched theirs, and somehow he had forged a partnership between them all that had transcended his silence and given each of them a chance to repair their damaged lives.

  And it seemed they were continuing to do so. “Zentaily House”. He grinned to himself. “Szentély”. Sanctuary. A good name for a good project. God knew women needed it.

  His mind slid back to a night in Paris so many years ago, when a young and handsome dark-eyed Hungarian had stumbled over a battered and bleeding woman in an alleyway.

  His Annabelle would have benefited from a sanctuary. Somewhere to hide from the brute who’d savaged her. As it was, she’d found her sanctuary with Fabyan. And he’d found his heart, only to lose it when she left him. Revolutions were painful and calling this one “The Terror” was accurate and precise. Annabelle would have been trapped…possibly guillotined. Every little fraction of her body screamed out “aristocracy”, from the delicate line of her neck, to her fragile wrists. Her golden hair had been shorn, but nothing could hide her breeding.

  And the mob didn’t care about anything but ridding themselves of the hated aristos.

  He understood her need to flee. He also knew he couldn’t accompany her. But when she left, she’d taken his heart with her. His silence had fallen upon him, as if her departure had robbed him of the desire to communicate with his fellows. He’d not spoken more than a word or two since.

  He had no heart for it.

  He’d had women in the intervening years, of course, even stayed with one or two, but none had replaced Annabelle. No one could ever replace Annabelle. No one had her rare combination of strength and beauty. No one could make his cock hard with just a brush of their hands or his balls ache with a mere kiss.

  He’d fucked since then, but he admitted to himself—he’d never loved.

  And the two just weren’t the same.

  Fabyan sighed as he approached his front door. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d visit this Zentaily House of Madelyne’s…perhaps there was something he could do to help. A friendly smile, an hour spent just holding the hand of a woman in need—Fabyan knew well how these things could make a difference in a life filled with pain.

  He’d done it before.

  With Annabelle.

  *~~*~~*

  “I must request a favor from you all.”

  Marie-Claire Devereaux spoke to the three occupants of the carriage as it made its way through the London streets towards the town house of Count Viktor Karoly.

  “Please do not mention my presence to Gyorgy.”

  Mat and Luk raised their eyebrows. “But surely…” began Mat.

  “He’s going to want to see you…” said Luk.

  “And I shall want to see him. But not yet.” She made as if to reach out her hand. “Please. Not yet. Not until I am ready.”

  Prioshka nodded. “I understand.”

  China-blue eyes met hers. “I knew you would.”

  Luk and Mat glanced at each other in confusion.

  “There are things I need to do. Matters I need to settle. I will not seek Gyorgy out until those matters are concluded to my satisfaction. The next time we meet, I need…I need to be free.” She looked down at her hands. “I must be free.”

  Prioshka moved her hand and covered Marie-Claire’s. “You know where we can be found. All you have to do is send word. I promise that we won’t tell Gyorgy you are in town, but you must promise us to keep us informed of how…how you are? How things are going?”

  “Marie-Claire,” said Luk. “We can help you. We will stand by you. It’s what we do.”

  Mat nodded in agreement. “Do not mistake our abilities for those of simple musicians, Marie-Claire. We have spent time doing things in Europe that have given us skills that might be of use to you. Please…call on us immediately if you need us.”

  “I will. And thank you.” Her lips curved up into a smile of more warmth than usual. “It would seem that Gyorgy chooses his friends well.”

  “As do we, Marie
-Claire.”

  Prioshka’s words were followed by a quick hug, and for a moment the low light from the carriage lantern sparkled on something like tears in Marie-Claire’s eyes. They were gone in an instant.

  “You will stay safe?” Mat’s question was more of an insistent demand.

  “I will, Mat. As much as possible. I should have done this business years ago. But I let things slip…time passes…it took Gyorgy to make me realize what I had lost and what I could find again. Please do not worry about me.”

  “We can’t help it,” muttered Luk, looking less than pleased.

  Marie-Claire chuckled softly. “I am glad. It has been a long time since anyone worried about me. But truly, there is no need.”

  “I’m more worried about my hide when Gyorgy finds out that we knew you were in town and didn’t tell him,” said Mat bluntly.

  Prioshka laughed at that. “He’s your friend. He’ll understand.”

  Luk snorted. “No he won’t.”

  “He will. I will explain all to him, never fear.” Marie-Claire’s words were followed by the sounds of the carriage drawing to a standstill in front of the steps leading to the Karoly house.

  “Thank you, Marie-Claire,” said Prioshka. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

  “As do I.”

  Luk and Mat helped Prioshka from the carriage and accepted their small bags from the driver as he tossed them down.

  Marie-Claire was about to pull the door shut, when Luk leaned in. “Remember. We’re here for you.” He grinned at her. “Good hunting.”

  Good hunting indeed.

  Marie-Claire tapped on the roof of the carriage and left the three people to make their way into the large house.

  Chapter Two

  As was his custom, Fabyan rose early. It had been a necessity in France and had become part of his nature. Consequently, it was scarcely past eight o’clock in the morning when he ventured out to pay a visit to Zentaily House.