by Andrea Kane
“No, darling, of course not,” she assured him, sighing deeply.
He searched her beautiful face for signs of illness but could find none. “You are telling me the truth?”
She gave him a soft half-smile. “I wouldn’t lie to you, chéri. You know that.”
“But there is something,” he guessed astutely. “Tell me what it is.”
Again, Monique hesitated, lowering her lashes in heart-tugging indecision. “I don’t like to trouble you with my problems, George.”
“Anything that troubles you, troubles me as well. Tell me,” he urged.
She regarded him silently for precisely the right amount of time. “Will you be sending a shipment to the mainland this coming week?”
“A shipment?” George inclined his head in surprise. Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t been this. “No. Not for a fortnight. Why do you ask?”
Monique’s voice trembled. “It … it is my sister Brigitte.”
“Your sister? In Paris? Is she ill?”
She shook her head, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. “Not physically, no. It is only that I am so worried about her, George. She has lost so much since the revolution began. Her husband has been arrested and imprisoned in the Carmes and her home has been ransacked countless times for evidence that might incriminate her as well. I am afraid that if things do not improve soon she might do something drastic.” Tears filled her luminous eyes and slid down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the edge of her napkin. “The only thing that seems to bring her any solace is my correspondence. I know it sounds silly, but I have a small present that I wished to send her in time for her birthday next month. I was hoping that you might be able to …” She broke off, lowering her head. “Forgive me. I did not mean to lose control.”
George took her hand between both of his. “Why did you not tell me any of this sooner?” he demanded.
“I did not wish to burden you,” she whispered.
“You are never a burden, my love. Never.” He thought intently for a moment. “Give me your package. I will speak to an associate of mine and arrange for it to be aboard the next ship headed for the mainland. Your sister shall have her gift on schedule.”
Monique’s eyes glistened with tears and hope. “Oh, George, is that really possible? How can I ever thank you?”
“You can smile for me,” he answered softly. “That would be all the thanks I need.”
Her smile illuminated the inn and warmed George’s heart. At five and forty years of age, he had never expected to love again. For nine years after his beloved Marie’s death, there had been no one in his world but his precious little Jacqueline. But now Monique had come into his life, and once more he felt like a man. A man who was hopelessly, totally in love.
“Come, my love,” he suggested, an intense look on his handsome face. “Let’s take our leave.”
Monique smiled. “Yes, darling. Let’s.” Delicately, she placed her napkin on the table and rose, slipping her arm through George’s and reaching up to touch his smooth-shaven cheek … a promise for the evening to come.
Early Wednesday morning, Dane headed for Hamilton’s office and the unavoidable conversation that he knew would take place.
Since Dane’s visit with Jacqueline two days past, he had been submerged in his business dealings, unable to break away. This morning was, therefore, his first opportunity to answer Hamilton’s rather definitive summons. He knew Alexander wished to discuss the results of Friday night’s party. Not that there was much to say on the subject, Dane thought disgustedly. For there had been no results. But by now Alexander had seen Monday’s General Advertiser and was no doubt livid, both at Laffey and at himself for being unable to discover the rebel’s identity.
Dane had fared no better. So, knowing how his friend loathed failure of any kind, Dane braced himself for a less than pleasant chat.
He was stunned to instead find Hamilton tearing his desk apart, drawer by drawer.
“What in the name of heaven are you doing?” Dane demanded.
Hamilton looked up, visibly upset. “I am beginning to fear that I have lost my mind,” he replied. “I was certain that I had placed those papers in my upper desk drawer, and yet they are gone.”
Dane frowned. “Papers? What papers?”
“The ones containing my notes to Jay. He’ll be leaving for England in a fortnight and I’ve outlined what I believe should be our negotiating strategy in the current crisis.”
“And those papers are missing?” Dane’s expression grew dark.
