Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “You did not answer my question,” Andrew said, coming forward. He was of medium height, a bit portly, but with a kind face and even kinder eyes. He did not appear to be the king of a meatpacking empire. However, he was the smartest man Francesca knew. His kind expression hid a razor-sharp mind, his easygoing attitude a character with determination and willpower.

  Francesca sighed. “I had some personal business to attend to, Papa. Could we not leave it at that?”

  Andrew reached her side. “Please do not tell me that you have been out and about this morning with Rick Bragg.”

  “No, I have not,” she said honestly.

  That softened him. “I am glad to hear it. Although I fear you are still carrying a torch for that man.”

  “Papa, you admire and respect him as much as I; he is your good friend. Would you truly blame me if he did keep a piece of my heart forever?” she asked simply.

  He patted her arm. “No, I would not, not when you put it that way. But a piece of your heart is something we can all live with—it is something you can live with, too, in time. What other personal business could you have possibly had at this early hour?”

  He disliked Calder Hart—he had said that he did not trust him and that he did not like his casual womanizing ways. Francesca smiled. “I am twenty, Papa. Surely I can keep some of my affairs to myself?”

  He sighed, kissed her cheek, and said, “I am going down to the office, but only for an hour or two. Evan is up, and he seems a bit better this morning. Your mother is with him.” Now worry was reflected in his eyes, and with it, Francesca saw guilt.

  She hugged him, hard. She adored her father and she always would. “This is not your fault! The row you both had is not why Evan has been so badly injured! Do not blame yourself!”

  He nodded at her grimly, clearly continuing to feel responsible for the plight his son was now in, and accepted his coat from a servant. “Have a good morning, Papa,” Francesca offered.

  “I shall try,” he said.

  She did not watch him go. She already knew that Bragg was not yet present, as neither a coach nor his motorcar was outside in the drive, and the doorman had not said he was waiting for her. Francesca hurried upstairs and to Evan’s room.

  His door was open. Maggie Kennedy was seated on the bed at his side, apparently reading the newspaper to him. The pretty seamstress, who remained at the Cahill home recuperating from a knife wound, had proven herself to be an angel of mercy where Evan was concerned. Francesca hesitated in surprise, for Julia was also present. She had pulled up a heavily upholstered chair and sat close by the bed.

  Julia Van Wyck Cahill remained a beautiful woman, and Francesca had often been told that she looked so much like her mother. She had a small oval face, high cheekbones, a slim and pretty nose, and thick, waving blond hair. Francesca’s complexion was tinged with gold and apricot and her hair was the color of rich honey, unlike the fairer complexions and lighter hair that her mother and sister shared. The Cahill women were universally acclaimed to be beauties. Francesca thought her mother and sister were great beauties, but she herself was too serious and too intellectual to ever be put in that category. She hardly minded. She had more important issues to deal with every day.

  Julia never left her rooms before noon. Francesca knew that she got up around nine but took care of household affairs in the privacy of her suite before coming out. But Julia adored her son. Francesca doubted she had left his side all night. Now Maggie stopped reading and everyone glanced at Francesca.

  “Good morning,” she said, too brightly. Her gaze was on Evan, who was propped up against numerous pillows, the eye he had almost lost bandaged like a pirate’s, the skin around the patch a vicious purple, green, and blue. His lower lip was cut and swollen, and his left wrist was in a cast. But he seemed to smile at her.

  “Ow,” he then said, scowling. “God, I cannot even grin!”

  Julia stood, unsmiling. “Good morning, Francesca. Are you just getting up?”

  At least her mother did not know that she had been out. But she didn’t want to lie now. “Mama, is everything all right?” she asked cautiously, noting now that in spite of her mother’s perfect ensemble, a dark gray double-breasted suit in pebbled cheviot, trimmed with antique moiré and silk braid, she looked terrible indeed. Circles of fatigue marred her complexion, and grim lines had formed around her mouth, pulling it downward. Her Van Wyck blue eyes were hazy with worry and grief.

  “I could not sleep. I tossed and turned all night. I checked on Evan a dozen times. But he is better today, thank God,” Julia said.

