Endings and Beginnings: A Risqué Regency Romance (The Gypsy Gentlemen Book 3) Page 2

  Correctly deducing that there would be plenty of activity, since this was not the sort of establishment housing women who danced ‘til dawn and then slept away the following day, he knocked and was welcomed by a matronly woman.

  “Good day, sir. What may we do for you?”

  It took a few moments for him to make himself understood with hand movements, smiles and his card.

  “Oh I see, sir. A friend of Lady Chalmers and Countess Karoly, are you?” The woman beamed at him. “Right fine ladies they are too, sir. Please come in. Would you be wishful to look around?”

  He nodded, eyes already noting the fresh paint, the smell of breakfast cooking, and the overall cleanliness. This was a good place. Welcoming.

  “Why don’t you take a quick peek into our kitchens, then…our guests are just finishing up now…”

  He followed the bustling skirts of the housekeeper, who informed him she was Mabel Branston, and had been with “the dear Countess” from the beginning of the whole project.

  While she nattered on happily about how much good they were doing, Fabyan saw for himself the handful of small rooms where fabric was piled, or paper and pens set ready at small desks that might have been rescued from some schoolroom.

  The kitchen was redolent with the fragrance of bacon and fresh bread, and his mouth watered.

  Mrs. Branston obviously noticed, since she pulled him to an empty chair, sat him down without ceremony and plunked a plate in front of him containing several slices of fresh bread and pats of butter.

  “Help yourself, Mr. Zaboo. There’s plenty for all.”

  Several pairs of eyes widened as he reached for the bread.

  “Mr. Zaboo here is a friend of the Countess’s come to pay a visit, ladies. He don’t…um that is, he can’t…”

  Fabyan smiled and gestured delicately at his throat, shaking his head at the same time.

  Murmurs of sympathy swept around the table as the half-dozen women took a good look at the extraordinarily handsome man sharing their meal.

  Fabyan chuckled to himself. If nothing else, he’d brought a little something different to their breakfast table. He wondered if they’d survive seeing all six of the Gypsy musicians together.

  Mrs. Branston continued her work, shepherding off those women who had finished their food to various activities, and chatting knowledgeably about possible jobs, different parts of the country, and all the positive things that could lie ahead for her “guests”.

  Finally, Fabyan was alone, finishing up his bread and butter and washing it down with an excellent cup of tea.

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Zaboo, it’s certainly lifted my heart to be able to help these women like this,” said Mrs. Branston. She pulled over a cup and poured herself the last of the tea.

  “Of course, these are the healthy ones. We’ve a couple that aren’t doing so good.” She shook her head on a frown. “I just can’t understand what makes people think they can hurt other people.”

  He nodded in agreement. He’d never understood it either.

  “Why don’t you come upstairs and look in on our patients? They’d probably appreciate a nice smile and a minute of your time…” She glanced at him. “That is, if you don’t mind being in the sickroom?”

  He snorted. Given some of the things he’d seen, a sickroom was the least of his concerns. He just smiled and gestured for her to lead the way.

  She led him up a flight of stairs and along a hallway. “We try and keep it to two guests per room…a lot of these women need companionship, but crowding them in isn’t always the answer. One woman can become a friend—too many can be intimidating.”

  She stopped at a door near the end and turned. “This is Mrs. Carstairs. Her husband died, and her brother-in-law threw her out into the streets. She has no family, and wasn’t well at the time. A good shower of rain, a couple of nights without food or shelter and…you know…”

  Fabyan’s mouth firmed. He understood. Inflammation of the lungs was common under such circumstances, and had claimed too many people who lacked the strength and the resources to fight it.

  The woman lay restlessly on her bed, tossing her head and muttering. A servant was with her, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth, and keeping a pot of water steaming on the hearth.

  The room was warm and the atmosphere cloying, but Fabyan knew it was the best thing to relieve the congestion that rattled every breath the sick woman drew.

  “Here, now, Mrs. Carstairs. You’ve a guest come to visit you.”

