Masque of Betrayal (32 page)

All the while, the words he’d heard George utter earlier that day reverberated in his head.

Tonight. At eight o’clock. In the alley behind the courthouse and burial grounds, just past Market Street.

In an hour, George Holt would be meeting someone, delivering covert information into that person’s hands. Wouldn’t Holt and his contact be more than a little surprised to find Dane waiting there too … bearing witness to Holt’s treason firsthand?

Dane quickened his pace, knowing full well that, within the hour, he would have his answers … and his headstrong, passionate wife would feel nothing for him but hatred.

Jacqui came awake with a start, unable to give a name to the knot of apprehension in her stomach. Swiftly, her gaze swept the room, beginning with the now-abandoned window where Dane had stood when she’d drifted off. It was deserted. Her husband was nowhere in sight.

Scrambling out of bed, Jacqui’s knees nearly buckled and she clutched the nightstand for support. Her limbs felt weak as water, a reminder of the wild, desperate mating she’d shared with Dane … a wrenching combination of hunger and passion and torment.

And, for Dane, inexplicable fury … fury that surpassed any he’d ever displayed, any that could be caused by mere suspicions, any that could be based on anything but concrete fact.

Jacqui’s head came up, her heart beating frantically as a sudden, implausible possibility struck her. Could Dane have overheard her conversation at Holt Trading? Could he perchance
know
of tonight’s meeting?

With escalating fear, her eyes fell on the clock: seven forty-five.

Ignoring the ache that pervaded her body, Jacqui raced to the wardrobe and snatched the first dark gown she could find, tugging it on with shaking hands. Each button took forever to slip into its casing, her stockings aeons to cover her legs. Letting the gown’s muslin folds fall to her ankles, Jacqui simultaneously stepped into her slippers, tied back her hair from her face, and headed for the door, willing time to stand still, cursing herself for taking an eternity to dress.

It was seven forty-nine.

Dane shifted position, eager for Holt to appear … praying he would not. It was a futile prayer, for just then footsteps sounded, approaching the alleyway … hesitating … then entering, growing surer, nearer. Dane pressed deeper into the shadows, waiting for the dim moonlight to reveal his arrival’s identity. Seconds later, he could make out the smooth, fresh features of a young lad … apparently, the contact George was going to meet.

With clenched fists, Dane waited, knowing it would all be over in a matter of minutes.

The second set of footsteps followed immediately, echoing in the deserted alley, resounding hollowly in Dane’s heart.

“Miss Holt?” The boy stepped forward, halting in his tracks, white-faced, as he encountered not Jacqui, but George.

“Wait!” Anticipating the boy’s reaction, George grabbed at his sleeve, staying the youth’s flight. “I work with Miss Holt. I’m her …” He hesitated. “I’m here at her request. I have the document you need.”

The boy stopped struggling when he saw the paper George offered, recognized, in the faint shaft of moonglow, the familiar strokes of Jacqui’s pen. “Miss Holt sent you?” he repeated quizzically, scrutinizing George as he took the single sheet.

George nodded tersely. “Yes. I presume you know how to proceed from here?”

It was the boy’s turn to nod. “Yes, sir. I should … I’ve been doin’ it for over a year now.”

“Not after tonight, you aren’t.” Dane’s scathing words cut through the night. He emerged from the shadows, ignoring George’s shocked gasp, extending his hand to the startled youth. “Give me that paper. Now.”

The boy backed away, terrified by the furious spark in this dark stranger’s silver eyes. “W-w-ho are you?” he stammered.

“Give it to me!”

“Don’t!” George shook his head violently. No matter what Dane suspected, this was not the way for him to learn the truth about Jacqui. “Run, lad! Take the paper and run!”

The boy needed no further urging. Turning on his heel, he shot off like a bullet, swallowed up by the blackness of night.

For a moment Dane considered going after him, then decided against it. Much as he wanted that document, he could not take the risk that George would bolt. The only conceivable option was to drag the information out of Holt. As for the lad, he was no more than an innocent accomplice and could easily be traced, and the paper recovered … later. The true culprit remained before Dane, silent and waiting.

Dane swung around, his expression murderous. “We reach the truth at last, Holt.” He inhaled sharply, battling for control. “I’m not sure who I want to choke more at this instant. You … or my
wife
.”

