by Brenda Joyce
A few moments later, the children were in the dining room, beginning their supper. The doorbell sounded. Leigh Anne couldn’t imagine who would be calling at the supper hour, as none of her acquaintances ever visited now. It was as if she had conveniently left town—or as if she no longer existed. She was still reeling from how awkward it had been to attend Francesca’s wedding.
The fact of the matter was that Leigh Anne no longer existed—a stranger had taken her place.
She nodded at Peter to get the door, even though she had no desire to entertain. “Dot,” she told the rambunctious two-year-old. “Don’t you like the meat loaf? It is not meant to be toyed with—it is meant to be eaten.”
“I’ll help her,” Nanette said quickly, taking her fork from her.
Leigh Anne recalled a time when she had helped Dot finish her food without allowing a mess to be made. Hearing footsteps, she tensed. A woman’s high heels accompanied Peter’s heavier footfall.
“Hello, Leigh Anne. My, what a charming family scene! All that is missing is the police commissioner.” Bartolla Benevente beamed.
Leigh Anne’s heart sank. What did the other woman want? She no longer considered Bartolla a friend. It had been clear from the first that the countess delighted in Leigh Anne’s new predicament. Once, they had dined and shopped together in Europe, frequenting the same supper parties and balls. Leigh Anne had never allowed the other woman’s petty malice to bother her. And why would she? Bartolla had always been jealous of the attention she received. Now she struggled to find her dignity and indifference. No one was as catty as the countess. “Hello. This is a surprise, Bartolla. The children are dining, as you can see.”
Bartolla was a striking woman, and she was gorgeous in her royal-blue ensemble. “I forgot how early children dine. I wanted to call before I left for the Catskills. Darling, are you ill?” Her auburn brows lifted.
Leigh Anne knew that she was referring, inelegantly, to her poor, pale looks. “I have been having some slight pains,” she said, too late realizing she shouldn’t discuss this in front of the children. Katie had stopped eating to listen to her every word. “Finish up, darlings. I will entertain the countess in the parlor.”
Peter was already behind her and wheeling her chair out the dining room, down the short hall and into the parlor. Leigh Anne said, “Why don’t you bring us two sherries.”
“I am so sorry you aren’t well,” Bartolla exclaimed as he went to the bar cart. “Leigh Anne, you have lost so much weight.”
She did not know what to say to that. “Who are you visiting in the mountains? I have heard the Catskills are lovely at this time of year.”
Bartolla sat on the sofa, accepting her sherry. “I have been invited down by the Rutherfords. Dear, I must be atrociously bold. That dress no longer suits you.”
Leigh Anne took a very large sip of sherry as Peter left. “I must call in a modiste.” She took another calming sip of sherry and stared at Bartolla. She knew all about her failed affair with Evan Cahill. “I think I will try that Irishwoman, Maggie Kennedy. She has done such wonderful dresses for Francesca.”
Bartolla put her glass down, her eyes gleaming hatefully. “I cannot believe you would give her your business!”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
Bartolla stood. “She is a harlot, Leigh Anne. She has been carrying on with Evan right under my very nose.”
“Really? She seemed like a fine and decent woman to me.”
Bartolla spat. “I cannot believe he is sleeping with her! He will realize, sooner or later, that it is his fortune she is after.”
“As he did with you?”
Bartolla stiffened. “My, my, you still have claws. I have never liked rivals, my dear, as you may remember.” The innuendo did not escape Leigh Anne. They had been rivals once, but never again. Then Bartolla smiled. “How is Rick, darling?”
“He has so many burdens, as you know.”
“Yes, I see that the newsmen in this city write about him every day. You will lose him, Leigh Anne, if you keep on this way.”
Leigh Anne stiffened. She did not want to discuss Rick Bragg—or her marriage—with this hateful woman.
“You are still pretty. I am sure if you wore some rouge and a different dress you could attract his interest as you used to.”
“My husband is devoted to me,” she said tersely.
