by Andrea Kane
“That’s preposterous!” Dane shot back. “I know you’re innocent … and that’s all that matters! You have to prove nothing, Jacqueline … nothing!”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, tenderness softening her features. “Your faith in me means … a great deal. But I also have to do this for me.”
“Bloody hell!” Dane clenched his jaw, plagued by apprehension that refused to let go. All he knew was that he had to keep Jacqui safe, to protect her from whatever ills could befall her.
Jacqui leaned into her husband, firmly gripping his biceps. “Dane, don’t you see? I finally have the chance to do something meaningful: to make a difference, to take on a challenge that is unheard of for a woman.” She caught her breath, knowing by the indecision in Dane’s eyes that she had reached him. “I will be safe,” she pledged in an attempt to allay his fears. “The only person who might be in danger is the Secretary, not I.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t. But I must do it anyway.” She inclined her head slightly. “You did promise not to interfere with what I write in my column, remember?”
His scowl deepened. “I remember.”
She gave him a questioning look. “And?”
Dane cursed under his breath. If he allowed Jacqui to follow through with this foolish plan, she could be exposing herself to grave danger. But if he refused, if he revoked his original vow to her, it would eradicate all the trust he had worked so hard to earn. Either way he was damned.
He cursed again.
Jacqui smiled, the smile of a woman who knew she had won. “Thank you, Dane.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his taut mouth, searching for a way to convey how deeply his show of support had moved her. “I know I am not what one would call an exemplary wife,” she confessed. “But in the future … I shall try.”
Despite his worry, Dane chuckled. “Will you? How?”
She slid her arms around his neck. “Once this ordeal is behind us, I shall master the wifely duty you so constantly crave.”
His strong hands encircled her waist. “I’m intrigued. What is it you have planned?”
“Why, to learn to bake Greta’s strawberry tarts, of course.”
Dane stared down into her beautiful, teasing face and abruptly sobered, drawing her tightly into his arms.
Her own amusement vanished, and Jacqui regarded her husband with searching gravity. “I’ll be fine, Dane. I promise.”
But even Jacqui’s vow and the warmth of her body did little to ease Dane’s worry. Nor, in the days that followed, could they silence the warning bells that continued to clamor in his head.
The lone figure of a woman slipped through the night and entered the deserted alley, unseen. She paused, glanced furtively behind her, and, spotting no one, hastened along, her breath coming in short, shallow pants. Then she stopped, waited.
The man stepped out of the shadows, moving to her side. “Monique?” It was a whisper.
Monique threw the dark hood from her head and faced Thomas with blazing eyes. “Of course it is I,” she snapped. “Why did you summon me here so urgently in the middle of the night?”
Thomas frowned, but did not comment on her cold, brusque manner. Instead, he thrust a newspaper at her, then struck a match so she could make out the words on the page. “Read.”
Impatiently, Monique snatched the paper from his hands and did as he bid her. Within minutes, the furious spark in her eyes was transformed into stark disbelief. “What does this mean?” she demanded.
“Exactly what it says,” Thomas returned in a tight voice. “Obviously Hamilton is making another attempt to negotiate with the English.”
“But what new points could he raise that his original documents did not already address?”
“How the hell should I know?” Thomas bit out. He jabbed a finger at Laffey’s words. “You’ve read the column. The only one who knows what’s in those papers is Hamilton himself.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The question is, How do we divest the Secretary of this information?”
Monique frowned, tapping her foot nervously. She had already prepared the missive to Paris describing America’s internal strife as escalating and their negotiations with England as futile. Nothing was going to stand in Monique’s way now … nothing. “We must take action.” She pursed her lips. “However, we cannot break into Hamilton’s office again. … It is too risky.”
“Then what do you suggest we do? We need those papers! And no one else—”
“Ah, but there is someone else,” Monique interrupted, a smile curving her lips.
“Who?”
“The very person who has kindly provided us with this news … Jack Laffey.”
