Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  Francesca had little idea of what the pose would really look like in a portrait, as it was mostly of her back and backside, with her glancing at Sarah from over her shoulder. “Is this really all right?”

  “It’s spectacular—a bit more daring than what I imagined, but you have such a lovely body, and Hart will adore this portrait, so if you do not mind, I’d like to try it. If you object, we can start over tomorrow,” Sarah said, all the while sketching rapidly.

  Francesca smiled at her. She was already becoming uncomfortable in the position she was instructed to remain in.

  “Can you pretend you are looking at Hart instead of at me?” Sarah asked, her strokes upon the canvas long and bold.

  Francesca blinked. “Of course. Sarah, don’t you start on paper?”

  “Yes, but all the preliminary sketches I did were of you reclining on your side, and that is simply too boring. Worse, I do not know when I will get you back! I think it best to skip that stage. Think about Hart, Francesca. Pretend he has just walked into the room.”

  Francesca started, an image of Hart appearing behind Sarah coming to mind. Her heart skipped and her body tightened. Why hadn’t they made plans for the evening? Hadn’t he promised her a private celebration, just the two of them, with champagne? She knew where such a celebration would lead, and she smiled.

  “Thank you,” Sarah breathed.

  An hour later Sarah told her she could get up. Francesca slipped on the robe and did so, asking, “Can I see?”

  “Only if you promise not to shout at me. We can modify the pose,” Sarah said, breathless and flushed.

  Francesca was very curious now. She hurried over to the easel and gasped.

  She sat on the bed, her back to the viewer, but partially turned. Her shoulders were square and elegant, her back and waist long, her buttocks lush and full and completely revealed. One long leg was also fully revealed, and so was her left breast. Sarah hadn’t hidden anything, and her nipple was erect and peeking out from her forearm.

  But what really caught Francesca’s attention was her expression. She was staring at the viewer with such a frankly provocative expression. Her eyes were smoldering and sensual—a stunning contrast to the upswept hair and pearl choker.

  “I am going to paint that red gown in a heap on the floor by your foot,” Sarah breathed. “Do you like it? It’s daring and sensual, but Francesca, you are stunning and I love it!”

  “I like it,” Francesca whispered, staring at herself. “Am I so voluptuous? And did I really look like that? My eyes, I mean?”

  Sarah bit her lip. “For a while, and whatever you were thinking, it was perfect.”

  Francesca knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking about celebrating alone with Hart—she had been thinking about being in his arms and, eventually, in his bed. “Hart will never be able to show this painting to anyone,” she mused breathlessly.

  “Never is a long time, and Mrs. Huntington has a Courbet she hides in her closet,” Sarah said. “Many collectors have certain works that general society is simply not ready for.”

  Francesca nodded, aware of her cheeks being quite hot. “Well, I think it unusual and I do not object.”

  Sarah took her hand. “Francesca, the beauty of a painting is, one can always change it. Shall we go forward then, this way? Down the road, if you object, I can easily move your arm to hide your breast, and add a pillow to hide your buttocks. But I do feel this pose is the right one.”

  Francesca smiled at her. “You are the artist,” she said.

  “I cannot wait to finish this and show Hart,” Sarah breathed.

  Silently Francesca agreed.

  Night had settled over the city as Francesca left the Channings’ in the Channing coach, having promised Sarah to return the next day around the same time to continue work on the portrait. Although it had been a very long day, Francesca was too exhilarated to feel any fatigue. She had hated the idea of a portrait initially, and now she was very pleased. Of course, she felt certain that the sensual and beautiful woman in the sketch was a romanticized version of herself. She knew, in reality, she hardly looked like that sketch! But if Sarah wished to portray her that way, she did not mind.

  The drive across town, through Central Park, was a quick one, and during that time Francesca tried to imagine how the interview had gone with Calder and her father. By now, it had surely been concluded, so when she saw Hart’s lavish and elegant six-in-hand parked in front of her house, she was astonished. She thanked the Channings’ driver and started toward the house, wondering if it was a good or bad sign that the meeting had gone on for so long.

