Gentlemen And Rakes

Chapter One: Winchester (Andrew's PoV)

Was that Jack Sparrow I saw swaggering away! Was it Jack Sparrow who had fought so desperately to fend off the raven-haired girl? The same girl he'd inadvertently injured, the one that I now cradled in my arms as my lover had instructed?

I settled the child down on Sierra's bed, arranging the pillows around her seemingly broken form, and sat beside her. All hopes of rest had fled from me the instant Sierra had moved my arm away.

She was a whore, my Sierra, and a very good one at that. If anything, I don't think she gets paid enough, and as the Pint and Garter contained almost exclusively the very experienced professionals, with the occasional virgin, that was saying quite a lot. But no matter; she won't be a prostitute for much longer. I'll make certain of that.

I can't stop thinking about her. I'd fallen completely and utterly and helplessly, hopelessly in love with her.

"It'll go away in a day or so," John grinned, looking appreciatively after Alice's retreating back.

Bastard. But then again, Jack Sparrow was very contemptuous when it came to emotions; he always had been, ever since he was a boy and went by a different name…

I snapped back to the present and looked down at the annoying child. "Don't s'pose I could have that lie-in now, do you?" I complained to Sierra.

Her voice, sounding so heavenly mellifluous to my enamoured ears, replied instantly in that strange accent that spoke of both good education and London poverty, "Yeah, well I need my beauty sleep."

A slow grin pulled at my lips. "Then don't invite me to your bed," I advised, silently praying she would not heed it. That damnable child's sniffling put an end to what had promised to be a very interesting discussion. I looked down at the girl, noting well her appearance: raven hair about her shoulders, soft and straight; smooth skin that was neither the fair ivory of her mother nor the rich dark gold of her father; pouting lips that made her look like a wealthy child's china doll.

But it was her eyes that had grabbed my attention: they struck me as being eerie in their resemblance to Sierra's. This girl's eyes were framed by long thick lashes that looked almost artificial when she'd closed them, and the colour of the irises were a bright, clear blue.

They were Sierra's eyes.

When I'd first seen them together, it was their uncannily similar eyes that had made them look like mother and child. I had immediately felt a wave of loathing towards Jack Sparrow for supplying the means of breaking my heart eight years in advance, as he, with his flamboyance and confidence and charisma that caught the eye of every woman I'd ever cared for, as he had done so many times before. It was always happening, back when we'd both made the other's acquaintance.

I felt a wave of envy overwhelm me as Sierra heeded the child's plea for comfort, pulling the young girl towards her as she settled into the bed. I now sat in the chair, looking for all the world like a dead man in his grave as I feigned sleep. I watched as my sweetheart wrapped her graceful arms, bare as she wore only her knee-length chemise, around my solemn foe's child… the child that was not even hers. She whispered once to the girl, looking down at the little beauty in unmistakable adoration before her eyes too closed.

Daybreak was too early for either female to awaken, it seems.

My hungry eyes roamed over Sierra's form, memorising, as I'd taken to doing since I'd first met her eyes the night before, every inch of her being: her faintly-muscled legs, long and graceful as a gazelle's; her smooth abdomen, hidden by the off-white material of her chemise and covered by that loathsome child's arms; the gentle curving of her hips and swelling of her breasts; the smooth sloping of her shoulders; her silky skin, only a shade or so darker than Sparrow's child's; her hair, with the faint traces of curls twisted into the naturally straight tresses, and a dark medium chocolate in colour; her full lips barely parted as she breathed slowly and peacefully.

Yes, I'd only met her last night; but who can control the desires of the heart? Not to mention a few other places…

Looking at the two of them, I felt anxiety begin to gnaw its way through me. Although Jack Sparrow was not fond of his unwanted daughter, I was certain he'd paid more than a passing interest in his child's welfare. And my Sierra seemed a little too fond of a child that was not her relative…

Yes, as long as she held Sparrow's bastard close to her heart, I could never rest for a single moment, knowing that there was a link between my love and my enemy; a link which I had no part in.

So, Jack Sparrow was to become my rival again, was he? It was only a matter of time before his eyes fall upon my Sierra's stunning beauty, and then he'll whisk her away from me and into his arms for a night or two at most… and I'll lose her forever.

He'd done it so many times before, but as his friend I had always forgiven him: Alice, Sarah, Veronica, Georgiana, Maria… But none of them stirred up quite the same emotions as Sierra did. Except for Annette, and Catalina before her…

Before they'd both died…

Do you want to know how I knew Jack Sparrow? Well, here is my story. I remember it all so clearly, as though it were yesterday: my mind conjures up long-forgotten images of boyhood as the weak light of dawn plays across Sierra's pleasing features…

I was the first son of a wealthy wine merchant trading with the southern coasts of France and northern provinces of Italy, but I was by no means the last. My mother was the youngest daughter of the third Earl of Yorkshire and although beautiful, slightly mad. This was why her father, my grandfather, had been forced to marry her into the common bourgeoisie; any honourable, decent man he'd deemed fit as a husband amongst the peers of the realm were horrified at the very prospect of wedlock with a madwoman. I'd often been told I'd looked like her, and from the various portraits and miniatures of her in my childhood home, this proved to be true.

