Masque of Betrayal (15 page)

So this was love.

Dane tried, for the hundredth time, to imagine how Jacqui was feeling, what she was thinking. No doubt she was confused, overwhelmed, torn by what had happened between them.

On fire for more.

The latter was what Dane was counting on. Knowing his passionate Jacqui, he was willing to bet that, having had but a tiny taste of forbidden fruit, she would be addicted to its sweetness, to its intoxicating flavor. Eventually, despite the internal battles he was sure she would suffer, her driving hunger and her curiosity would compel her to take another bite.

No, Jacqui would not relinquish her freedom or herself without a valiant struggle, Dane acknowledged as he knocked at Hamilton’s door.

But, fight though she would, she didn’t stand a chance.

“Come in, Dane,” Hamilton called out. He greeted his friend soberly, lines of worry beside his eyes. “Please sit down.”

Dane shot him a curious look and eased himself into a chair. “What is it, Alexander? Does this emergency meeting concern whatever it was you began to tell me at the Binghams’?”

“It does.”

Dane’s sixth sense stirred, issuing a warning. “I’m listening.”

Hamilton sat down heavily, clasping his hands on the desk and frowning down at his laced fingers. Whatever he had to say, he wasn’t happy. “It concerns our search for Jack Laffey.”

Dane leaned forward. “You’ve found him?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. I have no proof,” Hamilton said cautiously.

“Who?” It was a demand, uncluttered by tact.

Hamilton met Dane’s directness with his own. “George Holt.”

“George Holt?” Dane recoiled as if he’d been punched. Rapidly, his steel-trap mind recounted the events of the past months, every function he had attended at which Holt had been present, and, finally, the contents of the last few Laffey columns. Frowning, he shook his head. “It doesn’t fit, Alexander. The details of Laffey’s column just after your Long Room gathering, for example, included specific quotes that Holt could
not
have heard. He was nowhere near us during most of that evening.”

“But his daughter was.”

Dane stared. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it is very possible, given Holt’s political inclinations, his social opportunities … his daughter’s sudden interest in you that—”

Dane bolted to his feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Hamilton studied his friend quietly. He had expected Dane’s anger, his denial. But the raw emotion on his face … the immediate leap to her defense; Dane’s feelings for Jacqueline Holt had gone far deeper than even the Secretary had guessed.

“I’m saying,” Hamilton answered, “that I overheard a conversation between George and Jacqueline Holt on Saturday night that leads me to believe—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.” Dane was on his way to the door.

“Not even if I’m right?”

Alexander’s words stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, he turned back. “What evidence do you have?”

“Very little. Only that conversation, Miss Holt’s sudden and profound attachment to you, and my own suspicions.”

“That’s not enough.”

“True. All I ask is that you hear me out.”

“Fine.” Dane remained at the door, his rigid stance making his feelings quite clear.

Hamilton sighed. This was going to be even more difficult than he thought, but Dane had to be forewarned. For if, in fact, George Holt was Laffey, and if Jacqueline was aiding him in obtaining his information, Dane would have to be on guard.

Quietly, the Secretary repeated the exchange he had overheard between Jacqui and George on Saturday night, as well as its undertone … the unspoken communication between father and daughter. He then enumerated his own logical sequence of thoughts: George’s subdued but intrinsic allegiance to the Republican cause, his pro-French ideas, his friendships and business dealings with both Federalists and Republicans alike, and his ability to appear at functions given by both party members. And his avidly, vocally, pro-Republican daughter, who just happened to burst into Dane’s life at the same time that a fresh surge of accusatory columns, penned by Jack Laffey, had appeared in the
General Advertiser.

“This is pure speculation on your part, Alexander.” A muscle worked furiously in Dane’s jaw. “I don’t like your implication that I am being used.”

“I like it even less. And you’re quite right … all that I suspect could be entirely untrue. I ask only that you consider what I’ve said … and that you keep it in mind as you mull over recent events.” He took a deep breath. “Dane, I have successfully eliminated every other person on our guest list as a possible suspect. So let’s go on from there. Can you really deny Jacqueline’s obvious political biases? From whom do you think she acquired her vehement opinions? She is young and unable to mask her impassioned beliefs. Her father is older … more practiced … and possibly more covert. He has also been present, though ofttimes unobtrusively, at every function that Laffey has managed to infiltrate. And my intuition tells me …” He hesitated, seeing the doubt, the pained reluctance on Dane’s face. They both knew just how accurate Hamilton’s instincts were.

