Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  But she had almost fooled him into thinking she had changed. She had almost fooled him into thinking she was kind, caring, selfless. In fact, he thought, hurting the way a bleeding man did, she had fooled him because deep in his heart he had believed she was the graceful, compassionate woman she had presented herself to be.

  But it had only been that—a presentation. And a damned good one, too.

  You damned fool. She did care, and you know it, deep inside, but bastard that you are, you tested her, one time too many, pushing at her, as hard as you could, until she left. This is your fault and no one else’s. Damn you.

  He stood abruptly, clutching the edge of his desk. He didn’t care. It was better this way. He would get the best lawyer in the country and get a divorce even if it meant letting the world know she had abandoned him. And he would adopt the girls. It was better this way. He hated Leigh Anne—he always had and he always would.

  He started, realizing Katie had come to stand beside him, gazing up at him anxiously. He forced a smile. “Tired of playing with your sister?”

  Katie shook her head “no” and didn’t speak.

  It was impulsive; he pulled her close to his side, murmuring, “It’s going to be all right.”

  “She’s never coming back, is she? That’s why you’re so sad,” Katie whispered.

  He almost choked as he spoke. “No. She’s not coming back.”

  Katie buried her face in the vicinity of his rib cage. He stroked her hair; his hands were shaking. “Is she dead?” Katie finally choked out.

  “No,” he said, inhaling hard. But maybe he should have told her yes. Maybe the lie would have been easier.

  Katie looked up, her eyes glistening with tears. “Then why? Why did she go? I don’t understand!”

  He cupped her thin shoulders. “It’s complicated,” he whispered unsteadily. Why? I chased her away and we are all better off. We are better off, God damn it.

  Katie looked at him, begging him for an explanation she could understand, with her big doe eyes.

  He had to come up with something, he realized. But he was at a complete loss now, angry, hurting, resentful, confused. Francesca’s image came to mind—she could help, he realized with real relief. If he told her the truth, she could come and help explain to the children what had happened—and why.

  A knock sounded on his door. “Sir?” Peter intoned.

  Bragg turned, one hand now on Katie’s shoulder. “Yes?”

  Peter looked at him gravely, and the worry was also reflected in his eyes. “Chief Farr is here, sir, and he wishes to speak to you.”

  Bragg nodded, too numb to be surprised, and he smiled at Katie, wondering if it was as strained as it felt. “I’ll be right back.”

  Katie nodded, clearly trusting him.

  And that she did warmed him from head to toe. He followed Peter into the hall and saw Farr at its end, standing there in the entry. Bragg approached. “Chief. What brings you here on a Sunday?” He heard how brisk his tone was, how professional. A police crisis was just what he needed, he realized.

  Farr was in his Sunday best, and he twisted a fedora in his hands. “Sir,” he began, his gaze skewer-sharp, “is Mrs. Bragg in residence?”

  The question stabbed through Bragg like a blunt knife. “What?”

  Farr actually looked uncomfortable. “I know the question is an odd one, but I need to ask you if Mrs. Bragg is here.”

  Some inkling began. “What is going on?” he asked sharply.

  “Sir—”

  “She’s not here,” he snapped. “Chief?”

  Farr was grim. “There was a carriage accident—a runaway coach. Yesterday afternoon.”

  Bragg stared, the inkling becoming dread. The room grayed.

  “The woman’s purse was lost in the crisis, and the police were called in today to try to identify her. Officer Wade claims she is your wife.”

  And for an instant, gray became dark, black, but he fought through, and then Farr was facing him, grave and grim. “How bad is she?”

  “Bad, sir, alive, but in serious condition.”

  He was going through the door. “Where is she?”

  “Bellevue,” Farr said.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  SUNDAY, MARCH 30, 1902—4:00 P.M.

  “SHE’S NOT UNCONSCIOUS, COMMISSIONER. She’s asleep. She’s been heavily dosed with laudanum for the pain.”

