Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  Bragg had returned to his office and Francesca had decided there was one last stone to turn over, never mind that Bertrand Hoeltz had the strongest motivation of all their suspects to harm Melinda Neville. The portrait of LeFarge, painted as Napoleon, remained engraved upon her mind. If Miss Neville had painted LeFarge, the waters were growing murkier indeed. It could be a coincidence, but it had to be explained.

  “This is not a good place fer a lady to be,” Joel remarked. “It’s even worse than that saloon where we found Gordino, or the one where we found Craddock.”

  He was simply too astute for a small boy. No one had ever learned of her forays into those sordid saloons downtown, except for Bragg’s family, but here there was every chance she would run into a family friend or acquaintance. Francesca sighed. “I fear I have no choice.”

  “Yer fly gentleman won’t like this,” Joel grumbled. “I heard him say yer not to go to the Royal, Miz Cahill.”

  “I shall not tell Bragg if you won’t.” She smiled briskly at him. “Let’s get this over with. After last night, I am exhausted, and I am more than ready to get home.” She wanted a hot bath, a Scotch whiskey (which she had already debated stealing from the library), and her supper on a tray in her room. Oh, how Hart would be laughing at her shameless ways now!

  She smiled to herself.

  Joel now sighed, looking more than worried. He gestured in a way that Hart had so often done, asking her to precede him in. Surprised and amused by the imitation, Francesca stepped up the limestone steps of the square building, took a breath, and pushed open one iron door.

  Instantly a big man who was standing just inside the door barred her way. But not before she saw a beautiful room that looked like a men’s cigar club. The walls were paneled in wood, Persian carpets covered the floor, and the chairs and sofas were heavy and plush. Two groups of gentlemen were seated separately, with drinks, cigars, and newspapers. This was not what Francesca had expected. For a gaming hall, this was staid and elegant. “Members only, unless you got permission from the boss to come in,” the big man said in a Scots accent.

  Francesca hardly heard him. To her dismay, Richard Wiley was sitting with two gentlemen in a far corner, sipping scotches while engaged in what appeared to be an earnest conversation. Once, her mother had thought to force Wiley upon her as a suitor. He had seemed very fond of her, in fact. Now, Bragg’s admonishment that she was not to go to the Royal rang in her ears. She shifted so the Scot was hiding her from Wiley’s view, should he look toward the door.

  “It is very important that I speak with Mr. LeFarge,” Francesca said, handing the Scot her calling card. “I am afraid my business is urgent and simply cannot wait.”

  “You stay there,” the Scot said, not even looking at her card. A vast staircase was at the far end of the salon, but the Scot instead disappeared behind a pair of solid, gleaming mahogany doors. Francesca faced Joel, putting her back to the present company.

  “So this is where Mr. Cahill plays his cards most nights,” Joel muttered. “Fanciest saloon I ever did see. Where is the bar? Where are the poker tables?”

  “I think the lobby serves as a lounge,” she murmured. “I suspect the gaming part of the establishment is up those stairs.”

  “Miss Cahill? Is that . . . is that you?”

  Upon hearing Richard Wiley’s voice, Francesca winced. Well, her reputation had hardly been that bright to begin with. Now, of course, it was close to shreds. She turned with a bright smile. “How are you, Mr. Wiley?”

  He seemed taken aback to see her inside the Royal. “Why, I am fine, thank you.” And then he began blushing madly. He was extremely tall, perhaps six-foot-four, and lanky, and now he towered over her. “I, er, I am conducting some business here with some friends,” he said lamely.

  She realized he was far more horrified to be caught at the Royal than she was. Francesca warmed up. “Are you a member?” she asked.

  “No!” he gasped. “I am truly here upon the invitation of Messrs. Braddock and Crane!” he cried. “But . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I am on a case,” she said brightly. “And I must speak to Mr. LeFarge.”

  He hesitated. “I have read all about you, Miss Cahill, and I must say, I had no clue a few weeks ago that you were so . . . so . . . intrepid!”

  She didn’t think he meant it as a compliment, but she took it as one. “Why, thank you.”

  He swallowed. “Well, in any case, this is no place for a gentlewoman.” He was disapproving now. “I would quickly conduct my business with Mr. LeFarge if I were you,” he said.

  Thank God she had never once looked twice at Richard Wiley. “I intend to do just that.” She remained cheerful. “And, Mr. Wiley?”

  He paused, about to return to his associates.

  “If you do not mention that you have seen me here, then I shall not mention that you do business here, either.”

