Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  Lucy’s look told her everything. She knew that the match was not about love.

  “Have you employed anyone new recently?” Bragg was asking Mrs. Channing.

  “No. We have had no change of staff this year, certainly not that I can remember.”

  “I should like a list of your entire household. With mailing addresses for everyone,” Bragg said. “Both current and previous. I should also like for each servant to list his or her previous employment and spouses, if there are any.”

  Mrs. Channing blinked. “Oh.”

  Francesca understood. He wished to determine if any of the staff had suspicious or criminal backgrounds or connections. It would be a laborious task indeed.

  “Commissioner?” Sarah said softly, from behind Francesca.

  She turned. Sarah was terribly pale, but she had clearly composed herself, as her bearing was ramrod-straight. Her cousin, the Countess Bartolla Benevente, stood beside her, a flamboyantly beautiful auburn-haired woman clad in a gown more suitable for evening than day, with a huge sapphire necklace about her throat. Bartolla had her arm around Sarah. Tall and statuesquoe, the countess dwarfed the petite artist.

  Bragg moved to her. “I am terribly sorry about this, Sarah,” he said softly.

  She nodded, fighting to keep her composure.

  Bragg nodded at Bartolla politely. She smiled at him. “Good morning, Commissioner.” She was a natural flirt, but Bragg had never seemed to notice. “Hullo, Francesca. I heard you were here earlier. How is your hand?”

  Francesca kissed her cheek. “Much better, thank you.” She had once thought to dislike Bartolla, but it had proved impossible, as she was a very daring and unusual woman, who courageously defied convention—in the most public manner. However, she had walked in on Francesca and Bragg while they were passionately entwined on the sofa at the Channing ball. She had assured Francesca that her secret was safe. Francesca was face-to-face with the other woman for the first time since that night. It was impossible to decide whether she could trust Bartolla or not. Just then, it was as if Bartolla had never caught her in a compromising position. Could she have forgotten?

  Perhaps, Francesca thought, the incident was insignificant to her, as she was a wealthy widow and a woman of the world.

  The notion was a comforting one.

  However, Francesca had to stare at the auburn-haired woman. She and Leigh Anne Bragg were friends.

  The countess had told her so.

  But surely Bartolla had not said anything to Leigh Anne, as she was also Francesca’s friend.

  “Sarah, Bartolla, this is Bragg’s sister, Lucy Savage. Bartolla is Sarah’s cousin and an Italian countess,” Francesca added, feeling rather as if she had been struck by an object right between the eyes.

  At the Channing ball, Bragg had commented that Bartolla had not liked the attention Francesca was receiving. He had also said that she was not really a friend.

  Francesca realized she must speak with the other woman and attempt to draw her carefully out.

  Now Lucy smiled at Sarah, but when she turned to Bartolla her expression changed, closing instantly. Bartolla’s smile had also vanished. The two women, both tall, both voluptuous, both impossibly beautiful, the one red-haired, the other auburn, looked at each other as if they had become two female cats, claws out, fur on end, fangs apparent. A silence fell.

  Francesca looked from Lucy’s cool expression to Bartolla’s even colder one and thought, My God, they are both so stunningly beautiful, and they cannot stand each other because of it. It was instant sheer dislike, a mutual hatred at first sight.

  “Sarah? Have you had any new thoughts on the vandalism of your studio?” Bragg cut into the tension quietly.

  Sarah shook her head. “I keep thinking about it. My mind seems to be going round and round in circles. I think of all the servants here, but I find it hard to believe that I have so offended someone in this house that he or she would take such extreme action against me. But now I also keep recalling the reception I have been receiving … since my engagement. Before the engagement, I was a bit like wallpaper. People would glance at me and then it was as if I were not even present. Now ladies are falling all over themselves to congratulate me on my good fortune, include me in their conversation, and invite me to too many events to consider. I am beginning to wonder,” Sarah said.

  Bartolla moved to stand beside her. “She makes no demands. I have never seen anything like it. She fetches her own tea, her own mail; she forgets to ask for help when she is dressing; she gives her clothes to the housemaids … . She is always kind; she never loses her temper. The staff adore her, Commissioner.”

