Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  He was clearly exasperated. “I hardly care what you think of my so-called interference. Someone has to keep you in check. If Rick will not, then I shall do so, Francesca.”

  She was incredulous. “But why?’

  “Why?” he exploded. “You are determined to put yourself in harm’s way! Time and again! It is insufferable—unbelievable, actually! Why can’t you behave like other innocent young girls?”

  “I am not a young girl,” she hissed, somehow pulling free of his hold at last. Her hands found her hips, and then pain shot through her burned palm, horridly, and she cried out, staggering blindly back.

  He caught her in his embrace. “Jesus! See? You are suffering terribly!”

  She fought the waves of pain, and she fought for control and composure. As the pain subsided, she realized he held her shoulders. She looked up. Tears filled her eyes, but still his face was but inches away and there was no mistaking the concern in his regard. “I am fine,” she gasped. “Release me.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please, Calder,” she whispered. The urge to cry had changed. It was no longer physical.

  He released her.

  She inhaled and somehow sat down. She felt as if she had been beaten with a club. “I am very tired,” she said, not looking up now.

  “I apologize,” he said instantly. “Please forgive me, Francesca.”

  She had to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

  He sat down beside her and took her good hand in both of his. Francesca stiffened as a searing recollection struck her—Bragg had held her hand while seated exactly this way yesterday night, but in the other room, on a different sofa. “I will call on you tomorrow,” Hart said quietly. “I did not mean to cause you more pain.”

  She tried to smile at him and failed.

  “But I shall continue to insist that your sleuthing end, Francesca,” he warned. “As your friend, I must speak out.”

  She was too tired to argue with him. She felt resigned. “Insist as you will, Hart.”

  He tilted up her chin. “I can be a powerful ally, Francesca,” he said.

  She looked into his smoky eyes, simply stunned.

  He smiled a little at her and stood. He stared down at her and she could only stare back.

  A long and silent moment passed.

  After several minutes, Julia walked into the room, and Francesca was instantly suspicious. Her mother had been eavesdropping outside of the door—she felt certain of it. “Mr. Hart, can I offer you any refreshments? A cup of coffee? A brandy?” She beamed at him.

  He smiled back politely. “I am on my way out. But thank you, Mrs. Cahill.”

  Julia glanced briefly at Francesca and the scotch that sat on the low table by her knees. She smiled again at Hart. “My daughter can be too intelligent, and too headstrong, for her own good,” she remarked, and Francesca knew she had overheard most of their conversation.

  Defiantly she lifted the scotch and drank it.

  “I am in complete agreement with you,” Hart said easily, but there was laughter in his tone.

  Francesca set the glass down loudly and saw them both watching her. “I am hardly in the other room,” she said sourly.

  Julia turned to Hart. “She needs a strong hand.”

  “I am hardly a horse,” Francesca muttered, but if they heard her, they did not acknowledge her now.

  “Yes, she does,” Hart said calmly.

  She scowled at him.

  He bowed. “Good evening, Francesca. I will see you tomorrow.”

  She had the childish urge not to reply. Instead, she sighed. “Good night, Calder.”

  That seemed to please him, because the light flickered, changing, in his eyes.

  “Let me walk you out,” Julia said.

  He accepted that, and as they turned, Julia said, “So, Mr. Hart, would you care to join us this Sunday for supper? It shall be a simple family affair, with Evan and Miss Channing, Lord and Lady Montrose, Francesca, and my husband and I,” she said.

  Francesca got awkwardly to her feet, disbelieving.

  Hart halted. “I should be honored, Mrs. Cahill, to attend.”

  “Then we have a date,” Julia said, pleased.

  “Yes, we do, and I should not miss it for the world.” Hart did not look at Francesca again, and he and Julia exited the room.

  She stared after them and felt her mouth hanging open. She closed it. Panic came.

  She knew what Julia was up to, but now she had a bad feeling indeed.

