Love Charade Part 1

Love's Charade.

by Jane Feather.

Part 1 : The Chrysalis.

Chapter 1.

The tall elegant figure paused thoughtfully at the corner of the Fauborg St.Honore and cast a quick glance down the narrow paved alley on his left. He brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his silver Mechlin lace peeping beneath a richly brocaded-cuff before turning into the alley toward the sounds of altercation. It was not the Earl of Linton's custom to involve himself in street brawls, particularly in Parisian back alleys, but, if the truth were told, he was somewhat bored this fine spring afternoon and the disproportionate sizes of the antagonists offended his sense of fair play. A diminutive urchin, a mere sc.r.a.p of humanity, was struggling manfully in the hold of an enormous bear of a man whose flour-dusted ap.r.o.n bore ample witness to his profession. The baker's attempts to wield a heavy leather belt were hampered by his intended victim, who, as slippery as an eel and with the teeth and claws of a wildcat, seemed, reflected the earl lazily, to be putting up a magnificent fight. So far his a.s.sailant was having too much trouble merely getting a grip on the squirming little figure to be able to use the belt as he so clearly intended. That, however, was only a matter of time given the indisputable physical facts. As if in confirmation of this thought an agonized yelp accompanied the loud crack as the weapon found its mark and the earl lengthened his stride. The language rending the street from both partic.i.p.ants would not have been out of place on the quay at Ma.r.s.eille and the urchin seemed well able to hold his own in the verbal arena at least. The next minute he had sunk his teeth with desperate strength into the hand holding him, and the agonized yell this time came from the baker. The belt cracked viciously again and his lordship decided it was time to make his move.

The slender silver-mounted cane caught the brawny forearm as it swung back in preparation for another blow.

"Enough, I think," the earl said gently, catching the thick wrist between elegant fingers, squeezing with surprising strength until the astounded baker lost his grip on the belt and it fell to the mired cobblestones. The next instant the tiny figure, taking advantage of the suddenly slackened hold, drove a small fist upwards into his enemy's groin and the baker capitulated with a heavy groan, doubling over the excruciating pain rending his belly.

"Mon Dieu, but you fight dirty, mon ami," the earl murmured, reaching with an almost lethargic gesture to catch a bony arm as the creature turned to run. "If you run through the streets, mon enfant, you will be noticed and pursued."

His soft statement stilled the diminutive figure. An escaping urchin would most certainly be chased on the a.s.sumption that he was running from trouble.

"When you are caught," His Lordship emphasized calmly, "I am sure this gentleman here will enjoy his revenge. Some might even say he was ent.i.tled to it." He regarded the gasping, choking mountain with scant interest before turning back to his captive.

"He 'urt me," a mutinous voice muttered, a hand rubbing the small sore backside, "and jest for a crust o' yesterday's bread." The rebellious tone was belied by a sheen of unshed tears in the over-large brown eyes and a tiny defiant sniff accompanied the swift movement of a grimy, ragged forearm wiping a pert nose. The earl winced-the gesture seemed to have spread more dirt than it removed.

"Come, I think we should take ourselves away before your friend here recovers." With a grimace that was not lost on the urchin he seized a small grubby paw in an elegant, long-fingered hand and began to retrace his steps toward the broader thoroughfare.

"Tell me about yesterday's loaf," he invited, maintaining his tight grip on the tiny hand struggling to pull away.

"Would only a' gone to the pigs," the voice mumbled. "Don't seem right when people are 'ungry."

"Quite so," His Lordship concurred smoothly. "And you, I take it, are hungry?" It was an unnecessary question-the tiny figure half running beside him was, for all its wiry strength, almost fleshless. Not unusual, of course, in this year of grace, 1789, and the Earl of Linton was well accustomed to the unpleasant facts of a social system that necessitated the poverty of the majority in order to provide for the greater comfort of the elite minority. But something about this filthy little bantam with a mouth as dirty as his person stirred an unusual interest in the normally hardened, disillusioned breast of this member of that elite. Probably boredom, the earl thought dismissively, heedless of the curious glances their progress brought. The sight of an immaculate aristocrat hand in hand with a backstreet waif was certainly unusual enough to provoke speculative interest.