“It would appear that way. Should the British get their hands on these documents, they would know our tactics before Jay even begins to negotiate. They would be prepared to counter each of our terms, and Jay would be unable to extract any concessions from them. His entire mission would be a failure.” Hamilton banged the drawer shut in agitation. “As I said, I thought I’d placed the notes in my desk on Friday and, truthfully, I haven’t looked for them since.” The word theft hung between them, but was not spoken. As was his way, Hamilton refused to speculate before the obvious answers had been thoroughly explored.
Quickly, Dane scanned the office. It was sparsely furnished, with little in the way of hiding places. If the papers were still here, there were only a few spots where they could be located.
Beginning with the obvious, Dane checked the open compartments in the hutch above Hamilton’s desk and the exposed writing area on its surface. From there he moved to the drawers of the low tables and then to the cushions of the chairs. No papers were found.
By this time, his concern was escalating. It was not like Alexander to misplace things.
Intending to conduct one final search, Dane headed across the room and was about to join Hamilton in a thorough inspection of the desk, when his friend made a triumphant sound and rose. “Here they are.”
Dane relaxed. “Thank goodness. Where did you find them?”
“They were caught between some other documents. Apparently, I placed them in the middle drawer and not the upper one as I had originally believed.” With a deep sigh, Hamilton shook his head. “I am becoming forgetful in my old age.”
Dane snorted derisively. “You are far from old and anything but forgetful. What you are, is exhausted. You are merely a man, Alexander, not a god. You expect too damned much of yourself.”
“And of you?” Hamilton’s eyes twinkled, his good humor restored now that the missing papers had been found.
Dane sank into a chair. “Ah, we arrive at the real reason you asked to see me. The identity of the ever-annoying Jack Laffey.”
“Which you do not know.”
“No, I don’t have the vaguest idea.”
“Nor do I.” Hamilton leaned back against the disheveled desk. “Did you learn anything of significance at the party”—he gave a meaningful pause—“other than the accomplishments of George Holt’s daughter, that is.”
Dane shot Hamilton a look. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”
“One could hardly miss your obvious fascination for the lady.” Hamilton lightly baited his friend. “So much for my attempts to keep you from the clutches of one woman throughout the evening. As it turns out, you would have preferred the drawing of lots.” He studied Dane’s closed expression. “She is quite beautiful.”
“I noticed.”
Hamilton hid his smile. “So did every other man in the room. Not that you gave them much opportunity to pursue her.”
“Nor do I intend to,” Dane returned, scowling.
Hamilton chuckled. “So that’s the way of things, is it? Shall I inquire as to your success with the very spirited Miss Holt?”
“Merely a modicum better than my success with Laffey.”
Hamilton’s smile faded. “The contents of the General Advertiser refutes our original conclusion that he was not in attendance on Friday night.”
“Obviously.”
Hamilton slammed his fist on the desk. “Then which guest was Laffey? Which of my supposed friends pe
ns that damned column?” He made a sound of anger and frustration. “Without knowing Laffey’s identity, we cannot begin to think of a way to still his pen.”
“The matter of stilling his pen needn’t concern you. I’ve already devised a plan to secure Laffey’s ruin.”
“You have?” Hamilton swooped down on Dane’s announcement. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“What would have been the point? My plan cannot be implemented until we know Laffey’s identity.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to hear it.” Hamilton glanced past Dane to verify that the door was carefully closed, ensuring total privacy. Satisfied that they could not be overheard, he turned expectantly back to Dane. “Tell me your plan.”
Dane nodded. “Once we know which of our supposed colleagues is Laffey, we isolate him, feed him highly confidential but volatile political information, and wait for him to disclose it in his column.”
Hamilton stared. “But in the process of baiting Laffey, we will be endangering our country.”
“Not if the facts we give him are false.”
Slowly, a smile of comprehension spread across Hamilton’s face. “So we provide Laffey with inflammatory but inaccurate data and wait for it to appear in the Advertiser.”
