Masque of Betrayal

by Andrea Kane

  “I assure you, he shan’t learn of it from me.” Jacqui’s nerves tensed immediately. “Father?”

  “Nor shall he learn anything from me. I trust you to handle the situation with your husband.”

  Dane froze, his hand poised to knock. The final words of the conversation taking place on the other side of the door cut through him like a knife, piercing his gut, his faith, his heart.

  Tonight’s meeting? The situation with your husband? Our arrangement?

  Slowly, Dane lowered his arm, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. He had suspected this ugly truth, though he’d fought to deny its lethal existence. Lord knew, Alexander had tried to prepare him, warned him time and again. Then why did he feel so damned betrayed?

  He had to hear more, to be certain … to know the extent of his wife’s treachery. Pressing his ear to the door, Dane strained to listen, but the voices had dropped down to a murmur and the occasional phrases he could make out were innocent in content.

  Composing his features, he knocked.

  There was a brief silence, then George’s tentative “Yes?”

  Dane stepped into the office. “I’ve come to collect my wife.” Despite his best attempts, his tone was curt.

  George wet his lips nervously, an odd look on his face. Guilt? “Certainly, Dane. Jacqui and I have had a lovely visit.”

  Jacqui, on the other hand, was all sweetness and smiles. She stood on tiptoe and kissed her father’s cheek. “It was wonderful to see you, Father. You’ll have to come for dinner sometime soon. Oh, and Monique too, of course,” she added quickly.

  Dane was silent during their walk home and Jacqui glanced up from time to time, studying his rigid profile, gauging the significance and extent of her husband’s odd, brooding humor.

  “Did you accomplish your work?” she tried at last.

  “More or less.”

  “Problems?”

  “None.”

  “Then what is wrong?” she blurted out, pausing on their front walkway.

  Dane came to a dead stop, staring down into her face with a predatory look that chilled her. “You tell me.”

  Jacqui swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Storm clouds erupted in Dane’s eyes. “Don’t you?”

  Slowly, apprehensively, Jacqui shook her head from side to side. “No.”

  The pounding in Dane’s chest expanded into an explosion of pure fury. He wanted to shout out his agony and his betrayal, to shake the lies from Jacqui’s traitorous mouth, to hurt her as profoundly as she’d hurt him.

  And yet … he wanted her to deny her guilt, to explain away the truth, to eradicate the past.

  To love him as he loved her.

  With a muffled curse, Dane seized Jacqui’s hand, dragging her into the house. “Go home, Stivers,” he ordered the surprised manservant, who stood, blinking, in the empty hallway. “I won’t be needing you until tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”

  Dane didn’t answer. He had reached the top of the stairway, tugging a thoroughly stunned Jacqui in his wake.

  “Dane, where are we going?” She struggled to free her wrist, a bit frightened by the demons that seemed to be driving her husband.

  Dane shoved her into their room and slammed the door behind them. “We are going to the one place where you cannot lie to me … or to yourself. Our bed.” He ignored her protests, nearly tearing both their clothing in his haste to affirm what was real between them, what her deceit could not erase.

  “Dane, stop it!” She pushed at his massive shoulders as he lowered them both to the soft mattress. “Tell me why you are so angry!”

  He lifted her face roughly, forcing her to meet blazing gray eyes that scorched her with heated accusation. “You don’t really want the answer to that question, now do you, my love?” he asked, his voice a lethal whisper. When Jacqui fell silent, he gave a bitter laugh. “I thought not. So instead, you tell me. Tell me how much you want me, how much you crave my touch, my hands, my mouth.” He glided his fingers up her back, along her spine, smiling darkly at her inadvertent tremor of pleasure. “Give me this truth, Jacqueline … the only truth we share. Tell me what you feel when I’m deep inside you, when nothing in the world exists but my body taking yours, possessing yours, giving you pleasure so unbearable that you cry out my name, beg me not to stop. Tell me, my beautiful wife. Tell me.” He parted her lips, his own mouth violent, hungry. “Melt for me, chaton. Give me your passion, your fire. Show me that sole shimmering reality that is ours.” He swallowed her helpless whimper, digging his hands in her hair and rubbing his body slowly over hers. “Tell me, Jacqueline. Show me.”

