by Brenda Joyce
Her husband had bought her a book? Francesca sensed that Lydia was the kind of woman who would prefer jewels from Tiffany's or French lingerie.
She wondered what kind of book it was.
"This volume was edited by a friend of mine who works at Harper's Weekly. Lydia loves poetry. Don't you, dear?" Lincoln looked from Francesca to his wife.
Francesca stiffened with surprise. Lincoln was giving his wife a collection of poems? Of course, it meant nothing. It was a coincidence, and not at all related to the threatening poem she had received last night.
Lydia clasped the book, appearing pale now, but with what emotion? Francesca could have sworn it was fright. "You have taught me so much," she whispered.
Lincoln seemed very pleased, and he turned to Francesca, his gaze sliding over her frankly. But he did not speak.
Francesca found her voice. "What a wonderful gift," she said. But she was filled with tension now, for nothing felt right in that room, nothing at all. Or was she imagining the hint of danger in the air? "I think I shall go, actually. As you are here to spend the afternoon with your wife." She smiled at Lincoln. She realized that his pale blue eyes had been unwavering upon her for some time.
"Am I chasing you away?" he asked, walking with her to the door. "That was not my intention."
"Oh, no," she tried to reassure him. She smiled at Lydia. "Shall we lunch tomorrow? Or drive in the park?"
Lydia nodded, but she was clearly speechless now, and she said not a word.
"Henry, please escort Miss Cahill out!" Lincoln called. He smiled at Francesca one last time as a manservant appeared, and then he returned to the salon where his wife stood motionless in the center of the room, closing the door behind him.
For one moment Francesca did not move, her mind spinning wildly. She tried to stop her nearly hysterical thoughts. It was a coincidence that Lincoln Stuart was giving his wife a book of poems.
But now she wished to read some of those poems.
Francesca was escorted across the hall and handed her coat. She wondered if she should have asked Lydia if she had ever met Lizzie O'Brien while in Philadelphia. But the odds of that were astronomically low.
Jennings was waiting for her outside. Previously, when Francesca had arrived, the curb had been empty. Now a handsome carriage with a chestnut mare was parked beside the Cahill brougham. It was terribly familiar.
Francesca stared.
And a servant in tan trousers and a long black jacket appeared from the other side of the coach. Francesca did not move. It seared her mind that this coach and driver was the same vehicle and man she had seen outside St Mary's just a few hours ago.
An image of the mysterious woman in navy blue, hurrying past her and Maggie Kennedy, her head down, filled Francesca's astonished mind.
An image of Lydia, standing frozen in the parlor in a pale yellow-and-white dress, followed.
Lydia had been at Mary O'Shaunessy's funeral.
Francesca was almost certain. She ran over to the driver. "Wait! Young man! I must speak with you!"
He was standing with his hands in his coat pockets, clearly waiting for his master or mistress to appear. He seemed startled. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Who do you work for?"
His confusion increased. "Mr. Stuart. Do you mind me asking why?"
She wet her lips, feeling frantic. "Did you take Mrs. Stuart to the funeral at St. Mary's earlier today?"
He seemed to square his shoulders. His complexion was already impossibly fair, so it was hard to tell if he blanched or not. "I beg your pardon?" he said.
"I must know if Mrs. Stuart was at that funeral!" Francesca cried.
He hesitated. His gaze went to a point past Francesca— to a point that was behind her.
She turned.
Lincoln Stuart stood on the front steps of the house. "Tom!" he called. "You can put the coach away. We won't be needing it until tonight."
"Yes, sir," the driver said, instantly taking the mare by the bridle to lead her away.
And across the distance separating them, a distance of twenty feet, no more, as the house had no grounds and no yard, Francesca locked gazes with Lincoln Stuart.
"May I help you?" he asked, his stare unwavering.
She shook her head and hurried to her own carriage.
It simply made no sense. Why would Lydia have gone to Mary O'Shaunessy's funeral?