“Yes. Then we step forward and reveal the information as totally false, discrediting Laffey and his column before all of Philadelphia.” Dane spread his hands in a triumphant sweep. “In short,” he concluded, “Laffey will hang himself. But in order to do that, you and I must first determine who he is.”
A tentative knock interrupted Hamilton’s reply. “Yes?”
John Edgars entered the office, rubbing his hands against his breeches in a nervous gesture. “I am really sorry to intrude, sir,” he began, looking at Dane.
“John? What is it?” Dane was curious. His clerk never sought him out unless something required his immediate attention.
Edgars cleared his throat. “You received an emergency package from George Holt this morning. He requested that it be dispatched on our ship leaving for Europe today. I didn’t know how you wanted me to handle it. …”
Dane frowned. “That is highly unusual for Holt. Customarily, he makes his shipping arrangements several weeks in advance.”
“I know, sir.” Edgars nodded. “But he was insistent. Shall I tell him no?”
“I suppose not. If Holt needs to send something to the mainland, I imagine we can oblige him. Go ahead and make the necessary provisions.”
Hamilton remained silent throughout the exchange. Interestingly, this was the second time in minutes that George Holt’s name had come up in conversation. First, in connection with his daughter, Jacqueline, and now, because of a deviation in his normally precise business procedure.
Hamilton tapped his chin thoughtfully. While he himself had little direct contact with the successful owner of Holt Trading Company, he knew that Dane dealt with him often and well. He also knew that Holt traveled in powerful political circles and had friendships with both Federalists and Republicans alike. Personally, Hamilton had always found Holt to be an affable enough fellow, though a bit too pro-French to suit the Secretary’s tastes.
Now, it appeared, Holt had done something quite out of character.
“Evidently, George Holt is a bit on the impulsive side,” Hamilton mused aloud once Edgars had scurried off.
Dane shook his head in puzzlement. “Anything but. The man is painstakingly well organized. He generally supplies me with his schedule weeks in advance. This conduct is highly unusual.”
“Really.” Hamilton’s own tone was speculative. The timing of Holt’s mysterious action nagged at him. Perhaps, he reflected, he was growing overly suspicious, for there was no tangible reason for him to dwell on the incident—other than the fact that, by nature, Hamilton despised unresolved questions. That, together with his own unsettled state of mind, were probably the true culprits. He was plagued by anxiety over America’s plight with England and agitated by Laffey’s inflammatory columns. The combination had left him on edge. Still … he tucked the episode away to ponder further when he was alone.
Had Dane not been so preoccupied with the earlier subject of their conversation, he would have recognized the contemplative look on his friend’s face. But, as it was, Dane’s thoughts had already returned to Laffey and the problem of exposing his identity.
“What now?” he demanded.
“Pardon me?” Hamilton’s brows rose in question.
“How do we proceed from here? How do we determine which of Friday’s guests was Laffey?” Dane answered, exasperated. He paced the length of the room, hands clasped behind his back.
“Give me a few days to think, Dane,” Hamilton answered evasively. “The solution might show itself.”
Dane stopped short, eyes narrowed on Hamilton’s face. “I thought you had no direction for your suspicions.”
“I don’t,” Hamilton assured him. “However, I think each of us should carefully review Friday night’s guest list. It is a starting point.”
Dane fell silent, wondering what was going on in the Secretary’s brilliant mind. “All right,” he said at last. “But I don’t plan to give up, Alexander. As far as I am concerned, Laffey is a man without scruples, which is little better than a traitor. He should be dealt with accordingly … which I intend to do,” he added grimly. “That wily scoundrel is not going to best me.”
“I’m certain he won’t,” Hamilton agreed mildly. “I have not the slightest doubt that you will unmask Laffey in no time at all.”
Endless weeks later, Dane was no closer to learning the truth about Jack Laffey than he had been in Hamilton’s office. He had discreetly questioned every conceivable person on the guest list, and still … nothing. Baffled and angry, Dane was forced to acknowledge that now, more than a month after the ball, Laffey’s identity still eluded him.