George tensed. “Jacqui has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?” Dane’s tone was lethal. “Funny, I was certain I heard the boy mention her name. Unless there is another Miss Holt I have yet to meet?”

George sucked in his breath, ready to protect Jacqui at all costs. “She is nothing more than my messenger, Dane. Your argument is with me.”

“My
argument
?” Dane stared at him, incredulous and sickened. “My God, Holt, you’ve betrayed your country, made a mockery of everything it stands for, and you refer to this revelation as an
argument
?”

“Betrayed my country?” It was George’s turn to look shocked. He had been prepared to plead his case, to shield Jacqui from her husband’s certain outrage. Outrage, yes … but this? “I thought you, of all men, would show more understanding, Westbrooke,” he bit out. “Since when has freedom of speech signified treason?”

“Don’t bait me, Holt,” Dane shot back. “Your provoking column is but a small portion of your crime.”

“My
crime
?” George sputtered. “Penning honest, informative political statements?”

“Honest? Informative? Don’t you mean reckless and instigating?”

“The American people have a right to know what propels their government. I merely provide them with that information.”

Dane swooped down on George’s words. “So you admit you are Jack Laffey?”

Silence reigned as George absorbed the severity of Dane’s ire.

Then: “Yes … I’m Laffey.”

Dane took a menacing step toward him. “Do you also admit that you and Jacqueline furnished the British with enough details to undermine John Jay’s negotiations?”

“What?”
George’s voice shook.

“Oh, come now, Holt. You’ve gone this far. Finish what you’ve begun.” Dane’s fists closed around George’s lapels. “Tell me how you and Jacqueline managed to convey stolen documents to the British, and how you used your column … and me … to further your misguided cause.” He shook him. “Then tell me what was in that paper you just passed on. Was it more information for Grenville?”

“You’re insane,” George choked, struggling to free himself. “I’m no more a traitor than you are!”

Dane’s grip tightened. “It is not
I
who is Jack Laffey!”

“Nor is it he!”

Jacqui’s voice rang out, sure and clear, silencing both men with a start. Neither had heard her arrive, too caught up in their growing anger and escalating shouts to notice her presence.

“Jacqueline … this doesn’t concern you!” George wasn’t sure how much his daughter had overheard or if she knew the harshness of Dane’s accusation. Nor was he waiting to ask. “Let me handle this,” he ordered, praying that, for once, she would obey. “Go home to bed.”

Jacqui shook her head fiercely, marching up to her husband, fire brimming in her eyes. “Release my father, you miserable, arrogant bastard!”

Dane stared down at her, his jaw tightening until it threatened to snap. “Listen to your father, Jacqueline … go home. Now. Before I do something I’ll regret.”

“Go ahead and do it, damn you!” she fired back, clamping her fingers around the rigid muscles of his arm. “But to
me,
not my father!
I’m
the one you’re livid with! I’m the one you loathe! So vent your rage at me, not him!”

“Jacqueline!” George’s hoarse shout was a warning and a plea.

Valiantly, Dane fought the urge to beat Jacqui senseless. “I’m warning you,
wife
,” he ground out. “You don’t know what I’m capable of right now.”

“And you, apparently, don’t know what
I’m
capable of!”

That did it. Dane released George in a rush, dragging Jacqui against him with an anger that was as palpable as it was savage. “To the contrary, sweet, I applaud your grand deception!” he taunted. “You and …” He cast a scathing look at George. “Jack Laffey.”

“My father is
not
Jack Laffey!” Jacqui’s nails dug into Dane’s coat.

“He’s admitted it, you little fool.”

“Only to keep you from the truth!”

“Jacqueline!” George made one final attempt to quiet her. “Now is
not
the time!”

“The truth?” Dane ignored George’s protest, his smoldering gray eyes burning through his wife. “
What
truth?”

Jacqui raised her head proudly, her chin set in stubborn defiance, and met Dane’s accusing stare, “
I
am Jack Laffey.”

W
HATEVER DANE HAD BEEN
about to say lodged in his throat. Slowly, deliberately, he released his breath, an audible hiss in the suffocating silence. His immediate thought, on the heels of his wife’s bold declaration, was that, while he was stunned by the impact of hearing the truth spoken aloud, he was not shocked by its reality. He should have known Jacqueline would never be content with the passive role of an accomplice. She had to be right at the heart of the explosion.

