Masque of Betrayal (39 page)

Something made Dane stop, swerve about to look George in the eye. “No. Never.”

“I thought not. She rarely speaks of Marie, even to me.”

“I know your wife died when Jacqui was a child.”

George inclined his head slightly. “She was ten. Part child, part young girl. Old enough to perceive the value of her mother’s love, young enough to revere her with childhood adoration.”

“Were they very close?”

“Inseparable. Marie was a rare jewel … filled with love and vitality, traditional … but wise enough to discern how
un
traditional Jacqui was. And gifted with the foresight to understand how Jacqui’s uniqueness destined her to make great contributions to the world.”

Dane swallowed. “How did your wife die?”

A flash of pain crossed George’s face. “It was sudden. Marie was very frail. When the fever developed … nothing helped. Within two days, she was gone,”

“Jacqui …” All that came to Dane’s mind was the anguish his wife must have endured.

George answered the unspoken question. “You didn’t know Jacqui before Marie’s death. She was a different girl: open, affectionate, trusting. She expressed her feelings easily and often. Then … everything changed.”

“She must have been badly hurt.”

“She was devastated. When I told her Marie was gone, she didn’t say a word, nor did she shed a tear.” George inhaled shakily. “She shut herself in her room and scarcely emerged for days on end. When she finally resumed her meals and her studies, she barely went through the motions, a mere shell of the exuberant girl she had been. It took me … and Greta … months to ease Jacqui back into living life again.” He shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, some of her scars penetrated too deep even for me to reach.”

“That’s not true,” Dane negated hoarsely. “You were with her … to love her, to share her grief, to hold her while she cried.”

“No, Dane. That’s the worst part. Jacqui didn’t cry. Not then, not after. Since the day Marie died, she hasn’t shed a single tear … for any reason.”

Dane flinched, struck by the truth of George’s revelation. Since the day they’d met, Dane had never seen Jacqui weep. No matter how angry, passionate, or upset she became, she never cried … not even when accused of treason.

“She loves you, Dane,” George was saying softly. “To Jacqui, love is a terrifying weakness. She has spent years disciplining herself to deem no one indispensable. That way, if she is abandoned, she can withstand the pain. It’s her only protection against deep, personal loss.”

“She’ll never lose me,” Dane replied vehemently.

“I know she won’t. What’s more, I believe Jacqui knows it too.”

Dane’s expression turned grim. “George, I’ve got to find her. If anything has happened …”

George shook his head, denying Dane’s fears. “We must remain calm and keep a level head. Knowing Jacqui as I do, it is more than likely she found her confinement intolerable and, once the rain subsided a bit, she went out for a stroll. Why, she’s probably arriving home even as we speak.” He frowned. “But, just to be certain, I’ll begin a discreet search. Have you tried your mother’s estate?” When Dane shook his head, George continued, “Fine. I’ll contact Lenore. You go see Secretary Hamilton. The fact that he is the likeliest target and no one has accosted him makes me believe Jacqui is probably just out and about somewhere.” George’s smile was stiff, forced. “I’ll check back with you later today.”

Dane nodded, no less appeased than he’d been when he arrived. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake the fear that Jacqui was in trouble … and that, despite her bloody independence, she needed him.

“Did you find Frau Westbrooke with her father?” Greta asked, coming into the hallway. Dane’s heart sank, Greta’s question extinguishing his last hope. Obviously, Jacqui had not returned home during his absence. “No, Greta, Jacqueline’s father hasn’t seen her all day. Did I receive any messages while I was gone? From Secretary Hamilton, perhaps?”

“No … none.” Even Greta was beginning to look distressed. “Is there a reason to believe Frau Westbrooke is in danger?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Dane’s vow was interrupted by a flying streak of black fur that exploded into the house and collided into Dane’s legs.

“I’m in no mood for you.” Dane glared down at Whiskey with angry impatience.

Uncharacteristically, Whiskey responded, not with his customary hissing and spitting, but by rubbing up against Dane’s legs, meowing plaintively.

“I have no liquor and no time to elude your claws. So I would suggest you …” A tinge of color, vivid against the stark blackness of Whiskey’s fur, caught Dane’s eye. “What is this?” Dane squatted, plucking the pale green ribbon from around the kitten’s neck. “My God …” Dane breathed, renewed panic erupting inside him. “This is a ribbon from the gown Jacqueline was wearing this morning.”

