“I must have the name of your seamstress,” Bartolla said, and then she smiled in her usual infectious manner. She was wearing a daring gold gown, a combination of satin and lace, with more diamonds than even Julia had on. The gold was not the most flattering color for her, but she remained a beautiful woman, and men were glancing their way.
Suddenly Francesca caught a gentleman staring—and it almost seemed as if he was staring at her.
But Francesca knew that was not the case and that she was mistaken.
“Is that my sister-in-law?” Montrose asked in her ear.
Francesca jumped, not having been aware of his approach. She noticed that Connie remained across the room with their group of friends, although she met Francesca’s eye, and she waved. Her expression was also incredulous. “Hello, Neil.” She took his hands impulsively and kissed his cheek firmly.
He drew back, surprised. But then, why should he not be? For years she had stammered and stuttered in his presence, and it was only a few weeks ago that she had walked in on him and his lover, catching them in the most intimate and unforgettable of acts. “What is this?” he asked. “Is this my little sister?”
“I have not changed. Do not let a dress fool you. How are you?”
His brief moment of amusement faded. “Why, I am fine,” he said.
She took his arm and they started to stroll around the room. White-coated waiters were serving flutes of champagne and glasses of punch; other white-jacketed waiters were passing hors d’oeuvres. Dinner would be served at eight—in the adjacent room, fifty tables were set with white linens, flowers, silver, and crystal. Several guests called out to Neil as they passed, and Francesca became aware of stares being directed at her. “You don’t look fine,” Francesca said frankly. “Neil, am I being stared at?”
They paused. His smile was brief and tired. “Of course you are being stared at. Tonight you are the most beautiful woman in this room. Bar none.”
Francesca met his warm turquoise gaze and realized how much she had changed. Once, and it felt so long ago, she had been infatuated with this man. In her own way, as the younger sister, she had fallen hopelessly in love with him the moment she had met him, which was within minutes of his introduction to Connie. For years, Francesca had adored him. Until last month, in fact, when she had discovered his dastardly and unconscionable secret.
“You know, a month or so ago, I would have died to hear such genuine admiration from you.”
“You have changed,” he agreed. “The little girl has become a mature—and confident—woman.”
She did blush. “Thank you, Neil. But it is you I wish to discuss.”
His eyes darkened. “And you have not changed. Francesca, I do not wish to discuss myself—or my personal affairs—with you. Please, this once, do not meddle.”
“I want to help, Neil.”
He just looked at her. He could have said, “You have done enough,” but he did not. After all, she had been the one to tell Connie about his affair, but of course Connie had suspected, and she had demanded that Francesca reveal what she knew.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said, looking grim. And suddenly he stiffened.
Francesca turned so she might see why he had become so tense, and she saw Hart pausing before Connie and her group. Her heart jumped.
And that did annoy her.
Connie was allowing him to kiss her hand. Hart did so, and whatever it was that he said, Connie smiled. Instantly Neil started forward.
Francesca grabbed his arm, halting him. “Neil, you do not have to worry about Hart.”
“Oh, no? Tonight we shall have this out; I am certain of it.”
“Neil! Listen to me,” Francesca pleaded, low. “I spoke to Hart. He will not pursue Connie. I am certain of it.”
Neil actually looked at her, when he had been staring at his wife and Hart. “What?”
Francesca repeated what she had said.
“And you believe him? The man has not one moral bone in his body. He is a liar through and through. He senses Connie is vulnerable now to his efforts, and he is ruthlessly pursuing her.” His smile was dangerous.
She still held his arm. Francesca felt a tremor go through him. “You really love her, don’t you?”
He met her gaze. “Yes, I do. And God help me, because I have lost her.”
His words, and worse, his tone, thoroughly alarmed her. “She loves you, Neil. But she needs some time to find her feelings again. She has been hurt.”
“Do you think I do not know that? God! I wish I could undo what I did; I do!” he cried.
Francesca could not help herself as she studied his anguished face. “Why? Why did you go to another woman?”
The anguish disappeared; his face closed. “That is not your affair,” he said, and he pulled free of her grasp and stalked away—toward his wife, Hart, and the others in their midst.
Francesca hesitated when she realized that Hart was staring at her. The moment their gazes met, he turned his back to her. Her pulse rioted.
She tried to compose herself. He was the last person she wished to see. Truly. But she would have to get her apology over with and, more important, forestall any battle between him and Montrose. Francesca hurried after her brother-in-law, feeling a bit as if she were approaching an executioner.
As she approached Connie and Hart’s group, she felt every eye turn to her, except of course for those of Hart, who kept his back to her. She watched Montrose walk over to Connie, and he put his arm around her, a bit roughly, because Connie gasped. “Hart,” he said coldly.
Hart sighed—as if resigned and bored. “Montrose.” His back was partly to Francesca.
Francesca reached them. “Connie!” she cried, stepping directly between the two men, both of whom were large men, and it felt like she had just stepped into the path of two oncoming trains. “You are ravishing tonight!” In truth, Connie was always stunning, and Francesca had not even bothered to note the color of her gown. It was turquoise—it matched Neil’s eyes exactly.
