Jane Feather - Charade Read online

  She had attained her goal when she delivered the coup de grace—the pithy comparison of herassailant's male organ with a pig's bladder. Jacques lunged for her with all the blindness of an enraged bull. With all the daintiness of a toreador, Danielle sidestepped neatly and her pursuer went headfirst into the horse trough that had been behind her. She was about to deliver a few more well-chosen epithets at the discomfitted Jacques's upturned rear when linton's voice cut through the laughing throng.

  "Danny! Viens-ici!" She turned to see him standing well to one side of the suddenly silenced group, now shuffling awkwardly on the cobblestones. Why he should be looking so furious, she couldn't imagine.

  She had not exactly been responsible for this little fracas.

  The earl told her in very few words when she reached him.

  "What the devil did you think you were doing?" The voice was very, very soft. "Once that lout had his hands on you, how long do you imagine it would be before he discovered exactly what you are? Do you think a wench masquerading as a lad with a mouth as dirty as yours would get any consideration from that lot?" He gestured toward the group, now. melting discreetly away. "They'd have you on your back with your britches down and your legs spread before you could open your mouth to scream!"

  Danielle seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in her boots throughout this short, deliberately brutal speech and a deep flush crept over the fragile pillar of her bent neck.

  "Just remember that, the next time you decide to embroil yourself in a stableyard scrap," the earl finished, resisting the sudden urge to run his finger along that sweet column, turning away abruptly instead, striding across the yard. He reached the dripping Jacques, who had just extricated himself from the trough. Linton's left fist, by way of the bully's chin, returned Master Jacques to his trough without so much as a whimper. Retrieving the cap from the wall he returned to his charge, who, embarrassment forgotten, was dancing in gleeful triumph at her enemy's downfall.

  "You knocked him down!" she exclaimed. "That, milord, is a punishing left you have."

  "What do you know of such things?" The earl sighed, replacing the cap on the small head. It was a silly question— this brat knew altogether too much of the most unsuitable subjects. How on earth had Louise allowed her daughter to have such an unconventional upbringing? But then, he reflected grimly, if she

  had not, the child would not be here now. She would never have survived the last weeks.

  The earl proved a poor traveling companion that day, spending the greater part of the journey with his eyes closed in an attempt to soothe his raw eyeballs and placate the persistent throb of his temples. Danielle, well versed in the advisability of maintaining a low profile in these circumstances, kept her counsel and endured the tedium of the journey in silence, relieved only by the ample contents of the picnic hamper thoughtfully provided by Madame Bonnet. Linton shook his head with a grimace of distaste when she tentatively offered to share her repast and attempted to shut out the sounds of someone enjoying a hearty meal, wincing slightly as she scrunched into a large, very crisp apple.

  They reached the small port of Calais in the late afternoon and Danielle gazed eagerly through the grimy window at the harbor crowded with elegant yachts and not so elegant fishing boats.

  "What ship will we take, milord?" she ventured, unable to contain herself a moment longer.

  "My own—the Black Gull." he replied briefly.

  "That sounds like a pirate sloop," Danny commented.

  "Well she's not," was the uncompromising reply.

  A small sigh escaped her and the earl relented. It really was not just to take his own tedium and ill temper out on her. She had certainly contributed to his discomforts earlier in the day but since then had behaved with impeccable consideration. He leant toward the window.

  "Look over to the left, amongst that group of yachts beside the pier. You see the white one with the black trim? That's the Black Gull."

  "Oh, she's beautiful," Danielle exclaimed. "Are we to go aboard immediately?"

  "It is my intention to sail with the evening tide," His Lordship informed her. "The sooner I get you out of France," and off my hands, he thought, "the happier I shall be."

  The coach drew up at the pier. Its weary passengers prepared to disembark.

  The earl paused for a moment, one hand on the door. "Do you know the meaning of the word inconspicuous, brat?"

  "Of course I do," she affirmed indignantly.

  "Well, you must admit I have had cause to wonder."

  Danielle wrinkled her nose at the sarcasm, but Iinton was continuing. "My sailors are good seamen but they are sailors and I want no trouble on this voyage. You will oblige me by remaining in your cabin for the duration. If you are obliged to say anything speak only French. Is it understood?"

  "I must stay below all the time?" Her eyes widened in disappointment.

  "All the time, Danny," His Lordship stressed firmly.

  She shrugged in resignation and followed her mentor onto the quay.

  "Button your jacket," Iinton whispered suddenly. "You may not have much to display, but sailors have sharp eyes."

  Danny hissed with indignation but did as he bade her, pulling her cap low over her eyes as she walked behind him along the pier, casting covert glances at the fascinating scene around her.

  Forster, captain of the Black Gull, came forward to greet its master as they crossed the gangplank. "Ah, my lord, so you have made it in time. I received your message this morning and we are ready to sail with the tide." He gave the small figure standing meekly behind the earl only a cursory glance before examining the salmon-tinged sky.

  "We may be in for some dirty weather, my lord. Looks like a squall or two up there."

