Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  And she was no fool. She had seen right through everyone’s charade the moment she had met Francesca—Grace knew both Rick and Calder vied for Francesca’s attentions, and it had worried her enough for her to speak sharply to Francesca about it. Francesca remained uncertain of how Grace felt about the entire situation. She had made it clear she did not want to see Rick and Calder fighting over any woman. She had also made it clear that Rick remained married. Her last words to Francesca had been about the fact that Calder was not.

  “Is this official?” Grace asked quietly.

  In that moment, as Rourke finally got the tie free from Francesca’s wound, Francesca realized she had no idea of the outcome of Hart’s interview with her father. She gasped, meeting his gaze. “Calder! What happened when you met with Papa?”

  He smiled at her. “We are official, my dear. But your father insists upon a year-long engagement.”

  Francesca wasn’t surprised that Hart had won this battle. He seemed undefeatable, at least to her. “A year?” And real dismay overcame her. They would have to wait an entire year to wed?

  “A small price to pay for his consent, don’t you think?” Hart smiled. But his eyes were glinting and he knew where Francesca’s thoughts lay.

  “Well, this is good news indeed,” Rourke said. “The wound is superficial. A mere cut. No stitches are necessary, my biggest fear.” He smiled at her. “I will clean this up and you shall be healed in no time.”

  “Will she scar?” Grace asked.

  “No. But I’d suggest you put an ointment on it just to make sure. It’s called Doctor Bill’s Vitamin and Mineral Miracle Salve.” He finished cleaning the wound with lye soap. “How about some bed rest, Francesca? The human body heals faster with rest, as it gives the cells time to repair.”

  Francesca nodded. “I will try.” Suddenly she realized that not only did she have a huge cut on her throat, but her shirt was stained with blood also. She turned to Hart, alarmed. “I can’t go home like this! If Julia or anyone sees this cut, I will never be allowed out of the house, at least not unless I am on someone’s leash.”

  Hart turned to Grace. “Do you have a fresh shirtwaist?”

  “Of course.” Grace smiled at Francesca. “I have a high-necked blouse that should do nicely.”

  “Thank you,” Francesca breathed.

  “I would also like a moment alone with my bride,” Hart said.

  Rourke raised a brow; Grace hesitated.

  “I will hardly ravage her a year before the wedding,” Hart murmured.

  Grace said, “Francesca, I would like to have lunch with you. Do you have time tomorrow?”

  Francesca went on alert. She knew what this was about—it was to be an interview in which she would be tested, and the subject would be her marrying Calder Hart. “I am on a case,” she began, knowing her day would be full indeed. Then she gave up. She had to meet Grace Bragg, because she was determined to have her approval. Yet she dreaded the intimate and very personal confrontation that would ensue. “I can meet you tomorrow.” She so admired Grace Bragg—yet the woman also intimidated her.

  “Do you want to dine out? I assume you will be busy downtown, so perhaps the Fifth Avenue Hotel will do?”

  Francesca nodded.

  “One o’ clock?”

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  “And I would like a chance to see you tomorrow afternoon,” Rourke said.

  An idea came to Francesca. Trying to appear very innocent, she said, “I will be at Sarah’s around half past four or five.”

  Rourke was clearly indifferent, because he nodded and his expression did not change. “That’s fine. I’ll come by about five, then. Good night.” He smiled at her and went out, followed by his mother.

  Hart did not close the doors. He sat down beside Francesca, taking her palms in his. She stirred. His gaze was dark and steady, holding hers. “I am very relieved that you are all right.”

  She smiled. “I know,” she said softly. “Calder—we must wait an entire year?”

  He smiled fondly and then kissed the tip of her nose. “I believe your mother is already planning the wedding. I doubt we will have to wait a year.” His gaze turned teasing. “I doubt I could withstand your seductive onslaught for an entire year, darling.”

  Only he could kiss her nose so chastely and bring to mind images of his muscular naked body. “Of course you could. You are the strongest person I know.”

