by Brenda Joyce
“You know me so well,” he said softly.
She trembled. “It is not your fault!”
“Your future is at stake—and it is entirely my fault.”
Francesca was in disbelief. How would she ever get him to change his mind?
“I am very sorry I took advantage of you a moment ago.”
She bristled. “Your apology is not accepted!”
“I hope that one day we will look back on our ill-fated romance and laugh about it.”
They were spiraling downward now, at breakneck speed, she somehow thought. “While I am married to another?”
“Yes.”
It was impossible to decide how to proceed, when she was so upset. She looked around for her purse. All she felt like doing was retiring to her bed and shamelessly crying. She felt terribly used. Was this how those divorcées had felt? she wondered. Maybe it was truly over.
She found the purse on a chair and retrieved it. “I am not marrying anyone else.” She refused to look at him now. “I think I will pass on supper.”
He strode to her. “I will take you home.”
“I prefer to ride home alone.”
He started. Then, carefully, “I will always be your friend, Francesca. I will always be on your side—I will always champion your causes. You need only ask.”
She finally looked at him. His stare was dark and intense. “Friends do not make love to one another, Hart.”
“No, they don’t.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to lose your friendship. I refuse to do so.”
It crossed her mind that she had one last card to play. She hesitated, uncertain if she was willing to use the threat of withdrawing her friendship. Because it would be an even worse lie than her previous one of indifference. Hart needed her; she would never abandon him, no matter how angry she was. “We will always be friends.”
He stared sharply. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am not feeling particularly friendly now.”
“I see. Have I just destroyed our friendship?”
She trembled. She thought of what had just happened—and her expectation that they would be affianced anew afterward. “We are on very shaky ground, I think.” She somehow found her pride. “I believe I will investigate on my own tomorrow.”
He was very still. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
The extent of his rejection was hitting her. “Then I will ask Bragg to play escort and bodyguard.”
Did he flinch? “Good.”
She fought not to hug herself. She felt terribly used, and it was a horrible feeling. She had trusted Hart completely. If he was merely a friend, then it was truly over. She would never leap into his arms again or walk down that aisle with him. If he was a friend, she had lost the greatest, and only, love of her life.
In silence, he walked her from the library and down the hall to the front door. As they waited for Raoul, he looked at her. She stared back. How could they be even more estranged now than they had been on Saturday night?
“Francesca.” He suddenly took her arm.
She met his dark, unhappy gaze.
He made a sound and released her. “I am sorry—very sorry.”
Her heart pounded and she heard herself ask very calmly, “Do you love me at all?”
A terrible pause ensued. She heard the carriage approaching. And Francesca was afraid of his reply.
He said, clearing his throat, “Raoul is here.”
Francesca did not say good-night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday, July 1, 1902
10:00 a.m.
BELLEVUE HOSPITAL WAS on the East River. Once, its reputation had been notorious, boasting a patient-mortality rate that was one of the highest in the country. But that had been decades ago. Since the middle of the nineteenth century, huge efforts had been made to turn Bellevue into a premier medical and teaching facility, removing most of its inmates to other facilities. The insane ward was a tenth its original size, with most of its patients incarcerated at the asylum on Blackwell Island; only select cases remained. Serious renovation of the entire facility had begun in 1891, and many of the pavilions were so modern, well-equipped and well-staffed now that there was a waiting list to get appointments with its medical faculty. The entire complex took three city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-sixth streets.
Francesca had agreed to meet Bragg in the main lobby at ten in the morning. There was no point in driving all the way downtown to police headquarters to pick him up. She was walking toward the front doors of the Pavilion for Internal Medicine and Obstetrics when she heard him call her name from behind her.
It was a pleasant summer day, with birds singing from the tops of the trees that had been planted about the pavilion, the sun bright and shining overhead. Francesca rearranged her expression as she turned. He knew her far too well, and she did not want to discuss Hart with him. But it was almost impossible to think about the case.
“Perfect timing,” Bragg said, smiling, as he left his car double-parked on the street.
For one moment, she recalled Hart insisting that Bragg was perfect for her. He strode toward her, a tall, handsome, golden man with the same inner moral compass that she had. As his smile faded, she thought about how they shared the same hopes and dreams for the world. But she loved Hart. She wasn’t sure she had ever been so worried, and she felt sick and used.
Could Hart really walk away from the future they had planned?
Bragg reached her and took her arm, his gaze searching. “What’s wrong?”
“I meant to call you last night to tell you that Bill Randall and a guest are undoubtedly staying at the old Randall residence.”
His gaze moved over her features. “That is good news. It is hard to believe that you didn’t call. Let me guess—you were sidetracked.”
“Yes.”
He took her arm. “You are very distressed.”
She trembled. His touch was, as always, reassuring. “You should send a detail over. I am sure you will be able to pick him up sooner or later.” She smiled at last. “Hopefully, he will know where the portrait is.”
“What has he done?”
