Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

“You shouldn’t have been naked in my bed at all, Francesca,” he said, rather grimly. He released her, but as if he could not keep his hands to himself, he touched her breast, her waist, her hip. Then he began picking up her clothes.

  She watched him. She should know better than to be surprised by this man. He never did what she expected. She smiled because he had said she kept him on his toes, but the opposite was true. She grinned, simply thrilled with what they had shared. Besides, he thought her lovely. And as beauty was in the eye of the beholder, she was going to accept the fact that he did.

  “You could not be more seductive, grinning like a happy fool, and stop looking so pleased with yourself.” He moved behind her and held the open corset over her chest, and she slid her arms through the two narrow shoulder straps. He quickly hooked it from behind. “I’ll wait in the other room,” he said flatly.

  “Why?” she teased, eyeing him over her shoulder.

  “Because you have learned just how tempting you are, Miss Cahill,” he said, kissing her again, this time quickly on the lips. “And that is dangerous indeed.”

  Francesca stepped into her drawers, knowing he never took his gaze from her. “I don’t mind if you stay while I dress.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, and he walked out.

  She laughed happily to herself.

  Five minutes later she found him in a huge green salon, staring out a window at the grounds and tennis courts, which were lit. She had managed to put her hair up, but she looked absolutely ravaged. Anyone who saw her would know she had been up to no good that night.

  Now, watching him—he was so grim and appeared very disturbed—she recalled the fact that Alfred had told her Calder had dismissed the entire staff. What was wrong? What had caused him to behave so oddly? “Calder?”

  He turned, his expression softening. “I’ll take you home in a cab. I’m afraid Raoul is not able to take you home tonight.”

  “Because you dismissed the staff?” Francesca asked.

  He was annoyed. “Alfred is treading upon thin ice.”

  “Don’t blame him!” she cried. “He is rather worried about you, and now I can see that something is wrong.”

  He stared at her.

  “Something is wrong. What is it?” she demanded. Panic began as she suspected the answer.

  “This is wrong,” he said abruptly, taking her arm.

  “What—what do you mean?” she cried as he hurried her to the door.

  “This should not have happened.”

  “We’re engaged. This is hardly the end of the world,” she protested.

  “Be quiet,” he said suddenly.

  And Francesca heard the voices as well—in the corridor outside. She looked at him, afraid.

  He was grim. He lowered his tone to a whisper. “Rathe and Grace, they must have just come home from the hospital.”

  The hospital. Images of Leigh Anne and Bragg filled her mind. For the past hour or so she had forgotten all about them, and it had been a terrible relief.

  “We’ll wait a moment and let them get to their rooms,” Hart said. He was very serious now. “I don’t want them seeing you leaving my suite, Francesca.” Hart gave her an odd look—one she could not decipher.

  And finally, for the first time since arriving at the house, Francesca began to blush. It would be embarrassing, and worse. “Neither do I,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  SUNDAY, MARCH 30, 1902—10:00 P.M.

  THEY HURRIED THROUGH THE house like two thieves intent on escape after a lucrative heist. Francesca did not say a word as they hurried downstairs and down the corridor. Wall sconces lit the way.

  The reception room was empty. So was the vast front hall. They paused before Caravaggio’s controversial painting, The Conversion of Saint Paul. “We made it,” Francesca breathed.

  Hart’s expression was strained. “Yes, we did. I’ll get your coat.”

  Francesca was about to agree when from the shadows, a familiar voice said, “I didn’t realize anyone was at home.”

  Her heart sank as Rathe Bragg stepped into the light in the entryway. He was smiling politely, but she felt her cheeks turn every possible shade of red. She forced an answering smile.

  Hart had frozen with her coat in his hands; now he turned slowly. “I let the staff off for the evening—an odd habit of mine,” he said, coming forward. “Francesca called. I am taking her home.”

  Rathe nodded. “Hello, Francesca.”

  Relief then surged. He hadn’t batted an eye and he clearly could not tell that she was terribly disheveled—he didn’t suspect anything. “Have you just come from the hospital?” she asked.