  His brows lifted. “I see I am finally beginning to impress you.” He cupped her cheek. “I like the flattery, Francesca, when it comes from you.”

  She had the oddest inkling then that he yearned for more of her praise. But he was also one of the most confident men she knew, so she doubted he needed her approval. Teasingly she said, “You were very heroic tonight, Calder.”

  He laughed. “You are on a high roll. Keep rolling, darling.” He pulled her close and touched her mouth with his. “You scared the hell out of me tonight,” he murmured, his mouth brushing hers. “Will our entire marriage be one of my forever worrying about your welfare?”

  She trembled as his mouth dipped, kissing her skin just below the bandage. Her loins filled instantly. “I am afraid so,” she breathed, tugging his hand toward her breast.

  But he didn’t allow her to place it as she wished; instead, he moved apart. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her. And he was so serious that she stiffened. “What is it?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” For one moment, she did not know what he could be talking about—and she assumed it was a plan regarding their wedding. “There is a club renowned for all kinds of deviations. I have never been there, obviously, but it is infamous, and I would be surprised if it did not traffic in children. I think it is time that I venture into the establishment in question,” he said.

  Francesca was on her feet. “That is brilliant,” she said. “Will they let you in?” She imagined the door policy to such a sordid place was quite severe.

  He also stood, but he wasn’t smiling. “There is a saying, Francesca, and it is ‘Money talks.’ ”

  “What?” she breathed. “What is wrong? Calder, your plan is perfect! You will enter as the most jaded and dissolute sort and sniff out the children—or word of them!”

  “Let’s just hope that your father never hears that I am on the prowl,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—BEFORE MIDNIGHT

  LEIGH ANNE RACED AHEAD of him up the walk, to the house. He followed more slowly, while Peter put the motorcar away in the carriage house. She hurried inside, and when Bragg finally entered, she was calling breathlessly for the nurse. “Mrs. Flowers!” She dropped her chinchilla fur upon a stool; it slipped to the floor.

  Leigh Anne did not notice; she was clinging to the banister and peering up the stairs.

  Bragg picked up the coat, hanging it in the entry’s closet.

  “Hush, madam, you will wake the children,” Mrs. Flowers said, coming down the stairs. “Good evening, sir.” She smiled briskly at Bragg.

  Leigh Anne was halfway up the stairs, meeting her there. “Did Rourke come by? What did he say about Katie’s cough?”

  “Mr. Rourke was here, and he said it is a bit of a cold and nothing to worry about.”

  Leigh Anne smiled widely, in obvious relief, and without even a single backward glance, flew up the stairs, past the nanny. “I promise not to wake them!” she cried softly.

  Bragg stared after his wife for a moment, terribly aroused. He reminded himself of his vow. He turned then and said to the nanny, “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Oh! Sir, an envelope came for you a short while ago. It is on the table,” Mrs. Flowers said as she went downstairs. There was one small bedroom behind the kitchen, where she slept. Peter had taken up residence in the apartment over the carriage house.

  Bragg about-faced. He found the envelope on the entry table in the silver tray reserved for mail and calling cards.
He turned it over and his abdomen clenched. It was from Hart.

  What the hell did he want?

  There was a letter opener in the table’s single shallow drawer, and he used it to slit the envelope.

  Rick,

  Francesca was assaulted tonight outside of

  her parents’ home. Other than a minor cut, she

  is fine. She suspects the assailant to be Tom

  Smith’s killer.

  Calder

  There was a single chair beside the table and he sank down on it. Francesca had been attacked. He quickly reminded himself that she was fine. The one thing he trusted Hart to do was accurately report any situation involving Francesca’s welfare.

  He stood, his mind spinning. Tom Smith had been murdered. Francesca had been attacked. Why? Had they intended to murder her, too, or had it been a warning? And why had Tom Smith been killed? That answer, at least, was clear: he knew something; he was somehow involved. And Francesca suspected her assailant to be the same person who had murdered Smith. Why?

