Masque of Betrayal (10 page)

“He has a definite point,” she defended hotly. “Perhaps we can all learn something from the revolution that is taking place in France right now. The majority of our countrymen are not wealthy businessmen such as yourself and all your friends who are pro-English, but poor farmers who rely upon their land and their crops to sustain themselves. We cannot build a country that only benefits the rich!”

“Nor can we build a country without the necessary foundations: a strong central government and an effective financial system.”

“I have no argument with that. But must those foundations ignore the needs of the masses? Where is our national unity? Does that not count as well?”

“Unity?” Dane bit out. He tore open the
General Advertiser,
scanning the pages with fury in his eyes until he found what he’d been seeking. “Tell me, Jacqueline”—he thrust the paper in her face—“is this the writing of a man who wants to
unite
our country?” He stabbed a finger at Laffey’s column, which that day dealt with America’s concessions to the British as demonstrated by Jay’s recent departure for England. “Tell me, Jacqueline,” Dane repeated, furious at her immature idealism, “is this opinion meant to enlighten, or is it meant to provoke? And what, in truth, does Jack Laffey hope to accomplish by further inciting one sector of our country against the other?”

Jacqui stared at the column without speaking. Then she swallowed and raised her eyes to Dane’s. “You’ve never before mentioned your obvious loathing for this … Jack Laffey.”

Dane shrugged, a furious light burning in his hot silver eyes. “It never came up. But loathe him I do. And when I finally discover the dishonorable blackguard’s actual identity”—he inhaled sharply—“I shall deal with him as he deserves.”

The underlying threat was not lost to Jacqui. “It might not be a question of dishonor, Dane,” she replied quietly. “Sometimes one must incite in order to enlighten. Maybe you are confusing hostility with patriotism.”

Dane gave a harsh laugh and tossed the newspaper aside. “I fail to see your logic.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me that some things defy logic?” she questioned in an odd tone.

Perhaps it was that odd tone, or perhaps it was her uncustomary pallor, that snapped Dane out of his tirade. He took a deep, calming breath.

“Jacqueline … forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jacqui shook her head. “You didn’t upset me. It’s just that our views are so very different.” She paused. “Too different.”

“I don’t think so,” Dane refuted quickly, taking her hand. “We are both loyal, concerned Americans who want our country to prosper. We just have different ideas about how to make that happen.”

Jacqui met his gaze. “I will never stop expressing what I believe in,” she told him. “No matter what the cost.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, kissing her fingers. “If you think the prospect of your forthrightness and your honesty will send me away, you had best think again, love.” He rubbed her knuckles lightly across his lower lip. “Have you not yet guessed that those are the very traits of yours that intrigue me so?”

She remained silent, her expression veiled.

He was about to press her when a crash resounded from just behind them.

Whirling about, Dane saw pieces of his brandy glass fly all about, spilling the contents into a small puddle on the floor. From atop the table, Whiskey watched the results of his handiwork, then leapt lightly to the floor and began to rapidly lap up the liquor with his tongue. That done, he raised his head, licked the last few droplets of brandy from his whiskers, and stumbled out of the room.

“What the hell …” Dane’s eyes narrowed, memory returning in a jolt. “Jacqueline, do you let your cat run free?” He turned toward her, stunned to see her struggling to restrain her laughter.

“No,” she managed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because last month—”

“Whiskey just happens to enjoy his liquor,” she interrupted hastily. “That is, in fact, how he got his name.”

Dane stared after the kitten thoughtfully. “Interesting,” was all he said. Then he turned back toward Jacqui. “Do you enjoy the theater?”

“Yes, of course, why?”

“Because that, is where we are going Friday night.”

Jacqui scowled. “Isn’t it customary for you to
ask
me and not to
inform
me?”

He grinned. “Probably. But I think we should continue to be unconventional, don’t you?”

Again, Jacqui grew quiet. “Dane, I don’t think …”

“But I do.” He drew her to him and kissed her softly, possessively, for a long, dizzying moment. Then he released her slowly, caressing her with his eyes. “I’ll be here at eight o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting,
mon chaton
.”