  Linton gave a brief nod. "Do you advise we wait for the morning?"

  "Nah!" The captain spat contemptuously over the deck rail. "The Gull can handle a bit o' wind."

  "Good. Have my luggage stowed below. The lad has the small cabin next to mine."

  Danielle watched wistfully as her protector strode off along the deck.

  "Look sharp then, lad. We don't have all day, you know." The captain's brusque tone brought her head up and the sailor surprised a flash of annoyance in those big brown eyes. He'd seen that look on many a young cabin boy at the start of his first voyage. It didn't last long, though, he reflected with grim satisfaction—not under the command of Captain Forster.

  He rapped out a sharp order to a seaman hovering nearby who, with an imperative jerk of his head toward Danny, moved off with a curious swinging gait to the companionway. She followed silently, seething with indignation at the earl's cavaliar disappearance, and soon found herself in a tiny cabin whose only furnishings were a narrow bunk with a thin pallet and blanket, a table and chair both bolted to the floor, and a chamber pot. There was little room for anything else and no space at all for moving around. The door closed behind the departing sailor and she sat miserably on the bunk, tired, dirty, and hungry. The cabin was close and airless and she thought longingly of the fresh breeze on deck, listening to the sounds of activity above her, the creak and rattle of chains, shouted orders, and scurrying feet.

  After a while the door opened again abruptly to admit a boy of about twelve with a tray which he set down on the table while examining Danny curiously but not unkindly.

  "'Is Lordship says as 'ow yer to eat yer vittles in 'ere and Cap'n says yer to stay below 'till we reaches Dover." He paused, clearly waiting for some response, but received only a puzzled frown and a murmured, "S'il vous plait?"

  "Oh, yer one 'o them froggies wat can't speak the King's English," the boy said in disgusted comprehension and left the cabin and Danny to her solitary meal and her cheerless thoughts.

  It was neither an elegant nor comforting meal—cold meat, cheese, unfresh bread that clearly had been baked that morning, washed down with a cup of unpleasantly warm water. But at least it was food and her memories of real hunger were still too reeent for her to turn up her n
ose. Once finished, Danny put the tray outside the door concluding, on the basis of past experience, that whoever came to retrieve it would otherwise barge into the cabin without so much as an alerting knock. In the absence of any diversion she lay down on the hard bunk feeling the yacht rock gently beneath her. She didn't think they had taken up the anchor yet—they didn't seem to be moving anyway—and soon her suspicions were confirmed as a tremendous rattling noise beneath the cabin floor, louder instructions above, and pounding feet indicated the Black Gull's readiness to leave Calais.

  She dozed and then slept, lulled by the gentle motion as the yacht sailed out of the shelter of the harbor and into the English Channel. The crash as the tin chamber pot rolled across the floor and slammed into the door brought her wide awake and upright in one movement. Dear God! What was happening? The cabin would not keep still, the low ceiling seemed to duck toward her before rising again as the floor came up to meet her petrified eyes. Her stomach followed these gyrations with slavish obedience and with the sudden, absolute knowledge that she was going to be very sick Danny bolted for the door, wrenched it open, and made a panic-stricken dash for the companionway, her only thought the need for air, to get out of this claustrophobic environment where the walls closed in and the ceiling descended and the floor rose. But the hatchway at the top of the steps was bolted down. With a strength born of desperation she wrenched the bolts back, skinning her hands in the process, flinging back the hatch, gasping for the fresh air above. As she dragged herself up her horrified eyes encountered an enormous, dark green, foam-flecked wall racing toward the craft. Running, shouting figures hung onto the ropes securing them around the waist to the deckrail, and the next minute the ground left her feet as the hatchway crashed shut behind and a rock-hard arm caught her against a wet, slippery oilskin, holding her with desperate strength as the green wall crashed over them. For a moment she was trapped in a roaring, suffocating bubble, her body an object in a tug of war between the iron band around her waist and the almost overpowering pull of the water as it fought for possession. For a moment Danielle was convinced she was about to meet her maker and when she raised her eyes into the furious black ones of the man holding her almost wished she had.

  "You disobedient, stubborn, hell-born little fool," the earl raged. "Are you trying to get yourself drowned?"

  "But the ship's sinking, and I'm going to be sick," Danielle whimpered.

  "The ship is not sinking, and if you're going to be sick be so in your cabin. Now, get below!"

  Bending, Linton wrenched open the hatchway and pushed her roughly onto the top step. "For God's sake hurry! Before, the next one!"

  Danielle half fell down the steps as the hatch crashed shut over her head and bolted for her cabin, reaching the chamber pot just as her dinner finally decided to part company with her stomach.

  By the time the earl was satisfied that his presence was no longer needed on deck her lunch and breakfast had joined her supper and she was lying in a soaked and shivering heap on the cabin floor, clutching the chamber pot as if it were her only lifeline.

  Linton, still in his oilskins, paused in the doorway before, with a muttered oath, taking the half step necessary to reach her. As he attempted to pry her hands loose from the pot she gasped out a protest, clutching it tighter.