  He was in his evening clothes, so he had not worn his greatcoat. He hesitated, thinking about the woman upstairs, and then felt a feral sense of triumph—tonight he would live up to his vow. He took the stairs two at a time.

  She sat in bed with the children, still in her mint-green evening gown. Dot was curled up against her hip, Katie snuggled to her other side. Both children were sound asleep. Dot looked like a little angel; Katie looked like a thin, homeless waif. Leigh Anne looked up when she realized he was standing there. She smiled. “Rourke said it’s nothing.”

  “I have to go out.”

  She started and for one moment he thought he saw dismay in her eyes, but he could not be sure. Then she nodded. “Is it police business?” Her tone was carefully neutral.

  He took pleasure in his reply: “Francesca was attacked tonight.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He strode out and did not see her face fall. And had he turned, he would have seen Leigh Anne hugging herself, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  He thought she called softly, “I hope she is fine,” but he could not be sure.

  “This is hardly a surprise,” Hart drawled as he opened the front door himself and found his half brother standing there.

  Bragg looked angry, and he stepped into the house without a word.

  Hart noted his evening clothes. He half-turned. “Go to bed, Alfred. Good night.”

  “Are you sure you won’t be needing anything, sir?” Alfred said, standing a few steps behind Hart and not moving to go.

  Hart eyed Bragg with amusement. “Actually, my brother looks like he could use a stiff drink.” He could not help himself: he loved the fact that Bragg was so enraged, and he knew exactly why. He hadn’t been there that evening to protect the woman of his dreams. How frantic he must be.

  Worse, it was Hart who had been there to rescue her. Hart hid a smile. Not that Francesca had needed rescuing. It was easy, now, to be amused. He hadn’t felt that way several hours ago when he had seen all that blood—all her blood.

  Bragg nodded at Alfred. “I do not need a thing.”

  “Very well then, sirs. Good night.” Alfred inclined his head and left.

  “Do come in,” Hart said.

  “You are smirking,” Bragg returned evenly. “But then, you would find enjoyment in your fiancee being in a killer’s hands.”

  Now Hart was annoyed. “I am enjoying the fact that you are out of the loop, Rick, and do not dare to presume what I think where Francesca is involved.”

  “I don’t presume. I know,” Bragg said simply.

  “You think you know—when you are nothing but a fool,” Hart said. He turned and stalked through his huge house, past priceless paintings and sculptures, including some works so provocative that his guests had been offended by their public display. The doors to his library were open. Hart strode to the bar set in the granite counter, above which was nothing but rare books. He poured his favorite scotch. “I am surprised I managed to rouse you out of bed,” he remarked coolly.

  “I sense a barb but cannot imagine what it might be.”

  Hart turned, smiling. “Leaving the lush little woman all alone tonight? My, I applaud your discipline, Rick, I really do.”

  Bragg strode to him and knocked the glass right from his hand. It fell to the floor, onto an old and faded Persian rug, breaking into pieces, proof that the crystal was fine. “You are the last man on earth to talk about discipline when the subject is women,” he said.

  Hart felt like telling him the truth—he had plenty of discipline when the circumstances warranted it—and that he’d been faithful to Francesca for the entire month of their secret engagement. But he did not. It was not his brother’s affair. “Why deprive oneself?” He shrugged. “We are men, after all, and society makes too much of what is nothing more than primitive and basic physical needs.”

  “I cannot fathom how you seduced Francesca to your will,” Bragg said harshly. “Doesn’t she care that you keep Daisy downtown? Doesn’t she care that you have been keeping company with Mrs. Davies while she is gone? Has she forgotten your alibi on the night Randall was murdered? Has she forgotten you were sharing a bed with two women?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps she is fascinated by my darker side,” he purred. “Perhaps you do not know Francesca as well as you think you do.”

