Masque of Betrayal (38 page)

“Disguise?” Thomas was beginning to feel ill.

“Yes.” Monique took his hand, brought it to her mouth. “You cannot desert me now,
chéri.”
She rubbed his fingers against her lips. “Not when we are so close to having it all.”

Thomas swallowed. “She’s Dane’s wife. I won’t hurt her.”

“I’m not asking you to hurt her … only to persuade her.” Sensing Thomas’s reluctance, Monique decided drastic measures were in order. Glancing about quickly to make certain they were undetected, she tugged at Thomas’s hand. “Come,
mon amour.
We’ll go to my house and … talk. Surely we can come to an understanding that will please us both?” She gave him a brilliant smile.

For a moment, Thomas hesitated, fighting for some element of self-control, some degree of self-respect It was no use. When it came to Monique, he was a spineless weakling. And he knew it.

With a quick nod, he seized her hand and led her from the alley.

“I know you are hungry, Whiskey. Greta should be returning from the market any time now.”

Jacqui leaned back against the sofa, moved the curtain aside, and peered out the sitting-room window for the third time that morning. It was unlike Greta to be gone so long and so close to mealtime … unless the weather had detained her. Jacqui squinted, trying to see through the light mist still drizzling to the ground and rendering the sky a dismal shade of gray.

“At least the rain has eased up some,” she observed. “After the continuous storms of the past week, I thought never to see the sky again!” Unappeased, Whiskey meowed his annoyance, sitting with stiff displeasure at Jacqui’s feet and licking his whiskers in blatant reminder of the time. Eleven o’clock was well past his feeding hour.

Jacqui rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You have become quite spoiled, you know. Not long ago you were a beggar on the streets and now you live like a king! Yet you complain at the slightest inconvenience.” Jacqui shook her head as she recalled the hilarious way she and Whiskey had met. “I could have abandoned you, you know,” she reminded him. “Left you to suffer Dane’s wrath. You were far too deep in your cups to properly defend yourself. Heaven only knows what Dane intended for your fate … but I can assure you, it wasn’t an offer of more whiskey! Then where would you be?”

Whiskey’s response was to calmly begin licking his paws.

“Not only spoiled but ungrateful,” Jacqui muttered.

Her critical assessment was interrupted by a knock.

Puzzled, Jacqui came to her feet. “Greta’s arms must be laden,” she determined. “And Stivers has the morning off. I’d best let her in.” Jacqui stepped around Whiskey and hurried to the door. “I’m glad you’re back, Greta,” she said, flinging it wide. “I was beginning to worry—” Jacqui’s words lodged in her throat as the hooded man pushed into the hallway and slammed the door behind him, pointing a pistol at her head.

“Who are you?” Jacqui demanded. “What do you want?” Her tone was forceful, but her heart slammed against her ribs and she took several reflexive steps backward.

The man made no response, stalking forward until he loomed over Jacqui, his dark, brooding eyes the only part of him that was visible from beneath the broadcloth hood.

All the color drained from Jacqui’s face. “If it’s money you seek, take anything you wish. Then go.”

“I don’t want money,” the intruder rasped. “I want you.”

A soft gasp escaped her throat and her hand flew instinctively to her bodice. “You want … me?” Why, oh why, couldn’t Dane have chosen to work at home today? Why didn’t Greta return from the market?

The intruder raised the pistol a notch higher. “I want you,” he repeated.

Jacqui swallowed, fighting her rising hysteria. In a matter of minutes Greta would return. If it were only possible to stave this man off until then …

As if reading her mind, the stranger shook his head emphatically. “Not here. I want you to come with me. Now.”

Jacqui’s knees threatened to buckle. “Come with you … where?”

His finger tightened on the trigger. “Now!”

The sound of low hissing startled the intruder. He glanced beyond Jacqui to see the small, spitting kitten crouched behind her. A heartbeat later Whiskey sprang, claws extended, sinking himself into a leg of the intruder’s breeches.

With a furious curse, the man shook Whiskey loose.

“Don’t hurt him!” Jacqui burst out, snatching up her dazed kitten.

“Then get rid of him,” her captor ordered in a spine-chilling rasp.

Jacqui licked her dry lips, forcing herself to think. On wooden legs, she carried Whiskey across the sitting room, keeping her back to the intruder. “Hush, Whiskey,” she said aloud, stroking his smooth fur with one hand. “All is well.” As she crooned to him, she scanned the room hastily, seeing nothing within reach that could serve as a weapon. Besides, it would be foolhardy to physically retaliate against a man who was twice her size and armed to kill. No, she would have to devise another plan.