  Bragg stared at the small form sleeping on the hospital bed. Her face was turned toward him, and she looked unblemished and perfect, as if nothing had ever happened to her. He wanted to rush to her side, take her hand, stroke her hair. Aware of trembling, unable to control it, he forced himself to face Dr. Barnes. It was hard to breathe; he kept telling himself it would be all right, that he must not panic.

  “What happened?”

  “She was brought into Emergency yesterday afternoon at three. A coach ran her down, sir. Apparently it was a runaway,” the doctor, a tall, silver-haired man, said.

  He could not think now about all of the accusations he had been making against her. She hadn’t left him. This entire time, Leigh Anne had been here in the hospital, hurt, suffering, alone. “How badly is she injured?” he asked hoarsely, unable to look away from her.

  “It’s serious, sir.”

  He whirled—and there was so much fear. Briefly, there was also no air. He couldn’t inhale; he was on the verge of choking.

  “Commissioner, sit down. Let me get you some smelling salts.”

  He shook his head, somehow managed to breathe, hugely, deeply. “Is she dying?”

  “No. She’s currently stable—but her condition is very serious. She went into shock yesterday—we managed to bring her out of it. She’s a bit better today than she was yesterday, sir. Her vital signs have improved slightly.”

  Relief made his knees buckle, his breath escape. She wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t going to leave him.

  “Sir, I am optimistic—I am hoping to see a little improvement every day. We should be fairly certain of an outcome in the next few days.”

  Bragg couldn’t smile, but he managed to nod instead. “Has she woken up?”

  “Briefly, once. She is heavily drugged, Commissioner, against the pain from her injuries. She will undoubtedly wake up again, but I can’t say when. However, feel free to talk to her. She may hear you.” The doctor smiled at him.

  Bragg managed a thank-you and hurried into the hospital room.

  There were two other beds in the room, but both were empty. He knelt beside the hospital bed, noting now how unbelievably pale she was. She seemed as fragile as Katie, as small, as vulnerable and helpless. He reached for her hand, clasping it tightly, trembling even more. And it was then that he saw her left leg, slightly elevated by a pulley, three times its usual size, covered by a second sheet. What had happened to her leg?

  Leigh Anne moaned softly.

  His gaze flew to her face, but she remained asleep. Had he just heard her moan? Was she still in pain? He wasn’t himself—he hadn’t asked for all the details—she had been struck down by a carriage, but how? He was afraid, now, afraid to know every detail. He stroked her hair with his other hand and his heart broke.

  What had he done to this woman? How could he have treated her so miserably? “Leigh Anne. It’s me. Rick.” He tried to smile, but if she heard him, she gave no sign. “Don’t wake up; ssh, sleep; it’s good for you,” he said, thinking silently, Darling. “I’m sorry,” he added thickly, and to his horror, his composure shattered then.

  Tears fell. He could not stop them and he could not speak so he held her hand tightly. What a bastard he was.

  All this time he had been accusing her of leaving him, and she had been in the hospital, gravely injured, in indescribable pain, alone. He hated himself. He would never forgive himself. And not just for thinking the worst—but for the past six weeks, for the terrible way he had treated her: for punishing her, day after day and night after night, for using her like a whore.
r />   She wasn’t a whore. Dear God, she was his wife.

  He gained a semblance of control. He smiled through his tears. “I have been a complete bastard. I am so sorry. But I’m here now, and you are not alone.” He touched her cheek with his knuckles then, and froze. Had her dark lashes just fluttered slightly? Had she heard him?

  He swallowed hard and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry,” he repeated firmly. “When you get well, when you come home, it will be different, I promise you.”

  And this time, he knew her lashes moved.

  “Leigh Anne? It’s me, Rick, I’m here, and I won’t leave you. I promise.” He hesitated and had to add, “You’ll never be alone again.” He smiled a little, facing his own vulnerability then, and the fear inside him was an ocean, deep and dark and vast, but if she heard, there was no indication. Her breathing remained deep and even, her face an expressionless mask of beauty and perfection.

