Masque of Betrayal (5 page)

But then, Dane knew his good humor had nothing to do with Laffey.

The smile returned to his face as, for the hundredth time since Friday, he thought of Jacqueline Holt.

A vision to behold, with eyes that could bring a man to his knees and a tongue that could tear him to shreds. And a lightning-quick mind that few could rival. Ah, Jacqueline.

Dane chuckled. She was more than merely beautiful and intelligent. She was fascinating as hell.

After their first dance, she had stayed as far from him as possible, consenting to his persistent requests to dance only when it became impossible to refuse without making a scene. Even then, the bright red spots on her cheeks had told Dane how furious she was at being coerced. She had spoken very little as he whirled her about but concentrated instead on demonstrating in no uncertain terms that she did
not
care for his attentions, nor for him. But Dane hadn’t been fooled. For, while her every gesture spoke of annoyance and refusal, her body spoke to him in a language all its own. And what it said was exciting and forbidden and explosive.

No, Dane was not deterred. He had every intention of seducing the lovely and bewitching Miss Holt. The only question that remained was when.

Preoccupied with thoughts of Jacqui, Dane crossed the room and lowered himself into his chair. Idly, he glanced down at the newspaper on his desk. The
General Advertiser
… a stark reminder of the more pressing problem at hand.

Frowning, Dane skimmed the pages, suddenly coming to his feet like a bullet. “What the hell!” he exploded, startlingly confronted with a shocking, day-early edition of Laffey’s column. Furiously, Dane reread the words with frustrated disbelief. In concise terms, Laffey wrote of Hamilton’s “monarchical gathering at the City Tavern,” then quoted several specific snatches of conversation that Dane clearly recalled hearing at Friday’s party.

“How did he know that?” Dane barked aloud, flinging the paper onto the desk and pacing the room with long, angry strides. “I spoke to every blasted person in the Long Room. He wasn’t there! He couldn’t have been there! How could I miss him?” Stopping abruptly, Dane forced himself to be practical. “How would Laffey know those things if he hadn’t been at the party?” Dane shook his head in denial, already knowing the answer. He wouldn’t. There was no way Laffey could have directly quoted the words that had been exchanged over the American dispute with England, nor could he have penned a word-for-word account of the various opinions on the possible outbreak of war, without having heard it himself. Silently, Dane cursed. The miserable bastard had been there all along. Right under their noses. He had eluded them again.

“Mr. Westbrooke?” Dane’s clerk, John Edgars, poked his head into the office. “Pardon me, sir,” he added, flustered, “I did knock, but I don’t suppose you heard me.” He waited, shifting from one foot to the other.

Dane blinked, the red haze of anger clearing. “Hm-m? I apologize, John. What did you say?”

Seemingly encouraged by his employer’s controlled tone, Edgars stepped a bit further into the room and continued, “It is Monday, sir, and I do have several contracts and a huge pile of correspondence for you to look over.” As he spoke, he held up an impressive stack of letters and documents. “But if I’m interrupting … I can come back at another time. …”

“No, John, that won’t be necessary.” Dane spoke briskly, gesturing for his clerk to take a seat at the opposite side of the carved walnut desk. Edgars complied and Dane leaned forward, reaching out his hand. “What do you have that requires my attention?”

Edgars began at the top of the pile, where he’d placed the most important papers. “Well, sir, there are several confirmations …”

“And did the shipments in question arrive on schedule?”

“Yes sir.” Edgars nodded, giving the confirmations to Dane, who scanned them quickly, then put them aside.

“What else?”

“None of the correspondence is urgent. But the contracts need to be reviewed and signed.”

“Contracts with whom?” Dane wanted to know.

“There are two. The first one is with Holt Trading, and the second one …”

But Dane was no longer listening. He sat up straight, snatching the contract from his surprised clerk while muttering, “Holt Trading …”

Edgars cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m sure the papers are in order, sir. But if you will check them, I can have a messenger deliver them to Mr. Holt later today.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Westbrooke?”

“I said, that won’t be necessary. I will read the contracts and bring them to Mr. Holt myself.” Ignoring the stunned look on Edgars’s face, Dane continued, “I have some business that will take me out of the office this afternoon. I’ll stop by Holt Trading and deliver the contract.”