“I’m not suggesting that you stop seeing her, Dane.” Alexander tried desperately to soften his accusation. “Only that you be cautious. Guard your thoughts, your words. …” He paused. “Your feelings,” he added gently.

Dane shot him a grim look. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that,” he replied. He reached for the door, wanting nothing save solitude for himself and his thoughts. “I’ve heard what you had to say, Alexander. I pray, this once, that your instincts prove false.”

Dane barely remembered the walk to Westbrooke Shipping. His head reeled with the impact of Alexander’s words and his own uncertainty. George Holt … Jack Laffey. Could it be?

Yes, it definitely could. George Holt had the access, the political connections, the opportunity. But the accomplice?

A jolt of betrayal tore through Dane as he contemplated the possibility that Jacqueline’s very new, yet rapidly escalating feelings for him could be anything but genuine. He forced himself to consider the idea rationally. True, Jacqueline had stayed by his side all evening the first night they’d met … albeit reluctantly. Their courtship had been fast and furious … and filled with volatile political debates. She made no secret of her loyalties, nor of her overt curiosity at attending … and interrupting … Federalist functions. All of this could well be for the exact reasons Alexander had just stated … to gain information for her father.

But the way she responds in my arms,
Dane remembered with an involuntary wave of tenderness. It was magic, it was real, and it belonged only to them. Dane shook his head adamantly, staring at the ground as he walked, seeing her face. The midnight eyes that darkened with desire, the softly parted lips that reached for his, the flawless, flushed cheeks that burned with everything she was feeling, thinking, needing.
No.

Jacqui could never feign the emotions so helplessly revealed to Dane by the trembling of her small, lush body when he stroked her, bared her to his hungry eyes and hands. Dane was a worldly man. He knew honest passion when he saw it, felt it, tasted it. Just as he knew when a woman was deceiving him.

But most of all, he knew Jacqueline Holt.

She was all that Alexander said she was. But a liar? Never.

Perhaps George was guilty. But Jacqui was not.

Dane slammed the office door behind him and rubbed his throbbing temples. For a day that had begun with joy and promise, it had deteriorated into a bloody mess.

“My, you look positively threatening, darling. Have I come at a bad time?” The slim, raven-haired woman rose gracefully, a questioning look on her lovely face.

Dane blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here, for no one was permitted in his office during his absence. With one exception.

With a warm grin, he walked over and kissed the exception soundly on the cheek, then wrapped her in a hug. “No, love, you haven’t come at a bad time. Actually, you’re just the one I needed to see.”

The sole woman who could see beyond Dane’s fatal charm stepped back and gave her only son a quick, knowing appraisal. “Just the one you needed to see? Why don’t I believe that?” Lenore Westbrooke teased. “From the gossip that’s been reaching me way out in the country, I fear that my position as the only constant woman in your life is being threatened.” Seeing Dane’s scowl, she laughed. “By your reaction, I assume it’s true.”

“Gossip certainly travels fast, doesn’t it?” Dane opened a walnut cabinet and proceeded to pour himself an unusually early drink. “Would you like one?”

“Goodness, no, it’s barely ten o’clock!” She watched him carefully. “As for the gossip, there is not exactly an ocean between us, Dane. The estate is but an hour’s drive from the city. It’s only natural for people to tell me when my son, Philadelphia’s most handsome, most sought-after bachelor, is being seen consistently and attentively by the side of one woman.”

Dane turned to face her abruptly. “I don’t want to discuss Jacqueline with you, Mother. Not yet.”

Lenore’s brows rose. “My … this
does
sound serious.” She held her hands up to ward off his scathing reply. “Never mind; I won’t ask anything more,” she quickly assured him. She had learned, long ago, never to interfere in her son’s life. He made his own decisions, planned his own future. They were much alike, the two of them, and both had to walk their own paths. Sadly, however, their mutual trait of independence, while necessary to their integrity, had cost them … dearly.

