Masque of Betrayal Page 2

  All was still at the corner of Third and Chestnut streets when Dane rounded the bend. Only a snatch of light came from beneath the solid door that led into the two-story brick office building. Dane gave a brief rap, then opened the door and strolled in.

  “I’m here.”

  The handsome man with the powdered auburn hair looked up from his desk, put down his quill pen, and acknowledged Dane’s presence with a faint smile. “So I see. Rather disheveled, are you not?” He indicated the whiskey stains on Dane’s shirt and breeches.

  Dane didn’t smile back. “I had an unpleasant encounter with an inebriated cat,” he answered shortly, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s late, Alexander,” he began without preliminaries. “You should be home with Betsey, not here working until all hours of the night.”

  Alexander Hamilton leaned back in his chair. “Good evening to you, too, Dane.”

  Dane strode across the room with purposeful familiarity and lowered himself into a chair. “It has been mere months since you took ill … an illness you’ve scarce recovered from,” he staunchly continued, assessing Hamilton’s pallor and visible weakness. Dane couldn’t forget how he had almost lost his friend to an epidemic of yellow fever that had spread like wildfire through Philadelphia last fall. “Have you so quickly forgotten your close call with death?”

  Hamilton made a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin upon it. “I haven’t forgotten. However, I have regained my health. And there is much I need to do before I retire from office.”

  Dane nodded his understanding. He knew how much Hamilton wanted to separate himself from the political upsets of the past few years, how much he wanted to go home to New York with his family and resume his law practice.

  How much the country would lose with his departure.

  “Thomas and I were at the Tavern tonight,” Dane said at last. “The talk was of Laffey’s latest column in the General Advertiser. He all but stated that war with England was imminent—”

  “President Washington has asked John Jay to go to England to negotiate for peace,” Hamilton interrupted quietly.

  Dane bolted to his feet. “Damn it, Alexander! You’re the one who should be going, not Jay!”

  Hamilton sighed deeply, his astute gaze holding his friend’s molten silver one. “Despite our individual beliefs … or our passions,” he added pointedly, “we must do what is best for the country. For me to serve as the American envoy right now would be foolhardy. We both know it, Dane.”

  “You told that to President Washington?” Dane persisted.

  “I did.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  Hamilton did not hesitate. “He was greatly relieved.”

  Dane slammed his fist on the desk in frustration. Hamilton was right. There was too much controversy surrounding his handling of Treasury funds. It was a lot of nonsense, but it diminished his credibility nonetheless.

  “I wanted to tell you first … before the information was made public,” Hamilton was continuing.

  “Or before Laffey makes it public.”

  Hamilton frowned. “Laffey … yes. He is a real thorn in the side of our government.” He raked his hand through his neatly queued hair and stood, hands clasped behind his back. “We have enough to deal with, without his scathing columns. They incite too many people by prematurely revealing information that is better kept undisclosed.”

  “Not to mention his unique ability to obtain the information before it becomes public,” Dane added. He shook his head angrily. “But the problem is, no one knows who he actually is.”

  “I can think of many people who would attack my philosophies,” Hamilton returned dryly, staring at the floor but not seeing it. “Especially in the General Advertiser. But none of those people would dare go so far as Laffey has, particularly in light of the volatile situation with England. It is not only that Laffey labels me and the entire party as monarchical, but that the information he imparts could only have been obtained in closed social functions, and from men who are far too shrewd to publicly state opinions they realize should remain private.”

  “What are we going to do about it?” Dane demanded, recognizing the dawning, decisive light on Hamilton’s face. The Secretary of the Treasury had an idea.

  Hamilton grinned, a boyish grin that made his elegant good looks even more striking. “I’m going to host a small gathering of prominent politicians and businessmen in the Long Room. And you, my charming friend, are going to flit about, as you do so well, speak with all our guests …”

  “… and see what I can learn,” Dane finished, chuckling at Alexander’s uncustomary, exaggerated praise.

