Prologue

New York City 1880

      Gaston paced the cramped confines of the rented rooms of the crowded Manhattan tenement. There was a long awaited letter balled up in his fist that had come with The Beauty when she’d docked an hour ago.

      He was troubled. Lord Nicolas Balfour Montague, his master, could never again cross the sea. Officially, Nicolas was dead, at least in France and Italy where it mattered most. Nicolas’s family was guilty of Treason, namely the Countess Celina, Nicolas’s mother and her lover. The famous courtesan had cherished her life of intrigue after her elderly husband died; she had finally paid the price for it.

      None of that mattered now. The Solicitor, Dubois, who had urged Gaston to secret Nicolas out of Europe and onto a ship bound for America, had written that the family was ruined.

      Gaston had been with Nicolas since the man was sixteen; he was twenty-six now. Raised by nannies, tutors and servants, like most aristocrats, Nicolas had spent his adult years living the life of a spoiled, bored, young rakehell. He rarely saw his parents, hardly knew the Count when he’d died, and spent his time gambling, sporting, and indulging himself in the most famous salons catering to the male appetite.

      The opulent chateaus and villas, the castles, hundreds of servants, having everything at his fingertips…were at an end.

      Gaston had managed to smuggle some jewels, a bit of money inside his trunks, knowing that his Lordship would either drink or gamble it away. He had used most of it booking passage, and then renting the rooms they had lived in the past five months. He had very little left and some major decisions to make.

      Now that Nicolas had to build a life here, if he was wise, Gaston must decide the best course of action for a man who’d done little besides drink and crawl in and out of beds since the ship had docked.

      Muttering, he went to the long mirror, smoothed his close-cropped brown hair and neat mustache. He flicked some lint off his blue suit, tucked the letter into his pocket and turned, collecting his cane and bowler hat from the scarred dresser. He dreaded heading outside; the city was dirty, crowded and rife with criminals and pickpockets. He tucked a scented hanky in his sleeve to stem the scent of sewage and human sweat.

      There was nothing he could do to protect his shoes from the slops and garbage that piled along the streets. Pigs, dogs, and cats, were as plentiful as people in a city that had absorbed a staggering flow of immigrants from Russia, Italy, Austro-Hungary, Syria, Turkey, the Orient, and a dozen other places. The streets were swarming day and night with even more arrivals. Most ended up as they had, scrambling for a roof and bed or taking their chances on the streets.

      He figured he had two, maybe three hours before Nicolas came dragging in after spending the night with a stage actress. He’d put an ear to the ground, as these Americans were wont to say, and find something suitable to his Lordship’s education, temperament, and skill. Pulling on his gloves, his brown eyes rolled at that mental list. One thing he knew for certain was that he had to get the man away from the enticing wickedness of the city. It seemed that every country had its Sodom and Gomorrah, and if any man knew how to sniff it out, Nicolas did.

      Truth to tell, that sort of existence was a legacy known to plague both sides of his family. And here in the land of opportunity, Gaston tended to agree with Dubois, there could be something good coming from the bad. Nicolas could be the first in generations to actually accomplish something in his life.

* * * *

      Three hours later, nearing sundown, the slim valet weaved his way through the congested traffic, his ears assailed by the call of street vendors, clatter of hooves and the distant whistles and shouts on both sides of the street. A dozen ethnic languages buzzed in his ears, Yiddish, Italian, Polish and countless more hybrids, coming from clusters and groups crossing the street, or standing outside the shops and businesses. It wasn’t in his budget to hire a horse drawn cab. He had to take his life in his own hands and dash and weave through the mess.

      He finally made his way to the narrow door of the apartment and stepped inside. Taking off his hat, he headed up the stairs, smelling cooked cabbage and cheap cigars. In his hand, this time was a flyer, given to him by a man in the tobacco shop, where he had gone to make a last purchase of the expensive tobacco Nicolas enjoyed.

      He entered the room and stopped abruptly seeing the large figure sprawled on the bed. His own cot was in the corner near the trunks. He went to it and put his hat and gloves down, setting his cane aside before easing himself onto the edge. He quietly unrolled the paper, glancing from it to Nicolas and back again.

      His discerning nose twitched, and if not for the noise of the street, he would have opened the window. His lordship reeked of cheap perfume and spirits. He eyed the rumpled state of Nicolas’s usually immaculate clothing, the white silk embroidered shirt, a brocade vest of burgundy and black, the snug black breeches, and his boots—lacking shine.

      He’d dressed and helped bathe that long musculature for years, taking some pride in the fact that Nicolas had a form that flattered most of the snug fashions. It had been a sport among valets, when they were in company, to discuss the negative aspects of dressing some of the upper crust; the padding to hide spindly limbs and narrow shoulders, corsets to squeeze in layers of soft flab, or the revulsion of attending those who preferred masking odor with scent rather than washing it away.

      He’d always bragged that his lordship needed not a whit of padding, and though he may have to be half dragged to the tub, he was particular in his habits and would have Gaston’s head if his bath was not waiting when he came home.

