Masque of Betrayal (7 page)

What had happened between them far surpassed a single kiss and they both knew it. But all Dane said was, “I’m glad to hear you’ve recovered, love.”

Jacqui took a gulp of cold coffee. It was time for a much-needed change in conversation.

“You are English,” she blurted out, saying the first thing that came to mind. She recalled the name Westbrooke appearing frequently in the company ledgers, vaguely remembered her father telling her that the owner of the company hailed from England.

Jacqui’s choice of subjects was apparently not to her guest’s liking. Angry sparks flashed in Dane’s eyes, and Jacqui had a glimpse of the predatory man she’d seen that dark night last week. A chill ran up her back.

“I’m American.” Dane’s tone was as forbidding as his expression.

Every one of Jacqui’s instincts warned her to leave it alone, while her curiosity compelled her to investigate further. “But you are English by birth.”

A muscle worked in Dane’s jaw. “By birth … yes.”

“When did you come to America?”

“Over a decade ago.”

The more evasive he grew, the more intrigued she became. “You were educated in England?”

Dane gave her a measured look. “I attended Oxford.”

“Oxford! Your father is a Tory?”

“My father is a marquis.”

It took a moment for Dane’s words to sink in. Then Jacqui sat up straight, a look of stunned horror on her face. “Your father is a marquis?” She might just as well have called him an ax murderer. “That makes you an
earl
… an English nobleman.”

Dane slammed his fist down on the table, rigid with an anger he fought to control. “I’ve said it once, Jacqueline, and I do not plan to say it again. I am an American … as much an American as you. Who and what my father may be is irrelevant. In case you failed to notice, I am very much my own person. I would appreciate your remembering that in the future, since I do
not
wish to discuss either my father or his titles again. Am I making myself clear?”

Jacqui considered arguing, saw the furious light in the steel-gray eyes, and thought better of it. “Perfectly clear.”

“Good. Now, do you have any other questions pertaining to my upbringing?”

Jacqui’s own temper flared. “I have no intention of allowing you to bellow at me, Mr. Westbrooke. Perhaps you should go. We seem to incite one another despite our best attempts to the contrary.” She stood, ready to show him the door.

Dane stood as well, catching her hand and tugging her back to him. “Honesty and forthrightness work both ways, my love,” he said in a dark, perceptive tone. “If you want to be candid and speak your mind to me, I demand the same right of you.” His expression softened and he kissed the inside of her wrist. “As for our effect on one another, it cannot be avoided, my beautiful Jacqueline. That is the way it will always be between us. And,
mon chaton colereux,
my fiery little kitten, you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Jacqui considered smacking that damned knowing smile from his magnificent, arrogant face.

“Such a look, sweet!” Dane chuckled. He released her hand. “Before you do me bodily harm, I believe I shall take my leave.” He strolled toward the door. “Thank Greta for the delicious breakfast. I shall return to enjoy many others.” He turned in the doorway and winked. “Until next time, my lovely Jacqueline.”

“I am not
your
Jacqueline,” she retorted, knowing she sounded like a petulant child and not giving a damn.

Dane surveyed her tousled mahogany curls and soft, swollen mouth with a look that said otherwise. Then he gave her a slow, devastating smile. “Ah, but you will be,
mon chaton colereux.
You will be.”

T
HAT WAS A WONDERFUL
dinner, George, and a welcome change from dining at home. Thank you.” Monique Brisset gave George Holt a brilliant smile, placing her half-finished cup of coffee firmly in its saucer and sitting back in the inn’s beautifully carved walnut chair. “I could not manage another morsel.”

George smiled indulgently, his heart in his eyes. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, love. You deserve only the finest in everything: food, wine …”

“… and men?” she teased, her blue eyes dancing. “For, in that case, I already have the finest. You.” She reached across the table and took his hand.

George lifted her fingers to his lips. “I don’t see you often enough,” he murmured. “I missed you terribly at Secretary Hamilton’s party last week.”

Monique stroked his cheek. “I’m dreadfully sorry,
mon amour
,” she answered with a pout she knew George found irresistible. “But I simply could not gather the strength to attend a ball. Not after having been abed for two days.”