Edgars schooled his features and wisely refrained from commenting on Dane’s decidedly odd behavior. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Dane squinted at the document in his hand. “Then, if there is nothing else, John …”

Taking the hint, Edgars hurriedly rose. “Very good, Mr. Westbrooke.” He placed the remainder of the papers in a pile at the far corner of Dane’s desk. “I’ll be getting back to work now.”

Dane grunted his agreement, but, in truth, he hardly heard his clerk’s words, nor did he hear him leave the room. His mind was racing to the very pleasant prospect that had, unexpectedly, been handed to him.

Scanning the contents of the contract, Dane grinned. Nothing out of the ordinary. He came to his feet. Why wait for this afternoon when the morning would do just fine? His grin widened. Further, why take the papers to Holt Trading when he recalled George Holt mentioning that his residence was on Spruce Street, which was but a short jaunt away? With that thought, Dane left his office the same way he had arrived less than one hour past … whistling.

J
ACQUI WAS DREAMING.

It was a different dream than the one she usually had. Usually, she was standing before a roomful of men, demanding to be heard, protesting her innocence—or, rather, the true reasons behind her guilt. The men would never heed her, but instead insisted that she be punished. And she was.

She would always awaken at that point, frustrated and angry and … yes … frightened. But not enough to be deterred from her goal.

The past three nights, however, the dream had taken another turn. This time she was fleeing, trying to escape, and everywhere she went, her hiding place would be discovered by a tall, disturbing man. A man who wanted her.

It didn’t take a scholar to know who that man was.

With a soft moan, Jacqui rolled onto her back, flinging her arm above her head. Her defenses lowered, she lay, still half asleep, still on the outskirts of the dream. The dream about Dane Westbrooke.

A warm tongue stroked her lips, then her cheeks and her nose. Is that how it would feel to be kissed by him? Jacqui wondered vaguely. She sighed, a strange lethargic warmth flowing through her veins.

Something soft and silky brushed against her shoulder. Is that how his hair would feel to the touch? Like handfuls of black silk …

Something cold and wet rubbed against her face.

Jacqui came awake with a start. Cold and wet?

A pair of emerald-green eyes were staring directly into hers. The moment Jacqui lifted her lids, a soulful meow filled the room, shattering the silence … and Jacqui’s sensual dream … into earsplitting awareness.

“Whiskey, for heaven’s sake, you scared me to death!” Jacqui pushed herself to a sitting position, unseating the mournful kitten in the process. Determined not to be ignored, Whiskey scrambled up the canopied bed and climbed purposefully back onto his mistress’s shoulder. Then, lest his message still be indistinct, he put his mouth to Jacqui’s ear and emitted another plaintive cry.

“All right! All right! You’ve made your point!” Jacqui caught the small black fur ball in her hands. She raised her knees and placed Whiskey atop them. “Although I have still to understand how so small a creature as yourself can have a voice twice its size.”

Whiskey ignored the insult. He was just where he wanted to be: on Jacqui’s lap. With a contented purr, he stretched across her legs and licked his lips, squinting lazily as the bright morning sunlight warmed his fur.

Jacqui glanced toward the windows. “The sun is high. What time is it?” she wondered aloud.

In answer, her bedroom door swung open and a big-boned, matronly woman stomped in, looking none too pleased.

“Awake at last, are we?” She crossed the room and threw apart the drapes, letting the brilliant sunlight stream in. “I thought for sure you were planning to sleep away the day.”

Calmly, Jacqui regarded the scowling housekeeper with the severe gray bun. “And when have you
ever
known me to do that, Greta?” she asked.

The older woman granted. “Well, you’d best get up and have some breakfast. It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

Agreeably, Jacqui nudged Whiskey off her lap, slid out of bed, and stretched. “Very well, Greta. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Fine.” And, with a disdainful glare in Whiskey’s direction, Greta was gone.

Only after the door had closed behind her did Jacqui allow herself to smile. Greta had been with the family for as long as Jacqui could remember. Born of strict German stock, she was as stiff and efficient as an army general and as warm as an iceberg. But her bark was far worse than her bite. For, in her gruff and exacting way, she cared. About both the Holts.

Twenty minutes later, Jacqui was washed and dressed in a lemon and white muslin gown, her luxuriant hair tied back with a yellow ribbon. “Come, Whiskey,” she instructed. “Let’s have some breakfast and see what today’s newspaper has to offer, shall we?”