"Where you takin' me?" A sudden tug on his hand brought him out of his reverie and he glanced down at the small anxious face peering up through its layers of grime. "I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"I find that hard to believe," he replied with a short laugh and then, seeing the sudden frightened appeal in those huge eyes, rea.s.sured, "I am just going to put some food in your belly." And get rid of that dirt, he added silently. But that part of the plan had best be kept to himself, at least for the time being. He rather suspected that soap and hot water would be considered as much an a.s.sault on this small body as the application of the baker's belt.

"What's your name, child?"

"Danny" came the prompt response.

"Danny what?"

"Jus' Danny."

He decided to let that go for the time being. "How old are you, Danny?"

"How old d'ya think?"

The earl frowned slightly at the aggressive tilt of the small chin. If they were to pursue their acquaintance this street-wise waif was going to have to learn some manners. But maybe now was not an opportune moment-first things first.

"About twelve," he replied mildly.

"That'll do."

It was clearly going to have to, Linton mused as they reached the heavy double doors leading into the cobbled courtyard of the inn that had enjoyed the patronage of the house of Linton for many years.

The child hung back, digging the heels of his rough wooden clogs into the mud of the gutter. "Ain't goin' in there!"

"You most certainly are, my friend." A hard tug on the small hand and the unwilling body was pried loose from the mud and hauled w.i.l.l.y-nilly into the courtyard.

"Take your cap off," the earl instructed smoothly as he pulled the reluctant urchin beside him into the cool, darkened pa.s.sageway of the inn. When the boy showed no inclination to comply he took the ragged object between finger and thumb with a grimace of distaste and dropped it to the stone-flagged floor. His eyes widened in amazement at the haircut thus revealed, but he was prevented from immediate comment.

"Ah, Milord Linton, j'espere que vous avez . . ." The cheery greeting of the rotund landlord died as he caught sight of his guest's companion. The sharp blue eyes lost their superficial warmth, narrowed and hardened. "Cochon!" he hissed, moving steadily on the small figure. "You dare to come in here, you filthy little guttersnipe." He got no further. A small foot swung, catching him on the calf with a wooden sole and a tirade of backstreet abuse poured forth from the suddenly rigid, enraged youth.

"Tais-toi!" The earl jerked the hand in his with sufficient force to cause sharp pain in its owner's shoulders. Danny, with a gasp, fell silent.

"Your eyes, Monsieur Trimbel, must be becoming dim," Linton said coldly. "Can you not see that I have the child by the hand? He is here at my invitation."

"Mais, milord. Je m'excuse, mais . . ." Monsieur Trimbel stuttered, glancing over his shoulder, wondering miserably what his otherguests would think of having their quiet, elegant haven sullied by the presence of this street urchin.

"You are excused," His Lordship said softly. "But just this once, you understand?"

The landlord's forehead almost reached his knees-no mean feat given the size of his belly-as he stammered his reiterated apologies. Linton made for the stairs, ignoring the groveling figure behind him until he became aware of the antics of his suddenly acquired charge. The little vagabond was prancing lightly on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, tongue out, thumb c.o.c.ked on the tip of his nose at the enraged landlord.

"Good lord! I begin to suspect the baker knew what he was about-I should have left you to him, you outrageous brat!" He swung the child in front of him, laying a firm hand on the small b.u.t.tocks propelling him upward. Danny's triumphant smirk died away as he heard his self-appointed guardian demand over his shoulder a tub of very hot water, soap, and towels immediately.

They reached the first landing and the earl struggled to maintain his grip on the suddenly desperate, squirming, wriggling body with one hand while he unlatched a wooden door with the other.

"Be still, you ridiculous infant," he demanded in exasperation pushing him into the room with an ungentle shove, kicking the door shut after them.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he began more gently and then swore violently as the urchin launched himself in full attack, nails and teeth searching for purchase as wooden shod feet flailed against Linton's immaculately clad legs.

"You h.e.l.l-born brat!" Now totally exasperated and not a little anxious for his fine garments, not to mention his skin, the earl caught the spitting creature around an amazingly small waist lifting him high in the air, holding him at the full extent of his long arms. The shock of losing the ground beneath his feet temporarily stilled the wildly thrashing Danny, and in the manner of a true campaigner Linton took immediate advantage of his opponent's momentary disarmament and tossed him unceremoniously onto the bed.