Thomas blinked, staring at Monique’s triumphant expression. “You plan to question Jacqueline?”
“No. I don’t plan to question her … you do!”
“I? But how can I …”
Monique waved his protests away. “I know Jacqueline far too well to get involved, Thomas. She would recognize me. You, on the other hand, have met her but once … at her wedding. With the proper disguise”—Monique fingered the edge of her hood—“Jacqueline would never know your identity.”
“Disguise?” Thomas was beginning to feel ill.
“Yes.” Monique took his hand, brought it to her mouth. “You cannot desert me now, chéri.” She rubbed his fingers against her lips. “Not when we are so close to having it all.”
Thomas swallowed. “She’s Dane’s wife. I won’t hurt her.”
“I’m not asking you to hurt her … only to persuade her.” Sensing Thomas’s reluctance, Monique decided drastic measures were in order. Glancing about quickly to make certain they were undetected, she tugged at Thomas’s hand. “Come, mon amour. We’ll go to my house and … talk. Surely we can come to an understanding that will please us both?” She gave him a brilliant smile.
For a moment, Thomas hesitated, fighting for some element of self-control, some degree of self-respect It was no use. When it came to Monique, he was a spineless weakling. And he knew it.
With a quick nod, he seized her hand and led her from the alley.
“I know you are hungry, Whiskey. Greta should be returning from the market any time now.”
Jacqui leaned back against the sofa, moved the curtain aside, and peered out the sitting-room window for the third time that morning. It was unlike Greta to be gone so long and so close to mealtime … unless the weather had detained her. Jacqui squinted, trying to see through the light mist still drizzling to the ground and rendering the sky a dismal shade of gray.
“At least the rain has eased up some,” she observed. “After the continuous storms of the past week, I thought never to see the sky again!” Unappeased, Whiskey meowed his annoyance, sitting with stiff displeasure at Jacqui’s feet and licking his whiskers in blatant reminder of the time. Eleven o’clock was well past his feeding hour.
Jacqui rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You have become quite spoiled, you know. Not long ago you were a beggar on the streets and now you live like a king! Yet you complain at the slightest inconvenience.” Jacqui shook her head as she recalled the hilarious way she and Whiskey had met. “I could have abandoned you, you know,” she reminded him. “Left you to suffer Dane’s wrath. You were far too deep in your cups to properly defend yourself. Heaven only knows what Dane intended for your fate … but I can assure you, it wasn’t an offer of more whiskey! Then where would you be?”
Whiskey’s response was to calmly begin licking his paws.
“Not only spoiled but ungrateful,” Jacqui muttered.
Her critical assessment was interrupted by a knock.
Puzzled, Jacqui came to her feet. “Greta’s arms must be laden,” she determined. “And Stivers has the morning off. I’d best let her in.” Jacqui stepped around Whiskey and hurried to the door. “I’m glad you’re back, Greta,” she said, flinging it wide. “I was beginning to worry—” Jacqui’s words lodged in her throat as the
hooded man pushed into the hallway and slammed the door behind him, pointing a pistol at her head.
“Who are you?” Jacqui demanded. “What do you want?” Her tone was forceful, but her heart slammed against her ribs and she took several reflexive steps backward.
The man made no response, stalking forward until he loomed over Jacqui, his dark, brooding eyes the only part of him that was visible from beneath the broadcloth hood.
All the color drained from Jacqui’s face. “If it’s money you seek, take anything you wish. Then go.”
“I don’t want money,” the intruder rasped. “I want you.”
A soft gasp escaped her throat and her hand flew instinctively to her bodice. “You want … me?” Why, oh why, couldn’t Dane have chosen to work at home today? Why didn’t Greta return from the market?
The intruder raised the pistol a notch higher. “I want you,” he repeated.
Jacqui swallowed, fighting her rising hysteria. In a matter of minutes Greta would return. If it were only possible to stave this man off until then …
As if reading her mind, the stranger shook his head emphatically. “Not here. I want you to come with me. Now.”