Connie’s eyes were filled with worry, but she smiled. “Francesca, is that you?”
She had used Julia’s exact words. “Yes, it is.” She was acutely aware of Hart standing behind her as she faced her sister; in fact, his eyes were boring holes in her back. She had become used to the daring gown; now, however, she felt naked once again. Taking a deep breath, she turned. “Hello, Calder.”
He gave her a cool look, and then he gave her a rude and disinterested once-over.
Francesca was shocked.
Not as much by his coldness but by the rudest glance she had ever seen—it was the glance of a man interested in sex and then deciding that she was not worth the effort. It was as if he had been choosing and dismissing a side of beef.
“Miss Cahill.” His nod was abrupt, he did not smile, and he turned and walked away.
Francesca gaped.
One of the ladies in their group tittered nervously. And she or someone else said, “Oh, dear.”
“Fran? What was that about?” Connie gasped.
Amazingly, Francesca felt tears rush into her eyes. She hardly heard her sister, but she was already lifting her skirts and racing after Hart. “Wait!”
He hesitated without turning, then continued on.
“Hart! Blast it!” she cried.
He halted, then turned. His jaw was so hard that he might be trying to grind down his own teeth.
She was panting when she reached him. “I am sorry.”
He stared. “Really?”
“Yes, I am sorry,” Francesca repeated, realizing that she was perspiring. So much for being beautiful, she thought. “But you were out of line.”
He turned away.
She seized his arm. “But you were—”
“I have been defending your virtue,” Hart said harshly. “Foolishly, I might add.”
“My virtue does not need defending,” she said, both defiant and nervous.
Francesca bit her lip. “I am a grown woman.”
“No, you are not.”
She stared, about to protest.
“A red dress does not make you a grown woman, Francesca,” he said.
His words hurt.
And he seemed to realize it, because he softened. “You are very beautiful tonight, but you are not a grown woman.”
“I am twenty,” she said.
“With your nose in a book and your head in the clouds.”
“You are a skeptic!”
“Yes, I am.”
They stared at each other.
“Calder, I appreciate your wanting to protect me. I overreacted. Can we simply forget about what happened?” She stopped.
His gaze had slipped over the bodice of her gown.
Francesca stood still. He had never looked at her this way before, and she knew it. There was nothing disparaging in his manner, and she doubted he even knew that his eyes had been drawn to her breasts. She wanted to fold her arms over her chest, but that would be immature and childish, and after what he had just said, she did not.
She did not move. “Calder, please.” It was hard to speak. His gaze jerked up to her eyes. “We are friends. And your friendship is important to me. I don’t know what possessed me. I have never struck anyone before. Can’t we forget what happened?”
His gaze held hers. A long moment passed. Francesca was no longer perspiring—she was sweating. It felt as if the world had stopped turning—nothing had ever felt so important. And she wished to smile at him winningly or take his hand or do something to encourage him to really forgive her, but she simply could not move.
He finally said, “I do not want to lose our friendship, but never strike me again, Francesca, or you will be very sorry indeed.”
Francesca shivered because the threat he was making was so clearly real. She could only stare. What would he do if she hit him again? Not that she would, of course. Then she shook her head, trying to clear away her confusion. It was vast. “Calder, I would never strike you again,” she said.
“No. I think not.”
“And . . .” She hesitated, then gave in to impulse. She touched his sleeve. “I know you meant well. I—” She stopped.
Hart wasn’t listening to a word she said. He was looking at her legs. It was as if he could see through her gown. But then, the dress was very revealing; the fabric was thin, the skirts fluidly flowing over her form, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Or nothing to his imagination. What had she been thinking to wear such a gown?
“Hart?”
His gaze shot to her face and Francesca could have sworn he flushed. “Yes?”
“So we are friends?” she asked hoarsely.
“Yes, we are friends.”
Their gazes had locked. Something absolutely unfathomable came to mind, and Francesca had the urge to twirl about and ask him if he liked her dress, she had the urge to be coy and tease him, to swing her hips and play the temptress, but her other self, her usual self, the bluestocking and the reformer, knew that she did not dare. For she would have to be a fool not to know that something had changed between them, somehow, sometime, for it was there now, dark and deep and frightening.
And Hart was simply not a man one toyed with.
As she had said to Connie, play with fire and one gets burned.
Hart’s eyes changed. Any feelings he might be having vanished. It was as if a cloak had gone over his very soul. His smile was tight. “Well. This might be your lucky night.”
She did not like his tone. Francesca, already rigid, tensed even more as she turned.
Bragg stood behind them, staring at her. And she wondered how long he had been there.
FIFTEEN
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1902—7:30 P.M.
Francesca forgot all about Hart, who walked swiftly past them. She smiled, but Bragg did not smile back. “I have been trying to reach you all day,” she said nervously. She reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong—then why did she feel as if she were a thief caught with one hand in a bank safe?