  “Actually, we picked the girls up. Calder, I hope you do not mind. We put them on the third floor. Mrs. Flowers is with them, and so is Peter.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. It is late. I must get Francesca home.”

  “Yes, you should,” Rathe agreed levelly.

  Francesca so wanted to ask how Rick was, but she decided it wasn’t a good idea. She said good night and stepped outside with Hart. He held her arm as they walked up the driveway. The night was cool, the breeze a touch sharp. Francesca could feel the tension in the man beside her.

  She tried to study him in the darkness. “Calder? He didn’t suspect a thing.”

  Hart said nothing.

  “You don’t have to worry about compromising my reputation,” she added softly, wishing he would speak so she might comprehend what was on his mind.

  He made a sound.

  “What is it?” she asked with worry.

  He faced her. “I think we should reconsider our hasty engagement.”

  The world disappeared from beneath her feet. Hart seized her elbow. “What?” she gasped.

  “Before this goes any further, I think we should carefully reconsider our plans.”

  She could not breathe. She was going to faint. He no longer wished to marry her.

  “There’s a cab. Wait here.” Hart broke into a run, letting loose a piercing whistle.

  There was nothing to hold on to except a tree. Francesca leaned against the coarse bark, breathing so rapidly and shallowly that little bright white lights filled up her vision.

  Hart was backing out. He no longer wanted to marry her.

  He no longer wanted her.

  She was strangling for lack of air. She felt as if she were choking, frantic, desperate.

  Hart didn’t want her anymore. One night in his bed—a few hours—and he was done with her.

  The pain was unbearable.

  He had just ripped open her heart.

  “Francesca? Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm.

  Like a mechanical creature she let him guide her to the street and into the cab. Instantly she faced away from him, staring unseeingly at Central Park. It was vaguely illuminated by gas lamplights.

  “Number Eight-ten Fifth Avenue,” Hart said.

  He did not speak again.

  Neither did Francesca.

  MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  “Promise to be a good girl.”

  “I promise, Mama,” Bridget O’Neil said, flushing. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the building that housed their ugly new home, and that odd boy, the one with the too-black hair and the red cheeks, was staring at them from the adjacent stoop where he sat.

  “I should be back by suppertime—if they hire me, that is,” Gwen said, laughing nervously.

  “They’ll hire you. You’re the best housemaid there is,” Bridget said earnestly.

  Gwen’s smile fell. “Darlin’, I don’t have any references.”

  Bridget closed her eyes, fighting fury. Then she gave in. “I hate the earl!” she cried. “It’s because o’ him we have to live in this horrid dirty city! It’s because o’ him Daddy is in jail! It’s because o’ him you don’t have a reference. Damn him to hell!”

  “Don’t speak that way!” Gwen cried, tears slipping down her face. “Never s
peak about him that way again!” She bent and hugged her daughter hard.

  Bridget despaired. It was so obvious to her that her mother loved the dashing earl, but she simply could not understand why. He had seduced her, causing her to break her sacred wedding vows, and if that were not enough, he had wrecked her marriage, too. Now they were alone in a frightening new world, a place Bridget had never wanted to be.

  “He’s a good man, darlin’,” Gwen whispered. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but he is. He never meant for anything bad to happen to us.”

  Bridget stared sullenly.

  Gwen kissed her cheek. “I’ll get this job, darlin’, and we’ll have beef tonight, I vow.”

  Bridget wished it were true. It had been so long since she’d had a bite of beef or even mutton that the mere notion made her mouth water and her stomach growl.

  “Be good. Mrs. Kennedy left some lunch for you to take with Matt, Paddy, and Lizzie. Her eldest son will watch over you all until she or myself gets home.”

  Bridget cast a glance at the stoop where the boy sat, hunched over now. “He don’t speak. His cheeks are red. He assists that lady. He’s so odd, Mama.”

  “Really?” Gwen smiled. “He’s a good boy, that’s what I think, and handsome, too.”