Jacqui’s knees threatened to buckle. “Come with you … where?”
His finger tightened on the trigger. “Now!”
The sound of low hissing startled the intruder. He glanced beyond Jacqui to see the small, spitting kitten crouched behind her. A heartbeat later Whiskey sprang, claws extended, sinking himself into a leg of the intruder’s breeches.
With a furious curse, the man shook Whiskey loose.
“Don’t hurt him!” Jacqui burst out, snatching up her dazed kitten.
“Then get rid of him,” her captor ordered in a spine-chilling rasp.
Jacqui licked her dry lips, forcing herself to think. On wooden legs, she carried Whiskey across the sitting room, keeping her back to the intruder. “Hush, Whiskey,” she said aloud, stroking his smooth fur with one hand. “All is well.” As she crooned to him, she scanned the room hastily, seeing nothing within reach that could serve as a weapon. Besides, it would be foolhardy to physically retaliate against a man who was twice her size and armed to kill. No, she would have to devise another plan.
Jacqui’s eyes fell to her gown. Slowly, so as not to be noticed, she eased her hand down, pausing to tug a piece of ribbon from the opposite sleeve. Quickly, she tied the narrow strip about Whiskey’s neck, knowing it was far too thin for the stranger to spot, praying it was not so indiscernible that Dane would miss it as well.
She could feel the intruder come up behind her. Swiftly, she dropped Whiskey to the floor and shooed him toward the kitchen. With a surprised and injured look, the kitten slinked off.
Jacqui turned to face her captor, her mind still racing. “My cat will cause you no further trouble.”
“Let’s go.” The man gestured toward the door.
Where the hell was Greta? Jacqui slumped forward, praying her swoon looked believable. Having never fainted in her life, she was none too certain how it was done.
Apparently her act was convincing, because the man caught her arm roughly. “What’s wrong?”
“I …” Jacqui rubbed her forehead weakly. “I’m frightened. I think I’m going to …” Her knees buckled.
Cursing under his breath, the man dragged her over to the sideboard, hastily searching for some liquor. Seizing a bottle of whiskey, he anchored Jacqui against him while he clumsily sloshed some into a glass. “Drink this,” he commanded.
Jacqui took the glass in trembling hands and gulped, coughing violently from the powerful liquid.
The man looked about furtively as if he suddenly realized Jacqui’s intent. Tensing, he seized her elbow and raised his weapon. “Now.”
Panic swelled in Jacqui’s heart. She had run out of time, and there was still no sign of Greta. What was she going to do?
From the corner of her eye, she spotted Whiskey sitting sphinxlike in the hallway, licking his lips and, in typical fashion, eyeing his mistress’s liquor hungrily. An idea flashed through Jacqui’s head … a last resort, but she was desperate.
Turning to comply with her captor’s command, Jacqui allowed the glass to slip from her fingers and crash to the floor, where it shattered into bits, splattering whiskey everywhere … the sofa, the sideboard … and Jacqui’s gown.
The last thing she saw before the intruder hauled her off was Whiskey, creeping cautiously back into the sitting room and staring intently at the pool of liquor at his feet … then raising his head to follow Jacqui’s unwilling departure with keen green eyes.
“Good evening, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta greeted Dane at the door, taking his coat and handing him a brandy in return. “I see the rain has finally subsided.”
“Yes, it has,” Dane agreed, accepting the proffered glass. “Though the streets are drenched, making travel unpleasant, if not impossible.”
Greta shook out Dane’s wet coat. “Why, your clothing is soaked through. … Without the proper care, you’ll take ill. Let me get you another brandy.” She turned on her heel.
“Thank you, no, Greta.” Dane stopped her. “One drink is more than sufficient.” He stifled a smile, amused that, since Jacqui’s return from Greenhills a fortnight ago, their arrogant housekeeper had resumed her previous and uncharacteristic fussing over him.
Carrying his drink through the hallway, Dane asked, “Will dinner be ready soon?”