  Jacqui wasn’t sure if the words were an order or a plea. Nor did she care. Driven by the innate realization that whatever information Dane had gleaned would forever change the bond that had grown between them, she responded without hesitation, craving the reaffirmation of their passion as much as Dane did. And despite the rage that drove her husband, despite all that was wrong with this mating, she wanted him … desperately.

  Jacqui opened her body to his and arched her back in silent invitation. She saw the flicker of surprise in Dane’s eyes, but it vanished instantly beneath the urgency pounding inside him. With a primitive growl, he wedged himself between Jacqui’s thighs and plunged deep, hard, shuddering as he felt her warm wetness close around him.

  “Jacqueline …” He said her name once … in a raw, tortured voice … and then there were no more words. Governed by emotions too sharp to withstand, but too profound to express, Dane gave Jacqui the unendurable pain of his love and betrayal and Jacqui responded with all the fear and conflict warring within her.

  Their climax was unbearable, endless in its intensity, speaking far more eloquently than words ever could.

  A long moment ticked by, neither of them willing to relinquish the tenuous wonder of their joined bodies. Dane clutched Jacqui to him, savoring her softness, his own breathing raggedy unsteady. Then abruptly, he released her, rolling away and coming to his feet in one purposeful motion. Angrily, he yanked on his breeches and walked over to the open window, gazing moodily out into the late afternoon sky, brutally aware that their passion, no matter how staggering, could no longer annihilate all the lies looming between them.

  Jacqui opened her eyes, feeling limp and sated, yet strangely void, bereft without her husband beside her. Silently, she watched Dane’s taut, bare back, bathed in the molten orange light cast by the setting sun as it filtered through the room. She shivered, frightened by the fragile tenderness that was suddenly and unexpectedly born inside her, urging her to go to Dane, to give him the truth he sought and to suffer whatever consequences might result.

  More frightening was the possibility that he was already in possession of that truth.

  Confused, Jacqui turned onto her side, wishing she could fathom Dane’s state of mind. Always after they made love, he’d held her, whispered words of passion and praise, taken her again before she’d even caught her breath … made her feel cherished and wanted. But this time he’d withdrawn into himself, where he clearly wished to remain.

  Studying his rigid stance, Jacqui made her decision, gathering up the quilt and wrapping it about her shoulders. Now was not the time to approach him … not yet. She would wait until later, when he came back to bed. Then they would talk.

  She yawned, snuggling into the bedcovers, suddenly and dreadfully weary. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that soon her father would be delivering Laffey’s column.

  For a long time Dane listened to Jacqui’s even breathing, knowing without turning around that, deep in slumber, she was curled on her side, her hair a rich mahogany waterfall over her bare shoulders and back, her face innocent and exquisite, buried in the softness of the pillows. He gritted his teeth, trying again to separate truth from deception, to make the agonizing decision he could no longer put off. His love for his wife, consuming though it might be, could not allow hi
m to jeopardize his integrity and his country. He had to act … immediately.

  Forcing himself from the window, Dane slowly approached the bed, gazing down at the beautiful woman who held his heart. Inadvertently, he reached out, wrapped one long, silky curl around his forefinger, and, for a brief moment, considered waking her, confronting her with his suspicions. But he dismissed that idea as quickly as it had come, knowing she’d only deny the accusation, adding to the enormity of the lie underlying their marriage, making him despise her … and himself … even more. Soon enough she would learn that her father’s plan … and hers … had been uncovered, that the betrayal was at an end … that she would have to suffer the painful ramifications of her guilt.

  Dane’s grip tightened around Jacqui’s lock of hair until his finger tingled its protest. Why, he asked himself, after all his wife was guilty of, did a part of him still want so desperately to shield her?

  Sighing heavily, he moved quietly from the bed, dressing quickly and efficiently. With a final glance behind him, he left the bedroom and the house, pausing but once to slip his knife into the waistband of his breeches … should it be needed.

