Dangerous Escapade Read Free Page A

a
house that he had previously patronized, but he was sufficiently well known in Paris
to anticipate the welcome accorded everywhere to rich, young, English Milors .
    In answer to his
knock, the door was flung open by a liveried footman who ushered him into an opulent
entrance hall. He was about to explain his mission to this menial when he was
interrupted by a cool voice speaking in heavily accented English.
    “Welcome to
the Maison Beauclare , Milor.”
    The Earl
glanced up quickly to find that he was being addressed by one of the most
beautiful women he had ever seen. She stood at the head of the stairs, clad
only in a loose wrapper of fine lawn, her unpowdered hair a riot of red-gold
curls. Her heavy-lidded eyes gleamed green in the perfect oval of her face. She
stood for several moments, allowing him to gaze his fill, before floating, so
it seemed to Debenham — the movement was too
graceful to be termed walking — to the foot of
the stairs. She bestowed a dazzling smile upon him. “In what way can we have
the pleasure of serving you?”
    Lord Debenham recovered
himself sufficiently to make the lady a profound leg.
    “Your servant,
Ma'am,” he smiled. “My business is not what you may be excused for imagining. I
am here in search of a boy.”
    He was
interrupted by a singularly vulgar laugh from the lady. “You have come to the
wrong shop then, Milor ,” she remarked
flippantly.
    The Earl was
cold. “You misunderstand me, Ma'am. I am here in search of a specific boy, one
Kit Clareville by name. I believe you may be able to assist me.”
    She regarded him
with suspicion. “And if I do know anything about this boy, who's to say I
should trust you with him?”
    The Earl had
anticipated this and, bending, he withdrew from its hiding place in his boot
the letter he had received and handed it to her. She read in silence, and then,
looking up, she said in a softened tone, “You had best come along with me, Milor .”
    He followed
her up the broad stairs, his mind considerably distracted by the vision in
front of him. She still appeared quite extraordinarily lovely but, upon closer
inspection, he could detect a hint of brass in the red gold hair, which told
its own tale. There were tiny wrinkles, too, around her eyes and mouth, but her
body was still firm and voluptuous, as was readily discernible through the diaphanous
robe.
    She led the way
into a spacious apartment in which several young ladies in various states of
classical undress were reclining. Seated upon a sofa, one velvet-clad leg
tucked beneath him, was a boy. He was reading aloud in a low, pleasing, voice
from a work of fiction so racy that Debenham was shocked, much to the amusement
of his fair companion.
    The boy was
small and slightly built, making it difficult to guess his age, and so pretty a
lad that Debenham could well understand why he was petted by the young ladies.
His curls were so black as to show blue lights in the candlelight, while his
eyes appeared like inky smudges in the delicate oval face. The features were of
a patrician cast and seemed rather familiar, a fact Debenham attributed to a resemblance
to the father, Mr Clareville.
    The boy had
raised his handsome head at his Lordship's entrance, and now he put down his
book in some confusion.
    “Who is this
gentleman, Tante Hélène?” he demanded
in cultured French. “Why have you brought him to see me?” The woman ran forward
and fell to her knees beside the boy.
    “Never fret, Petit .’Tis your Papa's dear friend, Milor Debenham, come to take you home to
England, as is your father's wish. You will be safe with him.”
    The sensitive
lips trembled. “I would much rather stay here with you, Tante Hélène,” he said, “England is not my home nor ever will be.”
    “Indeed, you
must go, my little one,” she assured him gently. “Your papa has written to say
that it must be so; indeed, my love, we have always known that you could not
stay here forever. It is best this way.”
    Kit