With cold assessment, he surveyed the proud, upturned face that stared back at him, awaiting his response.

“So … you are Jack Laffey,” he repeated, an affirmation uttered for his own ears as well as for Jacqui’s.

“Pronounced correctly, it is
Jacques la fille,
” she corrected with a smug grin. “Translated, that means—”

“Jacques the girl,” Dane finished, a spark of unwilling admiration flickering in his eyes. “How clever. And how stupid of me not to guess.”

“I thought maybe you had. Or at least that you suspected. But it appears you had a far more sinister explanation for my actions.”

He jumped on her words. “Are you telling me that my accusations are false?”

“I’m telling you nothing,” she spat, wrenching her arms free of his hold. “Believe what you like.”

“Jacqui, for God’s sake!” George burst in. “Tell the man the truth! He believes—”

“I
heard
what he believes, Father. I have no intention of justifying my actions … now or ever.”

“Jacqueline …” George tried again.

“Leave us, Holt,” Dane commanded quietly, never taking his eyes off Jacqui. “This is between my wife and myself.”

George made a sharp sound of protest. “I refuse to leave my daughter alone with you in your present state of mind, Westbrooke.”

“If I haven’t struck her yet, I don’t suppose I shall,” Dane muttered between clenched teeth.

Jacqui’s furious gaze locked with his.

“Do as Dane says, Father,” she said at last. “I can take care of myself.”

George shook his head. “I don’t think …”

“Please,
mon père,”
she interrupted softly, giving her father a gentle, reassuring nod. “Let me handle this my own way.”

George cleared his throat roughly. “If you need me—”

“I won’t.”

He hesitated. “Very well.” He shot Dane a scathing look. “If my daughter is hurt in any way, you will answer to me.”

“You’ve made your point.” Dane’s reply was a terse dismissal. “Oh … and Holt,” he added in swift warning, “I would suggest you remain … accessible.”

George blanched. “I’ll be at my home, Westbrooke.” He cast a final defeated glance from his daughter to the enraged man who was her husband, then reluctantly headed for home.

Dane waited until the echoing sound of Holt’s footsteps had faded into the night. Then he lunged forward and caught Jacqui’s shoulders in his strong hands.

“I want the truth. Are you responsible for urging us toward war with England?”

“You don’t deserve the truth,” she fired back, fighting the gnawing hurt that began deep inside her. “You’ve already decided my father and I are guilty.”

Dane’s grip tightened. “Do you have any idea how often … how badly I’ve wanted to be proven wrong?” His voice was hoarse, his expression taut with pain.

An appalling thought struck Jacqui. “Is
this
why you were so anxious to marry me?” she demanded, crashing her fists against the hard wall of Dane’s chest. “To determine whether or not I was a traitor to our country?”

“No, you damned, impetuous little fool! I married you in spite of it!”

“I don’t believe you!” She shoved him away, mortified by the welling emotion clogging her throat, the aching loss that was an unwelcome reminder of times long past but never forgotten. “You’re nothing more than a lying hypocrite!” She lashed out, her only defense against the anguish.

“
I’m
a hypocrite?” The cords in Dane’s neck bulged, his fists clenched in tight balls of rage and frustration. “
You’re
the one who has lied to
me …
time and again … since the moment we met.”

“And if I’d told you the truth?” she countered, her midnight eyes suspiciously bright. “Would you have embraced the idea? Welcomed the prospect of marriage to Jack Laffey? Or would you have
demanded
… no,
ordered
me to cease writing my columns?”

Dane wanted to choke her and comfort her all at once. “You
still
don’t understand, do you, Jacqueline? You still believe, despite all that has transpired between us, that I want to
take
everything
from
you, strip you of your identity … or walk away from who you are.” His voice dropped, grew raw, vulnerable. “No matter what we have become together, you still aren’t willing to trust me.”

“As you trust me?” Jacqui returned in a thin voice.

“It was not I who kept something from you.”

“Except your suspicion that I was a traitor.”

Dane had an uncontrollable urge to crush her to him, to eradicate the past hour together with that look of naked pain on her face. “Come here, Jacqui.” He held out his hand.