Her husband had given her a book of poems.
What if her husband had been the one to go to the funeral?
But a woman in navy blue had gotten into the coach. Could it have been someone else? Could someone have borrowed the Stuart coach? Could Rebecca Hopper have borrowed the coach? Had Stuart been in the coach when the woman had gotten into it?
Lydia had said she had been home all day with a migraine. Still, she was small and slim, just like the woman in navy blue.
And Francesca finally realized what so bothered her about Lincoln Stuart. His eyes were so thoroughly dispassionate.
"What are you doing now, Francesca?"
Francesca started at the sound of her mother's voice. She had been so preoccupied that she couldn't even recall leaving the carriage and entering the house. But she still had her coat, hat, and gloves on.
"You are standing there like a statue," Julia said with some concern. She peered closely at her daughter.
Francesca forced herself to think about her current predicament. "Has Evan spoken to you?"
Julia smiled, not particularly pleasantly, and she put her hands on her trim hips. She was wearing a moss green silk jacket and a matching skirt. "Do you mean has he mentioned that you have a guest—a seamstress with four children? He gave me an absurd story, Francesca, that you have ordered a vast wardrobe and she will be staying here until it is completed." Her expression indicated that she did not believe a word and that she was waiting for the truth.
Francesca sighed. She was simply too stunned to lie. She handed a servant her coat and gloves. "Mama, Maggie Kennedy's two best friends were brutally murdered. We are afraid for her life."
Julia paled. "I thought you had promised to give up sleuthing!"
"And I meant it. And then Maggie came to me begging me to help her find the madman who killed Mary and, as it turned out, her other dear friend, Kathleen."
Julia looked around and Francesca realized she wished to sit. She was definitely pale. "Mama? Are you all right?"
"No, I do believe my heart has stopped."
Francesca reached for her arm, but Julia shook it off. She entered the closest room, the largest of the three salons on the hall, and sat down in the nearest chair. She picked up a delicate silver ashtray and used it to fan herself.
"We believe Maggie may be the madman's next target," Francesca said. "I offered her our hospitality."
"I think I preferred it when you were consoling prisoners on Blackman's Island. This is too much, Francesca."
Francesca sat down beside her. "She is a good woman, Mama. One who is grief-stricken. With four small children who depend upon her—"
"One of whom stole all of our silver," Julia snapped, referring to an incident a few weeks ago when the Cahill silver had gone missing. "They cannot stay here. What if the killer steals into our house? What if he harms someone in this family?"
"Mama, please," Francesca said. She decided she would kill her brother for not representing their case in a more efficacious manner. "And Joel did not steal anything from us. Someone who works for us is a crook, Mama. I haven't had a chance to think about it, but shortly I shall set a trap for the thief."
Julia cast her eyes to heaven and shook both her hands in the very same direction.
"Mama, if you send Maggie and her children back to their flat, she might wind up dead!" Francesca pleaded.
"Do not make me seem heartless," Julia snapped. "I am more concerned about your welfare, Francesca. It is you I do not want in danger."
Francesca hesitated. "What if I promise to at least entertain whomever you choose as a sui
tor?"
Julia sat up. "What?"
God, she was playing her trump card. And her heart was pounding, hard. "Mama, if you let Maggie and her children stay with us until the Cross Murderer is found, I will politely receive the suitor of your choice." And inwardly she winced. But she could deal with the likes of Richard Wiley, at least for a while. He would be easy to manipulate and forestall. "I do believe you ran into Mr. Wiley the other day?" She smiled brightly.
Julia's blue gaze was narrowed. She stared.
"Mama?"
"You are very motivated, Francesca," Julia remarked.
Francesca was instantly uneasy. Was she making a mistake? She had never won any battle, surreptitious or otherwise, against her mother. Julia was far cleverer than she was. She swallowed. "Yes, I am."
"Very well. Then Mrs. Kennedy and the children may stay. And you shall receive the suitor of my choice."
