She grew uneasy. “Oh, come, Hart. She is stunning.”
“So are other women, more so, in fact. Take my stepsister, Lucy, or Daisy.” He smiled fondly as he said his mistress’s name. “And what about your sister?” He eyed her now.
Francesca wondered if he had excluded her on purpose and decided that he had. But she would not complain, oh no. “They are all extremely beautiful women. And they are all interesting women, as well.”
“Yes, they are,” he said, his gaze unwavering.
She gave up. “And do I fit somewhere in this scheme of beauty?”
He laughed, with relish. “You are so easy to play! I told you the other day that you are very beautiful, far more so than any other woman. How quickly you forget,” he said warmly.
Her heart would not keep still. That wasn’t what he had said, oh no. He had said she was more beautiful than her sister—which was absurd—and that her beauty came from within, or something like that. Now had he said that she was more beautiful than any other woman? Had she misheard? Or was he again referring to her spirit or her mind?
Francesca reminded herself that he liked her. She reminded herself of the way he had undressed her with his eyes at the ball. Then she reminded herself that she should not care whether he thought her beautiful on the outside or not.
But she did care.
“What is wrong, Francesca?” Hart asked softly.
She shook her head, not looking at him now. She hated it when he whispered that way. “I have so much on my mind. That is all. I should go.”
“Let me guess again. You are torturing yourself with unrequited lust for my brother? Or perhaps now guilt has come into play.”
She leaped to her feet. There was guilt, but how could he know?
“You are very easy to read, my dear,” he said as softly. “You are as simple to read as an open book—with large, oversize print.”
She could not tear her gaze from his. This was not a safe subject, oh no.
“No self-defense?”
“I do not know what you are rambling on and on about,” she said, a huge lie. “But do you have any idea who might wish to strike at Bartolla in such an odd way?”
“Not a single one,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Be evasive, then. Change the subject.”
“Hart, do you wish to help or not?”
“Frankly, Francesca, I do not give a damn what happens to Bartolla. In fact, there are very few people I am concerned about. But I am concerned about your involvement in another case. Leave this one alone. Bartolla can manage her own enemies, my dear.” He stood. “Care for another whiskey?”
Francesca sighed, sinking back down on the couch. “I promised Sarah I would find out who did this and why. I do not break my promises, Hart.”
He did not comment.
She looked up and caught him staring down at her. It crossed her mind that it would be a pleasurable afternoon indeed to sit in Hart’s study with him, sipping Irish whiskey and fencing over indelicate subjects. He immediately turned away from her and to the sideboard. She said lightly, “Are you trying to get me drunk? I am coming to supper, you know.”
He seemed surprised, for his shoulders stiffened. “I did not know. How did—let me guess. Dear Lucy invited you.”
She nodded and thought about Bragg, with a twinge of worry and another twinge of unwelcome guilt. “Will you be present?”
“Yes, I will. Does that please you—or disturb you?” His gaze was probing as he faced her.
“I’m not certain.”
He stared for a long moment. Then, very softly, he said, “At least, this once, you are finally being honest—with both me and yourself.”
“What does that mean?” she cried, disturbed.
“I think you know.” He moved away.
She leaped up and grabbed his arm from behind. “I don’t have a clue.”
He turned so quickly that she crashed against his chest. “Only because you refuse to have a clue,” he said, his hands somehow closing on her arms as he steadied her.
For one moment, a moment of pure panic, she stared at his full, chiseled mouth, at the cleft in his chin, at the damp olive-colored skin and black hair in the vee of his shirt. His chest was extremely hard and solid against her breasts. She yanked away from him. “I have to go,” she managed, but before she could turn—and her intention was to run—he took her wrist, detaining her.
Their gazes locked.
“I think it is time that we were brutally honest with each other,” he said harshly.
She tried to back away, but his grip was uncompromising. She did not want to hear this, oh no. For with Hart she never knew what would come next. “Let’s not,” she gasped.
“I am sick of the hypocrisy here,” he said warningly.
“I … I do not understand!”
“No? I think you do! You go on and on about my brother—whom you have told yourself that you love, as he is a man of virtue and a perfectly respectable choice, except for the fact that he is unhappily married. But you come here, to me, staring at me as if I am a freak show—but we both know that that is not it, now is it, Francesca?”
She cried out, “Let me go!”
“I have had it! You want Rick as your husband, but I am the man you want in your bed. Admit it,” he ground out.
“No, that’s not it!” she cried, terrified of what might happen next.
“Afraid, Francesca? Afraid of the real woman inside of yourself?” he purred.
“I am afraid of you!” she snapped.
“I don’t think so. It is not me you are afraid of. I think you are afraid of the truth; I think you are afraid of yourself.” He finally released her. He was panting, and the artery in his neck was pulsing.
She backed away. “You’re mad. Vain. Conceited. Arrogant!”
“Do I not get the chance to finish?” Both eyebrows slashed upward, and somehow he looked as innocent as a lamb.
“No, you do not—for I am leaving.” She whirled—and his next words stopped her in her tracks.
“You are drawn to me, my dear, the way a woman is drawn to a man.”
