by Brenda Joyce
"Francesca, no good can possibly come of your telling yourself that you are in love with my brother. He will never leave or divorce his wife. And while he might take a mistress here and there, he will never ruin you. Of that I have no doubt."
She stepped back. His words were a blow, no, the stabbing of a knife in her most vital organs. "What?"
"He will never ruin you, but your—"
"No! He has a mistress!" Calder's face seemed to be blurring now. Was she going to faint?
"I don't think so. Are you all right?" he asked, coming back into focus.
She realized that he was gripping her arm and she was leaning upon him. "What do you mean?" she cried. "Is there another woman?"
"For God's sake, I feel certain there is not, not now. But do you think my brother, who is a man, would be celibate for four years? Obviously he has had women since his wife abandoned him, Francesca."
Francesca had not thought about it. She tore free of Hart and fell onto the sofa, only to realize that she was shaking. She held her face in her hands.
Of course Hart had to be right.
Of course there had been women—or a woman—since Leigh Anne.
Had there also been love?
Francesca could not imagine Bragg being with a woman whom he did not love.
"Jesus Christ," Hart said, and she felt him staring at her.
"I must ask him about this!" she cried defiantly, looking up.
"I did not mean to upset you." He sat down beside her; she moved to the other end of the sofa. He sighed. "The man you think you love is a man, Francesca, and all men need a woman from time to time. That is a fact of life."
She faced him. "But he doesn't have a mistress now?"
"How could he? He is in the public eye."
"Have you ever met anyone he was with ... that way?"
Hart folded his arms across his broad chest, his face closing. "You had better ask him these questions, Francesca."
"You have!" she cried. She stood. "Why reluctant to talk now? You were happy to tell me on Saturday that his wife is just two states away!"
He stood slowly. "You seemed so happy. I thought a reminder of the facts was in order."
"No, you are exactly as Bragg has described! You were a troublesome boy, and now you are a troublesome—and dangerous—man!"
He stared, and he flushed.
Francesca felt that she had gone too far—she saw the withdrawal in his eyes. "Hart, I am sorry."
"Clearly it is time for me to go."
"No." She caught his elbow. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Why not? It is a free country. You clearly find me troublesome. And I thought you enjoyed our friendship," he added coldly.
"I do." She meant her every word. Panic seemed to fill her now.
"I do not think so. You are obsessed with Rick. Good luck, Francesca. Perhaps you will get what you are wishing for. Perhaps I am wrong to think of protecting you from ruin and what can only become shame. A night or two in his bed will surely cool you off."
This time she slapped him.
Directly across the face.
It was pure instinct.
Hart walked out.
It was almost ten. Francesca had left the supper table a half an hour ago, pleading fatigue. But she was so distressed that she knew that everyone at the table had been aware of her state of mind; somehow Evan and her father had held up the conversation, with Julia regarding her thoughtfully and Francesca staring at her plate. Francesca, upon leaving the table with her family sitting there taking dessert, had simply walked into the foyer, asked for her coat, and walked out of the house.
The cab she had hired left her standing on the curb in front of Bragg's house. No lights illuminated the upper windows, but a light was on in the window facing the street and Madison Park. That window belonged to the dining room.
She reminded herself now that he did not have a mistress, that he loved her, and that Hart enjoyed causing trouble.
She was sorry Hart had bothered to call; even now, she was far more disturbed and dismayed than she had any right to be.
Francesca walked up the short concrete path to Bragg's front steps, two or more inches of new soft snow underfoot. She used the doorbell.
Peter answered the door, but not immediately. In fact, several minutes passed while she waited, and when he did open the door, the big man was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt stained with what looked like tomato sauce. Francesca wondered what had happened.
"Miss Cahill." He let her in, evincing no surprise at seeing her at such an hour.
"Surely Bragg is about?" she asked, slipping off her coat.
"He is in the study." Peter draped her mink-lined cashmere coat over his arm, leading the way to the study. He rapped softly upon the door before opening it. "Miss Cahill, sir."