"Yes," Francesca said, more uneasy now than before. "So, will you be inviting Mr. Wiley for supper?"
Julia stood. "Actually, I shall not." She was smiling.
Francesca did not care for her expression.
Julia said, "I forgot to mention that you have a caller in the next room. And I do believe I shall invite him to supper, Francesca. Say, on Sunday?"
She stared into her mother's eyes and Julia did not look away. She had a very bad feeling, oh yes. "Who is it?" she asked with fear.
"Calder Hart," Julia said.
He was making no effort to hide his impatience; when Francesca paused on the threshold of the small gold salon where he was waiting, he was pacing the room restlessly and glancing at his watch. The moment she halted in the doorway, he either heard or sensed her, for he turned. He smiled, but she did not.
As always, Hart wore a pitch-black suit and snowy white shirt, his vest and tie almost black. As always, his presence was stunning—Francesca was even aware of feeling jolted by it. They stared at each other and his smile disappeared.
He strode forward. "Hello, Francesca." He paused before her, not taking her hand.
"Calder," she managed stiffly. She could murder her mother for this. Hart would not be easy to manipulate; however, he was not interested in being a suitor, so maybe she was off the hook.
"I see you have been pining away for my company," he remarked with a flash of white teeth that was not a smile. Francesca did not smile in return. "What is wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing." Now she forced her lips into a smile. "This is unexpected. Do sit down. Can I offer you refreshments?" Too late, she saw a coffee cup and pot on a small table, but clearly nothing had been touched.
"No, you may not," he said, his jaw tensing. "Where have you been? I saw your carriage drive up fifteen minutes ago."
"I have been battling Mama," Francesca said tartly, walking away from him. Her back was to him now. She could feel his gaze upon it.
"Need you take this out on me?" he asked.
She half-turned. "Hart, Mama wants to make a match. That is, you and me." Now she smiled. "Is that not absurd?"
For one moment he did not smile. "I hate to tell you this, Francesca, but most mothers in this city have set their caps on me for their daughters at one time or another. I happen to be considered an ultimate catch."
"Hart! I am not the usual debutante and you know it." She looked at him with sudden unease. "Why aren't you laughing?"
"I am trying to fathom that myself. I suppose you find me a ridiculous prospect because I do not have the virtue that my half brother has?" One brow slashed upward.
She stared, incredulous. "What are we discussing? You are not here to court me!"
"I do not court, period," he said, relaxing visibly. "I am not interested in marriage, and I am happy to set your mother straight."
Francesca blinked at him and realized that she was, most definitely, off the hook.
"Why does that make you so happy?" he asked suspiciously.
"Do not tell Mama this! And please, come to supper when she invites you!" Francesca flew to him and grabbed both his hands. "I beg you, as I have agreed to let her choose a suitor for me and she has chosen you. But being as you are not interested in matrimony, this shall work out perfectly, oh yes!" She was now exultant.
He held her hands and his dark gaze moved slowly over her face. "I suppose I could play along with this. What is in it for me?"
She stiffened, but he did not release her hands, so she failed to pull away. "I do not understand."
He smiled. It was crooked, dangerous, and unsettling. "Come, Francesca. Surely there is something in this for me?"
"We are friends," she said, disbelieving. "Friends do favors for each other without adding a price."
"But I am not like other men. I like price tags." He grinned. "I shall have to consider this carefully. I am sure there is something I might wish to have from you." His smile widened.
She yanked her hands away. "If we were not friends, I would almost think you to be preying upon me the way you prey upon all women!"
His smile slowly faded.
"Hart?"
Finally he said, with no trace of amusement, "Francesca, I never prey upon innocents, so, unfortunately, as intriguing as you are, you are not in the game."
She blinked. It took her a moment to comprehend him.
"I see. So that is why married women—and prostitutes— are your specialty?"
His mouth quirked. She was annoyed now but had failed to annoy him. "Yes."