  “Precisely.”

  “Next Friday?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Done.” Dane turned and headed for the door. He paused for a moment, his expression one of stark determination. “By next Saturday you and I will know exactly who Jack Laffey really is.”

  Hamilton’s jaw clenched. “And when we do, we will make certain that his pen is silenced for good.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  YOU LOOK RADIANT, MY dear.” George Holt, dashing in his own fashionable black evening attire, beamed at his elegant, mahogany-haired daughter as he assisted her in alighting from their carriage.

  Jacqui glanced disdainfully at the City Tavern. “I don’t feel radiant, Father,” she retorted, adjusting her satin cloak. “I feel cantankerous.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps, but no one would know it. You conceal it well.” He took her gloved arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I do appreciate your decision to accompany me to Secretary Hamilton’s ball.”

  “Even if it was on such short notice,” she reminded him with a sidelong look.

  George’s smile faded. “It is hardly Monique’s fault if she became ill, Jacqueline.”

  Jacqui recognized her father’s warning tone and fell silent. When it came to la très belle Monique Brisset, George Holt was unwavering, unheeding, and hopelessly besotted. It had been that way from the start, since he’d first laid eyes on her at Oeller’s Hotel a year ago February, during the annual ball given on President Washington’s birthday. Nothing was going to alter George’s feelings … not even Jacqui’s carefully masked dislike, a dislike that rivaled her great relief that, at last, after ten lonely years of solitude since her mother’s death, George had finally found another woman to love.

  Silently, Jacqui passed beneath her father’s arm and glided into the Tavern’s dimly lit front entranceway. To her left, merchants gathered in the Coffee Room, drinking mugs of whiskey and discussing their latest business ventures. Farther down the hall, pairs of handsome, influential men and expensively dressed women headed toward the staircase that ascended to the ball above. Jacqui barely noticed them. Instead, she inched her way to the right, absently smoothing the silk folds of her vibrant lilac gown.

  Her father wasn’t fooled for a minute.

  “Not tonight, Jacqueline.” He took her elbow firmly and steered her away from the Subscription Room, where she had been intent on overhearing the talk among the different newspaper and magazine reporters.

  Jacqui followed along resignedly, casting a reluctant look over her shoulder. “But, Father, I was only wondering if there were any news of impending war or discussion of the tax imposed on whiskey. Surely you wouldn’t mind if …”

  “But I would.” He guided her through the milling crowd and up the heavy wooden staircase. “We are guests tonight, and this is a social event. Let us attempt to keep it that way.”

  “Yes, Father.” Jacqui had no recourse. The infuriating thing was that this time her normally indulgent father was right. And while she would greatly prefer being part of the heated debate on what to do with those few distillers who stubbornly refused to pay the excise tax on whiskey, she knew that it was an honor to be invited to the Hamiltons’ ball, and she owed it to her father to be gracious.

  The Long Room was brightly lit, its polished floors gleaming, its
grand walls lined with notable people. Soft strains of violins playing a Mozart minuet drifted amid the perfume-scented air and mingled with the women’s soft laughter and the men’s deeper-voiced conversations. Garbed in brocade gowns of rich silks and satins and adorned with headpieces boasting ribbons and feathers, the ladies clustered together in groups of four and five, chatting gaily and nibbling delicately at their hors d’oeuvres. As if sensing Jacqui’s presence, they looked up, assessing this new and unknown addition to their circle.

  A small, dark-eyed woman in a dove-colored gown broke away from the others and approached Jacqui and George. “Mr. Holt, ’tis a pleasure to see you again.” She gave him a radiant smile.

  George Holt bent over her hand with a bow. “The pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton, is mine. I am honored that you thought to include me this evening.” He stepped away, drawing Jacqui forward. “May I present my daughter, Jacqueline?”

  Another charming smile. “Miss Holt, you are every bit as lovely as your father has boasted. Welcome.”