Francesca entered and Peter left. Bragg was standing in front of the fireplace, where a fire crackled brightly. He'd had one hand on the wood mantel above it, which was now covered with a dozen family photographs. Francesca wondered if he had a picture of his wife somewhere, tucked away, one that would raise bittersweet memories. As he turned, his hand dropped to his side. "Francesca?"
It was hard not to run into his arms. "I had to come over," she said.
He moved swiftly to her, taking her by her shoulders. "Has something else happened?" he demanded.
"No, not really. I do have some information that is odd, though, and I thought you should know." She avoided his gaze. The truth was, it made sense that he had involved himself with someone when his wife left him. He was too passionate and too virile a man to be alone for very long. Still, she wished Hart had not stirred up this particular hornets' nest for her.
"What information?" he asked, his eyes moving slowly over her face.
Her heart skipped in response. The study was in shadow, except for where they stood, bathed in the fire's glow and heat. "I had an odd encounter with my client, Lydia Stuart." Francesca realized her tone was husky. She could not shake off her distress, and perhaps it was jealousy. She felt oddly confused. "Bragg, her coach was at Mary O'Shaunessy's funeral. And perhaps she or her husband was there as well."
"What?" he exclaimed.
Francesca told him about the woman in navy blue and then told him about Stuart's gift of poems, watching him closely.
He was very surprised. "Well. This would be a most unusual turn, if your client, or her husband, was somehow involved. Tomorrow I shall pay them both a casual call."
"I think you should. They moved here from Philadelphia, Bragg. Perhaps they know Lizzie O'Brien?"
"That would be a long shot. And I think the gift of poems is a coincidence," Bragg added thoughtfully. "But it is certainly worth checking out. But why did she—or he, or a friend—attend Mary's funeral? That is the crucial question."
"I agree." She grimaced as she studied his face, her heart aching now. "And I am not mistaken, for their driver is a young man that I recognized from the funeral immediately."
"Well, we finally found Mike O'Donnell and Sam Carter. They are both in the hold. I spent an hour with each of them earlier," he told her.
"And ... ?" she asked eagerly, instantly diverted from all that had happened and been said with Hart a few hours ago. This was good news!
"Well, if O'Donnell hated his wife and sister, he is very good at hiding it. Carter is the one filled with anger—and he is open about it. But he did not know Mary, as it turns out, and he does not know Maggie Kennedy. Or so he claims. I believe him."
"Did you ask Mike about Maggie?" Francesca had to ask.
"He spoke very highly of her. The man is coming across as a God-fearing saint."
She touched his sleeve. "Perhaps God-fearing is the operative word here. But we have both met him—he is no saint."
"He is definitely no saint. Francesca? You are trying to hide your feelings from me. What has happened?"
She hesitated and looked away. "I am very worried about Maggie. I want this case solved." And that was the truth, bu
t only a part of it.
"So do I." He slid his hand over her shoulder. "There is more." It was not a question.
She glanced up. "It's just..." She was too proud to ask him about his personal life. It was so highly inappropriate. Besides, whatever it was, it was in the past. Of that she had no doubt.
"It's just what?"
She shook her head, then muttered, "Your blasted brother came calling, and he annoyed me no end."
He dropped his hand abruptly. "He cannot stay away from you, it seems."
"I doubt that," she said.
"What did he want?"
She hesitated. "He wanted to know why we were dining together Saturday night."
Bragg looked at her and then turned away to face the fire.
She touched his back. It was a rock-hard slab of muscle beneath her fingertips. He, like Peter, was casually dressed. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Francesca imagined that she could feel his skin through the soft cotton dress shirt.
"And you said ... ?"
"I told him about our wager," she murmured, removing her hand. Accidentally, it slid down his back.
Bragg turned and their eyes locked. Neither one of them moved.
Her heart was behaving most erratically now. "Anyway, it is not important," she whispered.