His gaze went from her face to her dress and then back to her eyes. “What is going on with you and Hart?”
She became rigid. “Nothing. How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough to see that he is looking at you the way he looks at all women.” Bragg was angry. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. “If you think he is another friend, then you are sorely underestimating him.”
She stared, both dismayed and angry, and oddly defensive as well. “Bragg, we are friends.” To make matters even worse, she felt like a liar now. “In fact, he told me a red dress does not make me a grown woman.” She flushed at the recollection. But of course, she was not the kind of woman who would ever impress a man with Hart’s past.
“And he is also rude and insulting,” Bragg said, softening somewhat. “You are obviously a grown woman, Francesca.” In fact, he seemed to flush. “The moment I entered this room, my eyes were drawn to you. For one moment, I did not even know it was you.” He smiled a little, but grimly.
She stepped closer to him. She had chosen the dress with him in mind—thinking about his reaction when he first glimpsed her. “You don’t care for me this way,” she spoke as the realization struck her.
“No, that’s not it,” he said quickly.
“I can see it in your eyes.” She was stunned, dismayed—shaken.
He hesitated. “How could I not like you when you are wearing such a dress? Every man in this room has been looking at you—admiring you.”
She understood her mistake now—too well. “You’re not jealous.” It was not a question.
“No.”
She began to shake. “You admire the reformer, the bluestocking, even the sleuth.”
He smiled a little. “Francesca, do not misunderstand.”
“I understand you completely,” she whispered, shaken to her core because she did. “This is not who I am—and only you and I know it.”
Their gazes locked. “Yes,” he finally said, very low. “You are not the lady in red.”
She could only stare. He was so right—she would never be the lady in red, either. And he did not care; he loved her for who she really was. How was it that he knew her so well? How was it that, at times like just then, she could feel his very thoughts, as if she were a mind reader? “It’s funny,” she finally said slowly. “I accepted this dress pattern, the fabric, the color, everything, while imagining the look in your eyes when you first saw me in it. Yet I never felt comfortable, not when I saw the pattern, not when I put on the dress.”
He said quietly, “The look in my eyes is always the same when it comes to you. You could be in rags, and it would not change.”
Once again, the response he had was not what she had hoped for—not at all. Yet it was so much better, so much more. And she was ashamed, then, terribly so, for even briefly finding Hart alluring. “How has this happened? My world changed overnight, Bragg. I was a reformer and a student, and now, nothing is as it was.”
He smiled. “Life has a way of twisting and turning with very little notice. But Francesca, there is nothing to prevent you from being a reformer and a student—solely—again.”
Her hands found her hips. “On that note, shall we take a walk? I have been trying to reach you all day with a matter I have discovered, one that may or may not be meaningless to our investigation.” And this was a safer topic.
He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling—and relieved to discuss a less personal matter as well. “Ah, even in red, the woman I am so fond of has returned.”
“She has never left.”
He took her arm, and as they began to cross the room, Francesca was aware of heads turning their way—her way. She ignored the glances and said, “Bragg, this may be nothing a
t all. But my client Lydia Stuart is a newlywed. And a month after her marriage, her mother-in-law was murdered. As she is buried here, I can only assume she was murdered here, but they were living in Philadelphia, I believe, so on that point I may be wrong.”
He halted and regarded her with wide eyes. “How was she murdered?’
“It was a simple burglary. She surprised a sneak in the midst of his work, and he stabbed her with a knife. He apparently stole some jewels. No one was ever apprehended.”
“Interesting. I doubt the murder is related; still, most bedchamber sneaks flee without the goods, rather than murder and continue on with their burglary. And the Stuart coach was at the funeral. Lincoln Stuart was in meetings all day, and I have not had the opportunity to speak with him. I did call on Mrs. Stuart, however. She insists she was at home with a migraine and that her husband had the coach.” He paused and added, “I saw them arriving a moment ago.”
“They are here?” Francesca asked in surprise.
“Yes, they are, and Mrs. Stuart is bubbling over with happiness at having been invited. I overheard her.”
“Yes, she was invited this afternoon by Sarah and Bartolla. I did not think she would come. And that is what she told me as well, Bragg.” Francesca glanced past him, catching the regard of a good-looking blond gentleman. He smiled at her. She looked away, not smiling in return.
As she did so, she saw Bartolla surrounded by a group of six men, all of whom were laughing and admiring her. That kind of event, however, was no surprise, and Evan was in the group. Then, however, Francesca saw two of the men smile at her, Francesca, across a goodly distance. She was absolutely stunned.
Bartolla turned and looked her way, as if to see what was distracting her admirers. She smiled at Francesca too.
Francesca smiled back and looked at Bragg. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps that is why everyone is staring. Perhaps everyone knows the real Francesca Cahill would rather have her nose in a book than be at an evening affair.” Or have her head in the clouds, she thought, dismayed with that recollection. “Perhaps they are laughing at me for dressing up like a temptress. I am not making a fool of myself, am I?”
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