Jacqui’s eyes fell to her gown. Slowly, so as not to be noticed, she eased her hand down, pausing to tug a piece of ribbon from the opposite sleeve. Quickly, she tied the narrow strip about Whiskey’s neck, knowing it was far too thin for the stranger to spot, praying it was not so indiscernible that Dane would miss it as well.

She could feel the intruder come up behind her. Swiftly, she dropped Whiskey to the floor and shooed him toward the kitchen. With a surprised and injured look, the kitten slinked off.

Jacqui turned to face her captor, her mind still racing. “My cat will cause you no further trouble.”

“Let’s go.” The man gestured toward the door.

Where the hell was Greta? Jacqui slumped forward, praying her swoon looked believable. Having never fainted in her life, she was none too certain how it was done.

Apparently her act was convincing, because the man caught her arm roughly. “What’s wrong?”

“I …” Jacqui rubbed her forehead weakly. “I’m frightened. I think I’m going to …” Her knees buckled.

Cursing under his breath, the man dragged her over to the sideboard, hastily searching for some liquor. Seizing a bottle of whiskey, he anchored Jacqui against him while he clumsily sloshed some into a glass. “Drink this,” he commanded.

Jacqui took the glass in trembling hands and gulped, coughing violently from the powerful liquid.

The man looked about furtively as if he suddenly realized Jacqui’s intent. Tensing, he seized her elbow and raised his weapon. “Now.”

Panic swelled in Jacqui’s heart. She had run out of time, and there was still no sign of Greta. What was she going to do?

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Whiskey sitting sphinxlike in the hallway, licking his lips and, in typical fashion, eyeing his mistress’s liquor hungrily. An idea flashed through Jacqui’s head … a last resort, but she was desperate.

Turning to comply with her captor’s command, Jacqui allowed the glass to slip from her fingers and crash to the floor, where it shattered into bits, splattering whiskey everywhere … the sofa, the sideboard … and Jacqui’s gown.

The last thing she saw before the intruder hauled her off was Whiskey, creeping cautiously back into the sitting room and staring intently at the pool of liquor at his feet … then raising his head to follow Jacqui’s unwilling departure with keen green eyes.

“Good evening, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta greeted Dane at the door, taking his coat and handing him a brandy in return. “I see the rain has finally subsided.”

“Yes, it has,” Dane agreed, accepting the proffered glass. “Though the streets are drenched, making travel unpleasant, if not impossible.”

Greta shook out Dane’s wet coat. “Why, your clothing is soaked through. … Without the proper care, you’ll take ill. Let me get you another brandy.” She turned on her heel.

“Thank you, no, Greta.” Dane stopped her. “One drink is more than sufficient.” He stifled a smile, amused that, since Jacqui’s return from Greenhills a fortnight ago, their arrogant housekeeper had resumed her previous and uncharacteristic fussing over him.

Carrying his drink through the hallway, Dane asked, “Will dinner be ready soon?”

“As soon as you and Frau Westbrooke wish it.”

Dane glanced about the deserted first floor, then turned toward the stairs. “Is Jacqueline resting?”

“No, sir. Frau Westbrooke has not returned.”

“Returned?” Dane’s smile froze. “Returned from where?”

“Why, I don’t know, sir.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dane heard the warning bells ring loud and clear in his head. Since Laffey’s article had appeared in print, Jacqui had promised him she would not go out alone.

Greta frowned, her apple-dumpling cheeks creasing. “I was at the market when your wife took her leave, Herr Westbrooke.”

“Damn!” Dane slammed his fist against the wall, making Greta flinch. “Where would she go in this weather?”

“Excuse my boldness, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta admonished, bristling, “but I think you are being overly protective and worrying needlessly. I have known Frau Westbrooke since childhood and she has never advised me … or
anyone
… of her intended whereabouts.”

Dane was barely listening. Something was wrong. He knew it. He felt it.

“What time did you return from the market?” he demanded.

Greta pursed her lips. “I believe it was a little after eleven. The rain delayed me.”

“Eleven?” Dane looked at the clock and blanched. It was almost five. Jacqui had been gone nearly six hours.

“She left no note?”

“No, sir.”

“Where is my carriage?” he fired out.

