by Andrea Kane
The memory of that accusation twisted a knife in Jacqui’s heart.
“But what he suspects me of … treason … to my own country …” She whispered the protest aloud.
“Dane doesn’t believe you’re a traitor, Jacqueline,” Lenore said gently. “He may have known moments of doubt, but haven’t you done your part to encourage those?”
Jacqui stared at her, a bewildered look in her eyes. “I suppose I did. I don’t know what to think.”
“Then don’t think any more tonight.” Lenore rose. “It’s late and you’re exhausted. You need to rest.” She frowned, as a sudden thought occurred to her. “Does Dane know you’re here?”
Wordlessly, Jacqui shook her head.
“Then he must be out of his mind with worry!”
“I won’t go back … not tonight,” Jacqui returned instantly, a spark of defiance reasserting itself.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m merely asking if I may send Dane a message advising him of your whereabouts and telling him you’re safe. I will make certain he understands you do not wish to have your privacy disturbed … not until you are ready. At the same time, I’ll have a similar message delivered to your father, who is most assuredly worried as well. Would that be satisfactory?”
Jacqui nodded, beyond protest. All she wanted was to sleep, to put her turbulent emotions to bed, to regain her strength.
She would need all of it when she faced Dane.
Dane paced the length of his sitting room, debating whether or not to notify the authorities of Jacqui’s disappearance. He had already stormed over to George Holt’s house, demanding that Jacqui return home, only to be met by Holt’s white-faced denial that Jacqui had come to him. Between the worry in Holt’s eyes and the stunned expression on his face, Dane had no doubt the man was sincere. Nor could Dane dismiss Holt’s repeated, heartfelt assurances that he and Jacqui were innocent of treason.
Because in his heart Dane knew it was true. Just as he accepted that his proud and stubborn wife was, indeed, Jack Laffey, he was equally certain she was guilty of nothing more.
Why in the name of heaven couldn’t she have trusted him?
More important, if she wasn’t with her father, where the hell was she?
A sharp pain twisted in Dane’s gut. Slamming his fist against the wall until the furniture rattled, he headed for the door, fear overshadowing anger and confusion in his heart. She is fine, he assured himself over and over again. Jacqueline is nothing if not resourceful. She is accustomed to avoiding danger. She can take care of herself.
But if anything had happened to her …
Dane collided with the messenger in his doorway.
“Pardon me, sir.” The wiry little man righted himself, nervously adjusting his coat.
“Yes … what is it?” Dane was in no mood for idle chatter. It was the middle of the night, Jacqui was missing, and this stranger would have to get his directions … or whatever it was he needed … elsewhere.
“Mr. Westbrooke?” the rattled messenger asked uncertainly. “I have a message for you, sir.”
That got Dane’s attention. “Let me see it.” Dane nearly snatched the paper from the startled man’s hands. The fellow blinked, then backed away.
By the time Dane looked up to thank him, the messenger and his carriage had disappeared.
Retreating to the hallway, Dane reread his mother’s cryptic note: Jacqueline is well and with me. If you come to Greenhills and drag her home, you will undo everything I have done. Let your wife come to you. Trust me. Mother.
Cursing under his breath, Dane crumpled the note and flung it across the room. He was relieved as hell that Jacqui was unharmed, but totally at sea with regard to her intentions. She was at Greenhills … but for how long? What had she told his mother? What was her state of mind?
He rubbed his eyes wearily and went back to the sitting room, where he poured himself a highly potent glass of whiskey. With any luck, he would drink himself into oblivion.
Daylight splashed into the sitting room, drenching the sofa with sunshine and crashing through Dane’s throbbing skull. He groaned, clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut.
“Good morning, Herr Westbrooke!” Greta stood beside the curtain she had flung wide, her voice thundering through Dane’s brain and making him grit his teeth in pain.
“What time is it, Greta?”
“It is half after nine.” She sniffed loudly. “Apparently Frau Westbrooke has already gone out.”
