Deadly Pleasure

by Brenda Joyce

  Kurland took his notepad from his breast pocket. “Miss Randall seems to have no doubts as to who murdered her father,” he said to Bragg. “Have you officially interrogated your brother, Commissioner? Does he have an alibi for the night of the murder? I believe he was at White’s party—but the victim died earlier in the evening.”

  “No comment,” Bragg said brusquely.

  Francesca’s insides seemed to curdle. She did not like Kurland’s expression, much less his question. And now the reporter from the Sun was staring at Hart.

  “May I ask you some questions?” Kurland asked.

  “No.” Hart turned away brusquely.

  “Perhaps I shall interview two young ladies... er, two young women!” Kurland called to his back.

  Francesca froze. He knew. He knew about Hart’s lie; somehow he had uncovered the truth.

  Hart whirled, his expression black with rage. Kurland took a step backward, but Hart stalked him. “You may speak with anyone you wish,” Hart ground out softly.

  “Did you lie about your whereabouts that evening?” Kurland cried, clearly frightened.

  Suddenly Hart had the man by the throat. “Prepare yourself for my lawsuit,” he said viciously as Kurland began to choke.

  “Calder!” Francesca screamed.

  Bragg grabbed his brother. “Let him go, Calder! Let him be!”

  Hart released the reporter, who doubled over, choking and gasping for air.

  Bragg dragged Hart away. “Are you insane?” he hissed. “You may as well have begged the man to set his sights upon you! He will gun for you now.”

  Hart shrugged Bragg off as Francesca came up to them. “I lost my temper,” he said. His gaze turned to Francesca. Their eyes met.

  “I did not say a word to anyone—except Bragg,” she said quickly. “Calder, I had to tell him. Because you are in trouble now, even though I know you are innocent.” She spoke very softly, so no one might overhear them.

  He stared at her. “I spoke to you in confidence.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I did not feel that I had a choice.” Hart straightened his suit, then looked at Bragg.

  “I have not said a word, not even to my foremost detective. Kurland has done his own homework,” Bragg said grimly.

  Hart brushed some dust from his sleeve. “Apparently.”

  “Why did you lie in the first place?” Bragg asked quietly.

  “Why not?” Hart said with a shrug.

  Bragg stared grimly. Then he glanced at Francesca. “I am going inside with the Randalls. I shall try to speak with Bill after the service.”

  Francesca nodded, relieved that the intense moment had passed. She smiled a little at him, and he smiled in return. And for one moment, their gazes held.

  She watched him walk over to the family, admiring the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. Hart breathed, “Star-crossed lovers. And so the drama goes on.”

  She flinched. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and my brother,” he said, his dark eyes upon her.

  Dread filled her. A very vivid and bittersweet memory of last night assailed her. “Why would we be star-crossed? What do you know that I do not?”

  His eyes widened slightly with surprise. “Well, well. My brother has been keeping secrets. I do believe it is time for the service to begin. Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.

  Francesca nodded, finally smiling and about to give him her arm when someone brushed her from behind. Startled, she whirled and came face-to-face with a stranger.

  The man said in a hushed and urgent whisper, “I must speak to you, Miss Cahill. Alone, after the service.”

  “What?” she cried.

  “Ssh.” The man stood eye-to-eye with her. He wore a proper although ill-fitting suit and coat, his brown fedora pulled low over swarthy and rather rough, although attractive, features. Had he not been in a suit, he might have been a prizefighter, for although he was not tall, he had broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. Francesca guessed him to be about thirty. “Make sure you get rid of the police commissioner.”

  She gaped, looking into a pair of startling sea green eyes.

  “Francesca?” Hart said from behind her, with concern.

  “I am Mark Anthony,” the stranger said.

  She gasped. And before she could react, he rushed away.

  SIXTEEN

  Had Hart not been present, she would have shouted after Anthony or followed him. She did not know what he wanted, but there had been no mistaking the urgency in his tone. She could not wait to speak with him now. Francesca was elated. She had found Mark Anthony! Or rather, he had found her!