"You move from there, brat, and I'll finish what the baker started!" he gritted, bending to brush the dust from the dove-colored silken stockings, rubbing against a bruised shin in the process. It would indeed have gone ill with the urchin at that point had he attempted to move. However, although the brown eyes smoldered and the breath came quick and fast, the boy remained on the bed. If the earl had chanced to look, he would have seen a speculative, calculating gleam in the over-big eyes as Danny quieted himself, but a brisk knock on the door provided distraction.

"Entrez."

A procession of serving wenches with jugs of hot water and two lackeys struggling beneath the weight of an enormous porcelain tub marched into the room. Danny watched their preparations, grim desperation in eyes that flicked wildly to the half-open door. But the tall figure of his erstwhile savior blocked the escape route. All grat.i.tude for Milord's intervention in the fracas with the baker had now vanished, and if faced with the choice between the belt and the tub of water, there would have been no contest.

Steam rose from the bath as the last jug of water hissed to join its fellows and, with a bow, the procession left the chamber. The firm click of the door rang a knell in the boy's miserable ears.

"Milord," he began hesitantly: "You don't quite understand ..."

"I understand perfectly," the earl interrupted curtly, still mindful of his bruised shin. "You have more layers of dirt on you than you have skin. G.o.d only knows when you last saw water! Now, get those rags off and get in the tub." Hard hands grasped the" boy's upper arms lifting him off the bed. As his feet touched ground, Danny made a last desperate bid for the door.

"What in Hades is the matter with you?" Linton hissed furiously. "A little water won't harm you." He reached for the neck of the ragged shirt, and as Danny wrenched himself sideways, the threadbare material split with a harsh rending sound.

Total silence filled the room for a breathless moment. Justin, Earl of Linton, released his hold and stepped back, for once in his thirty-four years completely nonplussed.

"It seems I didn't understand," he murmured, pulling his eyes away from the enchanting prospect of two small but perfectly formed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, their rose coral tips jutting as defiantly, it seemed, as the small pointed chin above. He noticed absently that the girl-undoubtedly a girl-made no attempt to shield herself, merely stood, shoulders back, eyes glaring a challenge.

"So, milord, what do you choose to do with me now?"

He inhaled sharply, even more thoroughly taken aback. That was not the voice of a street urchin. She, whoever she was, had issued her challenge in the well accented, carefully modulated speech of a French aristocrat.

"Who are you?" he demanded harshly.

"My name is Danny" came the soft, determined reply.

"Not good enough, my child." Her refusal to cover herself suddenly irritated him. He was not used to being made to feel ridiculous. With a swift movement he seized the thin arms, pulling them away from her sides, his eyes deliberately raking the bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"No Daniel carried quite such a sweetly adorned body." His words and eyes embedded their sharp insults like shards of steel in a spirit more vulnerable than he realized. Hurt darkened those deep velvet eyes sunk in the small, pinched, dirty face and he gave a sudden rueful sigh as he released her.

"Your name, brat?" he demanded, going over to the bath, running a hand through the water to test its temperature.

"Danielle."

"Do not imagine, Mademoiselle Danielle, that I shall be satisfied with that," he warned softly, turning back to the still figure. "But for now, I intend to proceed as I began. Are you going to take off those filthy britches, or am I?"

The look of horror flashing across the drawn face, hanging in the liquid pools of her eyes, convinced him of one thing. Whatever else she might be, this girl/waif was no wanton.

Deliberately he turned his back, crossed the sun-filled chamber to a small rosewood table by the mullioned cas.e.m.e.nt, poured a gla.s.s of sherry from the decanter and, as deliberately, hooked a chair to face the window and sat, gazing with unwarranted interest at the street scene below.

Danielle looked at the averted back for no more than an instant before st ripping off her remaining garments and sliding into the hot water with a sigh of contentment that was not lost on her companion.

"Don't forget to wash your hair while you are about it," he remarked coolly. "What's left of it, anyway. I've a fancy to see what color it ts under all that dirt."