  He no longer understood himself. He only knew he wasn’t noble at all; the world saw a thin surface layer, his most superficial side. For if he were noble and good, he would have never made that sordid deal with her, allowing her to move in with him for six months in order to gain her consent to a divorce. If he were truly noble, he would not have taken her to bed each and every night, a prisoner of his own lust. He should have given her the house, moved out, and treated her with the consideration and courtesy she deserved. How could he have been so rotten to her? How? It was amazing that she had tolerated him at all. She had been a loving mother to the girls and a good wife to him. And every time he added the past twenty-four hours to the terrible equation that was their married life, the guilt consumed him, overwhelming, black, and unbearable. She had been lying here alone, all this time, and he had been in their home, hating her.

  His wife had been gravely injured and he hadn’t been there for her.

  Never again.

  He stroked her cheek, her forehead, her temples, her hair.

  And he cried some more.

  Francesca was at her desk, going over her notes, hoping she would find a clue she had somehow missed. And every now and then she would think about Calder Hart, wondering if he would go out prowling that night, trying to find someone who could lead him to the children. Perhaps tonight she should go with him. She could don a disguise. Maybe she could even pose as a prostitute.

  She sat up straight, dropping her pen. She could pose as a prostitute.

  The idea was a brilliant one. Why rely on Daisy and Rose to find the children? She could find some terribly revealing clothes, go down to the Jewel, meet Solange Mar-ceaux, and try to gain employment there. It crossed her mind that if she succeeded, she might find herself in a terrible position. She wished that she could dismiss that worrisome possibility, but she could not. She had to get into the club and begin asking questions, yet she also had to avoid winding up in some patron’s bed.

  Francesca grinned widely. She would drug any man she wound up with! In fact, as she had no idea where the Jewel was, she would have to ask Rose or Daisy. Perhaps she could convince Rose to refer her to Solange Marceaux. Surely she would help her in this instance! And surely Rose or Daisy would show her how to drug an unwanted customer. Francesca was triumphant. Her plan was a brilliant one. The only flaw was that it needed some preparation and she would have to wait until tomorrow evening to actually put it into effect, as she did need Rose and Daisy’s help.

  She stood and flung open her armoire. Hart had said that Solange Marceaux had been elegant. Still, she was a genuine madam, so it didn’t matter. Francesca was a rather obvious intellectual—she would have to dress the part or Solange Marceaux would see right through her.

  Francesca debated having her maid, Bette, alter one of her gowns. Then she smiled. The Countess Benevente had the most daring dresses. It was early; she was probably at the Channing home, where she was a guest, preparing for an evening out. Francesca decided she would telephone her and ask her if she could borrow a dress. She was thrilled. Her plan was a perfect one.

  Francesca hurried to the door and bumped directly into her unsmiling sister. Connie grimaced at her. “Where are you off to?”

  “I have a telephone call to make,” Francesca announced cheerfully. She was beyond excitement. What if she found the children tomorrow? She could not liberate them herself; she’d have to get Bragg and the police.

  “I see you haven’t heard the news.”

  “What news?” Francesca asked, thinking about logistical details now. She would undoubtedly need to be interviewed. And how should she dress for that occasion? Should she call on Madame Marceaux in the morning or the afternoon?

  “Francesca, have you heard a word I said?” Connie demanded sharply, having seized her wrist and preventing her from sailing down the hall.

  Francesca faced her, her smile fading, finally noticing that Connie looked extremely serious. And she had been trying to tell Francesca something, but Francesca had been too involved in her scheming to hear what she was saying. “I’m sorry; I was thinking. Con? Is something wrong? You look very grim.”

  “Please sit down.”

  Francesca went on alert. “Has something happened? Is it Neil? The girls?”

  Connie took her hand. “Neil and I were to have dinner tonight with Rathe and Grace Bragg. We just received a telephone call from Rathe. There has been an accident.”

  In that moment, Francesca’s world went dark. “Bragg?”

  “No, Fran, it is Leigh Anne. She was hit by a runaway carriage yesterday and she is gravely injured.”

  Francesca cried out, “Where is she?”

  “Bellevue,” Connie said. “Fran? What are you doing?”