  “Good news?”

  The sexy murmur was breathed into her ear and it tickled her skin. She looked up, into Hart’s bemused and beguiling dark eyes. “You are the busiest body I know,” she said, almost meaning it.

  He grinned, his spirits obviously having rebounded. “But that excludes yourself.”

  She ignored that. What did Anthony want? She was on pins and needles now.

  “And who is that prizefighter?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You are very distracted, Francesca. Clearly that gentleman is preoccupying your thoughts now—although I daresay he looked rather disreputable. Who is he?”

  Francesca was saved from answering when a church clock began striking the noon hour, somewhere close by.

  Instantly bells all over the city began ringing. The effect was, as always, magnificent.

  Hart laughed. “I am heartbroken that you find me so uninteresting. Let’s go in. The service is about to begin.”

  She gave him her arm, relieved that he did not press her about Anthony. They started forward. “So why did you come, Hart? Why are you really here?”

  He shrugged. “To let them know they will not keep me away.”

  “I think you are here to mourn your father’s passing,” she said pointedly.

  “How romantic you are,” he said, somewhat fondly. And then he stopped in his tracks.

  His action halted her, as well. She followed his gaze and saw Neil striding toward them. Her heart stopped and she stared.

  Montrose seemed ravaged. He looked terrible—as if he had not slept in days. He had not shaved, either, and with his rumpled suit, he looked incredibly dissipated. What was this? Montrose was clearly looking for her—he must have gone to the house and learned that she was attending the Randall funeral. But why was he there? Hadn’t Connie gone home last night? Or had she returned, but things had worsened, instead of getting better?

  “Now what could this be?” Hart murmured.

  Francesca tensed, dropping Hart’s arm. “Calder, I must speak with Neil. I will be in shortly,” she said.

  Hart followed her regard. “Are you certain you wish to be left alone with him? He seems to have taken a turn for the worse. And what is wrong with your brother-in-law?”

  She bit her lip. “I have no idea,” she lied.

  Hart gave her a look and a shake of his head, clearly aware of her pretense, and he moved away. Francesca took a deep breath. Across an expanse of about ten feet, her gaze locked with Neil’s. There was no mistaking how distraught he was. “You must be looking for me,” she said, not moving.

  “Yes, I am,” he said grimly.

  Francesca realized she had begun to tremble. She moved closer to Neil, aware that Hart had paused on the church steps, ostensibly to roll a cigarette. She knew his game—he was determined to eavesdrop upon them—but could not even begin to brood upon it now. “What is it? It’s Connie, isn’t it? Is she all right?” She tried to keep her voice down so Hart could not overhear.

  “How would I know whether she is all right or not when I haven’t seen her in two days?” he returned unevenly.

  Francesca felt herself blanch. “Connie did not come home?” she gasped.

  “No, she did not! Do you know where she is? Have you seen her?” he demanded.

  She could only stare. Why hadn�
�t Connie returned? Last night she had said that she would.

  “Francesca, I am here to ask you for your help. As you now consider yourself a sleuth, I am here asking you to find my wife, before any more damage is done.” His turquoise eyes held hers.

  “I saw her last night. She went to Beth Anne’s.”

  Relief flooded his features. “And the girls?”

  “They are fine.” Francesca bit her lip, uncertain of what to say.

  And suddenly Neil was angry. “Why is she doing this? Does she want the whole world to know of our impasse? Or does she think to humiliate me? We have had callers, Francesca. I have told our friends that Connie is not well, and that she is abed. But very soon, the entire world as we know it shall know that she has left me!”

  “Neil.” She took his hand. “She is coming home; I am certain of it.”

  “She had better,” he said grimly. And it was a threat.

  Francesca stiffened. “What?”

  “How much more of this kind of behavior do you think I can—or will—take?” he asked.

  “What does that mean?” she asked cautiously.

  “It means that I am becoming angry,” he said. “I am truly sorry for what I have done, and if I could, I would change the past. But I cannot, damn it. And enough is enough.”

