Masque of Betrayal (43 page)

Impulsively, Jacqui started forward.

“Wait,” Dane commanded quietly, his fingers closing like steel manacles around her wrist.

Jacqui subsided, sinking back down beside her husband. She would not question his actions; there was too much at stake.

The intruder was halfway down the street when Dane released Jacqui’s arm. “Now,” he ordered softly, “I want you to stay behind me and follow my lead. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Good.” Cautiously he rose, helping Jacqui to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Slowly, soundlessly, Dane followed his quarry at a guarded distance. Simultaneously, he stayed but several steps ahead of Jacqui, making continually certain of her presence, close behind him … and safe.

They didn’t have far to go.

Halfway down Walnut Street, the intruder halted, veered sharply toward a small frame house, and hastened up the steps. The home’s occupant had apparently expected a guest, for the front door opened at once, admitted the intruder, then shut firmly behind him.

“Good Lord,” Jacqui breathed, peering past her husband.

Dane’s head snapped around. “What is it?”

“That house … Monique lives there.”

“Monique?” Dane repeated, stunned.

“Yes.” Jacqui gazed up at Dane, her face pale. “Could Monique actually be involved in this? … An accomplice to the traitor?”

“It certainly seems likely,” Dane agreed bitterly. “Why else would your captor be going to her home? Evidently, your lack of trust for Miss Brisset was well founded,
chaton.
”

“Poor Father …” Jacqui’s mind immediately projected to the pain her father would suffer at Monique’s hands. “He loves her so much.”

“I know he does.” Dane stroked Jacqui’s cheek with gentle fingers. “He’ll recover, love. We’ll help him. But tonight …” Dane touched his pistol, tucked snugly in the pocket of his coat.

Instantly, Jacqui understood. They’d reached the culmination of their mystery … and sentiment would have to wait. “Do we confront them now?”

Dane shook his head. “Let’s allow them time to read and copy the letter. When they emerge, we’ll act.” He took in Jacqui’s strained expression and drew her over to the side of the house. “Sit, love,” he whispered. “You’re exhausted. My guess is that they’ll do nothing before dawn, which is”—he checked his timepiece—“two hours away.” He eased them both to the ground, curling his long, strong fingers around her small, cold ones. “We’re nearing the end,
chaton.
Hold out a little longer.”

Jacqui raised her chin and met Dane’s tender gaze. With a decisive nod, she set her delicate jaw. “Fear not, husband. I intend to.”

Sometime near dawn, Jacqui drifted off. Shivering a bit, she pressed closer to Dane, seeking his warmth. The August night, devoid of the heat generated by the summer sun, had grown chilly, the ground they sat on damp.

The waiting, endless.

Feeling her slight weight sag against his shoulder, Dane looked down at his wife and smiled. Shrugging out of his coat, he draped it about her shoulders, wrapping her in his arms, her head against his chest. With a murmur of contentment, Jacqui settled against him … and slept.

Dane stared off into the gradually lightening sky, his ears strained for the sound of activity, his brain trying to fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. Monique Brisset’s involvement made a pro-French cause seem more likely. Was her accomplice also of French descent? According to Jacqui, the man who kidnapped her had not spoken with an accent. However, he’d also never spoken in a normal tone … always in a rasp. So he could have been disguising his voice. And whether he was of French descent or not told them nothing, for many supporters of France’s politics were not born on French soil.

Dane leaned his head back wearily. He had exhausted the questions … it was time for some answers.

As if on cue, the front door opened, accompanied by the sound of muffled voices.

Dane came alert at once, gently shaking his wife. “Jacqui,” he said in an urgent whisper. “It’s time.”

Jacqui blinked in the first rays of morning. “What …” She fell silent as Dane placed a warning finger over her lips. Reality came back to her in a rush. She nodded, silently telling her husband she was fully awake and aware of the situation.

Slowly, Dane rose to his feet, tugging Jacqui up with him. Then, clasping Jacqui’s hand, he crept alongside the house, stopping only when he’d reached the corner. Peering around front, Dane gestured Jacqui forward, satisfied that they were unobserved, yet possessing an unobstructed view of the walkway … and a clear earshot of the voices approaching it.

“… on the next ship,” the man was saying.