“I have heard that he is running all over town with Francesca, now that her engagement to Hart is off.” Bartolla laughed. “Did you see Hart’s face at the church? He finally got his comeuppance. It was priceless, that moment of humiliation.”
“I have always liked Calder.”
“Hmm, I suppose that is because you are the only woman he hasn’t slept with.” Bartolla blinked with feigned innocence. “For that would have ended your relationship with Rick—once and for all.”
Leigh Anne wished she had another drink. “They get along better now,” she finally said.
“Ha! They hate one another. Francesca has always been deeply in love with Bragg. She did love him first, before you returned to claim your marriage. I know. I was here.” She gloated. “Don’t you see what is about to happen? Rick will turn to her if you continue this way, as a despondent cripple.”
Leigh Anne had no response to make. Bartolla was right.
“I do not want you to lose him,” Bartolla said, taking the seat closest to her chair. “You must fix yourself up.”
Leigh Anne wished she could get up and walk out of the room. A part of her didn’t want to lose him either, she realized. But she hated the woman she had become. Francesca Cahill was perfect for him. If Rick left her for the sleuth, it would be best for everyone—except, of course, for poor Calder Hart. “Would you pour me another sherry?”
Bartolla leaped up to do so. “You don’t seem very distressed at the idea of Rick leaving you, Leigh Anne.”
“I am too tired to be upset.”
Bartolla shook her head, perplexed. “You have lost more than the use of your legs. I feel sorry for you. Francesca will walk off with Rick very shortly, if I do not miss my guess.”
Leigh Anne wondered if Bartolla was right. She wondered if she cared. She wondered if she could live alone with the girls. She needed her laudanum, she thought. Either that, or she would take the morphine her former male nurse had managed to procure for her. It was so much better than the laudanum.
“Of course, Francesca might wind up very much alone,” Bartolla said suddenly. “Sarah is so upset these days. She has been in a frenzy, really, all because of that stolen portrait.”
Leigh Anne could barely follow Bartolla.
“You do know that Hart commissioned a portrait of Francesca, and that it was stolen several months ago.” She laughed. “My God, what an uproar that has caused.”
Leigh Anne finished the sherry. “Yes, I vaguely recall Rick mentioning it.”
“And did he mention that if that portrait is ever displayed in public, Francesca will be ruined?”
Leigh Anne stared. “No, he did not.”
“Ah, of course he didn’t tell you—he is protecting her.”
“I think you should go,” Leigh Anne said. She simply couldn’t withstand these tactics any longer. She was tired. She wanted relief. She wanted to become mindless, to float through the rest of the evening.
Bartolla leaned over her. “The portrait is a nude, Leigh Anne. I saw it myself, in Sarah’s studio. If it ever surfaces, she will never be able to set foot in polite society again.”
Leigh Anne was shocked.
“I can see you had no clue.” Gaily, Bartolla kissed her. “If I don’t see you, have a wonderful Fourth.”
Rather stupefied, Leigh Anne watched her swagger to the door. There, she paused. “And do put on some rouge—unless you truly wish to send your husband into another woman’s arms.”
Leigh Anne decided not to bother to try to form a reply. Bartolla was leaving. Everything would be all right. She simply needed to dose herself. Before she knew
it, she would be floating in a world where there was no pain, no despair and no regrets.
FRANCESCA WAS ACUTELY aware of Hart. His masculine appeal, his power and sensuality, were impossible to ignore when they sat together alone in his coach, sharing the backseat. Joel had been taken to his flat a half hour ago. Only a hand’s span separated them.
He glanced sidelong at her.
She felt her heart beating slowly. Francesca pretended not to notice his regard. Outside, the night was postcard perfect. A million stars glittered in the city’s inky sky. They were traveling up Fourth Avenue, alongside the excavations for the railroad tunnel, and most of the buildings along the street were dark and unlit. There was no traffic, and their pace was brisk. Francesca stole a glance at his hard, handsome profile. She knew exactly how she wished for this day to end.