  Francesca stared and their gazes held. In that moment, she knew he genuinely regretted what he had done, and she found that she herself could—and did—forgive him. In that moment, she recalled why she had loved Neil from the moment she had met him, when he had come to court her sister five years ago. He was a noble man after all. Perhaps his only flaw was that he was human.

  “I want my family back. I want her back, now. But perhaps by the time she decides to come back, it will be too late,” he said grimly.

  “Neil! You do not mean that!” Francesca cried, horrified.

  “I came here to ask you to find my wife. But now I know where she is. I am expecting her to come home—today.” He gave her a long, dark look—one filled with warning.

  “I understand,” Francesca said.

  “Good.” He turned on his heel and strode away.

  “Oh, Neil,” she whispered, and she shivered, but he was already gone, moving rapidly down the street, his strides long and angry. Francesca closed her eyes. She had a terrible feeling that this might not end the way everyone was predicting. Connie and Neil were not behaving like mature or sensible adults. Connie hadn’t come home, and Neil was becoming angry. And clearly the longer this impasse went on, the worse it would become. And had Neil been suggesting that he might not take Connie back if she did not return swiftly? Francesca hoped not. She refused to believe it.

  “So your sister has left Montrose.”

  Francesca stiffened with dread. Just then, Hart was the very last man on the face of the planet with whom she wished to speak—especially about Connie and Montrose. Slowly she turned.

  His gaze was filled with speculation. He smiled a little at her and said nothing more, staring after Montrose.

  Which was worse than any mockery could ever be.

  The service was over and the mourners were standing and crowding into the aisle of the church in order to leave. Francesca waited her turn, Hart behind her. As they had entered the church together, somewhat late, they had sat together as well, in one of the last of the occupied pews. The church had not been full. Francesca had counted twenty-three mourners.

  Bill Randall had given a loving eulogy, during which Henrietta and Mary had wept—or so it had appeared. Apparently Paul had been a warm and wonderful father. Or so Bill was now claiming.

  Georgette de Labouche had not appeared at her lover’s funeral. Was she truly that frightened of the police? Or was she, Francesca wondered suddenly, heartless?

  She stepped into the aisle, aware of Hart exerting a small pressure upon her arm with which to guide her. It was most unnecessary; still, she rather enjoyed his attention. She glanced toward the front of the church; Bragg had sat behind the family in the second row of pews, and he was regarding the crowd now as he waited to step into the aisle himself. She felt certain he was filing away information to himself on all those who were in attendance, hoping for a clue that might lead them to Randall’s killer. As she filed out, she saw, from the corner of her eye, his gaze veer to her and Hart.

  She debated telling him about Mark Anthony, then decided she would meet Georgette’s brother first, briefly, to see what it was that he wanted. She smiled to herself then, having a mental image of herself handing over Georgette de Labouche to Bragg. He would be quite impressed with her sleuthing indeed.

  Across the crowded church, she smiled at him.

  He did not seem to notice.

  Sobering, Francesca finally reached the steps of the church and found herself standing on the street outside with Hart. She instantly saw Anthony. He was seated inside a livery that was double-parked next to another vehicle, a few coaches up the block from where Bragg had left his motorcar. Anthony was watching out his window, undoubtedly for her, and when he saw her, their gazes locked. Immediately he pulled the shade down.

  Francesca turned to Hart to murmur some kind of pleasantry, but saw Bragg emerging onto the stone steps. Hart said, “May I give you a lift? It would be my pleasure.”

  As always, when he spoke, he somehow insinuated his warm tone with an inflection that was utterly sensual and rather irresistible; she looked up and saw him smiling, his eyes warm. It was so easy to understand why someone like Daisy should be fond of him. “I appreciate the offer, but I have some errands to run,” she said quickly.

  Speculation filled his gaze. “I should still be delighted to drop you wherever your errands may take you,” he said, his gaze sliding over her features, rather lingeringly, one by one.

