Masque of Betrayal

by Andrea Kane

  “The guests are all here,” she announced, flinging open the bedroom door, trumpeting her words as if there were more than just the two of them in the room. “We are ready to begin.”

  Jacqui fought her smile, wrapping her arms about herself and reveling in the rich satin of her gown and the warm glow of the sunlight streaming through the window.

  She had known the sun would shine. While her father and Greta had fretted needlessly about the prospects of a waterlogged ceremony in the gardens of Greenhills, Jacqui and Lenore had disregarded that possibility, counting on July’s more promising extreme: sunshine and bright skies.

  What Jacqui had not counted on was this unexpected feeling of avid anticipation.

  “I said it is time, Fräulein!” Greta barked again.

  Jacqui nodded, unbothered by her housekeeper’s fierce tone. Greta was terribly uncomfortable with emotional displays of any kind, but Jacqui suspected that, in her own way, the older woman was feeling sentimental about her charge’s forthcoming marriage. It was the sole explanation for her strange behavior this past week. Why, just yesterday afternoon Jacqui had searched the entire Holt house for Greta, only to find the elusive housekeeper locked in her third-story quarters, where she had purposefully ignored Jacqui’s insistent knocking.

  Recalling this odd behavior, Jacqui fingered the folds of her wedding gown and studied Greta curiously, finally blurting out, “What in heaven’s name were you doing in your bedroom yesterday?”

  Greta gave an indignant sniff. “What would you expect me to be doing, Fräulein Holt? I was readying myself for our move.”

  “Our move.” Jacqui was stunned.

  Greta leveled a cool, assessing stare at Jacqui. “Certainly our move. You didn’t for a moment believe that I was not going to accompany you to your new home, did you?”

  In truth, Jacqui hadn’t given any thought at all to Greta’s position once the marriage took place. Greta had been a part of the Holts’ household forever, and Jacqui had just assumed it would continue that way.

  “After all, I can hardly remain living there, alone with your father, Fräulein,” Greta continued decisively. “Besides, you need me to take care of you. As does Herr Westbrooke. It was he who made all the arrangements.” She smoothed her bodice. “Why, I am the only one who can prepare the strawberry tarts he enjoys. So, it is settled.” With that reverent declaration, she folded her arms across her ample bosom.

  Jacqui bit back a laugh. So that was it. She should have guessed. Greta did have one weak spot. And that spot happened to be Dane.

  “Of course, Greta,” she agreed solemnly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Greta sniffed disdainfully, appalled that her new status had ever been questioned.

  A sudden thought occurred to Jacqui. “What about my father, Greta?” she asked. “Who will look after him?” The most likely choice made Jacqui feel ill.

  “That has been taken care of as well,” Greta returned. “Herr Westbrooke consulted with his manservant and it appears Herr Stivers has a friend who boasts both references and experience. Herr Redding will assume his new position immediately.”

  “I see.” Jacqui shook her head in amazement. Efficiently and without her knowledge, Dane had seen to everything.

  “My belongings are being delivered to Herr Westbrooke’s home early this morning, where I will go directly after the ceremony,” Greta stated. “I’ll make a brief stop at Herr Holt’s house to pick up your impudent pet, who I assume will be joining us at our new residence as well.”

  Jacqui grinned, thinking of the antipathy that existed between that impudent pet and her soon-to-be husband. “Of course. Whiskey goes wherever I do.”

  “Fine. Then we shall both be waiting when you arrive with your new husband.” Greta cleared her throat roughly, staring at some invisible spot on the carpet. “I hope you will be very happy, Fräulein.” She shifted her large frame from foot to foot, periodically glancing at Jacqui. “You look very lovely,” she barked.

  “Thank you, Greta.” Jacqui was actually grateful for Greta’s unease, as she herself disliked overly sentimental scenes. She drew herself up to her full, diminutive height. “I am ready.”