  Francesca went to her and took her into her arms. She held her as if she were the mother and Julia the child—something she had never done before. “It will be all right. Evan is on the mend,” she said, glancing past her mother at Evan and Maggie.

  Hurt and with a black patch over his left eye, Evan still was dashingly handsome. The pretty redhead was offering him a sip of water, holding it to his mouth while supporting his head with one hand. Evan smiled and then grimaced at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. You really do not have to play nursemaid; I am quite fine this morning.”

  “Hush,” she murmured, setting the glass down on his bedside table and standing. “You are not well yet.” She smiled softly at him, but like Julia, her expression was filled with worry.

  Evan gazed up at her. “You have been too kind. Do you always treat barroom brawlers so graciously?”

  She smiled more naturally now. “Never, as I do not approve of fisticuffs, Mr. Cahill.” She softened even more. “But you and your family have been nothing but kind to me and my children. It is the least that I can do.”

  Evan smiled again and then grunted in pain.

  “I shall leave you all alone,” Maggie said softly, and she swished past them in her little fitted navy suit, which she undoubtedly had made for herself. A mercerized lawn shirtwaist peeked out from behind her suit jacket, starkly white, and the color was wonderful on her. Since coming into the Cahill home, Maggie had seemed to age in reverse until she looked her actual age, which was mid- to late twenties. When Francesca had first met her she had been so worn with the ordeal of her life that she could have been twenty or fifty—it had been impossible to tell.

  Francesca wondered once again about her brother. He was a gentleman. Yes, he had kept an actress for a mistress, but he had not a lewd bone in his body—she knew he would never carry on with a housemaid. Maggie was hardly a housemaid, but she was a seamstress—during the day she worked at the Moe Levy Factory. Their social circles did not conjoin or overlap. It was as simple as that.

  And currently Evan was smitten with Bartolla Benevente, a strikingly seductive and widowed countess.

  But Maggie seemed rather drawn to Francesca’s brother. She worried now. Evan was kind and charming, it was his nature, and maybe she had better advise him to be a bit more cautious in his responses to the pretty redhead. Francesca liked Maggie very much and did not want her casually hurt.

  “Thank you for reading me the newspaper, Mrs. Kennedy!” Evan called softly after her.

  Maggie paused at the door. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Cahill.” She smiled at everyone, ducked her head, and left.

  Julia now sat at Evan’s hip. She took his right hand in her own but did not speak.

  “I am fine, Mother,” Evan said, smiling now without a grunt of pain in spite of his cut lower lip.

  “You are not fine. And you are a gentleman who does not brawl, much less in saloons,” Julia said flatly, with distress.

  “I have made another grave mistake. Due, undoubtedly, to my fatally flawed character,” Evan said.

  “Evan, don’t,” Francesca said, knowing he mocked what Andrew seemed to think of him.

  “Is that not what Father is saying?” Evan demanded with a flash of anger. “And all because I will no longer jump through his hoops and be his lackey.”

  “Evan, you must speak more respectfully of your father,” Julia said, remaining distraught.
r />   “I am sorry, Mother.” He meant it and patted her hand.

  “Your father has been up all night as well. We both regret everything! You must change your mind about leaving the house. I will make sure your engagement to Miss Channing is off.”

  “It is off, because I decided so,” Evan said evenly. “Let’s talk about this unpleasant subject another time.”

  Julia was still. “Surely you do not think to still move out?” she finally said, eyes wide.

  “As soon as I am able. I am sorry, Mother, but this isn’t simply about Sarah. It is about my entire life up-to-date. And it is about Father.” He was firm.

  And Francesca was so proud of him. She had never realized how difficult it had been to be Andrew’s only son. She stepped forward. “Mama? Evan isn’t going anywhere for some time, as he has quite a bit of recuperating to do. Might I speak with him privately? I haven’t had the chance to do so since, the . . . er . . . brawl.”

  Julia nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. Francesca went into shock, as her mother was the strongest woman she knew and simply did not cry. Instantly Francesca took her hands. “Everything will be fine!” she exclaimed.