Hearing the mention of Jacqui’s name, Dane shot to his feet, simultaneously groping for the arm of the sofa and attempting to steady himself. The previous night came back to him in a rush, and he forced his burning eyes open a crack.
“Coffee,” he managed between clenched teeth. “I need coffee, Greta. Now.”
“Coffee is ready … in the dining room,” she retorted pointedly, studying Dane’s disheveled appearance. “Together with a large breakfast to begin your day. I’ve made a fluffy soufflé, smoked bacon, fresh bread with a tub of sweet butter—”
“Stop!” Dane’s stomach lurched in protest. Catching a glimpse of the disapproving expression on Greta’s face, he had the distinct impression she knew just how her description was affecting him.
“Will Frau Westbrooke be joining you for breakfast?”
So, Greta’s ultimate loyalties were with Jacqueline, after all. Jacqui would be pleased.
“No, Greta.” Dane straightened to meet her gaze. “Frau Westbrooke will not be joining me for breakfast. She is visiting at Greenhills for several days.” He glared at Greta through slitted, bloodshot eyes.
“I see.”
“Will that be all?” Dane snapped, anxious to bathe and change his clothes.
“No,” Greta barked back. “A message arrived for you from Secretary Hamilton.” She produced the note from her apron pocket. “Here.”
Dane rubbed his forehead wearily, unfolding the slip of paper and scanning its contents. Alexander wanted to see him as soon as possible. Dane’s jaw set. Well, he wanted to see Alexander, too … to tell him where his suspicions had led … and to impress upon him that, Laffey or not, Jacqui was innocent. Hamilton would just have to find his traitor elsewhere.
“This column becomes more provoking by the week!” Hamilton slapped down the General Advertiser, his mouth drawn in frustration and worry.
Dane scooped up the newspaper, skimmed Laffey’s column with objective efficiency, then tossed it back onto the desk. “I agree,” he said calmly. “In light of the violence occurring in western Pennsylvania, it is ill-timed at best.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Was that why you wished to see me?”
“Indirectly … yes,” Hamilton replied, puzzled by Dane’s bland response. “Laffey’s articles, together with Bache’s whole damned newspaper, have fed the growing unrest in Pittsburgh. Tempers are at a fever pitch. The farmers are convinced they are justified in refusing to pay excise taxes on their whiskey. They are being drawn into the violent outbursts and assaults of the radical Republicans who are determined to oust all federal authority from their midst.”
Hamilton paused, drew a slow breath. “Excise officers have been beaten, while those distillers who do comply with the law have watched their property destroyed. Then, just last week, a group of armed men attacked the post rider and seized the mails.” He made a wide sweep with his arm. “We cannot allow this madness to continue. It has reached the point where a large display of military action could be our only alternative.”
“A display?” Dane echoed.
Hamilton turned his quill pen thoughtfully in his hand, then leveled his cool blue gaze on Dane. “If an overwhelming number of troops are assembled, that in itself might be sufficient to subdue the rebels and deter further bloodshed. To that end, President Washington has issued a proclamation ordering the insurgents to cease their violence. Should they refuse, they can expect our troops to convene and, in mid-September, move to ensure that our laws are enforced.”
He sighed. “As fate would have it, Henry Knox, our Secretary of War, has just been granted a leave of absence. Therefore, until his return I shall be the acting Secretary of War.”
Dane muttered an oath under his breath. He was neither surprised nor distressed by the news of Hamilton’s additional cabinet post. President Washington’s choice was sound; no one was more qualified for the position than Hamilton. Dane also concurred with Alexander’s assessment of the government’s unavoidable course of action. Still, internal strife was the last complication America needed right now.
“We are in grave danger of civil war, Dane.” Hamilton verbalized the very fears that were plaguing Dane’s mind. “And at the worst of times, given our precarious international position with the British. We must expose Laffey … and our informant … before American hostilities escalate too far. Which brings me to George Holt … and your wife.”
“Stop right there, Alexander.” Dane’s tone was lethal.
For the first time, Hamilton suspended his train of thought long enough to focus on Dane. He noted his friend’s rigid stance and realized that Dane’s odd behavior had been present long before Hamilton had given him the disturbing political news.