  The woman’s eyes opened, and for a moment fear screamed loud behind them. But one look at Fabyan’s comforting smile and she relaxed.

  He took her hand. Dry and hot, it betrayed the fever that was wracking her body, and he stroked it gently.

  “Who are you?” She pushed the words out and coughed.

  He touched his fingers to her lips to hush her, and held her other hand against his jacket.

  “A friend, Mrs. Carstairs, just a friend. Come to see how you’re feeling today.” Mrs. Branston leaned over and rested her hand worriedly on the woman’s forehead.

  “Very well…” Her breath rasped in her lungs.

  The housekeeper frowned. “You’ll do better in a day or so, mark my words.” She ladled out some weak broth into a cup. “Perhaps Mr. Zaboo can persuade you to drink a little of this. You need to keep your strength up.”

  Fabyan eased his arm around the woman’s shoulders and helped her up, taking the cup from Mrs. Branston. With muttered words of thanks, the woman did manage a few sips.

  “Good girl.” Nodding at him, Mrs. Branston let him lay the patient back down and take his leave. Elegantly, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, bringing a smile to the wan face on the pillow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Zaboo. I’ll warrant that’ll do the poor lass a world of good. She’ll get better, but there’s a long road ahead of her.” Moving to the last door, she paused. “Now in here is Mrs. Smith. I’m not so sure about this one. Her illness seems more of the spirit than of the body. She’s weak, but doesn’t have a fever. It’s as though she’s lost her will to live. Sad thing, really. But understandable. She was tossed out on her ear by her husband, had to struggle to survive for the last several years, and has been steadily going downhill. She’s a lady, make no mistake about it, but more than that, she won’t say.”

  Quietly, Mrs. Branston opened the door.

  The room was darkened by curtains drawn over the windows, and Viktor’s eyes took a moment to make out the slight figure lying beneath the covers. Then he caught sight of unruly blonde hair tumbled over the pillows.

  He blinked and moved closer to the bed.

  “Mrs. Smith…wake up dear. You’ve got a visitor.”

  The woman turned her head to the wall. “Please go away.” It was a whisper, but Fabyan heard it.

  His heart started to pound fiercely and he stepped to the side of the bed. With a shaking hand he reached to the woman’s chin and gripped it, turning it toward the light.

  His pulse pounded like cannon fire in his ears as he stared at her and for the first time in too many years his throat struggled with a sound.

  “Annabelle.”

  *~~*~~*

  “Fabyan.”

  The cry was wrung from her throat like the last breath of a dying animal.

  “You know each other?” Mrs. Branston was thunderstruck.

  His arms were already reaching for her, lifting her from the bed and gathering her close.

  “Yes…yes…oh God.” She sighed weakly. “If I’m going to die, I can’t think of anywhere better than with him…” Her thoughts were incoherent, and her mind whirled as she felt herself lifted against his heart, bedclothes trailing off her like the shrouds she truly believed they would be.

  “Not…die…” he rasped. “Not going to die.”

  “Well…goodness…I don’t know…” Mrs. Branston wrung her hands, but stopped as Fabyan looked over at her.

  “Carriage…”

>   “But…she…I…”

  One more glance from his dark eyes told Mrs. Branston he’d brook no arguments, and in spite of her frail state, Annabelle wanted to laugh. She knew that look of old. He still had the ability to command people with a single glance.

  “I’ll summon you a hackney right away, sir.” Mrs. Branston hurried from the room.

  “Fabyan…” breathed Annabelle. “Oh Fabyan…”

  She raised her hand and stroked his cheek just to make sure he was real. Firm skin met her touch, raspy where he’d shaved and hairy where his beard met his cheek. “It’s been so long…so very long…”

  His eyes burned her face, traveling from her hair to her chin and then back to meet her gaze. His arms tightened around her.

  “Your voice…you don’t speak…Fabyan?”

  He sucked in air. “Nothing to say. After you left…nothing to say.”