      Oh, dear... Gaston tsked, but those Hessians... Just look at the lack of shine.

      In fact, the only thing that shone on the dingy sheets was that inherited wavy hair, as ebony as coal and just touching Nicolas’s shirt collar. At six feet in height, he was fortunate to have a passion for fencing and riding; otherwise, his dissolute habits would soon run him to flab, like the rest of his departed family.

      Gaston snorted mentally; his lordship’s handsome looks and solid figure was one of the reasons he’d needed little or no money to dangle an actress or two whilst here. Given that he acted, dressed, spoke and was an aristocrat, it was, he realized, a package not to be overlooked.

      Well, he did not intend for Lord Nicolas Balfour Montague to end his days slumming or knifed by some jealous dancer. Somewhere long ago, when the man had been young and tender, he’d had dreams like all men: will, sprit and ambition. And yes… Love and compassion. However, given the world he’d lived in, the vices, the wealth, allure of fleshly indulgence—the pretences and the endless days and years of getting to where he was now, Nicolas had long since lost touch with that part of himself.

      Gaston lay back on the cot and looked at the bright yellow paper with bold black writing. The railroad man had introduced him to a land agent who had handed him a brochure.

* * * *

Nebraska.

      It was touted as a land of sweeping vistas and clean living, decent folk. But mostly as an opportunity for anyone to find their piece of heaven. There were listings and advertisements to attract businesses. A list of attractions already there in the raw, new towns. He’d been given a map with Kearny Junction circled on it, and a place called Lincoln, one called Ogallala. Apparently there was land, jobs, business and a growing social and cultural interest as well as political. It sounded like an oasis.

      He lowered the paper and looked at Nicolas again, his mind working swift but detailed. He’d pack and pay up the rent, purchase the train tickets. Not completely trusting of this too-good-to-be-true land of bounty. Mostly because the city, with its belching factories and squalor, had its share of emigrants from the north and south, men who’d lost everything trying to live off the land.

      It was so fantastic, why trade it for the misery of inner city New York?

      He’d taken the last of their money and bought shares in two companies: The American Bell Telephone Company, and in the railroad. Since both seemed to provide a needed service, he reasoned that buying shares for himself and Nicolas was a sort of back up plan, if they ended up coming back to this stinking place. He was aware that people were skeptical of the telephone’s prospects, but he had a hunch about it.

      Gaston shuddered; he did not relish working a fifty-eight hour week, for twenty-one cents an hour. And he could not hire on at one of the mansions on Fifth Avenue. He had no bloody references, thanks to the scandal.

      Besides, he did not trust Nicolas not to drink himself to death whilst he was at work. He really was fond of the man, thought of him more like a son in spite of their age. He’d been the only person who actually cared about him for most of his life.

* * * *

      The loud bellow could be heard past the noise on the street and across the block. The Italian section at least, understood every word booming down from that window.

      “What do you mean, there is no money!”

      “I mean, we are broke. All we have is—”

      Nicolas clutched Gaston by the lapels and growled, “Then send for more. If I have to live in this privy, and I do, thanks to you. I will at least dri—”

      “There is no money! No source! No titles! Nothing! Your mother was hanged for Treason. The same awaits you, should you go back. Everything has been returned to the Crown.”

      Nicolas’s fingers uncurled and just as swift Gaston was released. Those hazel-gold eyes searched the wide brown orbs of his servant. His entire expression changed. As if he‘d suffered a blow to the head, he blinked and rasped, “How long have I been intoxicated?”

      Gaston swallowed, cautiously eyeing the scruffy beard and unhealthy skin and bloodshot eyes. He was aware that Nicolas did not mean the past few hours. “We’ve been here nearly five months.”

      Nicolas turned, half staggered to the window, bracing his hands on the sill. His shoulders rose as if he were drawing in a breath. He muttered, “You knew... Everything?”

      “I knew your mother as well as you did. It was only a matter of time, my lord. And yes, Dubois heard whispers. He saw the end coming. He gave me enough time to secret you out of Europe.”

      “So, she was hanged?”

      “And her lover, yes.”

      “And my father’s titles?”

      “Reverted, with the properties.”

      “And there is nothing left?” Nicolas straightened and turned again, shoving his hands through his mussed wavy hair, before reaching for a cheroot on the nightstand.

      Gaston ignored the tremor in those fingers. He had to plunge on whilst Nicolas was sober. “I have two tickets west. I have bought some stock in two promising companies with the rest.”

      Leaning his shoulder against the wall, Nicolas lit the cigar and considered him. Then in flat tones he announced, “You are free, Gaston. I no longer employ you.”

      “Thank you, sir. But I will stay.”

      Those eyes hardened. “Go, damn you.”

      “No.” Gaston drew himself up and faced the rumpled, harsh-eyed man. “I arrived on these cursed shores a free man and chose to stay by your side.” His hand swept toward the window. “I’m well aware you would let me walk out of here, and bury yourself in that cesspool out there.”

      “You are being dramatic.”

      “Perhaps.” Gaston nodded but held firm. “But out of some respect for the years that I have served you faithfully and loyally, I should like, now that you are sober, to converse with you about more desirable options.”