Jacqui watched him go with a dazed expression on her face. The situation between them had grown even more complicated than it had originally been. Wandering back into the sitting room, she picked up the scattered pages of the
General Advertiser
and stared down at Laffey’s column, forcing herself to view the contents through Dane’s eyes. Once again, she could hear his bitter threat, see the predatory gleam in his eyes.

A chill ran through her.

In truth, Laffey’s tone was most scathing with regard to America’s concessions to England. Brutally so. But with good reason, she defended to herself silently. For his words had merit. But she could not deny Dane’s accusation. … The article was indeed provoking.

Jacqui frowned. She hadn’t intended it that way when she had penned it.

T
HE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED
were fraught with indecision.

Each time Jacqui and Dane were together—the evenings at the theater, the dinners at the inn, the dances at Oeller’s Hotel, the verbal sparring matches in her sitting room … the few but exhilarating moments in his arms—every one of Jacqui’s instincts cried out its warning, cautioning her that to continue an association with Dane Westbrooke would be altogether foolhardy. Despite the enjoyment she experienced in his company, the danger he represented was simply too great to ignore. She had worked far too hard to risk losing everything at the hands of a man.

It was not her virtue that Jacqui guarded so fiercely.

It was her well-hidden alias.

As a woman, Jacqui had learned quite young that the only man to give credence to her opinions, political or otherwise, was her beloved father. Time after frustrating time she had been put in her place by a man, beginning with her father’s friends and associates, culminating with the few beaus she’d had the misfortune to entertain. Finally she’d decided to take drastic measures.

Thus, Jack Laffey was born.

Laffey could do what Jacqui could not. He could give voice to her well-thought-out though controversial opinions and be assured that, whether read by concurring Republicans or scornful Federalists, the words were met with respect, interest, and, most important of all, credibility.

Once every week, under cover of darkness, Jacqui stole away to an unlit alleyway and handed Jack Laffey’s column over to a handsomely paid messenger. The lad then delivered his parcel to the
General Advertiser,
answering no questions and providing no information about the column’s source. Least of all the fact that its creator was a woman.

It had been nearly a year now, and no one in Philadelphia suspected that Jacqui was Laffey. But then, she deliberately kept her distance from others, allowing no one close enough to surmise the truth.

Not until that fateful spring night when her weekly excursion had flung her into Dane Westbrooke’s dynamic path.

Jacqui knew she was playing with fire, that she should sever their relationship before it even began. The problem was that she didn’t want to. Dane made her feel vibrantly alive, brimming with anticipation. He challenged her mind, accepted … no, reveled in her intelligence, respected her opinions, her forthrightness, even her bold tongue.

And he kindled a fire in her blood that nothing seemed to extinguish.

The truth was that, deep down inside, Jacqui
wanted
to experience every new and tantalizing sensation Dane promised with his raw masculinity and blazing silver eyes. If she could only keep her other life a secret, what harm would there be in exploring the world of dazzling physical pleasure with him? After all, why deny her body its first taste of passion, especially since she knew her heart to be immune?

Besides, it wasn’t her heart Dane Westbrooke was after.

Dane knew precisely what he was after, and Jacqui’s heart was only part of it. What Dane wanted was Jacqui.

His relentless need for her grew stronger each time they were together, stronger still when they were apart. And as his craving intensified, his patience ebbed and his reason vanished. Come hell or high water, he
had
to have her.

But how was he to make his need a reality?

Sexually, Dane sensed that it was only a matter of time before Jacqui relented and came to his bed. But the only thing her physical surrender would bring was a temporary salve for the ache in his loins and a newer, greater complication.

To indulge in an affair of endless duration was out of the question.

With both pragmatism and tenderness, Dane recognized that Jacqueline Holt was simply
not
a woman one kept as a mistress. Not because she would swoon at the unorthodox suggestion, he mused with a grin. Knowing Jacqueline, she might be intrigued. But even if, in all her unconventional splendor, she were amenable to the idea, her father would most assuredly not be.

Besides, Dane determined with a fierce surge of protectiveness, a role of secondary import was beneath her. Jacqueline deserved better. She deserved marriage.