  Jacqui smiled back, taking an instant liking to the serene-faced, gracious lady who was her hostess.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I, too, am honored to be here tonight.” Feeling the curious stares of the other women, Jacqui glanced boldly into the room, blatantly challenging their scrutiny.

  Betsey took her arm. “Come. Let me introduce you to our other guests.” She turned back to George. “My husband will be delighted to see you. He is with those gentlemen in the corner.” She gestured toward a large group of men, several of whom Jacqui recognized as senators whose political views were closely aligned with Hamilton’s.

  “Thank you, my dear. I shall find him.” George caught the appealing look Jacqui shot him and swallowed a smile. “Mrs. Hamilton, I wonder if you would object to my introducing Jacqueline to the guests?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “My daughter is not quite twenty and still somewhat shy.”

  Jacqui nearly choked over the barefaced lie. She … shy?

  Betsey nodded instantly. “Of course, sir. I understand perfectly.” She took Jacqui’s hands in hers. “Please enjoy yourself. If I can be of any help to you, do not hesitate to ask.”

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Hamilton,” Jacqui answered softly, feeling almost guilty over the small betrayal. Almost.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said instantly, when they were alone. “I don’t think I could have withstood an evening of idle chatter.”

  “So I assumed.” He looked across the room. “Actually, I see our host is deep in conversation right now. Why don’t I present you to a few of the other guests and we can find Hamilton later.”

  Following her father’s gaze, Jacqui could barely make out Secretary Hamilton’s profile and could see nothing of the men with whom he spoke. She nodded eagerly, and she and George strolled in the opposite direction.

  “All the guests appear to have arrived.” Alexander Hamilton spoke in low tones. “All but Thomas,” he added. “Will he come?”

  “I doubt it, Alexander,” Dane replied honestly. “He has been working every night, trying desperately to find a way to recoup some of his losses.” Seeing the pained look on Hamilton’s face, Dane broke off. He knew his friend felt deep regret, as well as a twinge of guilt, Over Thomas’s business losses. Thomas had served under Hamilton in the War for Independence, had fought beside the Secretary in his brilliant siege against Cornwallis at Yorktown, and Hamilton held a special fondness for Thomas. No amount of personal sentiment, however, would deter Hamilton from his call for higher import tariffs, for he believed them essential toward making America self-sufficient.

  Hamilton scanned the room. “I assume you were unsuccessful in convincing your mother to attend?”

  Dane’s jaw tightened. “You know she feels awkward attending parties without my father, Alexander. And, as it is highly unlikely that he shall ever stray from English soil, there is little hope for that situation to be remedied. In any case, she sends you her regards and her regrets.”

  Hamilton nodded his understanding and tactfully dropped the subject. “If we hope to accomplish our goal of unmasking Laffey, you will have little time to dance and less time to spend with but one lady, Dane. Therefore, I have arranged for lots not to be chosen pairing you with a partner for the evening. It will make it easier for you to circulate.” He gave Dane a meaningful look and concluded, “I hope the gathering proves fruitful.”

  Dane finished his Madeira and placed the empty glass on a passing tray. “There is only one way to find out, isn’t there?” With a self-assured smile, he strolled into the crowd.

  “Good evening, Westbrooke. Join us.” The greeting came from one of Hamilton’s congressional allies, Senator Rufus King of New York.

  “Gentlemen.” Dane walked over to the small group of politicians. He had known most of them for years now and was hard pressed to believe that any of them was, in fact, the man he sought. Still, no one was above suspicion.

  “We were just discussing Laffey’s latest column in the General Advertiser.” It was as if King had read Dane’s mind. “Rather scathing, was it not?”

  Keeping his expression carefully blank, Dane replied noncommitally. “No more so than any of his previous ones. I, myself, give very little credence to his ramblings. And I have to believe that many others share my opinion.”

  Six shrewd pairs of eyes studied Dane’s reaction. His close personal relationship with Hamilton was a well-known fact.