She turned back to her open carriage window. Had she not gone downtown to Moore’s gallery on Saturday, they would now be man and wife. They would be aboard a cruise ship, dancing every night away, sharing fine wines and champagne, on their way to France.
They would be making love till dawn.
His gaze strayed to hers, a flicker in his eyes. She smiled slightly, somehow biting back the words that so wanted to arise. She did not want to go home. She did not want to spend the rest of the evening alone, or worse, in her parents’ company. She wanted to spend the rest of the evening with him—debating the merits of this new case before making love. It was so hard to hold her tongue. But she was going to follow Connie’s advice.
His glance dropped to her hands. She hoped he would ask her why she wasn’t wearing her ring so she could offer up the flippant, casual reply she had prepared, but he said, “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?”
She smiled, facing him more squarely as the coach turned west on Fifty-ninth Street. They were passing the Plaza Hotel. She would be home in mere moments. “I thought I might need to use my gun when I confronted the blackmailer, and gloves would make the chore more difficult.”
He shook his head once. “Yes, I doubt you could effectively shoot a man while wearing gloves.”
Was he angry? “You know I carry a weapon with which to protect myself.”
“You know I have never approved of your doing so.”
She hoped they would spar. “It has come in handy.”
“One day, you will shoot off your big toe.”
She thought his mouth curved. “I hope not!”
He studied her, his mouth softer now. “I don’t think Mrs. Kennedy will appreciate your having given Joel a weapon.”
“It wasn’t loaded.” She hesitated. “That was wrong of me.”
“Yes, Francesca, it was.”
Their gazes held. She was well aware that they were almost abreast of the Metropolitan Club, as they had passed the Grand Army Plaza, which she had seen through Hart’s window. Francesca thought he meant to remain silent. Her heart had picked up its beat. Her entire body had become languid. But he suddenly said softly, “What am I to do with you?”
She stared breathlessly, wanting to ask him if he would invite her to his house so they could continue the evening. Somehow she said, “In the end, while no progress was made, no harm was suffered, either.”
He eyed her and she flushed. Her tone had been throaty and they both knew what that meant. “You are like a cat with nine lives. I haven’t decided how many you have left.”
There was tension in his tone. She couldn’t decide why. She hoped he was feeling the pull of the magic between them, as well. She hoped, very much, that he hadn’t meant a word he had said to her on Saturday night, and that he not only loved her, but desired her as he did no other. Ahead, she saw her front gates. She held her tongue, clasping her hands in her lap. “I’ll call Rick when I get in,” she began.
He caught her left hand. He said softly, “You could have been hurt today.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Do you have to throw yourself in front of speeding locomotives?”
“There wasn’t a train in sight. I was simply meeting a blackmailer.”
He hadn’t released her hand. His grasp tightened. “I think I need a drink, as well.”
She went still. That heavy anticipation permeated her every pore. “Are you suggesting we share a very old, very fine scotch?”
“Will I rue the day?” And his mouth softened, along with his eyes.
“We can discuss the case and what we must do tomorrow,” she cried, smiling. Other far more romantic ideas danced in her mind. Then, recalling her sister’s advice, she said, “Or we can discuss the case tomorrow, over breakfast.”
His gaze narrowed with speculation. “So you prefer breakfast tomorrow?”
“I hardly said that. You know how fond I have become of a good scotch.”
When he simply stared, she added, “I do not want you to think I have any ulterior motives, that’s all.”
His brows lifted. “Do you?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly, smiling. Why hadn’t he asked her about the ring? “What I am trying to say is that I have done a great deal of thinking—about our relationship.” She waited for him to respond, and when he did not, she said, “I am not going to chase you, Calder.”
His stare remained impossible to read and he still did not take the bait. She sighed. “I am beginning to comprehend your rationale. I am even beginning to think that you are right.”
He finally said very calmly, “Are you trying to tell me that you have changed your mind…about us?”