  Francesca was about to take the first step up the wide stone steps leading to the front door when someone spoke to her from behind. “Miss Cahill?”

  Her first thought was that it was that sneaky news reporter Arthur Kurland, who would do anything for a scoop. He had accosted her at her front door before. She halted and turned. But she saw no one standing by the hedges lining the drive, and beyond that it was too dark to see anything. Had the sound of someone speaking her name been a figment of her imagination? “Hello?” she tried.

  There was no immediate answer. She became a bit uneasy and very curious, straining to see. The house was fully illuminated within from behind, but there were no lights on the grounds until the avenue, where there were two gas lamps at the gated entrance to their property. She thought she saw a movement behind the hedges, by several large elm trees. “Kurland? Is that you?” She opened her clutch and slid the small derringer into her palm.

  “Yes.”

  She blinked. “Come out, then. I don’t bite.”

  “I need a private word,” he said.

  This was more than strange, it was simply intriguing, and Francesca left the first stone step, putting the tiny gun away. She started toward the hedge and elms where he was hiding. What could be going on? Kurland was dangerous, but only in that he seemed to know the extent of her relationship with Bragg and, if he wished, he could cause a scandal and hurt Bragg’s career, both present and future. Francesca’s mind raced with possibilities now as she stepped across the graveled drive. Perhaps this time Kurland could prove to be a useful ally in her latest cause. Her case was newsworthy. He could write a feature about it and flush information her way. He might know something himself. Newsmen often had information about life on the street.

  She liked the idea of his writing about the missing children very much. Could he make tomorrow’s morning papers? “Kurland, why are you lurking about in my bushes?” she asked, stepping over to the hedges.

  He seized her suddenly, without warning, pulling her behind the bushes, pressing something sharp and cold to her throat. It was a knife.

  “Because I ain’t Kurland,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—6:00 P.M.

  ODDLY, HE WAS SOMEWHAT nervous, and that did not make any sense.

  But then, this was a new game, one he’d never played before. The stakes were Francesca Cahill.

  Hart smiled grimly to himself as he removed his coat. If he did not know better, he would almost think himself to be infatuated or in love. But he knew without a doubt that love was for hypocrites and romantic fools; he knew it was an illusion meant to sweep away the tawdry urges of lust. And he hadn’t been infatuated with a woman since he was a boy of sixteen.

  He removed his black coat, handing it to the Cahills’ butler, thanking him with a nod. He calmly reminded himself that as high as the stakes were, he was prepared for battle and would undoubtedly win. In fact, he had spent an hour or two last night making notes in preparation for the war of wits and wills to come. He frequently engaged in such battles in the course of conducting his many and various business affairs—he owned the city’s largest shipping company, an equally large insurance company, and a fledgling transportation company, not to mention major shares in several railroads and utilities. But he was never nervous, not in the least, when confronting a
n adversary or even an enemy; in fact, he relished each and every battle. He usually won.

  In fact, he could not recall the last time he had lost.

  Still, he also had to consider that very possibility. He analyzed every business dealing in such a manner, and so he would analyze this. If Andrew remained against this marriage, he could marry Francesca anyway, as he was certainly wealthy enough and powerful enough to defy her father and do so. Or he could stand back—as he knew in his own heart that he wasn’t good enough for her. He could stand back and lose her sooner or later to another man.

  A real gentleman would take the latter course. But he wasn’t a gentleman and he would never be one and his choice should Cahill refuse him was outstandingly clear. In fact, there was no choice. Francesca had entered his life very much like a brutal thunderstorm—his life had been black before the storm, but now, in the storm’s wake, there was rebirth: new blades of grass, the budding of dandelions, the shimmer of a rainbow, the smile of the sun. Every day was a new one.