  She did not like Hart taking sides with her mother, and even though she reassured herself that nothing would come of it, her senses screamed at her otherwise.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13,1902—NOON

  Francesca had come downstairs, as was her habit for breakfast. But still weak from the burn, she had lain down in the music room afterward and promptly fallen asleep. She was in the midst of a bizarre dream—in it, a crowd had gathered around her, whispering and speculating, and she could not understand why. Hart was there, too darkly virile for words, her parents were there, conspiring against her now, and Bragg was present, determined to save her from some threat she could not quite comprehend. But there were children, too, whispering, their tones hushed and curious.

  “Dot! No!”

  Fingers jabbed her cheek and mouth.

  “Don’t awaken her,” Bragg said in her dream. “She is sick and she needs her rest.”

  “Frack! Frack! Frack!” Dot shrieked.

  She wasn’t dreaming, Francesca thought, blinking. And the first thing she saw was Dot’s grinning face, an inch from her own. “Frack!” Dot screamed happily. “Wake!”

  Francesca was fully awake but a bit groggy, and the pain of her burn was tolerable. She vaguely recalled her mother appearing at breakfast to insist that she take a dose of laudanum, and that she had fought over the amount of the medicine. She glanced past Dot and saw Bragg watching her anxiously. Behind him was Peter, holding onto Katie’s shoulders as if she might run away. He had a clump of something green in his short blond hair.

  “Francesca? I see you are awake. The commissioner insisted on seeing you, and clearly it is not an official visit,” Julia intoned, not sounding pleased.

  Francesca blinked and adjusted her vision and saw her mother on Bragg’s left, almost out of her range of eyesight. She struggled to sit up.

  Bragg replaced Dot, sliding his hands behind her. They were warm, strong, and terribly familiar. She met his golden gaze and felt her heart melt like too-warm chocolate. “Thank you,” she whispered. “The children?”

  He piled pillows behind her back and his hands seemed to linger. “Dot has been having tantrums, demanding to see Frack. I did not understand, but Peter appears to speak her language,” he told her so softly she doubted anyone else could hear. “It was a good excuse to call on you, Francesca.” His gaze was warm but worried. “How are you? Your mother says that you got up at eight today.”

  “Yes, I did, although I have no idea why,” she said, overcome with the oddest relief. There was no one she needed more, she realized. And if only her mother would leave, she would take his hand and clasp it to her breast. “But the pain is gone. Mama insisted I take laudanum.”

  “You should. I hate seeing you in any pain whatsoever,” he said as softly. Then he straightened to his full height. “Katie,” he said sternly, “you may say hello to Francesca.”

  Katie glared at him and then smiled angelically at Francesca. There was a huge space where one of her two front teeth had been.

  “Bragg! She has lost two teeth!” Francesca cried.

  Katie slowly opened her mouth wider for an inspection.

  “Yes, you have lost two teeth, and I do hope the good tooth fairy has left a penny beneath your pillow.” Francesca smiled at her.

  Bragg sighed. “I forgot.”

  “Bragg,” she scolded, “how could you?’

  He smiled at her. “Easily.”

  She forced her dazed mind to assimilate the innuendos there. “Has
Lizzie confessed?”

  His brows shot up. “You wish to discuss police affairs now? Francesca, all is under control. She shall be tried and found guilty; have no doubt about that.”

  Francesca relaxed against the pillows. She looked past Bragg at Peter. “Hello, Peter. How are you?”

  He nodded. “Fine.”

  “He stopped asking me for a nanny, once he heard what happened to you,” Bragg said.

  She gripped his hand. “You aren’t throwing the girls out, are you?” Dear God, she hadn’t thought twice about a nanny or a foster home. She glanced from Dot to Katie. Katie was listening acutely to their every word. Francesca saw fear and anger in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it, not even once,” Bragg said softly. “I am not throwing them out. They can stay a few more days. I have told Peter he can do the hiring himself.”

  “I can do it tomorrow,” Francesca told him, hoping she would be up to the task.