She trembled. “Please stop,” she said desperately.
He stalked around her so that he was facing her. “And it frightens you. I frighten you. What you feel frightens you. Real lust frightens you!”
“I am in love with Bragg.”
The most controlled rage she had ever seen crossed his face, but only for a half a second, and then it was gone. “I think you are a storyteller, Francesca, an impossibly adept storyteller.”
“Leave me alone,” she pleaded.
“No, I will not leave this alone. You came to me, my dear. I did not seek you out.”
He was right—again. “Let’s just leave this be, Hart. We are friends, remember?”
His gaze moved over her features, one by one. To his credit, it never slipped lower. “Yes. We are friends. But there is more, and it is sheer hypocrisy not to admit it.”
She shook her head. She would die before admitting that to him.
“What’s wrong, Francesca? Are you afraid that the story you have told yourself will blow up in your face?”
She gasped, because his meaning was far crueler than his words or his tone.
He tilted up her chin. When she tried to move, he caught her face in one hand. “You have told yourself that you have found your knight in shining armor, my brother Rick. Isn’t that the truth? You met him and he fit the bill, so you have told yourself a wonderful story and, stubborn brat that you are, you have been clinging to it ever since. After all, what could be more appropriate than for Francesca Cahill, reformer extraordinaire, to fall in love with my reform-minded Republican brother? But wait! Being as this is a love story, there has to be an unhappy middle and, lo and behold, the perfect hero isn’t quite so perfect after all. For he is married. Oh, wait! It isn’t that bad, after all, for as it turns out he is a man of virtue, and he really loves you, while he despises his wife! And did I forget to me
ntion that she is vile and evil? So the story can limp along, and true love might survive after all! Does this sound at all familiar, Francesca?”
“I almost hate you,” she whispered. And she felt a tear sliding down her cheek.
He froze, having just seen the tear. For one moment he hesitated; then he said coldly, “And in your fairy tale there is no room for real lust, now is there? There is no room for me.”
“No. There is not,” she managed harshly.
He released her. “You are drawn to me, but you refuse to admit it, because it doesn’t fit your worldview to want a man like myself. Wanting my brother works, doesn’t it? Wanting me is simply appalling.”
“No,” she tried, beginning to understand. “No, Calder—”
“So cling to your damn fairy tale! But there will not be a happy ending, Francesca! Even if you become his lover, there will only be ruin, guilt, and shame. And you may trust me on that!” He was shouting. He seemed to realize it, and he seemed surprised and upset. He gave her a pained and disgusted look and turned away.
She watched him pour two whiskeys with a hand that shook.
She felt paralyzed. “You’re wrong,” she finally said. “I do love Bragg. I really do. Even you have said we are perfect for each other,” she managed to his back.
He did not turn. “Yes, you are. And I am sorry for the both of you, that you cannot marry, have children, and ride your white steeds off into the sunset together.” He turned and gave her a toast. “I am sorry I will not be at your wedding, the first one to toast the police commissioner and his new, second wife.”
Francesca hugged herself. More tears came to her eyes.
The expression on his face—and in his eyes—was extremely hard to decipher. But it was more than pained and more than angry and it was not simple disgust. “Now you shall cry?” He was incredulous.
“No.” She took a deep and fortifying breath.
“The truth is often brutal and hurtful,” he said, watching her.
“You do not know the truth.”
He set his glass down and walked over to her. Somehow, she stood her ground. “I am your friend, Francesca, and never forget it.”
“Then, wish me well.”
“I already do. I’ve told you this before; I do not wish to see you hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
His entire expression tightened. “You are a mule.”
She made a sound. It was choked.
He took her good hand in his. “Listen closely. I will only discuss this once.”
She found herself nodding.
“I have never given my friendship to anyone,” he said, his gaze upon her face. “You are the first.”
She stared, and she began to shake. “I don’t understand.”
He leaned close. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No.” She wet her lips, her heart thundering in her breast. What did this mean? She was too overcome to understand it now. “But what about Lucy? Her brothers—”
“It’s not friendship. I am the foster brother, and that is different.”
She stared, trying to comprehend him. It was simply impossible, he was far too complicated to ever understand, she thought.
“And now I will tell you why I am angry. I am angry because my brother will only bring you ruin—oh yes, I see the writing on the wall. And I must stand by and watch it all unfold, knowing how the story will end, and as I have already told you, the ending will not be a happy one.”
“No, Hart. You are wrong! If you care about me, truly, then—”
“I do! Let me finish. I am angry because you are breathless in my presence and we both know why, but you will not admit it.”
She froze. “Please don’t.”
“Because it ruins the story you have been telling yourself. Am I correct, Francesca?” His grip tightened. “Am I?”
She could not nod. She did not dare.
“But mostly, I am angry because you do not value what I have given you, for if you did, you would trust me and you would not flit about me like some nervous ninny.”
She didn’t know what to think, say, or do. “What?”