  It was as if he enjoyed every aspect of her appearance and was, indeed, savoring it.

  She flushed a little. She had to meet Anthony; she declined. The words were hardly out of her mouth when Bragg stepped up to them by the curb and said, “That will not be possible, Calder.”

  It was funny, how quickly Calder’s posture changed. Before Bragg had even completed his sentence, Calder’s hands fell to his sides, his shoulders straightened and stiffened, and his smile became a sneer. Even the warm light in his eyes changed, turning into something sardonic and mocking. “Anything is possible,” Hart returned smoothly. “And I fear my heart is broken now.” He smiled at Francesca with a flash of his white teeth, placing his hand upon his chest. He was clearly in jest, and Francesca did smile in return.

  Bragg faced his half brother more squarely. “I have some questions to ask you. I am afraid they cannot wait. I shall be happy to give you a lift so we can speak, but it would be more convenient if we went to my office.” He gestured toward his motorcar.

  Hart’s eyes seemed to flicker just barely with surprise or something else. “I am afraid I have appointments, back-to-back, this entire afternoon. It is Monday.”

  “I am sorry, but you will have to cancel one or two, depending upon how long this will take.” Bragg remained courteous but firm.

  “I am afraid my meetings are extremely important ones. Some of us do work for our livings.” Hart grinned. It was mirthless.

  “I am afraid I am not giving you an option. Be sensible, Calder. You have lied—to the authorities, I might add—and you are the victim’s son. I need to solve this case, and perhaps you can be of help. Let’s go. Send your driver on. This will not take that long—not if you cooperate.”

  Hart no longer smiled. He stared back at Bragg. “Perhaps you are feeling pressure to question me—because less than an hour ago a reporter cast aspersions upon your management of this investigation?”

  Bragg stared as coldly. “Perhaps. You may think what you will. But I will ask you some questions, come hell or high water. Today,” he added flatly.

  Francesca wanted to butt in. She did not dare.

  “I am a busy man,” Hart snapped.

  “You may ride with me,
or, if you prefer, I can call for a police wagon,” Bragg said in a too-silken tone.

  Francesca realized what was happening. His simple request to ask a few informal questions was escalating dangerously now. “Bragg!” she cried, dismayed. He was taking Calder downtown for questioning? To police headquarters? Was this truly necessary? “Surely you can quickly ask Hart some questions now! Here!”

  Bragg shot her an annoyed look. “We will speak later, Francesca,” he said, and it was an extremely firm dismissal.

  But she did not move. She did not dare, as she sensed an imminent conflagration. It felt like it might be a horrific hurricane.

  Hart said, “It is one o’clock. I have a meeting in half an hour in my Pearl Street office with two Englishmen who happen to be two emissaries from China. I have worked long and hard for this appointment, and I do not intend to miss it. A huge shipping contract depends upon it.”

  “And I have a dead man on my hands—one who happens to be your father. Let’s go.” Bragg’s eyes had darkened impossibly. Francesca sensed that he was losing his temper now. He gripped Hart’s arm.

  Anger flooded Hart’s face. He shrugged Bragg off. “So now you pull rank on me? Is this because, for once in your life, you have the power to do so?”

  “No, Calder, this is because your father is dead, murdered, in fact, and you knowingly lied to me about your whereabouts on the evening of the murder, digging yourself into quite the hole,” Bragg replied coldly.

  Hart stared. “No. You are in your shining glory and we both know it. This once, you have power. This once, you can actually force me to your will. This is not about Randall, Rick. This is about you and me.”

  Bragg laughed, and it was such a cold sound that Francesca felt chills rippling up and down her body. “I should have expected you to think in such a way. After all, you have no honor, so you would not understand the notions most of us live by. It is my duty to find Randall’s killer, whoever he— or she—might be. It is also my duty to question you, now, about your misleading testimony. You have lied to the authorities, Calder. That was not a good idea. It is a criminal offense.”

  “So charge me,” Hart said coldly, and he began to walk away.