She swallowed. Deceit was not her forte. But Connie was so much more vastly experienced than she was. “I treasure our friendship. It means everything to me.” That was the truth. “I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”
“Please, do go on.”
“Our friendship remains more important to me than the desire we have shared.” She smiled firmly, amazed at how well she was lying. “As you have made up your mind about us, I began to realize that my pride would never allow me to chase or pursue you. Then I began to wonder if you are right. I mean, we get on famously as friends. But as lovers, we always seem to fight.” There, that had sounded simply perfect.
His gaze was watchful and steady upon her. Never removing it, he said to Raoul, “We will go directly home.” Then, “Are you playing me, Francesca?”
She bit her lip. “I doubt that any woman could ever play you.”
“So that is why you aren’t wearing my ring? You have agreed that we are off.”
She inhaled. “We are two very different individuals, are we not?”
“Yes, we are two very different individuals.”
He was not being helpful, she thought. “My sister advised me to take it off—as did you. Aren’t you pleased with my rationale, Calder?”
His stare remained enigmatic. “So for once in your entire life, you have decided to take the advice of others, instead of following your own inclinations? For once in your life, you have decided to adapt to circumstance, instead of remaining infuriatingly stubborn?”
“And how do you know what my inclinations are now?” She sat back, still anxious about her deception. “And I can see reason, Calder. In fact, I pride myself on it.”
“You told me,” he said dryly, “that you would never take my ring off, that you would wear it to the grave. And you were very passionate about it.”
She hesitated. She must not cave and blurt out how madly in love with him she was. “That was then and this is now. Connie gave me an earful. As did you. And even I can see how different we are from one another, now that I am calmer. Our engagement was made in haste—and perhaps it was made without logic.”
He looked at her as if she had just suggested they take a trip to the moon. “You have never been logical, not about our relationship.”
Her pulse pounded. She moved in for the final blow, hoping he would be convinced. “We are meant to be friends—good friends—eternal friends. But I am no longer sure that we are meant to be anything more.” She managed a
firm smile.
“Really?” His brows lifted, as if he was mildly disbelieving.
“Really.” She smiled again. She had won that round, hadn’t she? She decided to deliver a last jab. “For isn’t a good marriage built on common interests and common goals?”
“Probably.”
She smiled widely now. She had won. He believed her.
“Are you gloating?” he asked very, very softly.
She hid her smile. Very innocently, she said, “I much prefer our relationship like this—as one of equals. It was not very pretty of me to be reduced to tears the other day, much less to grovel.”
“You have never groveled,” he said as calmly. “And you are a bald-faced liar.”
She blinked at him. “Did you just call me a liar?”
He smiled slowly, suggestively at her. “I beg your pardon. That was terribly rude. On the other hand, you have just spent the past five minutes delivering a carefully rehearsed speech, when you are the most impulsive and spontaneous woman I know.”
He didn’t believe her? “Are you becoming angry, Calder?” she asked carefully.
“Why would I be angry? I have been jilted at the altar, in front of most of society, and the woman I meant to take as a wife is now in dire jeopardy due to my depraved nature. My recent bride-to-be is now eager to be my dear friend. In fact, she is so eager to be my friend that she has forgotten our rather unique history. Oh, and did I mention that my brother is probably responsible for all this? If not for dear Bill, we would be on a ship, bound for France, with a wedding ring on your finger. Except, of course, for the fact that ultimately I brought this house of cards down.” He lapsed into a brooding silence.
Francesca hated having pretended that she was fine with their estrangement. She could not decide if he believed her or not. Was he hurt? Angry? He didn’t seem upset. Hurting Calder was the last thing she wished to do. She hated following Connie’s advice, but she wanted him back, and begging would hardly achieve that end. Then she realized he was staring. His scrutiny was unnerving. She must never underestimate Hart. “I am not going to fight your decision,” she said simply. “And it is a matter of both logic and pride.”