He was just the man to give it to her.

His uncharacteristically respectable decision was not wholly unselfish, Dane acknowledged honestly. The truth was that the idea of marriage to Jacqueline appealed to him immensely, which was indeed a surprise. Marriage had always seemed a faraway goal to Dane, something to be considered only when youth was gone, leaving in its stead a yearning for the complacency offered by one mate and the feeling of immortality fulfilled only by the siring of children.

The ironic thing was that the woman he wished to wed had never mentioned either marriage or children, and had a personality that would offer him about as much complacency as a captive eagle straining to soar.

But she was such a challenge, such a beautiful, untamed bundle of contradictions, such a bewitching, infuriating little hellcat. Dane wanted her fire, her spirit, her newly born passion. He wanted her brilliant mind, her exquisite body, her carefully guarded heart. He wanted her love.

Because, in truth, he was already half in love with her.

It was midmorning and Jacqui was deeply engrossed in the new edition of the
General Advertiser.
Since Dane’s tirade the month before, she had been very careful to keep Laffey’s columns straightforward … at least as straightforward as she could without compromising her beliefs. She nodded, satisfied with the day’s results, and tucked her legs beneath her on the settee.

The newspaper moved in her hands.

“Whiskey, stop it!” Jacqui scolded without looking down at her lap. She could feel the kitten’s sharp claws as they penetrated the fine material of her gown and dug into her skin—Whiskey’s ploy to get his mistress’s attention. When it proved unsuccessful, he lifted his head and yowled.

Jacqui tossed the paper aside. “I was trying to read!” she said in exasperation, ignoring his forlorn look. “You are dreadfully annoying. What is it that you want?”

Whiskey responded by licking his lips.

Jacqui sighed, glancing out the window at the bright June sky. “Yes, well, it is warm today and you have been running about for hours. Are you thirsty?”

Whiskey’s eyes widened in anticipation.

Jacqui fetched a small bowl of water from the kitchen and placed it on the sitting-room rug. “Here.”

Whiskey fairly flew to the bowl, leaned over, and lowered his tongue eagerly to drink. All at once he froze. Lifting his head, he gave the water a look of utter disdain, turned about in a most haughty manner, and stalked away. He paused beside the table that boasted two decanters of wine and turned to Jacqui hopefully, blinking his huge green eyes.

“Absolutely not.” Jacqui refused, shaking her head emphatically. “That is Father’s finest Madeira and it most definitely is
not
for cats!” She pointed to the untouched water. “I’m afraid it must be the water, my little friend. Either that or nothing. It is your choice.”

Not one to readily accept defeat, Whiskey sauntered over and rubbed up against Jacqui’s legs, issuing his most beguiling meow.

“No,” Jacqui repeated, unmoved.

With an arrogant, disgusted expression, Whiskey gave in, taking but one reluctant lick of the detested liquid. Then, in order to convey the full extent of his indignation, he lifted a small black paw and, with one strategic motion, flipped the still-full bowl over, splashing water every which way.

“Whiskey … you miserable wretch!” Jacqui exploded as the copy of the
General Advertiser
she had been holding grew soggy, the contents unreadable.

Whiskey glared back brazenly. Then, having made his point, he lifted his nose, turned his tail in the air, and sashayed out of the sitting room.

Jacqui was about to dash after him when she saw him pause in the hallway, then stop, a predatory gleam in his eye. Arching his back, he began to hiss loudly, his body poised to spring. Whatever he was staring at, Jacqui could see that he was about to attack. Suddenly Greta charged through the hallway, chastising Whiskey rapidly in German and shooing him into the kitchen.

A moment later the explanation strolled through the sitting-room door.

“Good morning, sweet,” Dane greeted Jacqui cheerfully, glancing behind him to see Whiskey’s hasty retreat.

“Hello, Dane.” Jacqui accepted the now-familiar flutter in her stomach that his presence elicited.

He reached out and drew her to him. “I didn’t care for that greeting at all.” He took her arms, wrapping them about his neck. “Now … again.”