  The door opened again and Lenore glided into the room, looking extremely elegant in her light blue watered silk gown. Her eyes lit up when she saw Jacqui. “Oh my!” She came closer, appraising Jacqui’s heartstopping beauty. The shimmering satin wedding dress, intricately trimmed with lace, and the delicate headdress, adorned with small white roses and baby’s breath, made Jacqui look ethereal, like an enchanting angel on the threshold of a new life. Although Lenore had been darting in and out of the bedchamber all morning, assisting Jacqui as she dressed, nothing had prepared her for the dazzling effect of Dane’s bride in full array.

  “You are positively exquisite,” Lenore declared with a gentle smile. “My son is a very lucky man.”

  Jacqui raised her brows in dubious amusement. “I’m not certain Dane would agree with you.”

  “Why don’t we let him be the judge of that?” Lenore returned, brushing an imaginary speck off Jacqui’s modestly scooped bodice. She took Jacqui’s hands in hers. “I wish you every happiness, Jacqueline. If ever you need me, I shall always be here.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Now I’ll go and prepare your father. The poor man is nearly beside himself.”

  When Jacqui came down a few moments later, George stopped pacing, simply staring at his daughter as if she were a stranger.

  “Jacqui? My God, you are beautiful.” He swallowed, his throat clogged with emotion. “Jacqueline … there is so much I want to say, so much I am feeling …” He broke off, anxiously raising her chin with his forefinger. “This marriage … it is what you want, is it not, ma petite? Because, no matter what has occurred, if you do not wish to wed Dane Westbrooke …”

  “Father,” Jacqui interrupted softly, placing her fingers over his lips. “This is what I want … very much. The choice was mine and I have made it. I have no regrets.”

  He kissed her palm gently. “Then be happy. And know that your mother is with us now, if not in body, then in spirit.”

  Jacqui’s lips trembled. “I know.” She took George’s arm. “Shall we begin?”

  A hushed silence settled throughout the gardens as the bride and her Father made their entrance. Over a hundred necks craned and a hundred pairs of eyes strained to gape at the exquisite young woman who had reputedly captured Dane Westbrooke’s elusive heart. An audible murmur of approval began, along with Jacqui’s ceremonial walk down the aisle between the double rows of benches that led to where her groom stood, quietly awaiting his bride.

  Jacqui raised sparkling eyes to Dane’s and her heart quickened at the profound expression on his face. She drank in his masculine beauty, thinking how resplendent he looked in his formal black attire, the crisp white shirt emphasizing the tanned column of his throat and heightening the impact of his bold, handsome features. His consuming magnetism seemed to reach out and claim her with the promise that every step she took brought her closer to the blazing challenge that was their future.

  Dane watched the vision in white draw closer.

  He could never have explained the powerful flood of feeling that swamped him when Jacqueline appeared in the garden. It was an emotion so deeply rooted, so painfully acute that it was nearly unbearable. There was admiration, yes, together with an explosive sense of pride. But most of all, there was love … a love so profound Dane thought he would burst with it, a drive for possession so total that he nearly leapt forward and dragged Jacqui the final distance to his side. But he waited, waited until the moment she stood before him, smiling up at him without shyness or regret, meeting him on his own terms, ready to share his life.

  They stood, side by side, speaking aloud their vows, committing themselves to each other. Dane slid the ring onto Jacqui’s left hand, his eyes glowing with pleasure and triumph as the ring reached its final destination on her finger and the clergyman pronounced them man and
wife.

  Silence reigned as the finality of their words echoed through the skies.

  Slowly, Dane drew Jacqui to him, murmuring, “You’re mine now, Mrs. Westbrooke.” He brushed her lips with his.

  Jacqui smiled against his mouth. “Am I?” she whispered back, giddy with excitement, channeling the unexpected emotion into teasing banter. “Yet your kisses were far more impressive beforehand, Mr. Westbrooke.”

  Dane straightened slightly, ignoring the throng of curious onlookers, one brow cocked in amused challenge. “Really?” He smiled in a way Jacqui knew only too well. “We certainly cannot allow that, not when I promised you our marriage would be enveloped in fire.”

  Before she could protest, he had wrapped his arm about her waist, pulling her closer and covering her mouth in a kiss of very deliberate … and very public … possession.

  Jacqui clutched his coat for support, too stunned to react.

  The kiss was over in an instant, amid chortles of good-natured laughter. Jacqui barely had time to recover. She opened her eyes and blinked.