  But Francesca moved to Sarah and slid her arm around her small shoulders. “You wonder what?” she asked softly.

  Sarah met her gaze. “It has been unreal. Surreal. A sea of smiles, stretched wide—and tight. Perhaps I am overwrought now, but I wonder if those smiles are merely that, a stretching of the mouth, a purely physical act, that has nothing to do with anything at all.”

  Francesca stared. “Are you saying that you think everyone around you is false?”

  Sarah shrugged. “No one cared about me before; why should they suddenly care now? Perhaps there is a jealously maddened woman out there who is furious with my so-called good fortune.”

  Francesca looked at Bragg, and he returned her gaze. “I will speak to Evan immediately,” she said. He was an incorrigible flirt. Perhaps he had misled a too-hopeful debutante.

  “Please do. Shall we go down and take a look at your studio, Sarah?”

  Sarah hesitated, once again extremely distressed. Finally, she nodded.

  Everyone turned to leave the salon. Bragg stopped, facing them all. “I shall go alone with Miss Channing.”

  Francesca started, about to protest. But Bragg looked at her and said, “Francesca may join us, of course. As the Channings are her clients.”

  She smiled at him. Then, as they left the others behind in the salon, she said, “Do you think it is safe to leave Lucy and Bartolla together?”

  His jaw firmed, telling her he still had Hart’s commission on his mind. “They shall have to work it out.”

  Sarah was leading the way. She paused outside her studio door. “Bartolla has been a huge comfort to me. I am glad she is here. She is so strong. I wish I were more like her, and more like you, Francesca.”

  Francesca put her arm around her. “You are the strong one,” she said firmly.

  “Actually …” She hesitated. “I am scared.”

  Francesca’s gaze met hers. Before she could reassure her, Bragg spoke. “You have no reason to be frightened, Sarah. This may be a foolish prank and little else.”

  Francesca had seen the studio. She had seen the slashed canvas and, worse, all that dark red paint. She did not think this the work of a prankster, oh no. But she would let Bragg decide for himself.

  “I hope you are right,” Sarah said softly.

  Bragg looked over her head at Francesca, and she realized that, even though he had yet to see the studio, he did not think it a prank, not at all. He was merely hoping to calm Sarah.

  And of course, it was too much work to be a prank. After all, someone had carefully and deliberately broken into the Channing home in order to carry out his or her vicious night’s work.

  Sarah pushed open the door. “I am not going in,” she said, her breath catching.

  Francesca followed Bragg inside. He paused in the center of the room, slowly regarding it all.

  Francesca paused beside him. The day was brilliantly sunny now, and the studio was brightly illuminated, the contrast gruesome, of light and shadow, of sunshine falling across overturned paint, the brushes and canvases, the pools of blood-red paint. For the first time, Francesca noticed that the intruder had taken a brush or a stick and begun to write upon the wall. She started, forgetting to breathe.

  Was that what she thought it was?

  The single crude letter had been interrupted. It began like an I or the numbe
r 1, but the top curved down. Bragg was staring at it, too. He seemed to have lost some of his coloring.

  “Is that an attempt at a letter?” Francesca asked, with the beginnings of real dread.

  “I don’t know,” he said, glancing rigidly at her. “It might be the beginnings of a p or a capital B Or it might be nothing at all.”

  She could not speak. Then, “It looks like an f, Bragg,” she said on a deep breath.

  And their eyes met.

  Four

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 2:00 P.M.

  They stared at each other. Then Bragg said, “Only one canvas has been slashed.”

  Francesca tore her gaze from his, to glance around the studio. While a few completed canvases remained stacked upon the walls, all brilliantly colored portraits done in a Postimpressionist style, a half a dozen were strewn about the studio’s cement floor. She realized that he was right. Five of the paintings that had been overturned and thrown about were in perfect condition. Two were landscapes, one a scene of a mother and her two children, the other two portraits of young women. Francesca approached the sixth canvas.