With quiet compassion, Lenore scrutinized Dane’s tired, handsome face from beneath lashes as thick and dark as her son’s. “However,” she gently qualified, “should you wish to talk … I’m here.”

“I know.” Dane drained his glass, then placed it on the desk. “Are you well?” he asked. “I’d planned to get out to Greenhills before now, but I’ve been … preoccupied.”

“I understand. I am just fine.” She dimpled. “Quite busy, in fact.”

Dane groaned. He knew that look. “What are you up to, Mother?”

“I’ve taken over many of the household chores.”

“Chores? What chores?”

Lenore gave a careless shrug. “Oh, the usual. Marketing, a bit of cooking, exercising a few of the horses …”

“Where the hell are the servants?” Dane exploded. His expansive pillared mansion, Greenhills, nestled in a wooded area on the banks of the Schuylkill River, had over a dozen servants to manage its upkeep, to tend to Lenore’s needs, and to keep her company in her often self-imposed isolation. Dane visited as frequently as he could, but he himself preferred to dwell in his more modest city residence, with but one manservant and close proximity to Westbrooke Shipping.

“The servants?” Lenore questioned brightly. “Oh, they’re all with me. They each have a specified task, for which they are handsomely paid at week’s end. Did I mention to you that I have been dabbling at the household accounts? That is another of my list of tasks … which, I might add, I perform superbly. I can now proudly boast that the servants and I work side by side, that Greenhills is run efficiently, and, most important, without any class distinction.”

“Mother …”

Lenore raised her chin in a gesture that, between Jacqui and his mother, Dane was beginning to despise. “How can we speak out against slavery when, with our antiquated indentured-servant structure and horridly poor level of compensation, we are doing little better than keeping slaves ourselves?”

Dane listened to her fervent tirade and began to chuckle. “Mother, I believe I’ve changed my mind. I think you should meet Jacqueline after all. I have a strong feeling that the two of you are going to get along famously.”

Lenore’s face lit up, making her look aeons younger than her forty-nine years. “I would love to meet your Jacqueline!”

Her pointedly possessive reference to Jacqui as
his
was not lost to Dane. But he chose not to address the issue. “Good. I’ll make arrangements for Jacqueline and I to come to Greenhills for dinner next week.” Humor danced in his eyes. “Will you be cooking?”

Lenore gave him a challenging look. “Did you think I was incapable?”

“Mother, I think you are capable of almost anything,” he answered affectionately. “Including exasperating me beyond belief. With both you and Jacqueline in my life, I fear any hope for a peaceful existence is eternally lost.”

“Eternally?” she questioned quickly.

“Mother.” Dane’s tone was firm. The subject of his feelings for Jacqui was, indeed, closed.

Lenore coughed delicately, bracing herself for Dane’s reaction to the next forbidden topic. “I received a letter from your father yesterday.”

Dane stiffened and abruptly turned away. “Really.” A long pause. “How is he?”

“Involved with his businesses and with the running of Forsgate.” A flicker of sadness crossed her face. “Getting older, somewhat lonelier …”

“But no less obstinate,” Dane finished with icy sarcasm.

“Dane, you know I share your views and your feelings. But try to understand—”

“I can’t,” Dane shot back. “We’ve been over this and over this dozens of times in the last decade, Mother. Circumstances are no different than they were the day we left England. The man is stubborn, willful, and opinionated.”

“Like his son?”

“No, damn it, not like his son. I lead a life I can be proud of.”

“As he is proud of his.”

“Well, I find it impossible to condone a hierarchy that gives a man superiority over others based solely upon his title. A title, I might add, that is his from birth. At least in America a man must earn his rank and the respect of others.”

“I just hate to see you so bitter,” Lenore said softly, placing her hand on Dane’s taut arm, She had prayed, after an eleven-year separation, that the bad blood between Dane and Edwin Westbrooke would have diminished. She herself had been heartbroken by her necessary, yet painful, breach with her husband, but she had endured, and for her, the years since their parting had helped dull the hurt to a passive acceptance of differences that even time and separation could not heal. But Dane was just as angry today as he had been at twenty-one, when he stormed from Forsgate … and all it symbolized … for a life that, to him, represented decency and honor and, to his father, represented blasphemy.