  Bridget flushed. “Ugly as a doorpost.”

  “Be pleasant to him and mind your manners,” Gwen advised, hugging her daughter one more time. And then she hurried off to catch a trolley uptown.

  Bridget walked to the corner and hung on to a dirty lamppost, watching her mother until she could no longer see her. Tears stained her cheeks. She hated it when her mother left looking for a job, because then she was really alone in this awful place they called New York City. Stiff "with tension now, she glanced warily around.

  The boy, Joel, had disappeared, undoubtedly going up to his flat to look after his brothers and sister. In a way, she wished he were still sitting on the stoop. Some heavy women were walking down the block, carrying sacks of groceries, and several men were setting up their carts with merchandise they were selling that day on the street. One was roasting chestnuts. Bridget’s tummy growled again. She had two pennies to spend, enough for a chestnut if she wished but also enough for two peppermint candies.

  The grocer was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store. The shoemaker was opening up. Several wagons, loaded up, the goods wrapped in canvas, were going by. A gentleman was walking on the opposite sidewalk, looking terribly out of place.

  Bridget froze, her heart stopping, and she took another look. For God’s sake, the gent looked like the earl!

  For one moment she was terrified and in disbelief, certain it was the earl, but then he turned the corner and was gone. Only then did she begin to breathe.

  She was looney, that’s what she was, as the earl was in County Clare, at his country estate, or in Sussex, where his father lived. That hadn’t been him.

  Her spine, however, tingled.

  Bridget turned.

  Two men were ogling her. One was short and fat, the other bald and chewing tobacco. He spat a wad out, grinning at her.

  The grin was lascivious.

  Fear paralyzed her.

  They started walking toward her.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the boy coming out of the building they shared. Relief swamped her and she turned and smiled at him.

  He halted in his tracks, his cheeks turning bright red, his eyes widening in comical disbelief.

  “Yer name’s Joel, right?” Bridget had begun when the sun abruptly disappeared.

  The sack thrown over her head smelled of rotting potatoes. Terror overcame her. Hands grabbed her. She could not breathe. She fought wildly as she was lifted up and slung over a beefy shoulder. She tried to scream for help. She choked instead.

  “Shut up and we won’t hurt you,” the man holding her growled. “Be a good girl and you won’t get beat. You understand me?”

  “Let me go! Let me go! Mama!” Bridget screamed, but no words came out, just hoarse, frantic choked-up sounds. She ripped at the hood over her head.

  “Let her go!” the boy shouted ferociously.

  “Hey! Ow! Hey! Get that fucking kid! Ow! He bit me!” the man howled.

  “Let her go, you bastard!” the boy screamed.

  “Owww!” the man shouted, enraged and in pain.

  Bridget felt him release her. She landed hard on her shoulder and hip, tearing off the hood, blinking into the bright sunlight.

  Joel was on the ground, wrestling with the fat man, whose ankle was bleeding. His pants were short, and Bridget could see he’d been bitten there. Now she crouched, cringing with fear, because the fat man had gotten Joel by a hank of his hair and flipped him onto his back, landing a mean blow to his face. Joel went still.

  Was he dead? Bridget was horrified.

  A hand seized her braid, jerking her to her feet, and she met steely brown eyes. “Little whore,” he said, and he lifted her up and threw her into the back of a rickety wagon.

  Terror adrenalized her. She shot up, gripping the backboard, in order to jump out.

  He struck her across the face, sending her flying against the side railing, head first. Pain made her see stars.

  Her wrists were seized and tied as Joel was thrown into the wagon beside her. He landed on his belly, unmoving, maybe dead. Bridget just glimpsed his awfully pale face before her ankles were seized and tied, and then she was jerked down onto her back. Her captor grinned at her and she could only stare back, mute now with terror. And then he shoved the sack back over her head. The wagon tilted as the two men climbed into the front seat, and it rolled off.

  Alone in darkness, the boy dead beside her, Bridget prayed for help.