  She could not make it out. Black and red paint marred the surface, making the work beneath indecipherable. It had also been slashed into ribbons. Slowly she looked up.

  Bragg held her gaze for a moment. “I find this rather significant,” he said.

  “Yes. It seems that this one painting was singled out for destruction.”

  “I wonder if it is a portrait?”

  “And if so, of whom?” Francesca smiled a little.

  He began to smile back, then recalled himself. “When were you going to tell me?”

  She cringed inwardly and knew exactly what he was speaking about. “That’s not fair.”

  “Why does he want your portrait, Francesca? Or need I bother to ask?” His eyes had turned black.

  “You said so yourself! He likes causing trouble!” Francesca exclaimed.

  “Yes, he does, but in this case, I feel he has an ulterior motive.”

  “The only motive he has is to annoy me. You see, he was angry with me when he decided to commission the portrait. This is just a game to him, Bragg. He could not care less about my portrait!”

  Bragg’s eyes narrowed. “My half brother is pure predator when it comes to beautiful women. You know that. Yet still you defend him. You always defend him!”

  “I am hardly defending Hart,” she snapped. “And he has not ever preyed upon me—and he never will. For God’s sake, you know as well as I do that a marriageable prospect is anathema to him! Trust me. He has no intention of going forward with this ridiculous commission.”

  Bragg looked ready to explode. “Then why did he give Sarah a deposit for the painting?” he asked dangerously.

  She started. “I have no idea, and I am growing tired of this subject. You are treating me as if this is my fault! Believe me, I find Hart as insufferable as you do.”

  “Then tell him you will not sit for the portrait,” Bragg said flatly.

  She froze. “I can’t do that.” She saw his knowing look. “And it is not about him; it is about Sarah! She is thrilled that Hart wishes for her to paint for him. I cannot let her down.”

  Bragg stared and abruptly turned his back on her. “Sarah? I am sorry, but you must come inside.”

  Francesca started to gape. She realized what she was doing, and she quickly closed her mouth.

  Sarah paused on the threshold of the room. She was very pale now, and she looked ill.

  Francesca wanted to kick Bragg in the shin until she realized why he had called Sarah in. He said softly, “We need to identify that canvas, Sarah. Do you know which subject it was?” he asked, pointing at the destroyed canvas on the floor.

  Sarah looked at it and cried out. Then her hands went to her midsection and she began to retch.

  Francesca rushed to her, helping her remain upright. Sarah gasped for breath, but she fought the urge to heave, and she did not She finally straightened, panting. Her eyes were wide.

  “You know what the canvas was,” Bragg said.

  Sarah nodded, swallowing. “It was the portrait I did of Bartolla,” she said.

  “I am so pleased that you girls decided to join us for lunch!” Mrs. Channing cried happily.

  They had all taken their seats at the cherrywood table, which seated fifty—in a monstrously huge dining room, where the walls were papered in red and the ceiling was mint green with red starburst moldings. Every time Francesca glanced up—past three grossly large crystal chandeliers with angels sculpted atop them—she thought the starbursts looked like splatters of blood.

  Why had Bartolla’s portrait been destroyed? Had the act of vandalism been aimed at her and not Sarah?

  “It is simply so exciting that you are Derek Bragg’s granddaughter and the heiress to his fortune,” Mrs. Channing was saying. “I have always wanted to meet him! He is a legend, you know.”

  “Actually, I have five brothers, not to mention dozens of cousins,” Lucy remarked.

  “The Bragg heiress is in town! Oh, we must give you a party. Pull out the old welcome wagon.” Mrs. Channing winked, not hearing Lucy at all.

  Bartolla leaned across the table and met Francesca’s gaze. “You are staring. Don’t you like my dress?” She was smiling, but her green eyes were probing.

  “You are the most stunningly dressed woman I know,” Francesca said truthfully. Bartolla was even more outstanding than her own sister, Connie, although Connie was by far the more elegant. Still, Bartolla was the woman one would always notice first in any room.

  Bartolla seemed pleased. Francesca smiled, thinking she was the kind of woman who had enemies.