  “Better, my demanding wife?” Dane questioned, laughter lurking in his eyes.

  “It will do … for now,” Jacqui responded, refusing to give in to embarrassment.

  Dane extended his arm to her. “I believe it is traditional for me to escort you back. Not to mention the fact that holding on to my arm will prevent you from succumbing to your customary reaction to my kisses. You wouldn’t want to collapse in front of all our guests, now would you?”

  She shot him a scathing look and he chuckled, leading her back into the house.

  Once inside, he grew serious, catching Jacqui’s elbows and drawing her close.

  “In less than one minute, we are going to be surrounded by hundreds of well-wishers.” He cupped her face. “It will be hours before we’re alone. I need something to sustain me.”

  He parted her lips hungrily, wanting Jacqui to feel what he was feeling, to need what he needed. Jacqui required no urging. She glided her hands up the front of Dane’s coat and clung to his broad shoulders, willingly opening to the kiss, touching her tongue to his until a tremor ran through Dane’s powerful body.

  When he released her, his breathing was ragged. “Your kisses, on the other hand, have grown infinitely more impressive since we wed, Mrs. Westbrooke.” He inhaled sharply, striving for control.

  “True. And that applies to more than just my kisses.” Jacqui tossed him a suggestive look, letting her pointed gaze linger on the revealing bulge in his breeches.

  Scorching flames leaped to life in Dane’s eyes, and only the sound of approaching guests kept him from carrying his new wife off to a bedroom … any bedroom.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, his expression dark with passion.

  “Oh, I plan to tempt you … later,” Jacqui promised with a seductive smile. “Tonight.” She stepped away.

  “All night,” he whispered fiercely, just before Greenhills became a hub of reveling guests eager to congratulate the newly married couple.

  “May I be the first to congratulate you and your lovely bride?” Thomas shook Dane’s hand with enthusiastic warmth. But his voice was unusually loud and his eyes suspiciously bright.

  “Thank you, Thomas. And thank you for standing up for me today.” Dane returned the handshake, wondering uneasily why Thomas was drunk at half after eleven in the morning.

  Thomas kissed Jacqui’s hand. “Dane did not exaggerate when he spoke of your beauty.”

  “Nor when he spoke of anything else concerning me, I’m certain.” The look Jacqui gave Thomas was pure innocence.

  Thomas blinked, as if he weren’t quite sure he had heard right, then moved on to fetch himself a glass of champagne.

  “Behave yourself,” Dane chuckled quietly in Jacqui’s ear, wrapping his arm about her waist and squeezing gently. “We cannot have you intimidating the guests.”

  “Dane, may I offer my good wishes as well?”

  Dane’s smile faded, and he turned to meet Hamilton’s cool blue gaze. “Thank you, Alexander.” His tone was stiff, and his hand tightened protectively on Jacqui’s waist.

  “Mrs. Westbrooke …” Hamilton stumbled on the name for but an instant, “my congratulations to you.” He bowed, brushing Jacqui’s hand with his lips.

  Jacqui lowered her dark lashes, then surprised Dane by giving Hamilton a practiced smile. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary.” Her smile became genuine as her gaze found Betsey Hamilton’s. “Mrs. Hamilton,” she greeted her. “I’m delighted that you could come.”

  Betsey took her hands. “As am I. May I wish you and Mr. Westbrooke a wonderful life together,” she grinned impishly, “Mrs. Westbrooke.”

  While Betsey and Jacqui chatted, Hamilton discreetly scrutinized Dane’s bride. Outwardly, nothing seemed amiss. She was, as he had surmised on the previous occasions when their paths had crossed, a highly intelligent, strikingly beautiful young woman with an unusually sharp tongue. Equally obvious was the fact that Dane was hopelessly besotted with her. Hamilton frowned. He only prayed that Dane’s personal feelings would in no way cloud his ability to uncover his wife’s secrets … and to act on them.

  “Good evening, Mr. Secretary, Mrs. Hamilton. May I interrupt long enough to kiss the bride?” George Holt, accompanied by a smiling Monique, interrupted both Hamilton’s thoughts and Betsey’s conversation.

