Masque of Betrayal Read Online Free PDF Page A

bone.
    “Would you like my coat?”
    The low-pitched masculine voice brought her up short.
    “No,” she retorted without turning around. “I would not like your coat. Nor your company.”
    He chuckled. “There are many who find my company quite pleasant. But, be that as it may, you should not be out here alone at night. It isn’t safe for a lady.”
    “Oh really?” She spun about to face him. “Just what makes you think that I am a lady?”
    Dane’s silver gaze smoldered, taking in her expensive clothing and jewelry, then lingered on the expanse of creamy skin above her bodice. “Your appearance tells me so.”
    “Appearances are often deceiving,” she countered.
    “So they are,” he agreed in a husky voice. “Very well then, if you are not as you appear to be …” Without warning, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against the fragrant pulse at her throat.
    Jacqui wrenched away, drew back her hand, and slapped him resoundingly across the face. “You lecher! If the streets are unsafe for ladies such as myself, it is because gentlemen such as you make them that way!” With all the regality of a queen, she raised her chin, lifted her skirts, and swept past him. The tavern door slammed shut behind her.
    Dane rubbed the smarting edge of his jaw, reeling from the impact of her blow. He was stunned by his own impulsive actions. Whatever had possessed him to take such outrageous liberties with an obviously well-bred young lady? He considered the question with bewildered amusement. Well-bred, yes, but unlike any young lady he’d ever met. Forthright, independent, and disturbingly immune to his charm. All of which added up to one thing: a challenge. Something Dane Westbrooke could never resist.
    Grinning roguishly, Dane reentered the tavern and headed for the stairs. It was time to discover the identity of both his quarries: the elusive Jack Laffey and the equally mysterious little spitfire with the face of an angel and the tongue of a shrew.
    In the Long Room entranceway, he scanned the crowd, admitting to himself that it was not Laffey he sought but his rare and evasive hellion.
    There was no sign of her. Undaunted, Dane made his way among the guests, never pausing in his search. Finally, he caught a fleeting glimpse of lilac and eagerly went in pursuit.
    He was but an arm’s length from his destination when he was waylaid by William Larson, who was, by this time, so intoxicated that he could barely stand. “Westbrooke! Where’ve y’been?” he demanded, grabbing Dane’s arm. “We needed your opinion … ’specially if we’re going to war like Laffey says.”
    Dane winced, seeing the flash of lilac disappear into the crowd. He wanted nothing more than to shake his arm free and sprint after her, but the name Laffey reverberated in his mind like a discordant note. He had a job to do … one he had promised Alexander would get done tonight.
    He inhaled deeply. “I was out getting some air, Larson. What did you say about Laffey?”
    Magically, a group of curious men materialized around Dane.
    “We were discussing Laffey’s assessment of the English, Westbrooke,” Dr. Lawrence Harigan informed him. “And whether he’s right that their treatment of our ships will result in a war.”
    “It is a grave possibility,” Dane returned candidly, looking from one face to the next, seeing everything from complete approval to wary skepticism. “One we had best pray we can avoid. Our country is not prepared to defend itself against the English. Nor are we able to do without her trade. Thus our course is obvious. We must find a peaceful resolution to this problem.”
    “This problem, as you describe it,” Paul Jabot, who was of French descent, argued, “involves blatant, unprovoked aggression on the part of the English. Is it not enough that they are at war with France, representing, yet again, a threat to liberty? Do we lack the courage to stand up for what is right? After all, the French—”
    “Have