Silence reigned for a very long time, disturbed only by the occasional splash of water and the soft murmur as the earl refilled his gla.s.s. The afternoon sun left the room and Danielle wrestled with the problem of how she was to get out of the bath while retaining what little modesty remained to her.

"Milord," she said eventually. The only response was a slight stiffening of those broad shoulders, but confident that she had his attention she continued. "Since you have torn my shirt I am in something of a puzzle as to how I should clothe myself. The water is becoming a little chilly, you see," she added in apologetic explanation.

"Those clothes of yours are fit only for the furnace" came the rumbled reply.

"In that case, milord, what do you suggest? Perhaps you wish me to remain naked for your pleasure?"

The insolently dulcet tones brought the hairs on his spine to p.r.i.c.kly rigidity.

"Mon enfant, I most fervently suggest you watch your tongue. Unless, of course, you've a mind to add to your bruises." Rising swiftly, Linton strode with the hard-padded pace of a caged tiger across the room to the large cherrywood armoire. He selected a soft lawn shirt with lace edging to sleeves and neck and tossed it beside the tub. The small figure shrank beneath the sc.u.mmy water as his eyes ran lazily over her.

"If you do not wish to come out as dirty as you went in, I also suggest that you get out now." He turned back to the window and with considerable relief Danielle hauled herself out of the disgustingly dirty water. It seemed that her savior/captor, whilst not averse to making certain physical threats appropriate to the treatment of a recalcitrant child, was not interested in molesting her as a woman. The realization, though it brought relief, also paradoxically brought a sense of pique that surprised and annoyed her. She had played the boy for so long now it was ridiculous that she should be offended by this refusal to acknowledge what she had once been taught to accept were not inconsiderable charms.

She dried herself hastily, casting anxious glances at the averted back. She hadn't been this clean for months-a quick dip in a horse trough or a rough, freezing scrub under a backyard pump had heen the best she could manage and she now inhaled deeply of the soapy clean fragrance of her warm dry limbs. The lawn shirt caressed her body with its unfamiliar soft fineness and her fingers fumbled with the delicate pearl b.u.t.tons in her haste to cover herself before the figure at the window turned around. What had the landlord called him? . . . Ah, Milord Linton, that was it. An English name, surely? But his French was impeccable.

"Are you dressed?" the cool voice questioned.

"I would hardly describe it as such," Danielle snapped, conscious of the expanse of bare leg revealed beneath the shirt. She had been brought up to believe that the merest glimpse of an ankle denoted the height of immodesty-although why this should be so when one's decolletage left little of the bosom to the imagination had always been a puzzle.

The earl got up and strode toward her. "Your want of conduct, my ungrateful vagabond, is deplorable."

Danielle backed away hastily from the soft, almost gentle voice, but a hand caught the damp mop of curls and long fingers twined themselves firmly, forcing her to remain still. Her chin was taken between long fingers of his other hand and tipped remorselessly upward so that she could not evade the intent, frowning scrutiny of blue black eyes under well-shaped brows. Having no choice, she returned the look boldly, noting in her turn the wide, intelligent forehead beneath unpowdered black hair, firm curved lips, uncompromising jawline, and slim, aristocratic nose. It was a handsome face, albeit carrying a hint of cynicism about the mouth and eyes, a slightly bored, world-weary air.

The earl was examining a small, heart-shaped face dominated by a pair of enormous liquid brown eyes. The little nose was impudent in the extreme and the delicate jaw, whose fragility he could feel beneath his fingers, carried an arrogant determination matched by the set of what was undoubtedly an adorable little mouth. The layers of dirt appeared to have done no damage to the ivory complexion, which flushed becomingly under his studied concentration.

"Are you quite satisfied, milord?" Danny attempted to pull her chin away, knowing she was playing with fire but unable to bear the scrutiny any longer.

Fortunately, His Lordship chose to ignore the sarcasm although his frown deepened and the fingers tightened on her chin.