"Isn't it? Damn my bothersome brother," Bragg said harshly. He did not move. "I find myself jealous. I shall beat him soundly if he doesn't keep his distance from you."
His response was so passionate that she was briefly stunned. "There is no rivalry here, Bragg," she said, her pulse pounding. "He is only a friend—as I have pointed out before. I cannot believe you would be jealous of him! God, he is not half the man that you are!" she cried.
"You came here tonight because you were upset, not to share information with me about the Stuarts," he said flatly. "You came here tonight because he upset you."
She nodded, feeling oddly tearful. "You are right," she whispered.
He cupped her face. "Don't cry."
"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said. But she did know. He was the first man she had ever loved, but he had loved several other women, and somehow it was hard to fathom. And as she spoke she closed her eyes and turned her face, not intending to, but somehow her lips pressed a kiss into the center of his hand.
Stunned by herself, her eyes flew open, and their gazes met, his also wide.
It was a tangible moment of decision and choice. Of desire and need.
Suddenly she stepped forward—into his arms.
They closed about her in a powerful embrace, crushing her entire body against his larger, stronger one. His mouth covered hers.
Her heart seemed to drop to the floor and then shoot into the sky as their lips locked, then opened; Bragg kept her wrapped in his powerful arms and she felt every inch of muscle that he had. His tongue found hers. She cried out, thrilled and frantic, frantic and thrilled.
Her back found a wall. One of his hands braced her head against it, his fingers underneath her chin and jaw, while his body kept her immobilized as well. The kiss deepened.
A long time later, he tore his mouth from hers and their eyes met. Neither one of them could breathe properly, and neither one of them smiled, as the situation was far too urgent. Somehow his eyes had turned black. Desire strained his expression. Suddenly he popped two buttons open at her throat and he bent and kissed the hollow there, touching it with the tip of his tongue.
Francesca felt as if she might die if they did not finish this tonight.
And soon.
Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her again, burying his face against her neck, pressing his loins, which were clearly aroused, against her. They rocked together for a long, terrible moment.
Francesca did not know what to do; she could not think. Her body was demanding that she consummate with this man, and that was the only fact that she was aware of. She ran her hand over his taut waist and then over his hard buttock again. "Take me upstairs," she said harshly.
"Christ!" He moved away from her as if he had been shot.
"Bragg!"
He stared at her, breathless, his chest heaving. Somehow, his own shirt had become partially opened, revealing a swath of hard, sculpted chest muscle and dark brown hairs. "Don't even think it!" he cried.
She did not move from where she leaned against the wall, feeling as if her entire body had been reduced to a mass of quivering jelly. "But I am thinking it. And so are you. We are adults. Take me upstairs," she said again.
He closed his eyes and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "No." He looked at her.
Behind him, the telephone rang.
Francesca began to cry. She closed her eyes and fought tears of frustrated desire—a feeling she had never before had. Then she wondered if Hart was right. For this might be love, but it was certainly lust.
She hated Hart for appearing in her mind now.
The telephone continued to ring.
"You have to go," Bragg said harshly.
She opened her eyes in time to see him turning to the phone. She wanted to move, but her body continued to fail her. Instead, she tried to calm her breathing down. This urgency, this frustrated desire, was a terrible thing.
She watched him lift the receiver. He said, "Yes?" and stiffened. A moment later he slammed down the phone, turning to her—and his eyes were wide and clear.
Something had happened.
"What is it?" Francesca cried.
"Maggie has just opened a letter from Mary O'Shaunessy, a letter written on the day of her death."
THIRTEEN
Monday, February 10, 1902—11:00 P.M.
When Francesca and Bragg arrived at the house, a servant told them that Mr. Cahill was waiting for them in Mrs. Kennedy's room. Francesca had already been hoping that her parents had retired to their rooms, as it was late, and as neither Andrew nor Julia was waiting for her—and an explanation—at the door, she assumed her brief prayer had been answered.