“As soon as you and Frau Westbrooke wish it.”
Dane glanced about the deserted first floor, then turned toward the stairs. “Is Jacqueline resting?”
“No, sir. Frau Westbrooke has not returned.”
“Returned?” Dane’s smile froze. “Returned from where?”
“Why, I don’t know, sir.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Dane heard the warning bells ring loud and clear in his head. Since Laffey’s article had appeared in print, Jacqui had promised him she would not go out alone.
Greta frowned, her apple-dumpling cheeks creasing. “I was at the market when your wife took her leave, Herr Westbrooke.”
“Damn!” Dane slammed his fist against the wall, making Greta flinch. “Where would she go in this weather?”
“Excuse my boldness, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta admonished, bristling, “but I think you are being overly protective and worrying needlessly. I have known Frau Westbrooke since childhood and she has never advised me … or anyone … of her intended whereabouts.”
Dane was barely listening. Something was wrong. He knew it. He felt it.
“What time did you return from the market?” he demanded.
Greta pursed her lips. “I believe it was a little after eleven. The rain delayed me.”
“Eleven?” Dane looked at the clock and blanched. It was almost five. Jacqui had been gone nearly six hours.
“She left no note?”
“No, sir.”
“Where is my carriage?” he fired out.
“In the carriage house. It hasn’t been used all day.”
That eliminated Greenhills. Dane shoved his drink in Greta’s hand.
“Where are you going, Herr Westbrooke?” Greta asked, hurrying after him.
“I’m going to see George Holt,” Dane called back, already halfway down the walk. “If Jacqueline should return while I’m out, lock her in this house!”
CHAPTER
18
REDDING, GEORGE HOLT’S PORTLY new manservant, darted into the dining room, flushed and breathless. “Mr. Holt!”
Blinking in surprise, George lowered his cup. During the past weeks since Jacqui’s marriage, there was rarely a commotion to disturb his evening meal. “What is the trouble, Redding?”
“Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Westbrooke is here, insisting to—”
“George, is Jacqueline here?” Dane pushed past Redding and into the room, mincing no words.
George came to his feet. “Here? No …”
“Was she here earlier?”
<
br /> “No, I haven’t seen her all day.”
“Damn!” Dane drove his fist into the palm of his hand.
“Redding, that will be all.” George dismissed the servant at once, assessing the forthcoming conversation as one to be held in private. When Redding had withdrawn, George turned back to Dane, a knot of apprehension forming in his gut. “What’s this all about, Dane?”
Dane began to pace. “She’s been gone all day. You haven’t seen her, Greta hasn’t seen her. …”
George’s tension subsided. “That’s hardly unlike Jacqui, you know. She’s probably off somewhere.”
“In the rain?”
“Ofttimes, yes. Rain has never deterred Jacqui.”
“Did you read Laffey’s column this week?” Dane interrupted, halting in his tracks.
“Of course I did.” George’s worry peaked once more. “What have Jacqueline’s whereabouts got to do with her column?”
“It was a ruse.”
“What was?”
“The column. All of it.” Dane gave an impatient sweep of his hand. “The document Alexander is allegedly drafting. The new negotiating points for Jay. Everything.”
“Are you suggesting Jacqui would fabricate information that is so vital to America?”
“It’s not a suggestion. It’s a fact.”
George shook his head emphatically, his eyes ablaze. “I won’t stand here and listen to you accuse my daughter of—”
“George!” Dane gripped the back of the dining-room chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You’re missing the point! What Jacqueline did was not done for illegal or immoral purposes! In fact, it was the most damned patriotic thing imaginable … she put herself in danger to protect her country!”
That silenced George. “I don’t understand.”
“Laffey’s column was written at Alexander’s request and in complete secrecy. Jacqueline was to provide false information in the General Advertiser, hopefully to trap the real traitor into revealing himself. Alexander asked Jacqui not to divulge their plan to anyone, which is why you were kept uninformed.”