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 suitor?”
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 an 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 men 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.”
“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.
&nb
sp; 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.”
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] Page 21