  “Of course, Mr. Holt,” Betsey said, moving aside for him.

  “Yes,” Hamilton agreed, taking Betsey’s arm. “We should be moving on and giving others a chance to offer their good wishes.” He met Dane’s gaze briefly. “We’ll speak later.” Then he led Betsey into the gaily decorated parlor.

  Stepping forward, George’s smile faded and he gripped Jacqui’s shoulders tightly, suddenly overcome by the need to have his little girl back, small, belonging only to him … knowing at the same time that those days were gone forever. Swallowing, he pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead. “Be happy, ma petite,” he said softly. “I love you very much.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Jacqui lay her hand against his smooth-shaven cheek. “I shall.”

  “Yes, Jacqueline, may you know only happiness.” Monique swept forward, pressing her face to Jacqui’s. “And you also, Mr. Westbrooke.”

  Dane saw Jacqui visibly flinch at Monique’s touch, and he found himself wondering at the intensity of his wife’s dislike for the Frenchwoman. Jacqui had never actually given him a reason for her feelings, and Dane made a mental note to discuss it with her later. Much later, he added to himself with a grin. Conversation would not be high on his list of priorities when he finally had his bride to himself.

  “Thank you, Miss Brisset,” he said aloud. “I have no doubts that Jacqueline and I shall be very happy.” He met George’s gaze, saw the raw emotion reflected there, and once again Dane was moved by the obvious love Holt felt for his daughter. “Jacqueline shall never want for anything.” Dane’s words were publicly stated, but the vow was meant for Jacqui’s father.

  George knew it. He nodded, his eyes damp, and took Monique’s arm. “Come, chérie. Let us join the others in the parlor.” He led Monique into the brightly lit room, pausing to admire Lenore’s handiwork.

  Sprays of flowers, fresh from the garden, were everywhere, the highly polished floors gleaming as servants wove their way about, trays held high above their heads, some with fresh fruits and confections of every kind, others with crystal glasses filled with champagne. In the doorway nearest the kitchen, Greta stood, barking out orders like a military commander leading her troops. The bewildered maids and footmen obeyed her without question, casting curious glances in her direction, as if wondering why the formidable stranger dressed as a guest was acting the part of an overseer. In one corner of the room, a trio of strings played with all the solemn dignity that befit the occasion, filling the air with soft strains of music. All the while the guests filed in, laughing and chatting, enjoying this rare party at Greenhills.

  “The marchioness did a lovel
y job,” Monique commented, her eyes darting quickly about the room. She could feel Thomas’s stare boring into her and she knew she must tread very carefully. She could not afford to alienate him, not until the Jay negotiations failed and America was at war with England. Nor could she allow George to become suspicious. Success was too close at hand.

  Monique wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  The turmoil in France had grown to a frenzy; Robespierre’s reign was on the verge of crumbling. And then Monique’s country would need rebuilding, a task that would be far more painless if America were to stand beside France, united against their common enemy … the English. Yes, France could emerge from her revolution solid, formidable … with a strong and powerful leader.

  With a start, Monique realized that George was addressing her. “From what Jacqui tells me, I don’t believe you ought to refer to Lenore Westbrooke by her title,” he suggested. “She evidently does not use it.” He smiled tenderly down at Monique, covering her hand with his. “Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”

  “Yes … several times, chéri.” Monique laughed uneasily. “I am unused to so much flattery in one day.” Gently, but purposefully, she relinquished her hand, a gesture that was not unnoticed by her escort.

  George frowned. “Monique?”

  Monique cursed her own carelessness. “Yes, darling?” She slid her hand through the crook of his arm, caressing the soft material of his coat.

  Across the room, Thomas gulped down another glass of champagne, his glazed stare fixed on Monique and George. Whatever Monique was doing might be necessary, but it made his guts twist. Family friends? Hardly. Thomas reached for another glass as a tray passed by. Monique might be acting out of duty, but the man with her most definitely was not. George Holt was in love with Monique.

  At that moment, Thomas’s bitter gaze met Monique’s innocent one. She blinked, then, without a flicker of recognition, she turned back to the man at her side.