Greta peered over his shoulder. “Yes … it is.” She paled. “Now that I think about it, this is the first I’ve seen of Frau Westbrooke’s cat since morning. He hasn’t been in my kitchen once … not even for his meal.”

Dane turned the ribbon over in his hands, remembering how he’d lain in bed and watched Jacqui dress, eventually taking over the task of doing her buttons
… his
way. He remembered how long it had taken him to finish acting the part of lady’s maid … and why.

He closed his hand around the ribbon, irrationally feeling closer to his wife through the action.

Whiskey meowed again, rubbing up against Dane’s bent knees.

Dane lowered his face to the kitten. “Were you with Jacqueline?” he demanded quietly. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Whiskey blinked his huge green eyes, sitting still as a statue.

Dane inhaled sharply and coughed. “You reek of whiskey.”

“Apparently, he sampled some earlier today,” Greta put in. “When I returned from the market I found a shattered glass in the sitting room and whiskey all over the sideboard and floor.”

Dane rose. “A shattered glass? Belonging to whom?”

Greta looked puzzled. “I assumed to you.”

“No.” Dane shook his head adamantly. “I’ve had nothing to drink today. And it certainly wasn’t Jacqueline’s … she doesn’t drink whiskey.” Dane stalked into the sitting room to investigate. “So that means someone else was here today.” He searched the area around the sideboard. “The question remains, who? And does that someone know Jacqueline’s whereabouts?”

From the front hallway, Greta and Dane heard loud, persistent meowing. They rushed out to see Whiskey sitting pointedly by the front door, his head thrown back as he emitted noisy catcalls.

Dane narrowed his eyes. “If I didn’t know better”—he walked over to where Whiskey sat—“I’d swear this damned viper knew where Jacqui was.”

“Herr Westbrooke, it is possible.” Greta nodded emphatically. “Cats are extremely intelligent animals. If Frau Westbrooke’s pet was with her when she went out, he probably knows where she is. If that’s the case, he can lead you to her.”

Dane grunted in disbelief. “It sounds most unlikely.” He inclined his head thoughtfully as Whiskey emitted another plaintive, reproachful meow. “On the other hand, we’re running out of options. If you are right, Greta …” Dane strode into his study, removed a pistol from the desk drawer, and hurried back into the hallway. Flinging open the front door, he ordered, “Cat, if you know where Jacqui is, lead me to her.”

In a flash, Whiskey sprung down the stairs and to the walk, pausing only to see that Dane was behind him, then disappearing around the bend.

“Bring her home safely, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta called after him, clutching the folds of her apron.

Dane looked back, his jaw set. “I shall, Greta,” he assured her, steely determination in his eyes. “At all costs, I shall.”

Jacqui tugged savagely at her bonds, twisting her hands with all her strength. It was futile … the ties would not give.

She sagged in the hard wooden chair with a muffled cry of frustration. She’d been in this dingy, deserted country cabin for hours. Her fingers tingled from lack of circulation and her wrists and ankles throbbed from the biting pressure of the ropes.

Her initial paralyzing fear had diminished significantly. Her puzzlement over her captor’s odd behavior had not.

For a man presumably skilled in abduction, Jacqui’s assailant had turned out to be as jittery as she. Oh, he’d purposefully hauled her from her house, his pistol jabbed in her ribs lest she think of bolting. Then he’d dragged her roughly along the deserted, rain-soaked streets, through an endless length of dank woods until they reached this abandoned cabin. Once inside, he’d shoved her into a chair and tied her arms and legs.

But, that done, his whole demeanor had changed. Sweating profusely, he’d retreated to the far corner of the cabin, pacing like a nervous animal and keeping as far from Jacqui as possible. Ravaging his captive was, clearly, the last thing on his mind.

Then what did he want? she’d asked herself.

When he finally stopped prowling the floor long enough to speak, Jacqui got her answer.

What her captor wanted was not Jacqueline Westbrooke but Jack Laffey.

“I want facts and I want them now,
Laffey
,” he’d hissed, wiping perspiration from his nape.