  Francesca grimly faced the handsome mansion that housed the Jewel. She was sick inside, but she refused to think about the failure of her relationship with Calder Hart. Instead, she had a case to solve, children to save. Nevertheless, Calder loomed beside her like a dark and torturous shadow. Breaking up hurt beyond belief.

  Still, she had just come from his house. Not that she had wanted to see him, as she had not; in fact, she hoped to never set eyes upon him again. She had gone to visit Dot and Katie. However, the children had been taken to the hospital to visit Leigh Anne at Bragg’s request and she had discerned that he had yet to leave Leigh Anne’s side. And fortunately, Hart had not been in the residence; he had left for his offices at the crack of dawn that day.

  She almost hated him.

  Francesca inhaled and started up the three wide front steps of the elegant brick house. It was on the corner of 19th Street and Fifth Avenue; once, it had been a gentleman’s home. She had gotten the address from Daisy as well as a small vial of a sleeping potion that she could slip into a drink. And Rose had loaned her the dress she was wearing. It was the color of its mistress’s name, with a revealing neckline and black lace-trimmed sleeves and a matching hemline. Francesca had heavily rouged her cheeks and lips and had used kohl on her eyes. She had become amazingly exotic—Francesca Cahill no longer seemed to exist.

  The door was answered by a butler who took her card, showed her to an elegant salon, closed both doors, and told her to wait. Extremely curious, finally escaping her thoughts of Calder Hart and the viselike hold he seemed to have on her heart, Francesca gazed openly at her surroundings.

  The salon was a pleasant shade of pale green with a huge crystal chandelier and several works of art upon the walls in gilded frames. They seemed French and late-eighteenth-century. The furniture was worn, but the upholstery had once been quite fine, and Francesca suspected that at night one would not notice how tired-looking the furnishings were. She wondered what this room was used for. Did the gentlemen await their escorts here? As she had first come into the house, she had noticed a dining room, as well as a piano in the reception hall. She was simply fascinated, imagining this salon at night, filled with gentlemen, prostitutes, laughter, and conversation.

  The double doors swept open.


  Francesca turned. A very elegant and very beautiful platinum blond woman stood between both doors, clad in a remarkably simple pale blue dress. Francesca knew it had been costly, that the silk was the finest made. Her heart began to sink. Francesca suspected that Solange Marceaux was only six or seven years older than herself, and she was incredibly elegant and very beautiful. Sick once again, Francesca dropped her gaze from Solange’s fine, classic features to her hands. They were milk white. She wore only two rings, a small garnet flanked by two smaller diamonds and a large turquoise stone set in gold. She also wore small diamond earrings shaped like flowers and Francesca knew they were from Asprey.

  There was so much dismay, and there was so much hurt. Last night she had experienced joy and ecstasy in Calder Hart’s arms. Today he no longer wanted her. And the other night he had sparred with this regal woman, in this illicit and dangerous place, in the darkest hours of the night.

  Francesca knew he had found Solange Marceaux attractive. Of that she had no doubt.

  “Miss Baron?”

  She smiled firmly. “Madame Marceaux?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid that while you seem to know me, I do not know you.” She closed both doors, coming gracefully forward. She had the figure of a woman twenty years old.

  “I am a friend of Rose. She knows I am currently unoccupied, and the other day she suggested that I call upon you, as she recommends your establishment highly.” Francesca smiled more pleasantly now. She had work to do, a mission to accomplish.

  Solange lifted both pale brows, as if not quite impressed, and she gestured to a seat. As Francesca sat, she asked, “Would you like some tea and sandwiches?”

  “No, thank you.” Francesca smiled.

  Solange now studied Francesca frankly, looking at her hair—which she had tonged and waved and swept loosely up, beneath the rose felt hat she wore—and then gazing at her darkly shadowed eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. Francesca told herself not to blush, but she was thoroughly discomfited. Worse, Solange looked directly at her breasts and then at her waist. Finally, she sat down opposite Fran-cesca. “You are quite beautiful,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Francesca said, her cheeks feeling hot.