  "For goodness sake, child, let go! There's no room in here for any more." Taking advantage of a break between waves he pried open the porthole and emptied the contents into the storm, thankful that the cabin was on the lee side.

  Danielle reached for the pot with pleading hands and he gave it back before grimly beginning to remove her wet clothes. Dimly realizing what was happening she struggled feebly, mumbling incoherent protests.

  "Stop it, will you?" Linton gritted. "Unless you wish to be soundly smacked to add to your discomforts!"

  He sounded so much like Old Nurse that she gave up her struggles and, indeed, as renewed spasms of nausea wracked her, ceased to care altogether. She was wrapped cocoonlike in the blanket and deposited on the bunk still clutching her lifeline, although by now her retching body had nothing left to give. Linton left the cabin, returning in a very few minutes with a lidded jug and a bottle of brandy. Dipping a towel in the water in the jug, he bathed her face before holding the bottle to her lips. Danny gasped and choked as the spirit burned its way down her raw throat to cur] in her stomach. It didn't stay there very long, but he doggedly repeated the process until she had kept enough down for it to have some effect. The yacht was still pitching and rolling, but not as violently as before, when her eyes closed and the convulsive grip on the chamber pot slackened. Satisfied that his charge would sleep out the tail end of the storm, the earl sought dry clothes and his own bed.

  Sunlight and a miraculous lack of motion greeted Danielle's slowly opening eyes. For a moment she lay bemused, conscious of a rough, prickly sensation on her skin whose source she eventually identified as the tightly wrapped blanket around her naked bodyt. A hot flush crept slowly over her as the memories

  of last night flooded back in all their unwelcome detail. Gingerly she sat up, loosening the constricting cover slightly, and looked around. Her wet clothes were nowhere to be seen.

  Sliding off the bunk, she took a step toward the porthole and then sat down again hastily. Her legs had taken on the consistency of marshmallow.

  A brisk rap on the door was followed instantly by the entrance of the Earl of Iinton looking enviably fresh, bright-eyed, and as immaculate as ever.

  "How do you feel, infant?" He laid her more respectable suit of clothes on the chair before putting up his glass and subjecting her to that minute, unnerving scrutiny.

  "My legs feel funny."

  "That's only to be expected. It will wear off soon. You need food," he responded matter-of-factly.

  Danielle took a deep breath, plucking nervously at the blanket before managing to ask, "What happened?"

  "You had one of the worst bouts of seasickness it has ever been my misfortune to witness," she was informed calmly. "You should not, however, feel badly about it," the earl continued kindly. "You were in good company last night, half the crew were suffering to some degree or another."

  "But not you." A bitter note sounded in the flat statement.

  "No, I never have. But I'm in the minority, I assure you. Now get dressed; there's water in the jug, and when you're ready come next door for some breakfast." On that, Linton turned and left the cabin.

  Wondering uneasily if she were safe from intrusion, Danny unwound the blanket and staggered over to the table. The water in the jug was cold but felt wonderful on her skin where salt and sweat seemed to have dried into an almost visible crust. Her movements were slow and fumbling at first, but as her legs began to feel more like themselves she was able to perform her ablutions with something approaching her usual efficiency.

  A brisk "Entrez" greeted her tentative knock on the adjoining door. The master cabin was a far cry from the narrow space she had occupied. There was even a Turkey carpet on the shiny floorboards and the large bed bore no resemblance to a bunk. The earl rose from the breakfast table as she came in, and looking at the woebegone little face and huge sunken eyes a smile softened his usually impassive features.

  "Poor brat, you have had a rough time," he said compassionately. "Come and eat."

  It was a very un-French breakfast—no light meal of bread, rolls, jam, honey, and coffee this. Looking at the plate of crispy bacon, the mound of fluffy eggs, the pink ham and the huge sirloin, all thoughts of last night fled as Danielle sat eagerly in the plush-covered chair the earl held for her.

  "What may I serve you, Danielle?"

  "Everything, I think, milord, except perhaps the beef," she responded politely, reaching for the silver coffeepot.

  "Milk first," Linton stated firmly, filling a large mug to the brim with thick, creamy liquid and placing it before her. "It lines the stomach, and yours, mon enfant, I strongly suspect needs some lining."

  The earl finished his meal wel
l in advance of his ward and sat, sipping his tankard of ale, pondering a means by which on their way to Cornwall, he could contrive a meeting with William Pitt for both himself and Danielle. Her information and opinions were too valuable to waste at this point and would, he knew, be eagerly received by the prime minister. But how to accomplish this, without revealing her identity and disguise?

  "Does something trouble you, milord?" The soft-spoken question broke into his frowning reverie. She had such a pretty, musical voice when not haranguing landlords and stableboys in the language of the gutter. The sooner Danielle de St. Varennes donned her petticoats again the better! That thought gave rise to another and a plan glimmered in His Lordship's mind. It would need refining certainly, but just might serve the purpose.