Jacqui had regarded him without flinching, digesting the fact that this man, who evidently knew her identity, was the traitor Hamilton sought. How he’d connected her with Laffey was too vast a question to consider. Logically, Jacqui had always known that the longer she penned her column, the greater the risk of discovery became. Evidently, her day of reckoning had arrived in the form of this culprit, who had brought her here to learn the details of Hamilton’s alleged revisions to the Jay negotiations.

“You’re privy to some new information being sent to John Jay in England.” Her kidnapper confirmed her suspicions with his next words, raising his pistol menacingly. “Tell me what you know.”

Perhaps it was his obvious discomfort that gave Jacqui courage, or perhaps it was her own patriotism. Whichever the case, she raised her chin, gazing innocently at his masked face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or why you’ve dragged me here. Who on earth is Laffey? My name is Jacqueline Westbrooke and I demand you release me at once.”

A flash of something … was it surprise or admiration? … registered in her assailant’s eyes.

“I have no time for evasions, Laffey,” he returned in a growl.

“Why are you so stubbornly convinced I am this Laffey person?” Jacqui stalled for time, praying her clues had not been overlooked. She could have sworn she’d spied Whiskey following behind her as she stumbled through the woods. But she hadn’t dared turn around for fear of giving herself away. Now she prayed her peripheral vision had not lied to her and that, having followed his nose for liquor, Whiskey had come upon the cabin and, when he couldn’t get in, scampered home to alert Dane.

She prayed also that Dane hadn’t missed the telltale clues: the shattered whiskey glass on the sitting-room floor and the ribbon around Whiskey’s neck.

Jacqui’s captor swore under his breath and tightened his fingers on the pistol. “I
know
who you are and I’m not playing any more games!” he rasped, sounding more exasperated than murderous.

Jacqui inclined her head. “Do you plan to shoot me?” she inquired.

“If I must.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“I told you … the plans Secretary Hamilton is preparing for Jay.”

Jacqui’s brow furrowed. “I thought John Jay was already in England.”

“You know damned well he is!”

“Then I don’t understand. Didn’t he plan his tactics before leaving?”

The man swallowed, and Jacqui could see the bewildered look in his eyes.

“Why have you chosen this place to interrogate me?” she persisted, pressing her advantage. “How long do you plan to keep me prisoner here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Surely you could get your information elsewhere?”

He shook his head emphatically. “You are the one who has our answers, Laffey.”

Our
answers? Jacqui picked up on the plural instantly. So her captor was not acting alone. Well, then, she must learn the identities of his accomplices. “Where are your colleagues?”

He spun about. “Who said anything about my having colleagues?”

“You did. Just a moment ago you said, ‘You are the one who has our answers.’ I naturally assumed—”

“
I’m
asking the questions here, Laffey, not you!” he ground out.

“Very well.” She gave him a measured look, then abandoned the notion of acquiring his cohorts’ names and eyed the pistol speculatively. “Forgive my boldness, sir, but if you do use that pistol, how will you gain these vital facts you seek? Once I am dead, that is.”

He looked positively flabbergasted. “I don’t believe this.” He shook his cloaked head.

Jacqui was thoroughly relieved by her assailant’s incredulity, for it confirmed her suspicion that he’d never considered the possibility of firing his weapon. Her life, therefore, was in no immediate jeopardy. Unless, of course, one of her captor’s less squeamish accomplices should arrive to take over. But that was a risk Jacqui would simply have to take. The key now was to stall for time … and to pray that Dane’s instincts wouldn’t pick this particular time to fail her.

It was over an hour later when her assailant pounded his fist against the wall. “I’m finished with our verbal sparring, Laffey! My patience has worn out.” He took a threatening step toward Jacqui. “No more deception … only the truth.”

Jacqui shifted a bit, wincing at the sharp pain in her arms. “I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know who Laffey is, nor do I possess the answers you seek. My arms and legs are nearly numb and the ropes are cutting into my flesh. Please let me go.”

He hesitated, then moved behind her and loosened the bonds. “I cannot release you,” he returned.

It was time for another approach. “But I’m so hungry … and thirsty,” Jacqui murmured, her voice breaking.

His dark eyes swept the back of her head. “I’ll bring you some food. Perhaps that will jar your memory.” He walked off, keeping his hooded face averted, and left the cabin.