Deadly Affairs

by Brenda Joyce

  "Well, at least he has not outlawed that," Rose said, her hands on her hips.

  "And he shall not," Daisy said softly but firmly. "You know I would never agree to that."

  Rose softened. She slipped her arm around Daisy's waist, and they leaned into each other's bodies. Francesca could not help but be both fascinated and disturbed; she looked away.

  "Perhaps the time will fly," Rose said, her gaze searching.

  "Perhaps," Daisy returned, and then she looked away.

  Rose dropped her arm. She gave Francesca an anguished look and strode over to the window, staring out of it, her back to everyone in the room. Francesca felt sorry for her. She did not think Daisy wished for her six-month arrangement to end anytime soon.

  And Francesca had seen the "house" where they had both been living and working, previous to Bragg's raid on the establishment and Daisy's relocation. Daisy had moved up in the world—Francesca was happy for her. She wondered where Rose was living. She hoped she was not back in Mrs. Pinke's employ.

  Daisy had ordered refreshments, and the manservant entered, wheeling a cart containing pastries and tea. Strolling behind him was Hart.

  Francesca stiffened. Hart, as usual, was very dashing in his black suit, dark tie, and snowy white shirt. The shirt made a stunning contrast to his swarthy skin. His strides were long and loose, his jacket carelessly open. Hart smiled at her, Francesca, first.

  She was oddly pleased.

  He then glanced at his mistress, walking over to Daisy. She seemed startled to see him. "Hello," he said. He did not kiss her or reach for her. He was a perfect gentleman. Francesca was impressed, but what had she expected? For him to embrace Daisy and kiss her in front of everyone?

  He faced Francesca. "This is a welcome surprise." He glanced at Joel, who seemed bored. "Hey there, Kennedy."

  Joel gave him a grudging look. He had been ogling both women with a boy's fascinated admiration.

  And then there was silence.

  Francesca looked from Rose, who had turned to the room, to Hart, who stared at her. Rose looked as if she wanted to claw his eyes out, while Hart seemed amused. "Hello, Rose," he said softly.

  "Hart."

  "I thought you vowed to never set foot in my new home?" His brows lifted and he seemed on the verge of laughing at her.

  "Miss Cahill persuaded me to call."

  "I see. Well, your resolve lasted all of three days." Now he was laughing.

  "Calder," Daisy protested.

  He ignored her. Rose erupted, "You are such a bastard. I don't know what she sees in you."

  "I think you do. Rather, I think you have. Seen what she sees in me."

  Francesca felt herself turn red.

  "How can you put up with his arrogance?" Rose demanded. "Six months is a lifetime! Daisy ..." she trailed off, but it was a plea.

  Daisy looked worriedly from the one to the other. She started toward Rose, but Hart seized her hand and stopped her in her tracks. "Do not think to make a scene, Rose. Not in my house," he said, and his words were soft and filled with warning.

  Rose smiled tightly at him. "You know what? I don't care how filthy rich you are! And you don't scare me, either, Hart." She was practically bristling.

  "Do you think to scare me?" Hart asked, mocking her.

  Rose looked as if she were about to leap on him. Daisy stepped forward. "Enough! We have guests, and I cannot abide the two of you fighting like this."

  Hart said, "Don't even think of trying to push me, Rose. I suggest you come to grips with the reality I have made. Otherwise I shall change the rules—and you will not be allowed in this house."

  Rose stared. Daisy looked at Hart with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  Francesca said briskly, "Joel and I must go. Daisy, I am so pleased to have seen you again." She could not believe Hart was being so coldhearted with Rose. She glanced at Rose. "Do you need a lift?" Not that she had a vehicle. But she knew it would be best if Rose left now. Besides, Hart had undoubtedly come to see his mistress for a reason. Francesca tried not to think too much about it, but it was impossible.

  "No," Rose said tersely. "But I have clearly overstayed my welcome."

  "Yes, you have," Hart agreed. He walked over to Francesca. "I shall walk you out." He smiled at her as if the hostile, tension-ridden exchange had not just occurred.