“Dane, what is it?”
“It’s Jacqueline. She’s gone.”
It was Hamilton’s turn to tense. “Gone?”
“Fear not, my friend,” Dane said bitterly. “She hasn’t fled with any national secrets. She’s at Greenhills with my mother.”
“Why?”
“Because I accused her of being a traitor and a British informant. She found that a bit difficult to endure coming from her husband.”
“You confronted her?” Hamilton was astounded.
“I did. And she is innocent … at least of treason.” Dane ignored the skeptical look on Hamilton’s face. “Believe what you will, Alexander. My wife has done nothing to betray our country. She has, however, managed to mislead us in a most thorough manner.” His mouth curved a bit as he recalled the pride in Jacqui’s eyes when she’d announced her identity.
“How do you know she is innocent?”
“The same way you believed her guilty. Instinct. In this case, mine is correct … yours is not.”
“I see.” Hamilton was taken aback by Dane’s definitive statement. He had seen his friend’s intuition prevail too often to blithely disregard Dane’s belief in Jacqueline’s innocence … despite the impediment of his feelings for her. Still … “Then how do you explain Jacqueline’s bizarre behavior?” Hamilton persisted, brimming with unanswered questions. “And what do you mean she has misled us?”
Dane’s jaw set. He had known this conversation wouldn’t be easy. “I can answer both those questions as one. Jacqueline’s bizarre behavior is simply a way for her to accomplish her work while, at the same time, keeping us from discovering what that work really is. My wife is clever, impulsive, rash … and, unfortunately, completely devoid of trust in her husband.” Dane’s expression darkened. “And she is one thing more.”
“Which is?”
“Jack Laffey.”
Hamilton just stared, stupefied. “Jack Laffey … Jacqueline?”
“Yes. Jacqueline. My own Jacques la fille. You and I were so dogged in our belief that George Holt was the notorious reporter we sought that we overlooked the obvious … although she was right under our very noses.”
“Jacques la fille, “Hamilton repeated, the lightning bolt of realization accompanied by an equal dose of self-disgust. How could he have overlooked so exact a translation? Jack the girl. But Laffey … a woman? Hamilton absorbed this bit of information with great difficulty. “Jacqueline told you this herself?”
“She did.”
The Secretary’s mind was racing. “You believe Laffey’s columns are her only crime?”
“I know they are.” Dane looked tormented. “You should have seen the expression on her face … and on George’s … when I accused them of treason. It was as if they’d been struck. Such extreme shock and bewilderment cannot be feigned, Alexander. Neither Jacqueline nor her father had a clue as to what I was talking about. Yes … I am quite certain that my wife’s secret identity is her only transgression.” He shifted restlessly, glancing out the window in the direction of the Schuylkill … and Greenhills. “I only wish she’d allowed herself to confide in me.”
Alexander shook his head in amazement. “So we are no closer to discovering our traitor than we were a month ago.” He frowned. “That is distressing news indeed. However, we have, at least, solved one part of our dilemma. We can finally stop Laffey’s unfounded instigation.”
Dane’s brows rose. “Can we?”
Hamilton blanched. “Good Lord, Dane … she’s your wife!”
“Yes,” Dane agreed, seeing Jacqui’s face when she’d defended her actions. “She is.”
“Then you will simply forbid her to continue writing and put an end to Jack Laffey!”
“Will I?” Dane murmured, half to himself. He stared off into space, deep in thought.
Terminate Jacqui’s writing. Yes, that would silence Laffey, temper the agitation of the populace, and end Jacqui’s unorthodox nighttime excursions. It was the only logical course of action; the one any proper husband would command. The one Jacqui expected him to take.
Dane had no intention of taking it.
CHAPTER
16
THE WHISKEY BURNED A path straight to his stomach.
Dane grimaced, pushing the drink away, and ordered a cup of black coffee. He’d had enough spirits last night. Today he needed a clear head to plan his approach to the problem at hand: his wife.