"No, I'm not satisfied," he declared slowly. "Your features are very familiar, but I cannot for the moment place them. However, you shall help me on that score very soon." Abruptly the fingers left her jaw and hair and Danielle turned away hastily to hide a tremulous lip. He could not force her to declare her ident.i.ty, to tell the story that she had buried deep in the recesses of her mind almost as effectively as she had buried the gently bred aristocrat under the layers of dirt. Or could he? For the first time she felt a twinge of doubt as to her ability to pursue the path she had set for herself after that night of horror. Could she have seen the earl's face at this moment, she might have felt slightly rea.s.sured. Watching the effort of this indomitable waif to keep her shoulders squared and back straight, Linton fell prey to a series of most unusual emotions-compa.s.sion, an overpowering desire to know the whole, and, most surprising of all, a need to help. How to rid her of the obstinate refusal to accept his help and to trust him was the puzzle.

"Danielle, I suggest you remove yourself to the darkest corner of the chamber while the room is set to rights again and our dinner is brought in." He made his voice deliberately brisk and was rewarded by her sudden whirl as she turned in surprise toward him. "You see," he added apologetically, "you bear no resemblance to the urchin I dragged in here. In fact, only a blind man would fail to recognize you for what you are in that garb."

A deep flush suffused the pale countenance but, without comment, the small figure moved to the far side of the bed, seating herself on the low chair at its head, partially hidden by the brocade canopies of the tester. Linton gave a brief nod of satisfaction and tugged the bellpull.

His summons brought an army of servers into the room. The paraphernalia of the urchin's bath were removed swiftly as was the sad pile of discarded clothing with the brisk injunction to consign them to the furnace. The evening had become cool and a taper was placed to the fire laid ready in the hearth behind the round oak table now spread with snowy linen, heavy silver utensils, delicate china, and thick crystal.

Danielle remained in her corner throughout the bustle, her nostrils a.s.sailed by the savory aroma of hot food, her stomach cleaving to her backbone, the constant, gnawing rat of hunger now exploding into real pain under the miraculous possibility of imminent satisfaction. Her mouth ran with saliva and she swallowed convulsively, furious at her body's weak treachery. The door closed firmly behind the last servant, the last polite, "Bon appet.i.t, milord," and the earl took his place at the table raising an inquiring eyebrow at the shadowy figure by the bed.

"You are served, mon enfant."

He watched the figure move slowly toward the table and regretted with deep sincerity what he was about to do.

"Before you eat, Danielle, I wish for some answers." A razor-sharp blade slid thinly through the oyster-stuffed capon, exuding a steamy aroma to entice even a well-fed stomach. The slight figure halted, turned, and sat resolutely on the bed.

"Je n'aipas faim. I am not hungry," Danielle stated with a tiny shrug, forcing back the tears of desperate disappointment.

"What a pity," the earl murmured, taking a bite of his capon, which rapidly became ashes on his tongue. He had been moderately hungry, but now all appet.i.te vanished. But if he was to win his objective the charade must be played through. Silence reigned, disturbed only by the sounds of one-half of the pair eating with apparent gusto.

"It seems, My Lord Linton, that you intend to keep me captive, seminaked and starved."

His head shot up in surprise. Danielle had spoken in perfect, barely accented English.

"No, I do not intend to starve you, infant," he replied in the same language and cut a large hunk of the baguette, poured water into a crystal goblet, and carried both to the bed. He put them down beside the rigid figure and returned to the table.

Danielle broke off a small piece of the bread, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, heedless of the flaky crust crumbs showering on the coverlet. This morning she had risked a beating for a crust of day-old bread half the size of this oven-warm chunk, but now could think only of the other offerings on the table. She took a slow sip of the ice-cold water and looked longingly through luxuriant sable eyelashes at the wine bottle from which the earl was helping himself in a totally cavalier, heartless fashion.

"Why don't we start with your age?" Lint on sliced a piece of succulent breast, laying it carefully on the empty platter across from his, not looking at her as he did so.

Her age for a piece of capon-it didn't seem an unreasonable exchange. Whilst she continued to hesitate a spoonful of stuffing joined the meat.

"Then your full name," the voice continued softly. A spoonful of fresh baby peas sat beside the stuffing, followed by a mound of light, golden sauteed potatoes. The soft tinkle of ruby red wine filling a crystal goblet proved the last straw.