Masque of Betrayal (2 page)

“You!” she hissed, staring at the kitten dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

The kitten merely gazed up at her with a haunted expression that tore at Jacqui’s nearly impenetrable heart.

“Why don’t you go home … where you belong?” she asked, with a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Home,” she repeated, knowing full well that it was to no avail. Clearly, this poor creature was an orphan.

The kitten blinked its huge green eyes and answered with a sound that curiously resembled a hiccup, while rubbing itself insistently against Jacqui’s gown. Then it opened its tiny pink mouth and let out a not-so-tiny meow that could have awakened the dead.

“Hush!” Jacqui looked about anxiously, convinced that at any moment the entire neighborhood would descend upon her, demanding an explanation for her unseemly conduct. And
that
would be the end of all her carefully laid plans.

No other recourse in sight, Jacqui scooped the forlorn little fellow into her arms, carrying him around to the side of her house, where she stopped. “How shall I manage that old oak while I’m holding you?” she demanded, half to herself. “It was hard enough when I had only myself to hoist.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully, then shrugged. There appeared to be no other choice but to attempt it … unless she was willing to concede defeat. And the word
defeat
was not in Jacqui’s vocabulary.

Raising her gown and tucking it between her legs, she placed the kitten upon her shoulder. “Hold on,” she instructed softly, praying that the animal would understand. She winced as he dug his claws into her gown … and her skin … for better traction. Then she proceeded to shimmy up the endless, winding oak tree that led to her bedroom.

Ever so quietly, she eased back the shutters, exposing the open window that was her gateway to safety.

With a surge of relief, Jacqui climbed inside and dropped onto the hardwood floor. Her gown was ripped in three places, she noted, wiping beads of perspiration from her brow. How was she going to explain that?

The answer climbed hesitantly down from her shoulder, shook out his whiskey-scented fur, and gave an unfocused blink at his new surroundings.

A smile tugged at Jacqui’s lips. “Yes, little whiskey thief, you just might be my savior after all,” she acknowledged. She studied her rent gown closely, then nodded. The tears could certainly have been caused by a cat. She studied the gaping window. Cats could definitely climb trees. Her smile widened. Yes, it would work, all right. No one would doubt her.

Not when the explanation was right there for all to see.

And to smell.

Jacqui waved away the pungent fumes and stifled a cough. “Cat, you need a bath even more than I do.” She fetched her washing basin and placed it on the floor, glancing at her reflection in the large oval mirror as she passed. Her thick, mahogany tresses lay in tangled disarray down her back and stuck in damp tendrils to her smudged forehead and neck. “Upon closer examination, I retract that statement,” she muttered, seeing the additional smears of dirt on her cheeks and arms. She gathered up the porcelain pitcher by her basin. “So I shall heat water for us both. You wait here.”

Quietly, and with as little fuss as possible, Jacqui managed to heat a small amount of water, which she carried back to her room. A trifle awkwardly, she cleansed the dirt from her face and body with a cloth and a bar of soap. She didn’t dare drag the heavy tub up the stairs for fear of awakening the household. Tomorrow was soon enough for a real bath; for now, this would have to do.

After she had slipped into a clean nightrail, she proceeded to douse the squirming, protesting cat in soapy water. “It serves you right for smelling like a distillery,” she scolded, avoiding his claws. She dried him off, her lips twitching at his wet spikes of fur, his scrawny appearance. “Whiskey, you are quite the thing,” she praised. “And just as bold as I. Why, I do believe that we are going to be great companions.”

The kitten, thereby christened “Whiskey,” hiccuped his agreement. Then, with an exaggerated yawn, he leapt onto the beckoning softness of the bed, curled up on the plump feather pillow, and fell fast asleep.

“A wise decision,” Jacqui concurred. The harrowing events of the night were taking their toll, and she was possessed of a sudden, ringing weariness. Yawning, she climbed into bed, snuggled beneath the bright patchwork quilt, lay her head next to Whiskey’s, and closed her eyes.

Sleep did not come easily. Nor had she expected it would.