  Francesca walked over to Daisy. They clasped hands. Daisy tried to brighten, but her eyes were filled with anxiety and her smile fell flat. "Thank you so for calling," she said. "Please, call anytime."

  "I shall. Chin up," Francesca added softly. "I know everything will work out—I feel certain of it."

  "Do you think so?" Daisy spoke so softly now it was almost impossible to hear her. She seemed a bit relieved. "I hate seeing them argue this way."

  "I know. Rose needs time to adjust. Hart need a smack on the hand." She glanced at him.

  He grinned at her.

  Impulsively Francesca gave Daisy a brief hug. She did not want to add that she thought Daisy deserved the life Hart had suddenly given her—for now. But it was probably too much to hope that one day Daisy and Rose would become honest and genteel women. Francesca wished she knew the story behind them both.

  Hart took her arm, and with Joel in tow, they left the two women in the salon. "So, what are you and your little partner in crime-solving up to these days?" His eyes were warm as they slid over her features slowly, lingering a bit on her eyes.

  Francesca could not help but return his smile, warming. "We are on a case, actually. Not one, but two." Her smile increased.

  His eyes widened. "I was actually hoping you were merely in this neighborhood for a social call. What kind of case?"

  She hesitated. "One is routine. One is quite ... shocking."

  He halted, facing her. "I hope you are not involved in something dangerous."

  Francesca smiled sweetly. "It is dangerous, but I am equipped."

  He eyed her. "What does 'equipped' mean? I do not like the sound of that!"

  Francesca hesitated, then opened her purse and showed him the gun.

  "What the hell is that!" he exclaimed.

  She snapped the clutch closed. "It is a gun."

  He grabbed the purse and opened it, ignoring her sound of protest. He pulled out the gun. "This is a gun!"

  "It is for self-protection." She tried to take the gun from him, but he did not let her do so.

  He stared at her as if she were some creature come down from the moon or Mars. "Francesca, this is too much. I must insist that you get rid of the gun."

  "Absolutely not. May I have my purse—and gun—back please?"

  "Having a gun will only get you in trouble." His gaze narrowed. "Does Bragg know about this?"

  "He does not. And do not think to tell him," she huffed, becoming angry. "My purse, Hart. My gun."

  He handed her the purse and snapped open the gun. Relief filled his features. "It's not loaded," he said. He smiled and handed the gun to her.

  Francesca blinked. In her excitement, she had forgotten to load the gun. Not only that; she had forgotten to buy bullets. How could she have been so foolish?

  "Still," Hart said, "even unloaded, you should not carry this about. Guns are dangerous—provocative and lethal. I insist you get rid of it."

  She closed the purse and snapped, "Excuse me; you cannot insist upon anything."

  His eyes glinted. "Oh, no?"

  She grew uneasy. "Would you betray our friendship by going to Bragg?"

  "Yes."

  "You are unscrupulous!"

  "I am."

  There was absolutely nothing to say to that. She could only stare.

  He softened and chucked her chin. "Dear, don't you understand? If you ever really needed a weapon, that toy would not serve you."

  "I am not asking your advice." She turned her back on him. "Joel? We are running late. Let's go."

  Hart chuckled and grasped her arm and pulled her back around. "Francesca, someone has to curb your appetites. That
is quite obvious."

  She had no choice but to face him, so she eyed him warily. "That one shall not be you. Besides, your hands are full now—aren't they?"

  His own dark eyes sparkled. "Oh ho. So someone wishes to comment on my personal life?"

  She fisted her hands on her hips. "Yes, I do. You have the charm of a mad bull! I insist that you treat Rose with compassion. Do you have to be so unkind to her?"

  He smiled at her. It was feral. But he did not speak.

  She grew uneasy. "I do not like the way you are looking at me."

  "Rose is having a temper tantrum, or rather a series of them, because I do not share what is mine."

  Comprehension began. She flushed.

  "And if Daisy is living in my house, and provided for lavishly by me, it is my right to insist upon a certain amount of loyalty."

  Was he saying what she thought he was? "Surely Rose is not angry because you have ..." She faltered. "Because you have ..." She could not complete her thought.