  His eyes widened. “I . . . that is blackmail!”

  “Not really.” She smiled, and just beyond him she saw the Scot leaving LeFarge’s office, coming toward her and Joel. Her heart skipped.

  “He’ll see you,” the big man said.

  Andrew LeFarge’s office was decorated in the same style as the huge salon she had just left. He offered her a sherry, which she declined. He did not offer Joel anything. Then, the doors solidly closed behind them, LeFarge sat behind his large oak desk, with Francesca and Joel seated in the two facing bergeres. “This is quite the surprise. And what may I do for you today, Miss Cahill?” He smiled benevolently at her.

  She did not smile back. Every time she came face-to-face with this man she could only recall what he had done to her brother, and it infuriated her. “I have come to ask you about the portrait in your front hall.”

  He was surprised. “My portrait?”

  “Yes, the one where you are in a French military uniform, posed like Napoleon.”

  “So you have admired it?” He was pleased.

  “Hardly.” She remained as stiff as a board.

  He stood. “It is obvious you dislike me, but I fail to see why.”

  “I think we both know the reason,” she said, gripping her hands tightly together. “But I must know who painted that portrait.”

  “An unknown artist,” he said, his gaze speculative. “She was highly recommended to me by a patron here.”

  Francesca stared, her mind racing. And there was dread, as for one moment she feared that somehow that patron was her brother. If so, he would become a connection between each and every woman involved in the case, dead, alive, or missing. “Was the artist Melinda Neville?” she asked stiffly.

  “Yes. How did you know that?” He appeared surprised.

  She refused to tell him anything. “And how did you learn of her, Mr. LeFarge, if you please?”

  He studied her. “Easily enough. Her brother is a patron here, and he had mentioned that his sister was an artist recently returned from Paris.” He shrugged.

  She stood. “Thomas Neville is a patron of this club?!”

  “Yes. He is here almost every night.”

  She stared, her mind racing. The puzzle had become endless. Where did this piece fit in? “Does he know my brother, Evan?”

  “I should think so. They both frequent my establishment on an almost nightly basis.”

  She did not know what to think. Evan did not know Melinda Neville—or he didn’t think he did. But he knew Thomas. Meaning that Evan remained the only solid connection between each of the four women. And then Francesca realized that was not so—Hoeltz was as connected. He had known Sarah, and through Melinda he had surely been acquainted with both Grace Conway and Catherine Holmes. And what about Thomas Neville? Francesca quickly realized he was only linked to three of the four women—he did not know Sarah Channing.

  And while LeFarge could never be mistaken for a big or tall man, Francesca did not rule him out as a suspect. He was the kind of man to hire thugs to do his dirty work. In his case, he could have struck at Sarah a
nd Grace Conway to threaten Evan—the murder of Catherine Holmes and the disappearance of Melinda Neville would then be incidental.

  Francesca sighed. It seemed as if they were no closer to solving the case than they had been four days ago. “Do you know where Miss Neville is?”

  “Hardly. Why?”

  “She has vanished. It would be very helpful to locate her as soon as possible.”

  “Miss Cahill, the woman painted my portrait well over a year ago—before she ever left for Paris. We did not even speak, except when she asked me to turn my head or body. She was rather cold, very severe, and very involved in her commission. Why would I know where she is? Isn’t that a question you should ask Thomas?” His black eyes were hard now, very hard, reminding her of all that he was capable of.

  “I should love to ask Thomas again,” she decided.

  “Then why don’t you?” LeFarge smiled.

  Francesca stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why don’t you ask Thomas Neville? After all, he is upstairs,” LeFarge said.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1902—6:00 P.M.

  CONNIE GULPED DOWN A breath of air for courage. It did not enhance her courage—as she had none. She knew Neil despised her now. No lady ever behaved as she had done. She was terrified, now, that her marriage was over.

  The door to his study was open. He was hunched over his vast desk, engrossed in his papers. For one moment, she studied him, aware of her heart pounding with such force that she felt ill and faint.

  What he had done was wrong. But in a way, it had been her fault, for denying such a virile man his pleasure. Should they manage to go forward now, she would never deny him again. And at the thought of being in his arms, her heart skipped and skidded wildly.

  It had been so long.

  She felt a tear on her cheek. But she was never going to be in his arms again. She felt certain. Oddly, she loved him even more now than she had before his affair, and it had taken this moment for her to realize it. If only he would forgive her for her terrible behavior the other day.