She always had trouble falling asleep after completing her weekly mission, for her mind was filled with the ramifications of her actions … and the importance of her cause. She therefore assumed that tonight would be the same.

But instead of her night’s activities, all Jacqui could see was the dark, towering man that had come within a hair’s-breadth of exposing her secret.

All was still at the corner of Third and Chestnut streets when Dane rounded the bend. Only a snatch of light came from beneath the solid door that led into the two-story brick office building. Dane gave a brief rap, then opened the door and strolled in.

“I’m here.”

The handsome man with the powdered auburn hair looked up from his desk, put down his quill pen, and acknowledged Dane’s presence with a faint smile. “So I see. Rather disheveled, are you not?” He indicated the whiskey stains on Dane’s shirt and breeches.

Dane didn’t smile back. “I had an unpleasant encounter with an inebriated cat,” he answered shortly, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s late, Alexander,” he began without preliminaries. “You should be home with Betsey, not here working until all hours of the night.”

Alexander Hamilton leaned back in his chair. “Good evening to you, too, Dane.”

Dane strode across the room with purposeful familiarity and lowered himself into a chair. “It has been mere months since you took ill … an illness you’ve scarce recovered from,” he staunchly continued, assessing Hamilton’s pallor and visible weakness. Dane couldn’t forget how he had almost lost his friend to an epidemic of yellow fever that had spread like wildfire through Philadelphia last fall. “Have you so quickly forgotten your close call with death?”

Hamilton made a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin upon it. “I haven’t forgotten. However, I have regained my health. And there is much I need to do before I retire from office.”

Dane nodded his understanding. He knew how much Hamilton wanted to separate himself from the political upsets of the past few years, how much he wanted to go home to New York with his family and resume his law practice.

How much the country would lose with his departure.

“Thomas and I were at the Tavern tonight,” Dane said at last. “The talk was of Laffey’s latest column in the
General Advertiser.
He all but stated that war with England was imminent—”

“President Washington has asked John Jay to go to England to negotiate for peace,” Hamilton interrupted quietly.

Dane bolted to his feet. “Damn it, Alexander! You’re the one who should be going, not Jay!”

Hamilton sighed deeply, his astute gaze holding his friend’s molten silver one. “Despite our individual beliefs … or our passions,” he added pointedly, “we must do what is best for the country. For me to serve as the American envoy right now would be foolhardy. We both know it, Dane.”

“You told that to President Washington?” Dane persisted.

“I did.”

“What was his reaction?”

Hamilton did not hesitate. “He was greatly relieved.”

Dane slammed his fist on the desk in frustration. Hamilton was right. There was too much controversy surrounding his handling of Treasury funds. It was a lot of nonsense, but it diminished his credibility nonetheless.

“I wanted to tell you first … before the information was made public,” Hamilton was continuing.

“Or before Laffey makes it public.”

Hamilton frowned. “Laffey … yes. He is a real thorn in the side of our government.” He raked his hand through his neatly queued hair and stood, hands clasped behind his back. “We have enough to deal with, without his scathing columns. They incite too many people by prematurely revealing information that is better kept undisclosed.”

“Not to mention his unique ability to obtain the information before it becomes public,” Dane added. He shook his head angrily. “But the problem is, no one knows who he actually is.”

“I can think of many people who would attack my philosophies,” Hamilton returned dryly, staring at the floor but not seeing it. “Especially in the
General Advertiser.
But none of those people would dare go so far as Laffey has, particularly in light of the volatile situation with England. It is not only that Laffey labels me and the entire party as monarchical, but that the information he imparts could only have been obtained in closed social functions, and from men who are far too shrewd to publicly state opinions they realize should remain private.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Dane demanded, recognizing the dawning, decisive light on Hamilton’s face. The Secretary of the Treasury had an idea.

Hamilton grinned, a boyish grin that made his elegant good looks even more striking. “I’m going to host a small gathering of prominent politicians and businessmen in the Long Room. And
you,
my charming friend, are going to flit about, as you do so well, speak with all our guests …”

“… and see what I can learn,” Dane finished, chuckling at Alexander’s uncustomary, exaggerated praise.

“Precisely.”