  All the while, the words he’d heard George utter earlier that day reverberated in his head.

  Tonight. At eight o’clock. In the alley behind the courthouse and burial grounds, just past Market Street.

  In an hour, George Holt would be meeting someone, delivering covert information into that person’s hands. Wouldn’t Holt and his contact be more than a little surprised to find Dane waiting there too … bearing witness to Holt’s treason firsthand?

  Dane quickened his pace, knowing full well that, within the hour, he would have his answers … and his headstrong, passionate wife would feel nothing for him but hatred.

  Jacqui came awake with a start, unable to give a name to the knot of apprehension in her stomach. Swiftly, her gaze swept the room, beginning with the now-abandoned window where Dane had stood when she’d drifted off. It was deserted. Her husband was nowhere in sight.

  Scrambling out of bed, Jacqui’s knees nearly buckled and she clutched the nightstand for support. Her limbs felt weak as water, a reminder of the wild, desperate mating she’d shared with Dane … a wrenching combination of hunger and passion and torment.

  And, for Dane, inexplicable fury … fury that surpassed any he’d ever displayed, any that could be caused by mere suspicions, any that could be based on anything but concrete fact.

  Jacqui’s head came up, her heart beating frantically as a sudden, implausible possibility struck her. Could Dane have overheard her conversation at Holt Trading? Could he perchance know of tonight’s meeting?

  With escalating fear, her eyes fell on the clock: seven forty-five.

  Ignoring the ache that pervaded her body, Jacqui raced to the wardrobe and snatched the first dark gown she could find, tugging it on with shaking hands. Each button took forever to slip into its casing, her stockings aeons to cover her legs. Letting the gown’s muslin folds fall to her ankles, Jacqui simultaneously stepped into her slippers, tied back her hair from her face, and headed for the door, willing time to stand still, cursing herself for taking an eternity to dress.

  It was seven forty-nine.

  Dane shifted position, eager for Holt to appear … praying he would not. It was a futile prayer, for just then footsteps sounded, approaching the alleyway … hesitating … then entering, growing surer, nearer. Dane pressed deeper into the shadows, waiting for the dim moonlight to reveal his arrival’s identity. Seconds later, he could make out the smooth, fresh features of a young lad … apparently, the contact George was going to meet.

  With clenched fists, Dane waited, knowing it would all be over in a matter of minutes.

  The second set of footsteps followed immediately, echoing in the deserted alley, resounding hollowly in Dane’s heart.

  “Miss Holt?” The boy stepped forward, halting in his tracks, white-faced, as he encountered not Jacqui, but George.

  “Wait!” Anticipating the boy’s reaction, George grabbed at his sleeve, staying the youth’s flight. “I work with Miss Holt. I’m her …” He hesitated. “I’m here at her request. I have the document you need.”

  The boy stopped struggling when he saw the paper George offered, recognized, in the faint shaft of moonglow, the familiar strokes of Jacqui’s pen. “Miss Holt sent you?” he repeated quizzically, scrutinizing George as he took the single sheet.

  George nodded tersely. “Yes. I presume you know how to proceed from here?”

  It was the boy’s turn to nod. “Yes, sir. I should … I’ve been doin’ it for over a year now.”

  “Not after tonight, you aren’t.” Dane’s scathing words cut through the night. He emerged from the shadows, ignoring George’s shocked gasp, extending his hand to the startled youth. “Give me that paper. Now.”

  The boy backed away, terrified by the furious spark in this dark stranger’s silver eyes. “W-w-ho are you?” he stammered.

  “Give it to me!”

  “Don’t!” George shook his head violently. No matter what Dane suspected, this was not the way for him to learn the truth about Jacqui. “Run, lad! Take the paper and run!”

  The boy needed no further urging. Turning on his heel, he shot off like a bullet, swallowed up by the blackness of night.