  But Francesca was already running down the hall. “What do you think I am doing?” she flung over her shoulder, now madly and dangerously dashing down the stairs. “I am going to the hospital, Connie. Dear God, poor Leigh Anne. . . . Bragg needs me!”

  When Francesca arrived on the second floor, a floor for seriously ill patients, she saw the Braggs standing at the far end of the hall in a hushed conversation. Francesca hesitated for a single moment, then started toward them.

  Grace looked perilously close to weeping. Rathe had his arm around her. Even in middle age, they still made an outstanding couple. Nicholas D’Archand, a dark-haired eighteen-year-old who was Bragg’s cousin, stood with them, as did Rourke. Hart was not present. But surely he had not yet learned of the tragedy, otherwise, surely, he would be there.

  As Francesca approached, Rourke was speaking. She heard him saying, “Very serious, but stable. She is slightly improved today from yesterday. Dr. Barnes is hopeful there will be some improvement every day.”

  Francesca was relieved. “Stable” sounded good to her, and an improvement from yesterday, why, that was simply wonderful! But how badly hurt was Leigh Anne?

  Grace seized his hand. “What are her chances of fully recovering?” Her voice was hoarse.

  Rourke hesitated, excessively grim. “Mother, she will never fully recover. Her left leg is injured beyond recovery; she will never walk again.”

  Grace gasped.

  Francesca stifled her own cry.

  Grace turned and saw her. So did the three men.

  Francesca said, “I am so sorry.” And she looked past the Braggs, into the hospital room.

  There were three beds in the room, but only one was occupied. Bragg sat by the bed closest to the corridor, slumped in a chair, holding his wife’s hand. Leigh Anne would never walk again. “How is he holding up?” Francesca asked worriedly, not taking her gaze from Bragg.

  At first, no one answered. Francesca looked up, suddenly realizing the family might consider her an intruder, but Grace smiled at her tearfully and said, “The best that can be expected. Thank you, Francesca, for coming.”

  “I had to come. Dear God, how terrible this is.” So many images of Leigh Anne rolled through her mind now, and in each and every one the tiny woman was impossibly graceful as she moved. She would never walk again. It was more than a t
ragedy.

  “They were going to amputate her leg,” Rourke said, “but decided against it.”

  Rathe and Grace turned, about to go into the room. Rourke stopped them. “He doesn’t know about her leg. Dr. Barnes thought he would speak with him later, when he is not quite so shocked.”

  They nodded and went in.

  Bragg looked up as his father clasped his shoulder and Francesca saw how emotionally ravaged he was. His face was lined—he had aged ten years in a day. There was no mistaking his grief, his anguish, his fear. She closed her eyes, hard. She so wanted to comfort him now, but how could she? And didn’t this prove what she had always known, that he loved his wife before anyone else—including her? She wasn’t sad, nor was she bitter; she only knew she had to comfort him, reassure him, soothe him. Then she looked at Rourke. “Has anyone told Calder yet?”

  “I sent word; he wasn’t home,” Rourke said.

  Nicholas, a dashing young man with silvery eyes, smiled grimly at her and went into the room as well. Francesca shifted, hesitating.

  “Come on,” Rourke said kindly, taking her arm.

  “Thank you,” Francesca whispered, going into the room with him. She grimaced, as Leigh Anne no longer looked like an angel; she was deathly pale, frighteningly so. Francesca wondered if, in her surgery, she had lost a lot of blood.

  Rourke had touched Bragg’s shoulder, letting him know that he was there. Bragg smiled up at him and his smile was so lost, so forlorn, so fragile, that it broke Francesca’s heart. She had never seen him more anguished.

  She smiled sadly. She ached for them both.

  He saw her. He started, their gazes locking.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He stood up slowly. “Your being here is enough.” And as if his family weren’t present, he walked over to her— right into her arms.

  She held him as if he were a child. She didn’t speak, because the situation was too grave for platitudes, and she knew that what he wanted from her was comfort and nothing more. She felt him tremble in her arms as she stroked his back. Then she realized that his parents had walked out of the room and Rourke and Nicholas D’Archand were following. She was relieved; she wanted to be alone with him.