  “Will it? Andrew is still angry with me, Evan is leaving his house—and he is lucky to be alive. Connie and Neil remain at odds, with Connie dejected.” Neil Montrose was a titled Englishman, whom Francesca’s sister Connie had married four years ago. Recently he had been unfaithful, and Connie had learned of it. “And you are in love with a married man, never mind that his wife has returned to town to prevent a sordid affair! Will everything be all right, Francesca?” Julia demanded with some anger now.

  Francesca could only stare in shock. She must never underestimate her mother again. Julia knew everything that went on in town—and in this house. Francesca finally said, “I am not having a sordid affair.”

  “Well, praise be for some common sense at last,” Julia snapped, and she walked out.

  Francesca did not move, and then she met Evan’s unwavering and speculative stare. She turned and closed the bedroom door, then went swiftly to his side. She sat down on the bed. “Are you better today?”

  “Much, actually. Through the haze of pain and laudanum, I heard Doctor Finney tell Mother yesterday that I am young and strong and that I’d be up on my feet in a few days. Yesterday I did not believe it, but today I rather think he might be right.”

  “I am glad,” Francesca said, patting his hand.

  He eyed her. “So you have given up your love affair with the commissioner?”

  She sighed. “I love him. I always will. But it was the most terrible experience of my life to actually meet his wife, Evan. Until then, I think I didn’t really believe she existed. When she was tucked away in Europe—where she had a number of lovers, I might add—she seemed so distant, almost unreal. But she is real. She exists. And not only is she terribly beautiful; she is determined to reclaim her marriage. I am filled with guilt for loving the man who is her husband. Yet I cannot change my feelings. But I can change my behavior, and I have. We will remain friends, but nothing more.”

  He took her hand. “I think you believe every word you have just spoken, but I know you, Fran. You are a creature of impulse, and sometimes, sadly, your judgment is lacking. I am worried about you.”

  She instantly recalled her suspicion, shared by Bragg, that an angry creditor had done this to Evan. And she also recalled the reason they must speak. “And I am worried about you. Evan? What really happened?”

  He looked away. “I was drunk. I got into a fight. And that’s the gist of it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  His gaze slammed to hers with heat. “I don’t like the accusation, Fran.”

  “I am your sister! I love you! I want to help, Evan. And I can. The one thing I am good at is helping others and you know it! Is this about the money you owe?”

  Their gazes locked. He did not look away. “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” Francesca stood. She stared down at him in fright. “Did they mean to kill you?”

  “No. He wants his money, Francesca. This was a warning.” He was grim now.

  Francesca stared. “Who, Evan? Who wants his money?” Evan looked away, clearly refusing to answer.

  “And if you do not pay up?” Francesca had to know what might happen. She knew her brother’s debt totaled almost $200,000.

  “Then I suppose I will wind up far worse.”

  “Worse? How much worse could it get?” she cried.

  He just looked at her now.

  Of course it could get worse before he died—he could lose his legs, his arms, his mind. “Evan, we must go to Papa. He will pay off this brute! He would never allow you to remain in such danger.”

  “No.”

  “Evan!”

  But her brother was furious now. “He dared to blackmail me into marrying Sarah Channing by refusing to pay my debts! I am finished with him, Francesca. I would rather die than beg the cash from him now.”

  “You fool! For if you continue on this course you will die!” she shouted.

  “Keep your voice down,” he advised.

  Francesca stared. And she saw the resolution in his eyes. “You will not yield on this, will you?”

  “No, Francesca. I am quitting the company, my engagement is over, and I am moving out. And I will find a way to raise something to begin to pay off LeFarge.”

  “LeFarge? That is his name?” she asked quickly.

  He groaned. “Stay out of this, Francesca.”

  But she filed that bit of important information away. “How much money do you need, right now, to stave off this man?”

  “What?” He struggled to straighten as he sat.

  “I will help you raise the money, Evan. And I promise you, I will not go to Papa.”

  He stared. “Fifty thousand would be a good gesture.”