“That is precisely what I intend to do.” The lilting French accent belonged to Monique.

“I’ll return the letter,” the man replied, simultaneously stepping into Dane’s line of vision.

Dane recoiled physically as if he’d been punched, biting back a shout of denial as his mind refuted what his eyes and ears were telling him. Vaguely, he heard Jacqui’s soft, shocked gasp as she too saw the face of the man with Monique. Her fingers curled into Dane’s in a gesture of comfort and support.

“Just hurry,” Monique was urging, clutching Thomas’s lapels. “It is past dawn. Secretary Hamilton could return to his office at any time.” She glanced around quickly. “I must go inside, Thomas … someone could see us.”

“When
can
we be together?” He caught her arm, his tone desperate.

Monique shook herself free. “I don’t know,” she snapped. “First, I have a mission to accomplish. And so do you.”

“I’m aware of that.” Thomas’s response was bitter. “But after that’s completed, I want to discuss our future.”

“Should we fail, we will have no future!” Monique waved him off. “Now go!” Lifting the hem of her dressing gown, she hurried back into the house.

Thomas stared after her, his face twisted with anguish. Slowly, his gaze lowered to the broadcloth hood clasped in his hand, and he turned it over and over, studying its rough texture. Then, with a muffled oath, he crumpled it into a ball and flung it to the ground. From his pocket he withdrew a folded sheet of paper, glaring at Hamilton’s letter with utter contempt.

With one last tortured look at Monique’s house, Thomas spun on his heels and strode off.

“My God …” Dane leaned against the house, his face white.

“Shall we go after him?” Jacqui asked quietly.

“No.” Dane shook his head emphatically. “And not because he is … was … my friend,” he clarified, seeing Jacqui’s dubious expression. “But because it would serve no purpose. Clearly, Thomas is on his way back with the letter. He doesn’t know anyone saw him take it, so he has no reason to bolt. Now that the paper’s been copied, Thomas will merely replace it in Alexander’s sideboard and go about his business.” Dane swallowed hard, a muscle working in his jaw. “More important, at this time, is to find out where Monique is sending the copy and who is transporting it for her.”

“Dane,” Jacqui said gently, stroking his hands, “I’m sorry.”

His expression was tight with strain. “So am I.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “How could I not have known?”

“He was your friend.”

Dane gave a short, derisive laugh. “And you thought so highly of my instincts.”

“I still do.” She brought his hand to her lips. “Dane, you’re not the only one who was fooled. Obviously, Secretary Hamilton never suspected Thomas either.”

Dane’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “Thomas idolized Alexander. He served under him, fought beside him in the war. How the hell could he …”

“For money, perhaps?”

“Money … his business
was
failing.” Dane was willing to grasp at straws.

“Or a woman,” Jacqui ventured.

“A woman.” Dane looked toward the house, hatred blazing in his silver eyes as he recalled the adoration he’d seen on Thomas’s face whenever he’d spoken of his mystery lady. There wasn’t any doubt that Thomas’s love was strong enough to propel him to commit this heinous act. The money alone wouldn’t be sufficient … Thomas was doing it for
her.

“A woman who is capable of betraying not only her country but a man …
two
men,” Jacqui corrected herself, “who love her: poor, pathetic Thomas and my devoted, unsuspecting father.” Jacqui winced, wondering how she was going to break the news to George that his beloved Monique was guilty not only of infidelity but of treason. “I’d like to choke her with my bare hands.”

“You shall have your chance,” Dane assured her, stationing himself at the corner of the house. “It is only a matter of time before Miss Brisset leaves her house, bound for the ship she mentioned to Thomas. When she does, you and I will be waiting for her.”

“Now I know why my captor seemed so apprehensive,” Jacqui realized, joining her husband at his concealed post.

“Yes.” Dane’s tone was grim. “Thomas must have been terrified you would recognize him—” Cutting himself short, Dane made a harsh, pained sound deep in his throat. “I’m the one who told him who you were,” he said in hoarse incredulity. “I’m the damned fool who
confided to
him you were Laffey.” Dane cursed explicitly, clenching his fists in anger. “Here I was, cautioning you to be more careful, when it was I who delivered you right into your abductor’s hands.”