  "Yes. Daisy is now exclusively mine, and if Rose lays even a finger on her, I shall toss Daisy out."

  Francesca stared. "You are so cold!"

  "Am I? I don't think so. Daisy and I have made an arrangement. She is costing me dearly; in return, I expect her undivided attentions."

  Francesca flushed again. "This is not about... love-making. I think it is about love."

  "How naive you are," he laughed.

  "No, how jaded you are. It is about love," Francesca said firmly.

  He cupped her cheek. "My dear, it is about sex."

  She pulled away. No one uttered such a word in any kind of circle! "Hart, love exists. Rose loves Daisy. She is afraid that Daisy will fall in love with you, and that she will lose her."

  He laughed again. "Rose is horny. She is horny for my mistress, and it is as simple as that."

  Francesca knew their conversation was not seemly, but she was in shock at his cynical attitude. "Is that what you really think?"

  "Yes."

  "I feel sorry for you, Hart."

  His smile vanished. He became thoughtful. "You know, I envy you your romanticism, but I fear for the day your sweet naiveté comes crumbling down, all around you."

  "There is good in the world, Hart, good and love," she tried. She touched him lightly.

  He shook his head. "There is lust, my dear. Lust is all. Lust for wealth, power, position, prestige ... for sex, drink, food, possessions. And for vengeance. Lust, Francesca. That is what this world is about. Lust is what mankind is about."

  She shook her head. "No. No. You are a terrible cynic."

  He shrugged. "And you are a romantic. A delightful one, but I do fear for you." He smiled again. "So, is there anything else you wish to insist upon?"

  She smiled back, even though she remained shaken— because he was wrong, she was certain. "I insist you do not tell Bragg about my gun."

  He guided her toward the door. "Francesca, I will tell him as soon as I have the chance. There is no doubt in my mind that a young lady with your penchant for trouble should not be carrying a weapon."

  She was dismayed. At the door she faced him. "Fine. Betray our friendship."

  He hesitated. "Is that what you think my telling Bragg about the gun would be? A betrayal?"

  "Yes, Calder, it would be a betrayal."

  His jaw flexed and he sighed, looking up over her head, toward the ceiling.

  She was surprised. Would he be so easy to maneuver? She started to smile in delight, then quickly rearranged her expression.

  He looked at her unhappily. "Very well. Promise me you will hide the gun at home. I will keep this to myself. It shall be our secret."

  She really did not want to lie to him, but he was being so unreasonable now. "Fine." She extended her hand. "Do we have an agreement?"

  He took her hand and kissed the back, and as it was not an air kiss, she actually felt the pressure of his lips on her skin. She shivered, taken by surprise.

  "Agreed," he said.

  EIGHT

  Saturday, February 8, 1902—7:00 P.M.

  "Do you want a drink?" Bragg asked.

  The lobby was becoming crowded. Francesca stepped closer to Bragg. It was hard not to stare. He was devastating in his white dinner jacket, as it contrasted so boldly with his golden skin and hair. There was satin piping along the seams of his black trousers, and he wore a dark signet ring. "A sherry would be wonderful," she said. She was hoping that she appeared far more calm than she actually was.

  There were butterflies in her belly. She had felt like a schoolgirl waiting for a date to the Saturday night church dance earlier, while waiting for him to arrive to take her to the theater. Fortunately, Andrew and Julia had left for the evening earlier, so there had been no one about but servants to see Francesca check her appearance repeatedly in the hall mirrors.

  She and Bragg had agreed to wait in the lobby for the others before taking their seats. Evan had gone to pick up Sarah and her cousin, dutifully and not very happily. Francesca had not made him promise to be a gentleman, as she knew his manners would be impeccable no matter how disinterested he was in the evening and his fiancée.

  She watched Bragg lean across the long gleaming oak bar, where several theatergoers were sipping glasses of wine or cocktails. She could not help comparing him to his half brother. In some ways, they were so similar: the swarthy skin, the air of authority and power, the blatant masculinity. But in other ways, they were as different as night and day, with Hart most definitely the night, with his dark hair and even darker world view. She was relieved that Bragg was an optimist. She would feel quite differently about him if he were not.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her and caught her staring. She flushed.