  “No, you cannot,” Bragg said, “as you are confined to bed. I spoke with Finney myself, Francesca,” he warned.

  “The commissioner is right,” Julia said firmly. “However, Rick, if you wish, I shall find you a nanny this afternoon.”

  Francesca gaped at her mother.

  Bragg faced her. “That is very kind of you, Julia. I do not have the time to do so myself and—”

  “Of course you do not. You are an extremely busy man.” Julia smiled briskly at him, not fawning over him as she did over Hart. “Shall I give the girls some supper?” she asked.

  “I do not want to impose upon you,” Bragg said.

  “Mama! That would be wonderful!” Francesca cried, truly grateful. “For it is certainly their supper time.”

  Julia smiled a bit at her. “I am hardly coldhearted, Francesca,” she said softly.

  “Katie doesn’t eat,” Francesca warned.

  “Really?” Julia’s brows lifted and she turned a firm stare on Katie. “Well, we shall have to change that, as she is thin as a rail. Peter, bring the girls and follow me.” She marched out.

  Peter came forward to scoop up Dot and he said, “I hope you feel better, Miss Cahill.” He left with Katie following reluctantly—and casting backward glances at Francesca that were clearly anxious.

  They were actually alone.

  Francesca’s pulse skipped a bit and she looked into Bragg’s eyes and found him regarding her intently. “You do not have to worry so much,” she said softly.

  “It is impossible where you are concerned,” he returned. He pulled up an ottoman and sat beside her. He moved a tendril of hair from her face. “I am having trouble concentrating, Francesca; I am so distraught with what has happened to you.”

  “Really?” She smiled, pleased. It was interesting, how naked one’s emotions were when under the influence of a drug.

  “Really, and do not be so pleased,” he said flatly. “You are staring,” he added somewhat darkly.

  She sighed. “It is hard not to stare, and I do think you know why.”

  His eyes widened. He leaned forward. “I hardly know why, but keep in mind that we are in your mother’s house and she isn’t very fond of me right now.”

  “She likes you. But you are not available, so she wishes to keep an eye on us,” Francesca said, rather amazed at her own bluntness.

  He stared. “As well she should,” he finally said.

  “Are you now on her side?”

  He hesitated, and nodded.

  “What does that mean?” she cried, alarmed.

  “It means that I have been sick with worry ever since I found you with your hand in a pail of snow,” he said tersely. “It means I have genuinely realized the extent of my feelings for you—and it is frightening. I must be blunt. No good can come of this.”

  She did not move. She could hardly breathe. “I cannot believe you are speaking this way.”

  “Nor can I,” he admitted then. “Because I cannot even begin to imagine life without you in it.” He paused yet again. “Which is certainly the most sensible option that we have.”

  Dread filled her. She felt the intensity in him. “You do not mean that.”

  “I do, but I have come to a different decision entirely,” he said.

  She froze, almost paralyzed with fear. “What?”

  “I am going to ask Leigh Anne for a divorce.”

  She reeled, speechless. It was a long moment before she could speak. “What?”

  “You have heard me.” He was terribly grim—and determination was carved all over his face.

  “But . . .” She could not think straight, especially now, dosed on laudanum. They had met January 18, not even a month ago. And in so short a time he would change his life, discard his wife? And what about his future, his hopes, his dreams? “But . . . you aspire to the national Congress. It is your duty, your destiny!” she cried, remaining stunned.

  “I begin to wonder if you are not my duty . . . and my destiny,” he said.

  It struck her then what this meant, what he intended. To give up everything, his wife, his responsibilities, his respectability, and his dreams of a future in the Senate, in order that they might be together. “Oh, my God,” she heard herself say slowly. How could she let him do this?

  Of course she could! This was her dream. Her most secret, private dream!

  But his work as a public servant was so much more important than their own personal happiness.

  He suddenly cupped her cheek with his calloused palm. She stared, meeting his gaze, wondering if he saw the fear in her soul that was surely reflected in her eyes.