      Those handsome lips curled and Nicolas blew out a stream of smoke. “I have no options. Nor do I desire a rescuing. For whatever reason should a cursed Montague dream of anything? It was one of my first lessons. The moment nurse fetched me to look upon my father’s corpse before his burial, and I saw the face of a stranger.”

      “This land, this country, does not care for titles and wealth and scandals. We have left that part behind us. You have. Here a man can make himself, if he chooses.”

      “And I do not.”

      Gaston searched his face, watching him take several brooding drawls off the cigar before saying, “Then you cannot blame anyone but yourself. You are only twenty-six, sir. Your parents are dead and so is your past.”

      Nicolas’s dark brow rose and it was evident that he was seeing the long time servant differently. Gaston had spoken freely before, but not so challengingly.

      “I may be soaked with gin, but the attractions of this new land are hardly alluring.”

      “This is a large county. There is more than you see out yon window. You have a chance here, to be more than your family was.”

      Suddenly Nicolas started laughing. He laughed long and loud, throwing his head back and leaning both shoulders against the wall. When that faded, he gasped between breaths, “Do you not see the irony in it, Gaston? My birth, my training, my richly wicked life—it’s beyond amusing, is it not?”

      Gaston did not answer because he recognized the mixture of disgust, rage and mockery in that laughter. It made his stomach cinch and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He knew better than to show a man like that pity. Even when he was young, Nicolas had little besides pride and money to hide his pain. He denied he even felt such a thing, and that he needed or wanted anyone.

      The man didn’t have a true friend in the world he’d lived in. But that laughter was as far from amusement as heaven was from hell. With the drink, the women, he’d raged against his fate in his own way.

      “It’s so very funny.” Nicolas slid down the wall, cupping his head in his hands. The laughter faded and he stared at the floor. “I do not get to die like my blighted family. I get to live with the absolute nothingness they’ve bequeathed to me.”

      Gaston went over and sat upon his cot after turning on the overhead gas light. It cast the room, the man sitting now in the floor, in a depressingly shabby light.

      He said quietly, “Whatever you’ve done with those years, Nicolas. You are not an ignorant man. For the first time in your life, you must make decisions and choices. You must either take chances on it, like the rest of us do, or have that absolute nothing. If you stay here, that is a choice too, and that is how it will end.”

      He added after a beat, “You will either be knifed in some alley or die of the pox, or worse. I do not wish to leave you, sir. But I would rather not watch that happen.”

      Nicolas’s head came up. One hand raked his face as if to rip off a veil and awaken himself. He stared at Gaston with an almost numb look in his eyes. “Do you know the hell of it? I do not care. I thank you for your concern. However it scarcely matters how it ends, does it?” After that, he said something startlingly honest, “Life became for me an endless pursuit of nothing long before this.”

      “That was another world. Another place and time. You were another man then. The son of Count Montague, the son of your cursed mother. That world is no longer.”

      Nicolas shook his head. He raked his hands through his hair again and muttered gruffly, “Take whatever there is, whatever you need. ‘Tis likely owed you many times over. Go.”

      “Will you hear me out first?” When Nicolas merely stared at the wall, Gaston told him what he’d accomplished that day, ending with, “You have the ticket and might as well go. If you wish to return here, I will sell my stock and pay for the return ticket.”

      Noise filtered into the room. Tension hung suspended like the cigar smoke, while Nicolas finished his cigar and crushed it out. He arose and stood again by the window, seeing, hearing and smelling the chaos below.

      In a weary voice he murmured, “How can you still dream? How can wretched people dream in such a place? You have served me when I was neither noble nor thankful. Yet, you still imagine there is something more life offers.”

      Gaston decided that he too, could be brutally honest and revealing for a change. “I could not foresee this turn in our lives when I became your valet. Who could imagine it? It is true; you no longer employ me. Yet like you, I am in a strange land and there is only one man I know, who knows me. I am not going to pretty up your past, but I would take my chances with you. I will challenge myself and open myself to this fresh start. As I believe that somewhere in the core of us, lord or servant, there is simply a man. Underneath the trappings, under the refuse, those things that happen to us, we all stand the same chance for happiness. At the least for finding a purpose greater than what's behind.”

      When Nicolas said nothing, he added, “You were born into an illusion, a fragile world that was dependent upon things neither in your control, nor existent because of your honor or worthiness. It gave you nothing of substance or lasting worth. What you must shed, because of the countess, was a thin, useless skin. Here you are Nicolas Balfour and in a country such as this, you either sink into the past and die, or you face yourself and discover your weaknesses and strengths, and live. It is only through that, will you ever know yourself.”

      “Your faith in me is misguided. I have only to look at the people who sired me to know what I am.”

      “As likely is my faith in myself. But I have chosen.”

      “For me as well, it seems.” Nicolas turned and faced him again.

      “It is not written in stone. I am asking, entreating.”

      “You are a fool.”

      Gaston smiled and shrugged.

      Nicolas frowned, but Gaston in his gut that he had won.