I'd never seen her from the moment I'd left her womb; my father had ordered that none of his children were allowed within the same room as their mother: a precaution to ensure we were not infected with her contagious insanity. When I was six, my father, with a brood of four strong healthy sons to satisfy him, finally sent her to a madhouse. This was not at all uncommon; indeed, most men took advantage of the law's partiality towards men in that when women married, they were downgraded from a person to their husband's property, to be used as was deemed fit. Most men would keep their wives at home for a few years, find a pretty mistress, and send their wives to a mental asylum, regardless of whether or not the poor women's mind were sound. Not surprisingly, the majority of an asylum's population tended to be female in sex; and a surprising amount were very much sound in mind. Women that were sent to an institution very rarely had any legitimate reason to be there; rather, they were driven to insanity after undergoing the various torture sessions designed to cure them of it.

I grew up surrounded by tutors and instructors in my father's London and country homes, until the age of about ten, when my father decided it was high time I was sent off to one of the few prestigious boarding schools that peers of the realms sent their own children to. He chose Winchester, and it was there that I came across Jack Sparrow, three years after my arrival.

But before I'd met him, I had to endure three years of friendless hell. The majority of the boys there came from noble families, and some even held their own titles and ranks. I was from a wealthy but common background, with a mother well-known throughout the whole of Britain as a mad aristocrat's daughter as my only claim to nobility, and was therefore constantly bullied as a newcomer. It was probably this that first made me despise all of English society: my alienation and distinction from my schoolmates made me feel an outcast, a social leper. So naturally, I very slowly began to consider myself as such. But instead of the overwhelming desire to blend in, I found that, despite, or perhaps, because of all the beatings and insults I received from these boys, I relished standing apart, deliberately differentiating myself from those around me.

Spending all my free time alone, usually hidden in a corner somewhere, I devoted an astonishing amount of time to my thoughts. I found myself already considering my future, and discovered that more and more, my mind drifted towards the possibility of crime: living outside the English law and the rules of society. Not unusual for most boys of that age, I agree, but, unlike others, I seriously considered vice.

I began to spend more and more time and thought toying with the idea: should I become a highwayman? A smuggler? An assassin? A spy? To me, it didn't matter what the medium of corruption was, so long as it was immoral; unlike Jack Sparrow, whose love of freedom and adventure and the world's darkest oceans had led him onto the path of piracy, I wished only to rebel. But none of these—smuggling, espionage, murder—had quite the attraction I was hoping for. Besides, I knew it was an impossible dream: as the eldest son, it was my privilege to have my future arranged and waiting for me, not to mention a large estate as a part of my inheritance.

This was where Jack Sparrow came in, with his views and aspirations towards piracy… and he pulled me down with him. But all of this was much, much later.

When I'd first met him, as a schoolboy, he went by the name of John Raven, the seventh son of the second Lord Castlemaine. He was sent to Winchester after his expulsion from his second school: this time it was from Eton, one of the best-known and most privileged institutions of education throughout the land. So naturally, all of the students were more than a little eager to meet him. I myself, a forced introvert though I was, was curious, and soon gathered from the various rumours that, even then, accumulated around him, that, although there can be no doubt as to the identity of his mother, the daughter of a Spanish hidalgo, his paternity was more than questionable.

His father's parentage was a noble mix of French and English blood; as such, the man's colouring was said to be quite fair. His mother, I'd heard, was a celebrated exotic beauty, with more than a few transgressions to her name. All of his siblings tended to be a handsome mix of the three nationalities, yet John Raven's colouring was completely Hispanic; tan skin, eyes and hair a deep brown, almost black. It was said that he was in actuality the bastard son of one of her native pages, and therefore his father cared little for his education, preferring to let him run wild.

This was about as common as sending your wife off to the mental asylum; the younger sons of nobles were liable to be left unchecked, and tended to run up gambling debts early in life, being forced to resort to crime, and eventually, death at the end of a hangman's noose. Well, we can't have all the sons of nobility running rampant now, can we? Think of how much more obnoxious society would be if that were the case.

To this day, I still don't know why it was that John Raven chose me. Perhaps it was my detachment; how I refused to flock and fawn around him like the rest of my classmates. Or perhaps he saw my quiet dignity and will through my withdrawn façade; perhaps he sensed my soul, so alike to his as it yearned for adventure. Whatever was the reason, he chose me; and despite everything that would later pass between us, I cannot help, even now, with the knowledge of his betrayals and my hatred, but feel glad that he did.

But from the day that he took the empty seat beside my own, we were friends, and from that very moment, in that one single action, John Raven, later to become known as Jack Sparrow, had unwittingly set in motion a chain of events that would culminate in one of the most bitter of rivalries.

-x!x-

AN: What do you think of that? And yes, in the early eighteenth century men DID send their wives off to mental institutes if they were an inconvenience to them. And the younger sons of nobility were only given a leg up in the world; an education and some money to last them the rest of their lives—it was always the eldest that got the title, estate, etc.

HopelessBeautifulDreamer: I don't actually see Jack as cynical; just wary, and who can blame him? But who knows how Jack sees himself… Anyway, thanks for reviewing! (And keep it up.)

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