She hesitated, aware that he referred to Hart, not Randall.
He took both her hands in his. “You look utterly ravaged, Francesca. Damn it. My brother has once again twisted you into knots. Or is your heart somehow broken all over again?”
She inhaled, meeting his angry gaze. But she saw a deep concern, as well. “I always knew that Hart was different from everyone else. Not because of his wealth and power, but because he is so dark inside. I knew he was difficult…that his smile, his indifference, his mockery hid so much more. I was never deluded, Rick. I knew that life with him would be a wild ride. And I was so astonished, truly, when he made his feelings clear. I mean, why on earth would Calder Hart choose me, of all women, to seriously pursue?”
“You outshine every other woman in this city, and he is hardly blind.”
Francesca knew that Bragg was not referring to her appearance. She suddenly recalled the very first moment she had laid eyes on Hart. He had been in Rick’s office. She had walked in on them, and the tension had been huge. Their discussion—or argument—had ended, and Hart had turned and left. His glance at her had been brief but direct as he walked out.
She had been falling in love with Bragg at the time. But she had turned to watch Hart go. His charisma, even then, had been irresistible.
“You’ve always thought—and still think—that he couldn’t help wanting me because of you.”
Bragg’s gaze darkened. “I believe, at first, he flirted with you simply to annoy me.”
“He flirted with me because it is second nature to him,” she said, and recalling the time she had found him terribly inebriated in his library, she smiled. He had just learned of his natural father’s death. Francesca had known that he would never admit he cared. She had worried about him, wanting to rescue him from his dark despair. She had left him that
day realizing he was the most fascinating man she had ever met.
“What has he done now? I take it you have not patched things up.”
She shoved the memories away. “I really thought he was softening—I really thought that we would slide back into our relationship. We spent the afternoon on the case. It was so easy to do.”
“I happen to believe that my brother, as rotten as he can be, is not entirely rotten. You bring out the best side of him, Francesca. The only problem is, a leopard cannot change its spots.”
“I know he cares about me. He has even said so. But caring is a far cry from love. I am in love with him, Bragg,” Francesca said softly. “And I believed that he loved me back as deeply, as irrevocably, as I love him.”
Bragg inhaled.
“Do you think he loves me?” she heard herself say roughly. “Do you think he ever really loved me? Or was I just some passing amusement?” There, she had said it.
“You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”
She felt tears rise. Just a few days ago she had been so certain that he loved her the way that she loved him. But she wasn’t certain of anything now. “I am so inexperienced. I believed that because he asked me to marry him, because we shared several heated moments, because I loved him, that he loved me. But that isn’t necessarily the case, is it?”
Rick put his strong arm around her. “No, it is not. I feel like pounding some sense into him. He must have said something terribly cruel to cause so much doubt.”
She trembled in his arms. “We have not reconciled. And he has been quite explicit.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I don’t know what to do! Connie told me to take off his ring and pretend indifference—it backfired.”
“Don’t play games with my brother, Francesca. As clever as you are, he is a world-class player.”
“Yes, he will always win, for that is inherent in his nature, too.”
“He has proven that he cares about you. I would have never dreamed that Calder would ever really give a damn about anybody, but I was wrong. Still, caring for someone, desiring someone, is a far cry from wanting a future with them.”
“I am starting to realize that,” she said. It still hurt so much. “My instinct is to pursue him. My instinct is to never give up.”
Bragg sounded alarmed. “That will certainly backfire, too. Until now, Hart has been the one on the hunt. Trust me—you will wind up even more hurt if you reduce yourself to chasing him.”
“I know that,” she said. “I really do. God, he is such a difficult man!”
Bragg didn’t say a word, but she knew he was thinking “I told you so.”
“I thought he was coming around.” She felt ill, thinking about how their lovemaking had ended. “But Hart has not changed his mind at all. We are, apparently, done. Apparently, he can live without me. And if he can, then I have been making a series of very wrong assumptions.” But even as she spoke, she recalled his passionate outburst.
I will always be your friend.… I will always be on your side.… You need only ask.…
I want to give you the world on a silver platter.… As your friend, I will do just that.…
Have I just destroyed our friendship?
Bragg was silent. She glanced at him. “The one thing I am sure of is that my friendship means the world to him.”
He finally said, “You are an angel and a saint, Francesca. You never turn your back on those in need. Of course Hart needs you. You are the only person in the city—and perhaps the country—who thinks highly of him. You are the only one who sees any good in him. I have even heard you call him noble. Of course he will wish to keep you as a friend.”
“Hart is good, Bragg, and he has his noble moments.”
“You still defend him?” He was incredulous.
She stared. If she didn’t defend Calder Hart, who would? “He is actually being noble. He is back to his old tune—that he is not good enough for me—so by jilting me, he is doing me a vast favor.”
“Yes, he is being noble in this single act, and that amazes me—so if it is any consolation, he clearly cares for you. Otherwise he’d barrel on into this marriage, enjoy your favors and then cast you aside when it suited him.”