  She gasped. It had been more than twenty years. He hadn’t spoken in all that time. And she was responsible. Tears flooded her eyes and spilled from their corners.

  “Oh God, Fabyan…I’ve missed you so.”

  The room spun as he wrapped her in the blankets, and the excitement of the moment overwhelmed her. “Fabyan…I don’t feel too well…”

  The last thing she saw as her world darkened to blackness was the tender gaze of the man she’d loved so long ago and had never stopped loving. Her Fabyan.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was still there.

  But she was no longer in the small sickroom at Zentaily House.

  She blinked at him, reaching towards him in a gesture of need and reassurance. “Am I dead?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “No, love.”

  His voice sounded scratchy and harsh, but she could understand him perfectly. She remembered. “Fabyan, you stopped speaking…because of me?”

  He brushed her hair away from her face. “Hungry?”

  She sniffed and realized the scent of croissants filled the room. He’d remembered. She’d developed a passion for the bread when she’d been with him in Paris. It had been so long and yet he’d not forgotten.

  “Oh yes…” Her mouth watered as she watched him spread butter on the hot roll.

  “Eat.”

  She did. Just seeing him there, looking at her with those unforgettable deep brown eyes was enough to make her hungry, and she realized it wasn’t just food she wanted. Although more years had passed than she cared to count, the spark was still there.

  Fabyan could still stir her body like no other man ever could. And several had tried. She pushed the thought away and finished the roll with delight. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Or perhaps it was just the fact that she was sitting up in bed and Fabyan was less than two feet away.

  Which brought another thought to her mind. “Where am I?”

  “My apartments.”

  “Oh. You brought me here?”

  He nodded, passing her a second roll. She could only finish half of it, in spite of his frown. “I cannot, Fabyan. Too rich. It’s been a while…”

  She leaned back tiredly onto the pillows.

  Fabyan moved to a small side table and clinked glass as he poured two small drinks. He returned to the bed carrying them and offered her one.

  She cautiously took it and sniffed. “Brandy?”

  “Just a little. For your health.”

  He put his glass down and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing his cravat after it. His shirt followed.

  Annabelle was wide-eyed, watching him as he stripped. She absently sipped the fiery liquid, sputtering a little as it burned her throat. But a warmth seeped into her after she’d swallowed, although whether it was from the liquor or the man disrobing in front of her, she wasn’t quite sure.

  His body hadn’t changed much. Other than the few silver hairs, he was still lean and sculpted, muscles in all the right places…

  He shucked off his boots and breeches, unconcerned that he was now quite naked. Oh yes. He still had muscles in all the right places.

  She’d know his cock anywhere. It had haunted her dreams, plagued her memories and she’d awoken more times than she could recall yearning to feel it inside her once more. She’d thought they would remain only dreams.

  Now she wasn’t so sure.

  He picked up his glass, rounded the bed and casually slipped beneath the covers beside her, pulling her into his warmth.

  “Now, kedves Annabelle. Tell me.”

  Where to start?

  Annabelle took a last sip of her glass and put it aside. She was too intent on cuddling into Fabyan’s chest to want more brandy. He was intoxicating enough. She let herself enjoy the feel of his hair as it curled over his skin, and idly slid her fingertips through the whorls she found around his small nipples.

  He caught her wandering hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it and pulled her even closer. “Tell me.”

  She sighed. He always had been a determined man.

  “It’s been so long, Fabyan. I don’t know where to start.”

  “You left me.”

  “Yes.” She shivered. “I had no choice. The mob was coming, Fabyan. They were searching house to house. I couldn’t let them take me and run the risk of them taking you as well for helping me. I just couldn’t.” Her fingers tightened against his skin.

  “There was another reason too.”

  She felt him drop a kiss on her hair and swallowed as she fought for the next words she knew would strike deep into his heart.

  “I was expecting our child.”

  *~~*~~*

  Fabyan’s world shifted on its axis.

  “Our child?”