  He told himself he was turning into a romantic fool, but one fact had become inescapable in the past month when she had been gone—he needed her. He preferred the green of springtime to the black despair of winter, and that had also become terribly clear. Francesca was a breath of fresh air.

  Hart refused to reflect anymore. Julia was hurrying toward him, smiling. She grasped his hands tightly, but he felt certain that she wished to throw herself into his arms. He was amused. The emotion was a welcome one. “It is so good to see you, Calder,” she said.

  “And I am more than pleased to be here,” he returned smoothly and actually meaning it.

  “Andrew is in the study,” Julia said as they went down the hall. “I cannot tell you how surprised I was last night when you announced your intentions toward Francesca.”

  He felt like murmuring that her surprise had undoubtedly equaled his own surprise when he had first realized he had no recourse but to marry her. “I made my intentions clear to Francesca quite some time ago.”

  That stopped Julia in her tracks. “Really?” Her blue eyes were wide with complete surprise.

  “Yes.” He smiled at her. “She did not wish me to approach her father. She wanted to consider my proposal first.”

  Julia made a sound. “That sounds exactly like my foolishly independent daughter! I must confess, Calder, Andrew is very taken aback by you not coming to him, first. And now I see this is entirely Francesca’s fault. But why should I be surprised when she is—” She halted in midsentence, beginning to flush.

  He took her arm. “But I encouraged Francesca to think about it, as marriage is a very serious step,” he smoothly lied, not wanting Francesca to be blamed. Instantly Julia’s face relaxed. “My dearest Julia,” he added, “I admire your daughter for her independent and headstrong ways, and have no fear, there is little you can say that will dissuade me from my plans. She may be a handful, but it is an intriguing handful, after all.”

  Julia sighed with relief. “Which is why you are so perfect for her. Most men would be terrified of such a wife!”

  “Francesca would run roughshod over most men.”

  “We are in agreement, then,” Julia said, leading the way down the hall once again. She gave him a significant look. It warned him to succeed in the upcoming interview. “We agree that this match is a perfect one.”

  “Have no fear,” he murmured. “I have analyzed this match from every conceivable angle, and I have no doubt that we suit. Andrew will soon agree with me.”

  “I do hope so,” Julia said with visible worry. “I fear for the ensuing hour. It shall be a battle of the titans! Do reassure him, please.” She met his gaze.

  Hart understood. “That is why I am here,” he murmured. Then he glanced inside. The door to Andrew Cahill’s study was open. A fire roared in the hearth beneath a gleaming mahogany mantel, and with the moss-green fabric walls, the wood paneling below, and stained-glass windows, the effect was cheerful and inviting. Andrew was on the emerald-green leather sofa with the day’s New York Times. Upon seeing Hart and his wife, he dropped the paper upon the small table beside the couch and stood. He was in a paisley and velvet-trimmed smoking jacket, his trousers, and monogrammed black velvet slippers.

  “Good evening, Hart,” Andrew said. Then, a dismissal, “Thank you, Julia.”

  Julia smiled grimly and stepped out, closing the solid door behind her.

  “Drink?” Andrew asked.

  “Please,” Hart said. He was more than aware of how much this man distrusted him and knew that he also disliked him. But then, most men did not like him, simply because women were so attracted to him. His job that day was not just to convince Andrew Cahill of his sincerity when it came to Francesca, but to begin the task of melting the man’s dislike as well. Otherwise, given Francesca’s attachment to her family, their marriage would be reduced to strife and conflict, and frankly, he did not need the aggravation.

  “Scotch?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrew went to a handsome glass-and-brass bar cart, pouring two scotches from a decanter and adding ice from the sterling ice bucket there. He handed Hart his drink. Hart sipped and was pleasantly surprised by a well-aged, superbly smooth scotch. He thought about how Francesca now enjoyed his favorite beverage, and he reminded himself to tell her what her father kept in his study.

  “Shall we get to business, then?” Andrew asked, not sitting.

  “By all means.” Hart smiled, watching his opponent carefully.