  For a moment Dane considered going after him, then decided against it. Much as he wanted that document, he could not take the risk that George would bolt. The only conceivable option was to drag the information out of Holt. As for the lad, he was no more than an innocent accomplice and could easily be traced, and the paper recovered … later. The true culprit remained before Dane, silent and waiting.

  Dane swung around, his expression murderous. “We reach the truth at last, Holt.” He inhaled sharply, battling for control. “I’m not sure who I want to choke more at this instant. You … or my wife.”

  George tensed. “Jacqui has nothing to do with this.”

  “Really?” Dane’s tone was lethal. “Funny, I was certain I heard the boy mention her name. Unless there is another Miss Holt I have yet to meet?”

  George sucked in his breath, ready to protect Jacqui at all costs. “She is nothing more than my messenger, Dane. Your argument is with me.”

  “My argument?” Dane stared at him, incredulous and sickened. “My God, Holt, you’ve betrayed your country, made a mockery of everything it stands for, and you refer to this revelation as an argument?”

  “Betrayed my country?” It was George’s turn to look shocked. He had been prepared to plead his case, to shield Jacqui from her husband’s certain outrage. Outrage, yes … but this? “I thought you, of all men, would show more understanding, Westbrooke,” he bit out. “Since when has freedom of speech signified treason?”

  “Don’t bait me, Holt,” Dane shot back. “Your provoking column is but a small portion of your crime.”

  “My crime?” George sputtered. “Penning honest, informative political statements?”

  “Honest? Informative? Don’t you mean reckless and instigating?”

  “The American people have a right to know what propels their government. I merely provide them with that information.”

  Dane swooped down on George’s words. “So you admit you are Jack Laffey?”

  Silence reigned as George absorbed the severity of Dane’s ire.

  Then: “Yes … I’m Laffey.”

  Dane took a menacing step toward him. “Do you also admit that you and Jacqueline furnished the British with enough details to undermine John Jay’s negotiations?”

  “What?” George’s voice shook.

  “Oh, come now, Holt. You’ve gone this far. Finish what you’ve begun.” Dane’s fists closed around George’s lapels. “Tell me how you and Jacqueline managed to convey stolen documents to the British, and how you used your column … and me … to further your misguided cause.” He shook him. “Then tell me what was in that paper you just passed on. Was it more information for Grenville?”


  “You’re insane,” George choked, struggling to free himself. “I’m no more a traitor than you are!”

  Dane’s grip tightened. “It is not I who is Jack Laffey!”

  “Nor is it he!”

  Jacqui’s voice rang out, sure and clear, silencing both men with a start. Neither had heard her arrive, too caught up in their growing anger and escalating shouts to notice her presence.

  “Jacqueline … this doesn’t concern you!” George wasn’t sure how much his daughter had overheard or if she knew the harshness of Dane’s accusation. Nor was he waiting to ask. “Let me handle this,” he ordered, praying that, for once, she would obey. “Go home to bed.”

  Jacqui shook her head fiercely, marching up to her husband, fire brimming in her eyes. “Release my father, you miserable, arrogant bastard!”

  Dane stared down at her, his jaw tightening until it threatened to snap. “Listen to your father, Jacqueline … go home. Now. Before I do something I’ll regret.”

  “Go ahead and do it, damn you!” she fired back, clamping her fingers around the rigid muscles of his arm. “But to me, not my father! I’m the one you’re livid with! I’m the one you loathe! So vent your rage at me, not him!”

  “Jacqueline!” George’s hoarse shout was a warning and a plea.

  Valiantly, Dane fought the urge to beat Jacqui senseless. “I’m warning you, wife,” he ground out. “You don’t know what I’m capable of right now.”

  “And you, apparently, don’t know what I’m capable of!”

  That did it. Dane released George in a rush, dragging Jacqui against him with an anger that was as palpable as it was savage. “To the contrary, sweet, I applaud your grand deception!” he taunted. “You and …” He cast a scathing look at George. “Jack Laffey.”

  “My father is not Jack Laffey!” Jacqui’s nails dug into Dane’s coat.

  “He’s admitted it, you little fool.”

  “Only to keep you from the truth!”