“Certainly not, my dear.” He gave her an anxious look. “But you are feeling yourself again, are you not?”

A shadow of a frown crossed her face, then was gone. “Of course, George. I am splendid.”

But, as she intended, George had seen the flicker of sadness, heard the hesitation in her voice. Triumphantly, she noted the transparent concern on his face and silently congratulated herself. He was so very easy to manipulate, she thought smugly. As was Thomas. Two stupid, smitten fools, both perfect for her purposes. But then, she had carefully selected them many months ago for those very reasons. George … lonely, vulnerable, owner of a busy trading company … just the access she needed to France. Thomas … young and greedy, predictably susceptible to seduction, closely connected with Hamilton and his Federalist government.

Yes, her two liaisons were ideal.

George was leaning forward, his heart in his eyes. “Monique … are you unwell?”

“No, darling, of course not,” she assured him, sighing deeply.

He searched her beautiful face for signs of illness but could find none. “You are telling me the truth?”

She gave him a soft half-smile. “I wouldn’t lie to you,
chéri.
You know that.”

“But there is something,” he guessed astutely. “Tell me what it is.”

Again, Monique hesitated, lowering her lashes in heart-tugging indecision. “I don’t like to trouble you with my problems, George.”

“Anything that troubles you, troubles me as well. Tell me,” he urged.

She regarded him silently for precisely the right amount of time. “Will you be sending a shipment to the mainland this coming week?”

“A shipment?” George inclined his head in surprise. Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been this. “No. Not for a fortnight. Why do you ask?”

Monique’s voice trembled. “It … it is my sister Brigitte.”

“Your sister? In Paris? Is she ill?”

She shook her head, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. “Not physically, no. It is only that I am so worried about her, George. She has lost so much since the revolution began. Her husband has been arrested and imprisoned in the Carmes and her home has been ransacked countless times for evidence that might incriminate her as well. I am afraid that if things do not improve soon she might do something drastic.” Tears filled her luminous eyes and slid down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the edge of her napkin. “The only thing that seems to bring her any solace is my correspondence. I know it sounds silly, but I have a small present that I wished to send her in time for her birthday next month. I was hoping that you might be able to …” She broke off, lowering her head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to lose control.”

George took her hand between both of his. “Why did you not tell me any of this sooner?” he demanded.

“I did not wish to burden you,” she whispered.

“You are never a burden, my love. Never.” He thought intently for a moment. “Give me your package. I will speak to an associate of mine and arrange for it to be aboard the next ship headed for the mainland. Your sister shall have her gift on schedule.”

Monique’s eyes glistened with tears and hope. “Oh, George, is that really possible? How can I ever thank you?”

“You can smile for me,” he answered softly. “That would be all the thanks I need.”

Her smile illuminated the inn and warmed George’s heart. At five and forty years of age, he had never expected to love again. For nine years after his beloved Marie’s death, there had been no one in his world but his precious little Jacqueline. But now Monique had come into his life, and once more he felt like a man. A man who was hopelessly, totally in love.

“Come, my love,” he suggested, an intense look on his handsome face. “Let’s take our leave.”

Monique smiled. “Yes, darling. Let’s.” Delicately, she placed her napkin on the table and rose, slipping her arm through George’s and reaching up to touch his smooth-shaven cheek … a promise for the evening to come.

Early Wednesday morning, Dane headed for Hamilton’s office and the unavoidable conversation that he knew would take place.

Since Dane’s visit with Jacqueline two days past, he had been submerged in his business dealings, unable to break away. This morning was, therefore, his first opportunity to answer Hamilton’s rather definitive summons. He knew Alexander wished to discuss the results of Friday night’s party. Not that there was much to say on the subject, Dane thought disgustedly. For there had been
no
results. But by now Alexander had seen Monday’s
General Advertiser
and was no doubt livid, both at Laffey and at himself for being unable to discover the rebel’s identity.

Dane had fared no better. So, knowing how his friend loathed failure of any kind, Dane braced himself for a less than pleasant chat.