  She had known the sum would be vast; still, she reeled. How on earth would she raise $50,000—and instantly? Who did she know who had such an amount of money on hand?

  “I know. It is a vast sum.” Evan was glum.

  It was as if electric lightbulbs went off inside her brain.

  “Fran?”

  She sat down. Calder Hart was extremely wealthy. In fact, he had written her a check for $5,000 for one of her charities without even thinking about it. But did she dare ask him to loan her such a sum?

  When he refused to back down on the subject of their marriage?

  She wet her lips. “I can get the money, Evan. I am certain.”

  He gazed at her, amazed, and then he shook his head, beginning to smile. He winced instead. “Ow! Only you, Fran, could pull such a rabbit out of your hat.”

  Her heart beat hard now in anticipation of the vast favor that she must ask. But other matters now demanded her attention. She stared at him, hating having to tell him about his mistress. But know he must, and there was simply no avoiding it.

  “Why are you so grim? Fran . . . what is wrong?”

  She inhaled and took his hand, clasping it hard. “Evan, something terrible has happened and there is no easy way to tell you.”

  She saw his mind race. He leaned forward, grimacing. “Bartolla?”

  She now winced. “No, Bartolla is fine.” So that was where his heart now lay. “There has been a murder, Evan,” she said.

  His eyes widened. “Not . . . Sarah?!” he cried.

  “No, not Sarah. Although the murder took place in a studio that was vandalized very much as hers was.”

  He was confused. “I don’t understand. I do not know another artist. How does this affect me?”

  “Grace Conway was murdered. Evan, I am so sorry.”

  What little color Evan had drained from his face. Francesca held his hand and at first did not hear the knock on his bedroom door. He stared blindly at her. “How can this be?” he finally managed. And she saw tears rising up in his vivid blue eyes.

  “Evan, we don’t know. The investigation had only just begun,” Francesca said gently. />
  He touched his head, looking away from her. “She was such a wonderful woman. She was full of life . . . and she was funny! Was . . . I can’t believe I am saying was.”

  This time, Francesca started when the knock sounded on his door yet again. “I was in shock when I realized it was she,” Francesca said hastily. She leaped up and rushed to the door, only to find her mother standing there with Bragg.

  Julia was too polite to scowl; still Francesca recognized her grim reluctance now. Francesca’s gaze met Bragg’s. While she did not smile, her heart quickened with pleasure. “Good morning,” she said. “I have just broken the news.”

  “Good morning,” he returned, his gaze lingering upon her for one more moment before moving past her, to her brother.

  “What news? What is going on that I do not know about?” Julia asked firmly.

  Bragg turned to her. “As I said, I must speak with your son on official police business, Mrs. Cahill.”

  Julia stared with concern. “This is not about his injuries?”

  “No, it is not. Grace Conway was found murdered yesterday evening.”

  Julia’s expression did not change.

  “Mama,” Francesca said softly, taking her hand. “Miss Conway was Evan’s mistress.”

  Julia started and jerked her palm from Francesca’s grasp. “I hardly think so!”

  Francesca exchanged a silent look with Bragg. From the bed, Evan said, “It is true. She was my mistress, Mother.” His tone was hoarse.

  Francesca gave up and ran to his side. “What can I get you?”

  “Nothing.” He clasped his chest with his right hand. “How this hurts. She was so full of life . . .” he trailed off. Then, angrily, “No one deserved to live more!”

  Bragg faced Julia. “I’d like a few words alone with Evan, please. Perhaps he can be useful in this investigation,” he said.

  Julia finally nodded, wary now. “And Francesca?”

  Before Bragg could reply, Francesca piped up briskly, “She was found in an artist’s studio, Mama, one vandalized as Sarah’s was. So you see, the cases seem to be connected. I am afraid I am working on Miss Conway’s murder with the police.”

  Julia made a harsh sound, and Francesca did not like the look in her eye. It seemed to say, Not for very long you’re not. Julia left the room, but not before saying, “I expect to be apprised of this terrible affair before you leave my home, Commissioner.”