As she descended the stairs, Jacqui could hear Greta arguing with a man at the front door.

“Herr Holt is not at home, sir.” Greta’s tone was adamant. “Therefore, you can either leave the papers with me or take them to his office.”

“I see,” the deep baritone voice responded. “Well, may I come in and leave Mr. Holt a note explaining my visit? Then I’ll be on my way.”

Greta blocked the door with her ample body. “I’m sorry, sir. I am
not
in the habit of allowing gentlemen callers in … especially those I don’t know.”

His reply was a husky chuckle. “I am a business associate of Mr. Holt’s, madam,” he told her, “and, I can assure you, I am quite respectable.”

“Now,
that
is a questionable assessment,” Jacqui returned from behind Greta’s imposing figure. She placed her hand on Greta’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Greta. I know Mr. Westbrooke. You can let him in.”

Greta moved away from the doorway, surprise and distrust still evident on her face. “Are you certain, Fräulein?”

“Yes, Greta, quite certain.”

Unconvinced, Greta lingered a moment longer, her sharp gaze narrowed on Dane in a bold and thorough assessment. Then, mumbling under her breath, she stalked toward the kitchen.

Amusement in his eyes, Dane watched her go. “A real charmer, isn’t she?”

“Charm is not everything, Mr. Westbrooke,” Jacqui said in a crisp tone. “What can I do for you?”

Dane turned his full attention to Jacqueline. If possible, she looked even more beautiful by daylight: younger, more vulnerable, fresher. Her sharp tongue, however, was unchanged.

“You can let me come in, for one thing.”

Jacqui gestured for him to enter. She closed the door behind him, then turned to face him. “Now, what was it you wished to see my father about?”

Dane never took his eyes off her. “I have a contract for him to sign.”

“Do you always deliver your own papers, Mr. Westbrooke?”

He grinned. “No.”

“I see. Well, my father is at his office. Surely you know where that is? Especially since you do quite a bit of business together?” She walked toward him with a challenging look.

“Oh, I know where it is,” Dane replied smoothly, placing the contract on the low table in the hallway. “But it was not your father I wished to see. It was you.”

Jacqui stopped short, unused to such blatant candor.

Dane closed the remaining distance between them. “No scathing reply, my very beautiful Miss Holt?” he asked quietly when they were but inches apart.

Unwilling to raise her gaze to meet his, Jacqui stared at his waistcoat. Damn him. The man had the most unbelievable effect on her.

“Well?” He brushed her fingers with his.

“I have nothing to say,” she managed at last.

Dane chuckled, curling his fingers around hers. “
That
I refuse to believe.” He brought her hand to his mouth. “I’ve missed you, Jacqueline.”

Jacqui snatched her hand away. “You don’t even
know
me!”

“Don’t I?”

The intimate allusion found its mark. Jacqui’s head snapped up and she met Dane’s burning silver gaze in a staunch attempt to unearth the hidden meaning of his words. What was it that he knew about her? she asked herself again.

She licked her lips, visibly shaken. “You’d better go, Mr. Westbrooke.”

Dane’s mouth curved into a forbidden smile. “Dane. And I’m glad I’ve been in your thoughts, sweet. Because you haven’t left mine.” He lifted his arm and brushed her chin with his thumb, marveling at the midnight splendor of her eyes. “May I stay for just a while?” he asked softly. “All I require is some coffee and conversation.”

Jacqui’s unease faded somewhat, and she felt a strange quiver rush through her. “Only coffee and conversation?” she quipped, desperate to retain her composure. “Rather meager requirements, Mr. Westbrooke.”

“I’ll take whatever you offer.”

A suggestive silence hung in the air.

“Fräulein Holt has not even eaten breakfast.” Greta stomped by them and entered the dining room, slamming a tray down upon the table. “There are strawberry tarts and coffee,” she announced a moment later when she emerged, her cool gaze once again sweeping Dane in a precise, albeit brief, perusal. “I have brought enough breakfast for you as well, Herr Westbrooke,” she barked, then stalked off without awaiting a reply.

Jacqui looked after her, blinking in surprise. “Well … I must say I’ve never seen Greta behave so graciously before.”