  “So you don’t believe there is a real threat of war with England?” Richard Hastings, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant, fired the question at Dane.

  Dane folded his arms across his broad chest. “Of course the threat exists. We are all well aware of it. However …”

  But Hastings wasn’t finished. “What if there should be war … does that present you with a conflict, Westbrooke?”

  Ice-gray eyes bored into the pudgy, middle-aged man. “I think it would be the worst thing for our very new, very war-weary country.”

  “True. But, should America falter, you still have your heritage and the titles and land that go with it awaiting you at home in England.”

  “Philadelphia is my home, Hastings.” Dane’s tone was deceptively quiet, masking a core of barely leashed anger. England and his noble heritage had been cast aside more than a decade ago. He had never looked back.

  Hastings saw the muscle flex in Dane’s jaw and abruptly dropped the conversation, sauntering off in pursuit of more Madeira.

  Dane turned back to the other men, feeling more than a little irritated. He was determined to find out what he could and then get the hell out of here. The party had, quite suddenly, lost all its appeal.

  Jacqui was downright disgusted.

  The only conversations she had been privy to thus far had been those of the prominent businessmen who were her father’s friends or competitors. And, since she already had a thorough understanding of the Holt Trading Company, she had no desire to listen to endless hours of praise regarding its profits.

  The alternative was even more disconcerting.

  Each time she strayed from her father’s side, she was immediately accosted by one of the ball’s available gentlemen and asked to dance. “Gentleman,” she quickly learned, was a complete misnomer, and “dancing” could be loosely defined as lewd and flirtatious advances under the guise of harmless frolicking about the room.

  “They would welcome a conflict between us and England, despite the rivers of blood still flowing from their own revolution. Nothing would please the French more than America allying with them against their common enemy, the British.”

  Jacqui’s ears perked up at the sweeping statement, which originated from a small cluster of pro-Federalists. Slowly, nonchalantly, she sidled over to their closed circle, stopping just near enough to hear what was being said, but not so near as to be observed.

  “That is a certainty.” Jacqui recognized the second voice as that of William Larson, a prestigious Philadelphia banker, who was avidly pro-English.
“Is it not, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Welcome seems a rather strong choice of words.” Alexander Hamilton spoke in measured tones, seeming to consider his answer carefully before he spoke. “I do not believe they would welcome additional bloodshed, regardless of the benefit to their cause. Every day ships from the Continent bring word of another series of beheadings on the Place de la Revolution. I would think that restoring order to their own country would be the priority of the French.”

  “I agree.” Jacqui saw her father join the group in time to respond to Hamilton’s cautiously worded reply. “But I cannot blame France for expecting our sympathy. After all, it is the English who—”

  “Hopefully,” Larson interrupted with a disgusted snort, “our government knows better than to align itself with the French.” He raised bushy brows, shaking his head adamantly from side to side. “We have nothing to gain from supporting a country whose own government is in shambles. We should be concentrating instead on strengthening our trade with England … a far more advantageous goal.”

  “Even in light of their seizing hundreds of American ships in the Caribbean?” George Holt sounded stunned.

  “Indeed,” agreed Horace Benson, a business associate of George’s and one who shared his more moderate political beliefs. “The English did flagrantly violate our neutrality. Why, over three hundred American ships and their cargoes have been taken!”

  “We need England,” Larson shot back. “We do not need France.”

  Jacqui stiffened.

  “The fact is,” Larson was continuing, “that England is doing what it must do in order to prevail. We must do the same. If that means making concessions to the English”— he shrugged—“then that is what it means.”

  Jacqui’s feet were carrying her forward, moving with a will of their own. She was just on the verge of exploding into a fierce verbal tirade when her father turned in her direction. Catching her eye, he gave her a warning scowl and a quick shake of his head. Although he said not a word, Jacqui could feel his thoughts as tangibly as if he had spoken them aloud. Do not create a scene, Jacqueline, his expression cautioned. Don’t even consider it.