“That’s absurd,” Jacqui refuted. “If poor judgment were to render one guilty, then I would be the quintessential felon. I’ve stood by idly while my father made an utter fool of himself over a woman who is a fraud and a criminal. I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“You were always skeptical of Monique,” Dane reminded her.

Jacqui shrugged. “I believed her to be possessive and greedy. But this? Never.”

Dane withdrew the pistol from his pocket and stared coldly at it, his handsome features taut with angry determination. “Miss Brisset’s plan will never come to fruition,” he vowed. “And in a short time, she will know it.”

Monique shut the door carefully behind her and scrutinized the empty street. It was barely seven o’clock and no one was about … just as she had hoped.

Tightly clutching the small package in her hands, she descended the steps, silently rehearsing what she would say to George. She had to sound convincing, or it would arouse his suspicions and destroy her best and swiftest chance to reach Bonaparte.

Thomas, of course, thought she was dispatching the letter to England, posthaste. But as far as Monique was concerned, England could learn of the American concessions in good time. Her worry was for France.

If only there were another way of hastening the message to Bonaparte. Sending Hamilton’s letter with one of George’s shipments was risky, since Jacqueline and her family were no doubt being closely watched after Thomas’s blunder of a kidnapping.

But there was no other way. Last night, while Thomas had searched Hamilton’s office, Monique had gone to the shipping docks to check the departure schedule. The only ship leaving for France this week was departing today. It belonged to Westbrooke Shipping, its cargo to Holt Trading.

Which meant convincing George to take her package.

Monique frowned, hurrying down the walkway. She had to appeal to George’s tender heart, to convince him that her dear sister was once again deeply depressed and in need of immediate comfort.

Abruptly, the crease vanished from between Monique’s fine brows. A parcel of letters … that was it. She would tell George that dozens of letters she’d penned to Brigitte had just been returned to her, never having reached their destination. And, at the same time, she had received a desperate letter from Brigitte, telling Monique how forsaken she felt.

A satisfied smile touched Monique’s lips. The way George loved her … the idea was infallible.

“Not yet.” Dane shook his head emphatically, keeping Jacqui beside him.

“But she’ll escape!” Jacqui protested, itching to capture their nemesis.

“Oh no she won’t. But if she sees us, she’ll abandon her plan and all our waiting will have been for naught.” Dane watched Monique’s progress through narrowed eyes. “Patience,
chaton
.”

He stalled until Monique was nearly out of sight. Then he nodded. “Let’s go.”

The streets were quiet, with few people and no carriages about at this early hour. Dane led Jacqui along silently, both of them wondering where they were headed.

Neither of them was prepared for the answer.

The building Monique approached was that of Holt Trading.

Jacqui stopped dead, clutching Dane’s arm as Monique slipped inside. “Why is she stopping here? Who could she be seeing?”

Dane rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s barely past dawn. Try to think, love. Who in your father’s company arrives for work this early?”

“I don’t need to think.” Jacqui shook her head vehemently. “We must be wrong about the reason for Monique’s visit. At this hour, the only person she would find here is …” All the color drained from Jacqui’s cheeks.

“Jacqui.” Dane cupped her ashen face between his hands. “We have to discover the truth.”

“Don’t ask me to believe she’s bringing that letter to my father,” Jacqui denied fiercely. “He would
never
become involved in this ugly scheme.”

Dane stroked his thumb over Jacqui’s stubborn chin, ignoring her defiance, perceiving her fear. “You’re a reporter,
chaton
,” he reminded her softly. “Haven’t you learned not to make assumptions without verifying your facts first?”

Jacqui licked her dry lips and nodded, calmed by Dane’s words and the realization that he intended to remain impartial. “Yes.”

“Good. Now come.” Dane strode up to the door and paused, pressing his ear to it. Hearing nothing, he gestured for Jacqui to follow, guiding them both inside. The front room was deserted, but soft voices emanated from behind George Holt’s closed office door.

Dane burst in.

George looked up, startled. He was leaning against his desk, his arms folded, obviously in deep conversation with Monique. She, in turn, was perched beside him, her package in her lap, her lovely face tilted appealingly toward George. Seeing Dane, her eyes widened with shock … and fear.

“Dane? What is the meaning of this?” George was on his feet.