"You don't even deny it."
"I enjoy life, Francesca. I enjoy wealth, art, and women, in that order."
"Your wealth comes first?" she gasped, repulsed yet fascinated.
"Were I still a poor man, if I resided in a tenement, loading sacks onto a freighter for a living, I would not have beauty in my life, now would I? Of any kind?"
He was right. He would not have a world-renowned art collection, and the women he slept with would hardly be in the category of Daisy Jones or Bartolla Benevente. Or Connie. "On that note, I want you to leave my sister alone."
"Oh, really?" He was amused. His eyes were dancing.
"Yes, really. I find it intolerable—disgusting—that you pursue her for one reason and one reason only: to get her into your bed." She felt the fury then.
He stared at her without speaking.
Francesca became uncomfortable.
He said, "I shall think about ceasing and desisting."
She had not expected that answer from him. "What is there to think about? I love Connie. She is very troubled right now—and very vulnerable. I am asking you not to destroy her marriage, her happiness, or her! If we are really friends, then you will leave her alone."
"Done," he said.
She could only stare, and after a long moment, she said, "Done? Like that?"
He cupped her cheek. "Yes, done, like that. Our friendship is more important to me than a few nights in your sister's bed. Besides, I suspect it would be difficult to entice her there in the first place. I don't like to work too hard," he added with a cheeky grin.
Francesca was flooded with relief. She clasped his hand, then realized what she was doing and released it, but his palm lingered another moment on her cheek. She moved back, saying hoarsely, "Thank you, Calder. Thank you."
He shook his head, studying her, his gaze unwavering, the smile and mirth gone.
Now she was uncomfortable. "Calder? So what brings you here?"
"You."
She felt herself flush. "Please."
"It is true." He raked his hand through his thick dark hair, which was fashionably cut but not center-parted. In a way, with that dark curly hair, the straight, strong nose, the achingly high cheekbones, the firm mouth and cleft chin, he resembled a Greek or Roman god, straight out of classical mythology. Of course, there was nothing godlike, or immortal, about him. She watched him wander about the room, pausing before a rather boring portrait of three children and a spaniel. She could see he was not interested in it. There was just no escaping the fact that he was a
n extremely interesting man—perhaps because he was so complicated, perhaps because he was not all bad.
He faced her. "I was surprised to find Rick squiring you about town on Saturday night."
She started. "It was a wager," she said. "I lost, and he still took me to the theater and dinner." She smiled now as she spoke.
"You are still in love, aren't you?"
She tensed. During the investigation of his father's murder, Hart had quickly realized the feelings Francesca and his half brother shared.
"Calder, I am not a woman who loves one day and then not the next."
It was a long moment before he spoke, during which his intense regard caused her to flush. "Francesca, he is married. It was one thing for you to become infatuated before he told you he had a wife. It is another to remain so now. I must disapprove."
"I beg your pardon, but it is not your place to approve or disapprove."
"Oh, so the two of you, the two most impossibly virtuous people in this city, think it is all right to lust for one another while his wife comforts her family in Boston?"
The anger was instantaneous. "You are the last person to judge us!" she cried, pacing to him.
"I agree, but it is a free country, and my opinions are my own. What the hell is the matter with him? My brother is always on the highest moral ground." He seemed angry. "You I understand. You are young, you have never looked at a man before, so you think this is true love or some such thing. It is not, by the way."
She was furious. "How would you know? You do not even believe in love at all!"
He laughed at her. "That is why I know. It is lust, not love, that you are feeling. Tell me, how many times has he kissed and touched you?"
She wanted to slap him. She began to lift her hand and it was instinctive, but then she realized what she was doing and was horrified. He caught her wrist anyway, forestalling her.
"That is uncalled for."
She jerked her arm free of his grip. "Yes, it is, but so are your unsolicited comments."
"If you will not stay away from him, he should stay away from you." His eyes were dark and cool.
"Are you now my champion?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh, please."