  Annabelle snuggled into his arms as if she’d only left them yesterday. Her body still fit his, her curves were more womanly now, but still a perfect match for his hands, his mouth…there was only the thin flannel of her nightdress between them, and he cursed it silently for a moment as his brain struggled to come to terms with what she’d just said.

  “You were pregnant?”

  She nodded against him, breath rapid. “I’d only just found out. The day before. I was going to tell you that night…but…”

  “They were coming. Ils étaient venus, les enragés.”

  Annabelle shivered, remembering the mobs of self-styled soldiers, rabidly intent on guillotining anyone who might have had an aristocratic heritage.

  “I managed to get onto one of the last wagons out of Paris that night…I dared not leave anything behind that would link us in case I was captured. Luck was with me and I connected with a packet from Calais to Dover. I went home.”

  “Home?”

  “What passed for home. He took me back, of course. He had no idea where I’d been or what I’d done, since he ran away and left me alone to face that mob. I don’t believe he cared for anything but saving his own skin. He assumed the child was his, and for my sins I let him believe it.” She turned her face away. “I let him take me, Fabyan. It was the only way to protect our child. To make him truly think he’d fathered an infant on me.”

  Fabyan’s muscles tensed beneath her trembling body. “I understand. You did what you had to do.”

  Annabelle couldn’t begin to guess at his feelings. Even now, after all these years, the horror of what she’d had to do still made her sick at heart. But their child had lived. “I had hoped to be able to find you after the Revolution settled down. To let you know that I…that we…had a child. But Paris was in chaos, and my baby needed me. I had to stay, Fabyan…please understand. I was so torn. I wanted nothing more than to be with you, but now I had a little person relying on me for everything. A little part of you and me. It was all I had left.”

  Fabyan said nothing, but still held her tight. He’d not pushed her away in disgust. It was something. Deep inside a little flicker of hope kindled inside Annabelle. Perhaps he could forgive her for what she’d done.

  “Anyway, the years passed. Our child grew and thrived. I was able to take the occasional trip to France, when peace seemed i
mminent, but I could never find you. And I did try, Fabyan, I swear. Every time I was in Paris I made enquiries. But you’d gone. Long gone.”

  She sighed. It hadn’t been easy. Asking about a faceless Hungarian soldier. A nobody without connections. She’d received blank looks, and the occasional sneer. Insinuations that a lover had left her and she was seeking him. They hadn’t known how close to the truth they were.

  “Go on.” Fabyan’s voice was quiet but insistent.

  “Our child grew up. There was…trouble. An incident took place, and events were taken out of my hands. I was sent away. For good this time. My child and I were separated forever. And my heart broke.” Her voice caught in her throat. “It’s been several years now. I was given a pittance to survive on, and it ran out. I’ve had no money for the last year.”

  “What did you do?” His tone was harsh, but whether with anger or emotion, she couldn’t tell.

  “I worked. I taught French. I did whatever I could to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. Once I even considered…”

  “No.”

  She smiled. “No. I didn’t. But hunger is a fierce motivator.”

  “I know.” He paused. “So you are still married?”

  “In name only. And my heart has always been yours. I gave it to you, Fabyan, all those years ago. You shared it with me in our child, and no one else has ever—ever—taken your place.”

  He turned to her and cupped her head, turning her face to his. “I never stopped loving you either, Annabelle. Never.”

  Gently he lowered his lips to hers and Annabelle closed her eyes, blinded by the joy she saw shining from his heart. There was an answering joy blooming in her own and it threatened to swamp her as their mouths met.

  What started as a soft kiss quickly turned hot.

  The heat that had been ignited so many years ago still smoldered, and it took but the briefest touch to fan the flames. Her lips parted and his tongue entered, relearning her and teasing her with its familiar yet strange taste. As if she’d rediscovered a flavor that had been long forgotten.

  Brandy and man and passion filled her mouth and she answered with her own, letting the teasing curl and parry of her tongue against his tell him of her undying love for him.