Jane Feather - Charade

by Unknown

  LOVE IN HIDING

  "Milord, you don't understand . . ."

  "I understand perfectly," the earl interrupted curtly, still mindful of his bruised skin. "You have more layers of dirt on you than you have skin. 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 the ground, Danny made a last desperate bid for the door.

  "What in Hades, is the matter with you?" Linton hissed furiously. 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 view of bared flesh. 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.

  "Your name, brat?" he demanded harshly.

  "Danielle."

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

  GOTHICS A LA MOOR-FROM ZEBRA

  ISLAND OF LOST RUBIES

  by Patricia Werner

  Heartbroken by her father's death and the loss of her great love, Eileen returns to her island home to claim her inheritance. But eerie things begin happening the minute she steps off the boat, and it isn't long before Eileen realizes that there's no escape from THE ISLAND OF LOST RUBIES.

  DARK CRIES OF GRAY OAKS

  by Lee Karr

  When orphaned Brianna Anderson was offered a job as companion to the mentally ill seventeen-year-old girl, Cassie, she was grateful for the non-troublesome employment. Soon she began to wonder why the girl's family insisted that Cassie be given hydro-electrical therapy and increased doses of laudanum. What was the shocking secret that Cassie held in her dark tormented mind? And was she herself in danger?

  CRYSTAL SHADOWS

  by Michele Y. Thomas

  When Teresa Hawthorne accepted a post as tutor to the wealthy Curtis family, she didn't believe the scandal surrounding them would be any concern of hers. However, it soon began to seem as if someone was trying to ruin the Curtises and Theresa was becoming the unwitting target of a deadly conspiracy . . .

  CASTLE OF CRUSHED SHAMROCKS

  by Lee Karr

  Penniless and alone, eighteen-year-old Aileen O'Conner traveled to the coast of Ireland to be recognized as daughter and heir to Lord Edwin Lynhurst. Upon her arrival, she was horrified to find her long ldst father had been murdered. And slowly, the extent of the danger dawned upon her: her father's killer was still at large. And her name was next on the list.

  BRIDE OF HATFIELD CASTLE

  by Beverly G. Warren

  Left a widow on her wedding night and the sole inheritor of Hatfield's fortune, Eden Lane was convinced that someone wanted her out of the castle, preferably dead. Her failing health, the whispering voices of death, and the phantoms who roamed the keep were driving her mad. And although she came to the castle as a bride, she needed to discover who was trying to kill her, or leave as a corpse!

  Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 500 per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, Dept. 2805, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. Residents of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.

  * * *

  Love's Charade

  JANE FEATHER

  Copyright © 1986 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 scrap of humanity, was struggling manfully in the hold of an enormous bear of a man whose flour-dusted apron 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 assailant 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 participants would not have been out of place on the quay at Marseille 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 assumption 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 entitled 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 it
s 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, reassured, "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 assault 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 willy-nilly into the courtyard.

  "Take your cap off," the earl instructed smoothly as he pulled the reluctant urchin beside him into the cool, darkened passageway 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 balls of his feet, tongue out, thumb cocked 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 buttocks 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 hell-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 gratitude 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. God 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 breasts, 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, shou
lders 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 breasts.

  "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.