Worse than that, so did Jacqueline Holt.
And if his lack of success in exposing Jack Laffey left Dane peevish, his lack of progress with the beautiful Miss Holt left him as testy as a caged tiger.
After five pointedly unanswered messages and a dozen lame excuses delivered at the Holts’ front door by an adamant and ever-vigilant Greta, Dane came to the unprecedented conclusion that, for the first time, a young woman he was ardently courting was blatantly rejecting his attentions. The irony of the situation was more staggering than the realization itself.
For never had Dane desired a woman the way he did Jacqueline. She was a consuming fever in his blood, the obsession of his days, the haunting of his nights. Despite his thriving business and the political concerns that plagued him, Dane found his thoughts returning time and again to Jacqueline … the luxuriant masses of her rich, dark hair, the bottomless blue of her eyes … even the continual challenge of her caustic tongue.
The way she’d responded in his arms.
That one shattering kiss they’d shared, more than anything, replayed itself over and over in Dane’s mind. It was just as he’d known it would be. Once he’d held her, tasted her, nothing could deter him from having her. And, even then, it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.
Not for him, nor for Jacqueline.
Dane understood only too well what his stubborn little hellcat was trying to do. In her naiveté, she was hoping that, by avoiding him, by pretending he didn’t exist, she could forget what had happened … what was happening between them. But Dane was neither naive nor inexperienced. He knew better. He and Jacqueline were far from finished … in fact, they’d barely begun. It was time that Jacqueline knew it, too.
The May sun was high overhead when Jacqui stepped out of her house, an impatient Whiskey slithering past her ankles to scoot out into the daylight. Jacqui paused, raised her face to the sky, and inhaled deeply, reveling in the fragrant scent of the air. Spring was in full bloom, the gardens alive with the smell of lilacs, and bluebirds singing merrily as they soared about.
“Oh, Whiskey, I keep forgetting how very much I love
the springtime,” she murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. She knew she should be wearing a bonnet, but the sun felt so good upon her bare head and it had been so long since she’d allowed herself the freedom of a daytime walk.
Lost in thought, Jacqui strolled through the garden and across the lush green grass. It was not like her to be a coward, she admitted to herself. She had faced far more threatening challenges than Dane Westbrooke, and had not permitted herself to be intimidated. Yet … she had never felt so out of control as she had when they’d kissed. Sentimental weakness was an emotion Jacqui abhorred. And, if avoiding Dane was the only way to rid herself of the unwanted feeling, then so be it.
She hadn’t expected him to be so persistent. It was only the two days past that his endless flow of notes and visits had ceased, allowing Jacqui’s life to resume as it was before Dane Westbrooke exploded into it. She’d won, she congratulated herself. Finally, he’d given up.
She despised the disappointment that her realization elicited.
“Good afternoon, mon chaton.”
The low-pitched male voice made her start, spin about in surprise. Just as she had at their first meeting.
Leaning negligently against the tall elm tree that had shielded him from Jacqui’s view, Dane grinned. “It is a lovely day, is it not?”
“What are you doing here?” she snapped, berating herself for allowing him, yet again, to catch her off-guard. Inadvertently, she stepped away from him. Or was it from herself? Damn the swooping sensation in her stomach! And damn Dane Westbrooke for causing it!
“I am waiting for you, sweet. Since it would seem that you have not received any of my messages nor been told of any of my visits.” He straightened, his probing silver gaze locked on hers. “Pity that your faithful Greta is not as efficient as you had originally thought she was.”
Jacqui felt herself color at his pointed sarcasm. She gripped the folds of her gown, feeling uncustomarily off-balance, a state that only Dane Westbrooke seemed to reduce her to. “I—I—I have been busy,” she managed lamely, knowing she sounded like a fool.