“Next Friday?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Done.” Dane turned and headed for the door. He paused for a moment, his expression one of stark determination. “By next Saturday you and I will know exactly who Jack Laffey really is.”

Hamilton’s jaw clenched. “And when we do, we will make certain that his pen is silenced for good.”

Y
OU LOOK RADIANT, MY
dear.” George Holt, dashing in his own fashionable black evening attire, beamed at his elegant, mahogany-haired daughter as he assisted her in alighting from their carriage.

Jacqui glanced disdainfully at the City Tavern. “I don’t feel radiant, Father,” she retorted, adjusting her satin cloak. “I feel cantankerous.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps, but no one would know it. You conceal it well.” He took her gloved arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I do appreciate your decision to accompany me to Secretary Hamilton’s ball.”

“Even if it was on such short notice,” she reminded him with a sidelong look.

George’s smile faded. “It is hardly Monique’s fault if she became ill, Jacqueline.”

Jacqui recognized her father’s warning tone and fell silent. When it came to
la très belle
Monique Brisset, George Holt was unwavering, unheeding, and hopelessly besotted. It had been that way from the start, since he’d first laid eyes on her at Oeller’s Hotel a year ago February, during the annual ball given on President Washington’s birthday. Nothing was going to alter George’s feelings … not even Jacqui’s carefully masked dislike, a dislike that rivaled her great relief that, at last, after ten lonely years of solitude since her mother’s death, George had finally found another woman to love.

Silently, Jacqui passed beneath her father’s arm and glided into the Tavern’s dimly lit front entranceway. To her left, merchants gathered in the Coffee Room, drinking mugs of whiskey and discussing their latest business ventures. Farther down the hall, pairs of handsome, influential men and expensively dressed women headed toward the staircase that ascended to the ball above. Jacqui barely noticed them. Instead, she inched her way to the right, absently smoothing the silk folds of her vibrant lilac gown.

Her father wasn’t fooled for a minute.

“Not tonight, Jacqueline.” He took her elbow firmly and steered her away from the Subscription Room, where she had been intent on overhearing the talk among the different newspaper and magazine reporters.

Jacqui followed along resignedly, casting a reluctant look over her shoulder. “But, Father, I was only wondering if there were any news of impending war or discussion of the tax imposed on whiskey. Surely you wouldn’t mind if …”

“But I would.” He guided her through the milling crowd and up the heavy wooden staircase. “We are guests tonight, and this is a
social
event. Let us attempt to keep it that way.”

“Yes, Father.” Jacqui had no recourse. The infuriating thing was that this time her normally indulgent father was right. And while she would greatly prefer being part of the heated debate on what to do with those few distillers who stubbornly refused to pay the excise tax on whiskey, she knew that it was an honor to be invited to the Hamiltons’ ball, and she owed it to her father to be gracious.

The Long Room was brightly lit, its polished floors gleaming, its grand walls lined with notable people. Soft strains of violins playing a Mozart minuet drifted amid the perfume-scented air and mingled with the women’s soft laughter and the men’s deeper-voiced conversations. Garbed in brocade gowns of rich silks and satins and adorned with headpieces boasting ribbons and feathers, the ladies clustered together in groups of four and five, chatting gaily and nibbling delicately at their
hors d’oeuvres.
As if sensing Jacqui’s presence, they looked up, assessing this new and unknown addition to their circle.

A small, dark-eyed woman in a dove-colored gown broke away from the others and approached Jacqui and George. “Mr. Holt, ’tis a pleasure to see you again.” She gave him a radiant smile.

George Holt bent over her hand with a bow. “The pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton, is mine. I am honored that you thought to include me this evening.” He stepped away, drawing Jacqui forward. “May I present my daughter, Jacqueline?”

Another charming smile. “Miss Holt, you are every bit as lovely as your father has boasted. Welcome.”

Jacqui smiled back, taking an instant liking to the serene-faced, gracious lady who was her hostess.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I, too, am honored to be here tonight.” Feeling the curious stares of the other women, Jacqui glanced boldly into the room, blatantly challenging their scrutiny.