She stared, stricken. Bragg had just verbalized her most secret fear. She had always wondered if, even after they were man and wife, he would one day tire of her and go to another woman.
“He has admitted that he cares for me,” she said shakily. “That is not quite the declaration a woman wishes to hear, but I am glad he is capable of making it.”
“I do not think Hart capable of loving anyone, not genuinely.”
She trembled. “You are wrong.”
“Francesca, he can’t even live with himself.”
She tensed. She knew Hart fought demons in the dark of every day and every night. And that was why he needed her.
Bragg slid his hand over her shoulder. “I hate seeing you like this. Maybe you should start to carefully consider that a man like Hart can only make you unhappy. Life with Hart would be a series of peaks and valleys. I am not sure the lows would be worth it.”
She met his searching gaze. “We have been very happy…mostly.”
“It has only been a few months, Francesca. Good relationships don’t materialize out of thin air. They are built upon firm foundations of mutual interest, shared ambition and compromise. I have never thought that you and Calder had very much in common.”
She pulled away. What did they have in common?
“A few weeks ago he ended things with you and your heart was broken. The cycle clearly continues.”
She could only, silently, agree. “Why would he even think to marry me if he did not truly love me?”
His eyes widened. “I know you have believed for some time that Hart has fallen in love with you. Why do you doubt that now?”
“I don’t know what to think, Rick,” she said. “And I wish I did.” Was it possible he had been smitten, but those feelings were already fading? If so, wasn’t she fortunate to learn that now, before it was too late?
When he had ended their engagement during the investigation into Daisy’s murder, he had told her that he loved her too much to drag her down into ruin with him. She had believed him. Their love hadn’t been in question. If anything, the bond between them had grown stronger.
Hadn’t he mentioned last night that he refused to be her downfall? The difference was, he wasn’t declaring his undying love and devotion. He now insisted the engagement had been a mistake.
“You won’t give up on him.”
She met Bragg’s golden gaze. It was searching and serious. The thought had never crossed her mind. “Even if our love affair is over, even if we must become mere friends, I will never give up on him. He has a friend in me for life, whether he truly wishes it or not.” She added, “As do you.”
Bragg frowned. “He does not deserve you, not in any way,” he said, and when she was about to protest, he added, “But I am glad he has you in his corner. No man should be an island.”
She froze. Hart was exactly that—a man alone in this vast world—an island in icy oceans. He was the most complicated man she knew and she would never love anyone more. So there was one thing to cling to—her love.
She must stand by Hart no matter what, even if they never reconciled.
“You are right,” she said, suddenly feeling so much better. Yes, she was hurt and dismayed—even frightened—but Hart cared. He had said so. Well, she loved him in return. And if he really didn’t love her now, he would just have to manage that. There were, it seemed, strings attached to her friendship.
She smiled.
Bragg’s brows rose. “You are feeling better?”
“You always make me feel better,” she said.
“Dare you flirt with me now?” But he was smiling.
She hesitated. “I probably should not. Thank you. Thank you for listening—and thank you for caring.”
“I will alway
s care.” He flushed and glanced away.
For an instant, she studied him, recalling Hart’s insistence that Bragg’s marriage was in trouble. “You know, I am so preoccupied with my dramas that I have given no attention to yours.”
“I detest drama,” he said, but his tone was wry. “Where is Joel?”
“He has gone to Coney Island for the day with the entire Kennedy clan.” She caught his arm before he could start for the pavilion. “Is Leigh Anne better?”
A long moment passed as he stared at her. “I wouldn’t really know. I have hardly been home all week, Francesca. Police business occupies most of my time,” he said before she could protest. “Shall we?”
He did not want to discuss his personal life, even if she had bared her soul to him. Francesca sighed. She so wanted to help. “There’s one more thing before we go inside,” she said quickly, her mind shooting with gunfire speed back to the case. “Please don’t be angry, but I received this on Sunday night.” She took the blackmail note from her purse and handed it to Rick.
His gaze widened. And then he was incredulous. “When were you going to tell me? Please do not tell me you went to meet the blackmailer alone.”
“I went with Joel. But I had borrowed the money from Hart, and he actually tailed me. In any case, no one showed up.” She proceeded to tell him about the rendering of her portrait and the cyclist.
“If you receive another note or instructions to meet, I expect to be the first to know,” Bragg said angrily. “Not the last! Francesca, blackmail is a crime. It is police business. And did you really think you would hand over seventy-five thousand dollars and receive your portrait in return?”
“I had certainly hoped to.”
He gave her a dark look, took her arm and guided her toward the pavilion. “I am glad Hart followed you. And I am very angry with you.”
She winced. “I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid that if you were present, the blackmailer would see you and flee. Not only do you look like a spot, you are very famous now. Your likeness and photograph is in every day’s newspaper.”
“That is a pitiful excuse. Once again, you overestimated your own capabilities. You are giving me gray hair.”