He was stunned to instead find Hamilton tearing his desk apart, drawer by drawer.

“What in the name of heaven are you doing?” Dane demanded.

Hamilton looked up, visibly upset. “I am beginning to fear that I have lost my mind,” he replied. “I was certain that I had placed those papers in my upper desk drawer, and yet they are gone.”

Dane frowned. “Papers? What papers?”

“The ones containing my notes to Jay. He’ll be leaving for England in a fortnight and I’ve outlined what I believe should be our negotiating strategy in the current crisis.”

“And those papers are missing?” Dane’s expression grew dark.

“It would appear that way. Should the British get their hands on these documents, they would know our tactics before Jay even begins to negotiate. They would be prepared to counter each of our terms, and Jay would be unable to extract any concessions from them. His entire mission would be a failure.” Hamilton banged the drawer shut in agitation. “As I said, I thought I’d placed the notes in my desk on Friday and, truthfully, I haven’t looked for them since.” The word
theft
hung between them, but was not spoken. As was his way, Hamilton refused to speculate before the obvious answers had been thoroughly explored.

Quickly, Dane scanned the office. It was sparsely furnished, with little in the way of hiding places. If the papers were still here, there were only a few spots where they could be located.

Beginning with the obvious, Dane checked the open compartments in the hutch above Hamilton’s desk and the exposed writing area on its surface. From there he moved to the drawers of the low tables and then to the cushions of the chairs. No papers were found.

By this time, his concern was escalating. It was not like Alexander to misplace things.

Intending to conduct one final search, Dane headed across the room and was about to join Hamilton in a thorough inspection of the desk, when his friend made a triumphant sound and rose. “Here they are.”

Dane relaxed. “Thank goodness. Where did you find them?”

“They were caught between some other documents. Apparently, I placed them in the middle drawer and not the upper one as I had originally believed.” With a deep sigh, Hamilton shook his head. “I am becoming forgetful in my old age.”

Dane snorted derisively. “You are far from old and anything but forgetful. What you are, is exhausted. You are merely a man, Alexander, not a god. You expect too damned much of yourself.”

“And of you?” Hamilton’s eyes twinkled, his good humor restored now that the missing papers had been found.

Dane sank into a chair. “Ah, we arrive at the real reason you asked to see me. The identity of the ever-annoying Jack Laffey.”

“Which you do not know.”

“No, I don’t have the vaguest idea.”

“Nor do I.” Hamilton leaned back against the disheveled desk. “Did you learn anything of significance at the party”—he gave a meaningful pause—“other than the accomplishments of George Holt’s daughter, that is.”

Dane shot Hamilton a look. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”

“One could hardly miss your obvious fascination for the lady.” Hamilton lightly baited his friend. “So much for my attempts to keep you from the clutches of one woman throughout the evening. As it turns out, you would have preferred the drawing of lots.” He studied Dane’s closed expression. “She is quite beautiful.”

“I noticed.”

Hamilton hid his smile. “So did every other man in the room. Not that you gave them much opportunity to pursue her.”

“Nor do I intend to,” Dane returned, scowling.

Hamilton chuckled. “So that’s the way of things, is it? Shall I inquire as to
your
success with the very spirited Miss Holt?”

“Merely a modicum better than my success with Laffey.”

Hamilton’s smile faded. “The contents of the
General Advertiser
refutes our original conclusion that he was not in attendance on Friday night.”

“Obviously.”

Hamilton slammed his fist on the desk. “Then which guest was Laffey? Which of my supposed
friends
pens that damned column?” He made a sound of anger and frustration. “Without knowing Laffey’s identity, we cannot begin to think of a way to still his pen.”

“The matter of stilling his pen needn’t concern you. I’ve already devised a plan to secure Laffey’s ruin.”

“You have?” Hamilton swooped down on Dane’s announcement. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“What would have been the point? My plan cannot be implemented until we know Laffey’s identity.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear it.” Hamilton glanced past Dane to verify that the door was carefully closed, ensuring total privacy. Satisfied that they could not be overheard, he turned expectantly back to Dane. “Tell me your plan.”