  And for one moment, as Bragg darkened, Hart thought he would strike him, and he was pleased, his own fist curling closed in real anticipation, in savage satisfaction. But Bragg did have discipline, which he damn well knew, and his brother merely stood there, fighting himself when he so clearly wanted to deliver a blow. “Bravo,” Hart breathed, turning and calmly pouring another scotch. “Are you certain you do not want one?”

  “How pleased you must have been last night, announcing your engagement, shocking everyone present—shocking me.”

  Hart turned and saluted him with the glass. “It is definitely a memory I will cherish.” He smiled.

  “You bastard. I won’t let you destroy her.”

  He stopped smiling, setting the glass down behind him. “I am genuinely fond of Francesca. I have no intention of destroying her.”

  “She deserves love, an emotion you are incapable of.”

  Hart stiffened, even though he knew Bragg was right—he was incapable of love, and Francesca deserved a man foolish and romantic enough to love her. He said, “The kind of love you wish to give her? Oh, wait, or the kind of love you give to your wife?”

  Bragg struck.

  Hart ducked and Bragg’s fist only grazed his cheek. He came up quickly, seizing Bragg’s wrist. The two men strained against each other, inches apart. “I am going to make sure Francesca learns the truth about you,” Bragg said, breathing hard.

  “She already knows the truth about me. Perhaps she should learn the truth about you,” he said softly, meaning it. He was so sick of the way she idolized his brother. Bragg might sincerely wish to save the world, but when it came to his wife, he was nothing but a hypocrite. And they both knew it.

  “I know you hate me,” Bragg said, shaking Hart off. “But maybe you should consider this question: Do you really hate me enough to use Francesca this way? Now I am asking you for one single favor,” he said. “Leave her out of this. She deserves more. And you know it.”

  Hart stared, and inwardly his heart lurched. She did deserve more. He had always known he wasn’t good enough for her, and if he were at all noble, if he had even a single fiber of real character, real morality, he would send her on her way, so she could find the true love she secretly yearned for. “Of course I’m not good enough for her,” he said quietly. “But oddly, Rick, I can’t bear the notion of losing her to another man.”

  Bragg started, staring with wide eyes. A long pause ensued. He finally said, “That is a performance worthy of a dozen awards. You almost had me fooled.”

  Hart felt his jaw tighten and he walked away. He would never reveal anything to his brother again.
<
br />   “What happened tonight?” Bragg asked, staring after him.

  Hart shrugged, not turning. “Francesca came home in a Channing vehicle. When she got out, someone called to her. She thought it was Arthur Kurland, that nuisance from the Sun.”

  “And?” Bragg was terse.

  Hart turned. “You know Francesca. Curiosity killed the cat. Fortunately, it has nine lives. I calculate she’s got six or seven left.”

  “Go on.”

  “She went over to investigate, was seized from behind, a knife to her throat.” He watched his brother pale. There had never been any question in Hart’s mind that Rick truly loved Francesca. It was just a more cerebral affair than a sensual one. Because she was a crusader whom he admired with all of his heart—because she was, in a way, a reflection of his own dreams and desires. Unfortunately, Hart also knew they would have made a successful match had Rick been available. It was very obvious.

  “How badly was she hurt?” Bragg asked, utterly pale now.

  “Her throat was scratched. It won’t scar,” he added, relieved that it would not. “He warned her to drop the case she is on.”

  “What did he say—specifically?” Bragg asked sharply.

  Hart did hand it to him: his brother was a fine investigator—and an even better police commissioner. He sighed. “Something to the effect of ‘Forget about the children.’ You’ll have to ask Francesca.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Home.” He was mildly surprised. “I took her home some time ago. And, Rick—she is not about to reveal what happened to anyone in her family. She would appreciate it if you did not make a fuss in front of Andrew or Julia.”

  Bragg paced over to him, staring. “And just why are you so involved in this case, Calder? Do you think to truly win Francesca’s heart if you help her solve this latest crime?”

  He was angry—he hid it behind annoyance. “I don’t like her being in danger any more than you do.”

  A silence fell. “Did she get a look at him?”