  “I am very disturbed by the announcement you made last night.”

  “I cannot think clearly where your daughter is concerned,” Hart said smoothly, and it was a glib reply but not quite a lie.

  “A man of your accomplishments? I hardly think so.”

  Hart smiled. He knew that Andrew referred to his notorious reputation with women. “My accomplishments are in the past,” he said.

  “Really?” Andrew raised both brows. “I find that impossible to believe.”

  Hart set his glass down. “Has it ever occurred to you that I have changed since meeting your daughter?”

  “Unlike others in society, no, it has not,” Andrew said.

  Touché, Hart thought grimly, silently liking Cahill’s frank manner. “I was a confirmed bachelor until I met your daughter. It is public knowledge that I mocked marriage and that my intention was to never wed. Surely you are as aware of that as the rest of society?”

  Andrew nodded gruffly. “My wife has assured me that was the case. So has my eldest daughter. They have both come out strongly in favor of this match.”

  Hart was pleased. “It is also a matter of record that I have never, not once in my entire life, courted an available and innocent young lady. As every mother in society knows, I have avoided young ladies like Francesca like the plague.”

  “Yes, instead, you have carried on with divorcees and widows, not to mention actresses and opera singers,” Andrew said.

  “That is correct,” Hart said flatly. “I made myself from nothing, Andrew; in fact, I do believe we have that in common. I am now a wealthy man. Wealthy enough to do as I please and not give a damn what anyone thinks about it. You are more than correct. Until a month or so ago, I lived very much like a hedonist. However, that has all changed.”

  Andrew stared. “Do you really think I would believe such a claim? Last night you had Mrs. Davies on your arm.”

  Hart smiled. “I did. And once, years ago, we were lovers. She is a friend, Andrew, nothing more. Although she has made it clear repeatedly that she would like far more.”

  “I do not trust you. I find you glib,” Andrew stated.

  “Sir, haven’t you wondered why, a man like myself, a man who could have any woman he wants, a man sworn to forever avoid marriage, would so suddenly about-face?” he asked casually.

  Andrew seemed taken aback. “Are you going to tell me that you have somehow fallen in love with my daughter? Because I find it very difficult to understand how my daughter, an inte
llectual, a reformer, and yes, a sleuth, could captivate you. Francesca may be beautiful, but she is a crusader, Hart. The women you are seen with are, frankly, a different type.”

  Hart smiled. “No one is like Francesca.” The words slipped out, his first spontaneous utterance of the evening. Then he recovered. “I am not going to lie to you and tell you that I am madly in love.”

  “Then this conversation is over.”

  “I’m afraid not. Because I am determined to marry your daughter, and I beg you to consider the question I previously posed.”

  “As to why you have had this change of heart? Frankly, I cannot begin to comprehend it. Francesca is very eccentric. Why have you set your cap on her? She would hardly suit you, surely you can see that!” He had become flushed.

  Hart knew when the enemy was unraveling. Calmly he raised both brows. “I beg to differ. She suits me very well, as I am as unconventional.”

  Andrew started, his eyes widening, and Hart knew he had finally scored.

  “Do you really see Francesca in a state of matrimony like her sister or your wife? Can you see her married to some gentleman, a lawyer or a doctor, or even a senator or judge? Is Francesca’s lot in life to be hosting teas for the wives of her husband’s associates, shopping the Ladies’ Mile, supervising the household, bearing and raising children?”

  Andrew’s color was very high now. “She will settle down with the right man,” he muttered.

  “You know as well as I do that Francesca is unique, and that she would die of unhappiness in a conventional union. For you love her for her eccentric ways, sir. Andrew, I can offer her a life of perpetual education. I can offer her a life in which she will never become bored or complacent. If she wishes to gaze upon the pyramids in Egypt, I can take her there. If she wishes to adventure in China, to view the Great Wall, we can go. Not only can we go, we can bring a retinue of servants with us—as well as the children.”