Maggie's door was wide open. She sat on a moss green velvet sofa in front of the hearth, where a fire burned. Evan was seated beside her, but Maggie was hugging herself and sitting very stiffly, staring unseeingly at the flames. Joel was dwarfed by a huge forest green and blue striped wing chair. No other children were in sight, and Francesca assumed they were all asleep in the adjoining bedroom.
As Francesca and Bragg entered, Evan and Joel leaped to their feet. Evan regarded Francesca grimly, and she knew he was very displeased because he had found her at Bragg's at such a late hour. Francesca ignored him. She went swiftly to Maggie, sitting down beside her and taking her hands. "Are you all right?"
Maggie met her gaze. "It is like hearing from the dead."
"I know."
Bragg had approached. "May I see the letter?"
Maggie nodded at the low table in front of the sofa, where the letter lay.
As Bragg read it, Francesca said, "Did she mention that she was afraid for her life?"
Maggie shook her head. "The letter is innocent enough. We hadn't seen each other in a few months, not since she had begun to work at the Jansons'. She described her job, her mistress, the house. She sounded so happy," Maggie added huskily.
Evan lifted a glass of scotch from the table by Maggie's knees. "Do take a sip. It will help. Truly. I promise."
Maggie bit her lower Up and flushed, not looking at him. "I do not imbibe, Mr. Cahill."
He sighed. "This is rather a bit of a crisis."
She stared at her knees.
"Mama?" Joel said, hovering behind the sofa. "Mr. Cahill'z tryin' to be nice."
Maggie turned and looked at her earnest son. "I know." She sighed and glanced at Evan briefly. "Thank you." She looked away.
"I feel as if I have done something terribly wrong," Evan said sourly, "when I am only trying to be helpful."
"You are very kind ... sir," Maggie murmured.
"Evan? Why don't you take Joel down to the kitchen for a cookie?"
Joel brightened. H
e gave Evan a sideways glance that seemed partly shy and partly admiring.
Evan slapped his shoulder. "Good idea. I could use one myself. We'll even bring your mother one. How's that, son?"
Joel grinned. "I didn't want to hog it all at supper," he said.
The two walked out, Evan still clasping the boy's shoulder. Francesca regarded them until they had disappeared, pleased to see them getting along. She realized Maggie had been watching them, too. Suddenly Bragg said, "Well, it looks as if we have found Lizzie O'Brien."
"We have?" Excitement filled her.
"Mary mentions that she has heard from Lizzie, who is living in Philadelphia. Apparently she received a letter from her. My men have already searched her flat, but they were not looking for that letter."
Francesca stood. "Most people do not throw their letters out, especially not from close friends who have moved away."
"I intend to find that letter tonight." He met Francesca's gaze. "The sooner as I have an address on Lizzie, the better. Newman can go to Philadelphia to question her, and perhaps bring her up to New York." He softened, looking at Maggie. "I am so sorry you had to receive this now. How did you receive it, by the way?"
"When Francesca, I mean Miss Cahill, and her brother went to get the children, Joel brought my mail. I don't receive mail, usually, and a letter is rather an occasion. But in the excitement of moving into the house here, he forgot to give it to me until a half hour ago." She paled. "I went into shock when I realized who it was from."
Bragg looked at Francesca. "The letter is innocent enough. Mary was very happy with her new employment— in fact, with her life. Her one concern was for Katie, whom she mentions remained sullen and unforgiving. There is, however, one loose end."
Francesca raised both brows. "And that is ... ?"
Maggie said, "I know. I was rather surprised myself."
Bragg regarded her closely. "She says, and I quote, 'To make matters even better, I have met a man. Wish me luck.' And that is how she ends her letter. Do you have any idea of who this man was?"
Maggie shook her head. "I had no idea she had met anyone."
Francesca said, "We must find this man. What if he is the killer? We must find him, and the place to start might be the list I had Newman make of everyone in attendance at Mary's funeral."