Leaning back in the cushioned chair, Dane closed his eyes. The City Tavern was quiet, as it was not yet noon, and the Coffee Room was deserted, save Dane and the sleepy-eyed waiter who ambled over to clear away the whiskey and leave the coffee in its stead.
Dane barely noticed the waiter or the coffee. He was weighing his options, deciding the best way to handle the quandary in which he’d found himself. He knew what Alexander expected him to do. The Secretary had made it quite clear that he was unconditionally opposed to any option other than strictly forbidding Jacqueline to continue her columns.
Dane vehemently disagreed. The day he’d asked Jacqueline to become his wife he’d vowed to respect her individuality, to accept the unconventional traits that were so much a part of her. By commanding the cessation of her columns, he was breaking that promise, using his role as her husband to mold her against her will. And, while assuring her obedience, he would be crushing her spirit and fulfilling every negative accusation she’d ever hurled at him.
On the other hand, she’d lied to him, purposefully led a double life, made a mockery of their marriage. She was stubbornly determined to believe the worst of him, because she was an unyielding, self-protective little rebel. …
Who was falling in love with her husband.
Dane smiled to himself. He’d suspected Jacqueline’s feelings for months now. But last night, he’d seen the naked truth in her eyes. She loved him, and, for her own reasons, she was terrified by that love. Dane could only suspect what those reasons were, but he did understand that Jacqui’s feelings for him were very new and very fragile. He had no intention of allowing them to shatter.
“Dane?”
Dane’s eyes flew open. “Thomas.”
“I thought it was you.” Thomas lowered himself into the chair beside his friend. “Why are you away from Westbrooke Shipping in the middle of the morning? Is anything amiss?”
Even as he began to shake his head, Dane abruptly stopped himself. He badly needed an objective ear … and a friend. Thomas was both. “Yes, Thomas. Something is amiss. But it has nothing to do with Westbrooke Shipping.”
Thomas signaled for coffee, then turned his attention to his friend. “Is it Jacqueline, then?”
“In a word, yes.”
“Not surprising.” Thomas grinned. “Your bride is quite a handful. I’d be happy to listen and to help in any
way I can.”
“I’m afraid it’s more serious than a mere marital dispute.” Dane hesitated. “Thomas, I want your word that this conversation will go no farther than this table.”
“Of course.” Thomas took his coffee and nodded his thanks to the waiter. “Now, what mischief has Jacqueline gotten herself into?”
“The General Advertiser.”
“What about the General Advertiser?”
“That’s what my bride has gotten herself into.”
“She’s written something for Bache’s newspaper?”
“Many things.” Dane’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “Brace yourself, Thomas.” He inhaled sharply. “Jacqueline is Jack Laffey.”
Thomas nearly toppled from his chair. “What?”
“You heard me. My wife is none other than Jack Laffey—or, rather, Jacques la fille. She writes his weekly column, sneaks out every Monday night in order to deliver it to a young messenger who in turn brings it to Bache. So you see my dilemma.”
Thomas still hadn’t recovered. “Jacqueline … Laffey?”
“Your reaction is similar to Alexander’s.”
“The Secretary knows?” Thomas asked quickly.
“I told him. Let’s just say he has an avid interest in my wife and her actions.”
I’ll just bet he does, Thomas thought, remembering the conversation he’d been privy to between Dane and Hamilton prior to Dane’s marriage. Thomas’s impression that Hamilton suspected the Holts of betraying their country had, apparently, been correct. And while he was startled by Dane’s surprising revelation, Thomas was, nonetheless, lighter of heart than he’d been in months. Everything was falling into place. The fact that Jacqueline was Laffey would give Hamilton all the more reason to doubt her loyalties … and divert him from the truth.
Thomas swallowed his euphoria with great difficulty. “How do you plan to deal with Jacqueline?”
“I’m torn between giving her the world and choking her to death.”
“That bad, is it?”
“That bad,” Dane agreed, scowling.
Unbidden, Thomas felt a twinge of pity. The invincible Dane Westbrooke had certainly picked one hell of a time to fall in love. Thomas, better than anyone, knew how painful love could be.