“In the carriage house. It hasn’t been used all day.”

That eliminated Greenhills. Dane shoved his drink in Greta’s hand.

“Where are you going, Herr Westbrooke?” Greta asked, hurrying after him.

“I’m going to see George Holt,” Dane called back, already halfway down the walk. “If Jacqueline should return while I’m out, lock her in this house!”

R
EDDING, GEORGE HOLT’S PORTLY
new manservant, darted into the dining room, flushed and breathless. “Mr. Holt!”

Blinking in surprise, George lowered his cup. During the past weeks since Jacqui’s marriage, there was rarely a commotion to disturb his evening meal. “What is the trouble, Redding?”

“Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Westbrooke is here, insisting to—”

“George, is Jacqueline here?” Dane pushed past Redding and into the room, mincing no words.

George came to his feet. “Here? No …”

“Was she here earlier?”

“No, I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Damn!” Dane drove his fist into the palm of his hand.

“Redding, that will be all.” George dismissed the servant at once, assessing the forthcoming conversation as one to be held in private. When Redding had withdrawn, George turned back to Dane, a knot of apprehension forming in his gut. “What’s this all about, Dane?”

Dane began to pace. “She’s been gone all day.
You
haven’t seen her,
Greta
hasn’t seen her. …”

George’s tension subsided. “That’s hardly unlike Jacqui, you know. She’s probably off somewhere.”

“In the rain?”

“Ofttimes, yes. Rain has never deterred Jacqui.”

“Did you read Laffey’s column this week?” Dane interrupted, halting in his tracks.

“Of course I did.” George’s worry peaked once more. “What have Jacqueline’s whereabouts got to do with her column?”

“It was a ruse.”

“What was?”

“The column. All of it.” Dane gave an impatient sweep of his hand. “The document Alexander is allegedly drafting. The new negotiating points for Jay. Everything.”

“Are you suggesting Jacqui would fabricate information that is so vital to America?”

“It’s not a suggestion. It’s a fact.”

George shook his head emphatically, his eyes ablaze. “I won’t stand here and listen to you accuse my daughter of—”

“George!” Dane gripped the back of the dining-room chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You’re missing the point! What Jacqueline did was
not
done for illegal or immoral purposes! In fact, it was the most damned patriotic thing imaginable … she put herself in danger to protect her country!”

That silenced George. “I don’t understand.”

“Laffey’s column was written at Alexander’s request and in complete secrecy. Jacqueline was to provide false information in the
General Advertiser,
hopefully to trap the
real
traitor into revealing himself. Alexander asked Jacqui not to divulge their plan to anyone, which is why you were kept uninformed.”

George paled as the impact of the situation struck him. “What if this … traitor should become desperate to acquire the new document?”

“Logically, he would go to the only people he is certain knows of its existence … Alexander or Laffey. Hopefully, Alexander,” Dane added quickly, fervently.

“Secretary Hamilton, yes.” George grabbed hold of that probability but was, unable to dismiss the more implausible, frightening alternative. “We are not alone in our knowledge of Laffey’s identity, Dane. There is the lad who delivers Jacqui’s column and anyone he has told.”

“Exactly.” Dane began to prowl the floor again, hands clasped behind his back. “If by some remote possibility the real culprit knows Jacqui is Laffey …” He broke off, his muscles tightening at the unfinished thought.

“Couldn’t you have convinced her
not
to agree to the Secretary’s request?” Even as he said the words, George realized how ludicrous they were.

Dane gave a harsh laugh, never breaking stride. “Nobody convinces your daughter of anything, George. She heeds no one, trusts no one, relies upon no one … but herself. And it matters not how hard I try, there is no breaking through that damned autonomous shell of hers.”

The agony in Dane’s voice struck a chord in George’s heart. “You love her a great deal.”

“With my whole being … for all the good it does me,” Dane answered, his expression bleak. “I’ve shown her time and again she can trust me; I know she
wants
to trust me. And yet she cannot allow herself to do so. … It’s almost as if she’s afraid.”

George studied him in pensive silence, remembering the first night Dane had stood in this house speaking of his love for Jacqui. Confronting George with honor and candor, Dane had sought even then to understand his betrothed, asking questions George chose to defer in the hope that Jacqui would herself provide the answers. She hadn’t. So it was up to him, as her father, to do it for her. “Has Jacqui ever spoken to you of her mother?” George asked quietly.