His face darkened and he leaned even closer to her. And when he spoke, his words were so low and soft she had to strain to hear. “I told you once that I never touch, or pursue, innocent virgins like yourself. I meant my every word. I’ll never touch you, Francesca. I might want to, I do want to; in fact, I want to take you to my bed very much. But I do not dabble with innocence, as I am not a marrying man. And I am a man who can control himself.” He hesitated, then said, “Your friendship is more important to me than sex. Is that clear? Should I be clearer?”
Stunned, she shook her head no.
“And that is the end of this subject. Stare as you will. Pretend my brother is the only man for you—the only man whom you lust for—but do not do so around me.” He slammed down his glass. To her amazement, it did not break. “Because, my dear, I am sick of it, him, the two of you!”
She wanted to tell him that she was sorry. But she was at a huge loss for words.
“And do not play the horrified virgin around me. I will never compromise you! He might—but I will not!” With that, his arm lashed out and the empty glass went flying across the room. As it shattered against a small table not far from where she stood, he strode past her, heading out of the room.
She could hardly believe what had just happened. She was reeling; she could not think clearly, much less coherently. And why was he so angry? Hadn’t they just resolved everything? And why did she wish to bury her head in a pillow and cry? Somehow, she was running after him. “Calder, wait!”
He did not stop. “Good day, Francesca.”
She ran faster. “Please, wait! You are so angry … . I treasure our friendship, too!”
He halted and faced her. She almost slammed into him again. “Do you? Somehow, I do not think so. I think you treasure your little fairy tale. You may see yourself out.” He bowed his head and disappeared around the corner of the hall.
She collapsed against the wall. She felt as if a hurricane had just passed by, one she had barely survived. No, she felt as if it had passed by but had not yet left. As if she remained in the storm’s eye and, somehow, the worst was about to come.
A polite cough sounded behind her.
Horror overcame her. Francesca turned.
“I’ll escort you out,” Rathe Bragg said kindly.
Francesca wanted to die.
Six
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 6 P.M.
Francesca felt as if she had been run over by a lorry. She wondered how she might navigate an evening when Hart would be present—and when Bragg would also be present. Of course, unlike Hart, Bragg did not sulk like a spoiled child and did not hold a grudge. His nature was a sunny one, just as his character was optimistic. He would undoubtedly have forgotten about their argument or realized the cause—Hart’s commission—was hardly worth it. Still, his father had seen Hart storming away. How much had he heard and what did he think?
She had so wanted to make a good impression. By now, Rathe had already told Grace about her and Hart. Francesca could not even smile at Jonathon, the young and handsome doorman, as she handed him her coat. “Have you seen my disreputable brother?” she asked. In spite of her own personal feelings, she did have a case to solve.
“I do believe Mr. Cahill is with your father, Miss Cahill. They adjourned to the library some time ago.”
Francesca was about to head down the hall, for she wished to speak with Evan about her second theory, that a rejected debutante was insane enough and vicious enough to vandalize Sarah’s studio. But before she could do so, she heard two very familiar voices coming from the stairwell. Francesca saw her mother and Maggie Kennedy descending slowly, her mother magnificently dressed in a crimson ball gown, with rubies about her throat and diamond earbobs. The gown was a Poiret. Maggie wore a plain navy blue skirt and a shirtwaist. She was using a cane, which she
leaned heavily upon. The redhead was pale and clearly still weak from the stab wound she had suffered earlier in the week.
Francesca reversed direction and rushed toward the wide alabaster staircase. “Mrs. Kennedy! Should you be up and about?”
“I have asked her the exact same question,” Julia said, pulling on elbow-length black gloves. Her hair had been waved with hot tongs, and she was a very elegant and beautiful older woman. Francesca was fully aware that her mother still turned heads.
“I am much better, thank you,” Maggie said, rather out of breath. “Dr. Finney said I should walk about a bit now, to gain back my strength.”
“But going up and down stairs is another matter indeed,” Francesca said bluntly.
Maggie smiled at her. “I do need to get my strength back, Miss Cahill. You see, I was just explaining to Mrs. Cahill that I will go home tomorrow.”
Francesca stared in surprise. Maggie Kennedy was the mother of her sidekick, Joel. She was a seamstress who worked at the Moe Levy factory by day while sewing custom garments for private clients at night. Francesca had liked her the first moment they had met, about a month ago. Then, in her last investigation, she had realized that Mrs. Kennedy might be the Cross Murderer’s last victim.
Francesca and Bragg had persuaded the pretty seamstress to move into the Cahill mansion with her four young children. And after being stabbed on Tuesday night, she had remained there in order to recuperate.
“That is nonsense,” Julia said firmly, now. “My dear Maggie, you are clearly not able to return to your home. You cannot even navigate these stairs!”
“My mother is right,” Francesca began, dismayed and concerned.
“I have imposed quite enough,” Maggie said, a pink flush now marring her porcelain and perfectly flawless skin. She had been invited to stay at the Cahill mansion when it had become obvious that her life was in dire danger. Francesca had been the one to invite her and her four children to stay with them. Julia had graciously risen to the occasion. “I think your brother has had quite enough of my four little rascals,” Maggie said with a slight smile, “and I shall lose my job at Moe Levy if I do not return to the factory on Monday.”
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