  “I should not have been so blunt. I haven’t slept in days, thinking about this, arriving at my decision. Of course, your mother will fight tooth and nail against a divorced man—and a divorce might take years to attain. I would never ask you to wait, Francesca.”

  She was crying now. “I will wait. I will wait forever,” she whispered, but in her heart she was now terrified, and it wasn’t because Julia would never allow her to marry a divorced man. She was not his destiny. His destiny was the city and the state and the United States of America.

  Oh, God. What should she do?

  What could she do?

  He hesitated, and she understood. The hesitation was not about the decision he had made; he was a man to hold to his course. So she reached up and held his nape, guiding him toward her. Their lips brushed, once, twice, three times.

  It was bittersweet.

  Tears whispered on the tips of her eyelashes.

  Her mind shouted at her, again and again, Do not let him do this!

  Suddenly he pulled her into his arms, but gently, clearly not wanting to hurt her. He looked past her eyes and, as if he understood her conflict, he stiffened.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. She pressed her mouth to his.

  He recovered, claiming her mouth with a stunning urgency, with panic, with desperation and his love. When the kiss finally ended, Francesca was not simply breathless; she was shaken to her core.

  She loved him so much it was almost an impossible exaggeration of her emotions. She admired him more greatly—and believed in his statesmanship and the good he could do even more than that.

  And in the same instant that she wrestled with the vast array of her feelings she realized that they were being watched, and so did he.

  Bragg pulled away, whirling. Francesca looked past him at the doorway.

  Dot stood there, beaming, oddly proud.

  “We have a chaperone,” he murmured, with relief that it was only the toddler.

  “Yes, we do,” Francesca returned as he turned back to her and their eyes met. They had to smile—Dot’s interruption was timely.

  “We should not set such a rude example,” he began with a shake of his head.

  “No, we should not,” she agreed, still unsteady from their passion and still stunned by this latest turn of events.

  Dot clapped her hands, shouting, “Kiss; kiss, Frack; kiss!”

  Francesca winced, wondering at wh
ich moment Julia would rush into the room, comprehending everything.

  “I think I am beginning to like her,” Bragg murmured.

  “I knew you would,” she said, glancing at Dot. Dot grinned at her.

  Francesca saw the puddle on the floor and realized why Dot was so proud. A hastily torn off diaper was beside it. “Uh-oh,” she said, grabbing Bragg’s hand and tugging on it, hoping to divert him.

  But it was too late. He had seen the damage done. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, standing. “She tore off her diaper! The . . . brat!”

  He moved away from her, calling sternly for Dot. She beamed happily at him but made no move to obey.

  Francesca sighed; so much for their truce.

  And when Dot finally edged forward, clearly aware that he was not in a pleasant mood, and as Bragg tried to grab her, unsuccessfully, as she dodged him, Francesca realized just how unpredictable life was.

  She would not worry now about tomorrow, she decided firmly. She would not worry about Bragg giving up his future in order to divorce his wife, nor would she worry about the portrait Hart had commissioned or Julia’s absurd plans. No, tomorrow was another day, and there was just no predicting what might happen—given the recent course of events. What she would do was rest and heal her hand, just in case another crime fell into her lap. She did smile at that thought.

  At least her life was not dull, drab, or routine.

  “She is running away from me!” Bragg exclaimed. “That child has more nerve than two full-grown hooks and crooks combined!”

  She smiled serenely at him. “Dot! Do come here, please, and show Bragg what a good girl you are.”

  Dot hesitated.

  Bragg grabbed her hand. “There, I have caught you,” he said sternly, but the little girl only laughed. He then smiled at Francesca. “I shall return her to Peter’s care, as I am off for a one o’clock appointment with the mayor.”

  Francesca could not help having her curiosity piqued; she wondered what issues they were addressing. “Good luck,” she said.

  He smiled at her and walked out with Dot in tow. Francesca watched them until they had disappeared from sight, and the moment they had, a new tension filled her. It was impossible not to remain stunned over Bragg’s assertion that he would divorce his wife.