  Bartolla turned her smile on Lucy, and it turned to ice. “How wonderful it must be, to grow up a Bragg heiress.”

  Lucy’s smile was superficial. “It was wonderful growing up, period. I have parents I respect, admire, and adore, not to mention my five brothers, my half brother, and Calder, whom I consider a stepbrother. I love each and every one—even if they are all first-rate pranksters. And I have dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles, and, of course, Grandpa Derek and Grandma Miranda. We are a very close family, even if we are scattered about the country and England. I consider myself extremely lucky.”

  “Your husband probably considers himself lucky as well,” Bartolla said far too sweetly. The innuendo was clear—that Lucy’s husband was a fortune-hunter. “Did not the two of you somehow inherit the Bragg ranch? I do believe I read about it.”

  Lucy was all sugar in return. “My husband fell in love with me at first sight. We are still in love. And yes, it was the most amazing wedding gift—my grandparents’ entire ranch! Of course, we had to earn their trust. But it is a long story. Are you married, Mrs. er … ?” And she cocked her head innocently.

  Francesca sighed. She felt like telling them both to sheathe their claws.

  “I am a widow, God rest my dear departed husband’s soul,” Bartolla said with vast sadness, a trembling hand upon her breast. It boasted an extremely large emerald ring.

  “How sad,” Lucy said, waving her own hand, which boasted a yellow diamond ring, almost as large as Bartolla’s emerald. It was questionable which ring was worth more.

  “Oh, we are having salads for lunch; how perfect,” Francesca interrupted. She was afraid knives would be thrown across the table if the two women were allowed to continue.

  But Lucy said, “My, how impressive. You married an Italian count. I have traveled quite extensively in Europe. Benevente. The name is familiar. I wonder if I knew your husband?”

  Bartolla’s smile was stretched tight. “I doubt it.”

  “But surely we ran in the same circles—didn’t we?” Lucy batted her big blue eyes innocently.

  “I am sure we did,” Bartolla said, refusing to admit that perhaps she and her husband were not wealthy enough to travel in the same society as the Braggs.

  “And there is Scotch salmon,” Francesca said. She smiled brightly, then
gave Lucy a dark look, which meant, “cease and desist.” “What a wonderful lunch.”

  “I do hope you girls are hungry,” Mrs. Channing said. She added to Lucy, “You may not have known the count. He was a dear man, but so much older, of course. These past few years he did not go out often, as he was so ill. Didn’t he have a stroke, dear, a few years ago?”

  “Actually, he walked a mile every day. Right up until his death,” Bartolla said flatly.

  Lucy practically snickered. Bartolla’s jaw clamped down. Lucy said, “Shoz is a bit older than me, too. He is forty. But he looks exactly the way he did when we first met five years ago.” She smiled. “He’s incredibly handsome. How old was your husband when he died?”

  Bartolla stared.

  “Oh, he was in his sixties, I believe. And they were only married eight years! The count was smitten, Lucy, simply smitten with his young American wife,” Mrs. Channing supplied eagerly.

  Bartolla stabbed her salad with a fork.

  “I am sure,” Lucy said, gleeful.

  “I can’t eat.”

  Sarah had spoken. Everyone looked at her. She sat rigidly, her plate untouched.

  “Of course you can’t,” Francesca said softly. “Mrs. Channing? Would you mind terribly if Sarah and I took a walk? I think some fresh air would do her good.”

  Mrs. Channing’s face had fallen, but she was resigned. “No, Francesca, of course not.”

  And as Francesca and Sarah got up, Lucy jumped up, too. “I must join you,” she said. “I do hope you understand, Mrs. Channing. But Francesca has allowed me to assist her in this case.”

  “Sarah?” In the music room, Francesca took her hand. “Perhaps it might be best if we instructed the staff to clean up your studio.”

  Sarah sighed. “The commissioner said he is sending a detective over and not to touch anything.”

  “I know; I was there,” Francesca said quietly. “But I think it might be best if you got back to work immediately. We could tidy up just a section.”