  He did not smile. His gaze was dark and intense.

  She could not help thinking about the end of the evening, when he would bring her home. Francesca turned away, imagining herself in his arms as he kissed her. She knew she should try not to think of it, because she was probably going to be sorely disappointed—he would cling to virtue and leave her untouched. She was certain.

  She sighed.

  He handed her a glass of sherry. "What is wrong?"

  She managed a smile. "Nothing. I am glad you are an optimist, Bragg."

  He was amused. "What has brought this on?"

  "I don't know. But without hope, there is not much left to live for."

  "You are wise beyond your years, Francesca," he said. "And you are right."

  She was pleased.

  He hesitated, then said, "I cannot get used to seeing you like this—even though we first met at a ball."

  Francesca smiled, as his gaze skimmed from her face to her décolletage. She had dressed with real care for the occasion—she had never dressed to attract a man before. Her pale pink gown had tiny, useless straps, a fitted bodice that left a large expanse of her chest bare, an empire waist, and it flowed in gentle pleats about her beaded pink shoes. The color did amazing things to her complexion, and she had lightly rouged her lips.

  She could not even recall what she had been wearing the night they had met—then, as usual, she had been oblivious to her appearance. "Do you like my dress?" she could not help asking, far too boldly—as she looked him right in the eye as she spoke.

  "Very much," he said.

  She smiled, leaning closer, her back touching the rim of the bar. "Thank you, Bragg," she said very softly.

  He hesitated, his gaze so intent that her pulse quickened, but he only said lightly, "So how goes it with your parents?"

  It was hard to think clearly. The lobby was becoming full now, as patrons continued to enter. This gave her the perfect excuse to sidle closer to him, and their hips brushed. Francesca knew she should chastise herself, but the evening already felt magical and almost perfect. The only thing that would be better was if she had not seen that blasted envelope from his wife on his floor.

  She wondered if she should ask him about it.

  She was afrai
d to.

  "Francesca?"

  She started. "I am sorry. What?"

  "I asked about your parents. You seem preoccupied. Is something wrong?"

  "No. They are fine. I am on my best behavior."

  His mouth quirked. "I find that hard to believe."

  "It is no easy task," she said. Then, recalling Julia's latest scheme, and interested in his reaction, she said, "Mama is thinking to match me up with Hart."

  He choked on his scotch. "I hope that is a joke!" His eyes were wide with astonishment.

  She met his golden gaze. She knew she had just done a terrible thing. She should not encourage any rivalry between the two brothers. What had possessed her to say such a thing—even if it was somewhat true? "Unfortunately, it is not. Never mind that she is fully aware of his reputation with women. If worse comes to worst, I might tell her that he is chasing after my sister."

  Bragg set his glass aside on the bar, taking a napkin to wipe his hands. "Should I have a long talk with Andrew?" he asked grimly. "I can think of no worse match for you. I should not be able to allow it."

  Their gazes locked. A long moment passed. Of course, Hart was never going to approach her with marriage in mind, so the point was terribly moot-. Still, Bragg would not allow it, she knew. "Would you do that for me?" she asked, aware of being a bit coy.

  "Of course I would. Even though I should not worry, as Hart has no intention of marrying anyone." Suddenly he stopped, staring at her closely. "Are you trying to provoke me?"

  She felt her eyes widen with false innocence. "Of course not!"

  He leaned against the bar, folding his arms across his chest. "You need only ask, Francesca," he said softly, and somehow the words felt dangerous, "if I should be jealous. And my answer would be yes."

  A thrill swept over her. She looked quickly away, before he might see how pleased she was. "I hardly thought you would be jealous of Hart, Bragg," she fibbed.

  He did not comment.

  She took a deep, calming breath. "In any case, he has taken Daisy Jones for his mistress, so he is quite occupied now. We do not have to worry about Mama's hopes and dreams." She suddenly smiled. Hart would laugh uproariously, she knew, if ever told of Julia's interest. "I called on her. He happened by while we were there. He bought a huge house for her, Bragg."