  He suddenly looked up, and the moment he saw her, he paled.

  Connie could not smile. “Neil?” she whispered. It was so hard to speak. “Can we speak?”

  He stood instantly. “Of course.” He did not smile, either. He was grim, more dark and grim than she had ever seen him. There was no laughter, no light, in his brilliant turquoise eyes.

  He moved out from behind his desk slowly as she entered the room and they paused before each other. Her heart pounded like a drum. It was deafening. How could she tell this hard, angry man that she loved him still? Did she dare? The idea of his final and absolute rejection terrified her.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  She wet her lips. “I am so sorry,” she managed. “I have never been more sorry than I am for my terrible, reprehensible, inexcusable behavior the other day.”

  He stiffened with surprise. “What in God’s name are you speaking about?”

  Surely she had misheard. “My hysteria, Neil.”

  He was motionless. “You are entitled to hysteria, Connie—and to anger and any other emotion you feel. There is nothing to apologize for. In fact, everything is my fault.” He looked down grimly, toying with the papers on his desk.

  She was stunned. “No,” she heard herself whisper.

  He started, looking up and into her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  She could not let him go. Connie blurted, “Neil! Surely you . . . want nothing more to do with me . . . don’t you?”

  He went still, his eyes wide, disbelieving. “What? How could you think such a thing?”

  “My behavior—”

  “To hell with improper behavior!” he cried. “I adore you, Connie. I always have and I always will!” he cried.

  She remained in disbelief, but only for an instant, when she realized that she was going to have her life back. “Neil, I still love you. I don’t want to lose you!” she cried.

  He stunned her then. He rushed out from behind his desk and crushed her in his embrace, against his big, solid body.

  She had forgotten how perfect it was to be in the circle of his arms, with his powerful heart thudding beneath her cheek. She began to cry. Her own arms tightened around him. What had she been doing, thinking? She loved him so.

  His hand cradled the back of her head. “You don’t hate me?” he asked roughly. “Connie, you don’t hate me for breaking your heart and being the worst cad imaginable?”

  She shook her head and then whispered, “No. I wanted to. . . . I was so hurt, Neil—so terribly hurt—but my heart won’t allow me to hate you. I miss you!”

  He seized her face in both hands and kissed her, hard.

  She stiffened; then, as his kiss gentled and as he urged her lips to part, as warmth rapidly spread through her limbs and torso, beginning, finally, to build in every forbidden part of her, she relaxed, dazed, thinking that she had forgotten how much she loved his taste, his tongue. Tentatively she allowed her tongue to finally meet his thrusting one. Neil moaned without breaking the kiss and somehow, impossibly, deepened it, until Connie felt as if they were making love, just with their mouths, while the rest of her body was aflame.

  His large strong hands slid up and down her small back. And finally he tore his mouth from hers, panting hard, and he rained kisses all over her face, her cheeks. Connie kept her eyes closed, and his kisses gentled, becoming feathery caresses on her skin. When he ceased, she opened her eyes and their gazes met. He was, she saw, as breathless as she.

  He finally cupped her face in his hands, no longer kissing her. “Connie. I love you. I will never, ever stray again. I will live like a monk, if that is what you wish for me to do.”

  “Neil.” Tears filled her eyes. She had almost lost him. She had almost lost everything, she thought. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “The staff—the children . . .” he began.

  “Take me upstairs, Neil,” she said. And Connie smiled at him.

  He smiled back, took her hand, and obeyed.

  Leigh Anne sat at the dressing table in her small, drab bedroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, a hairbrush in hand. She was wearing a satin wrapper over a corset, lacy drawers, and her gartered stockings. The wrapper was very loosely belted, exposing a vast amount of bosom, as the corset barely covered her breasts. It made her tiny twenty-inch waist even smaller. She wore slippers with low heels, so she was an inch taller. She hadn’t bothered with any rouge, as she truly did not need makeup, but she had dabbed French perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. Rick had sent a terse note home earlier that afternoon, explaining that he would be back at seven. She was expecting him at any moment. Expectation made her breathless.

  Why in God’s name had she stayed away for four years?

  She had been very angry with him when he had refused a position in one of Washington, D.C.’s most prestigious law firms, and that anger had grown day by day as the harder and longer he worked, the poorer and less socially acceptable they had become. Leigh Anne decided she had been a fool. She should have believed in him. Look at what he had become, and not just politically.

  She shivered.

  The note had said he would be working in his study all evening. He had advised her to make her own plans. Leigh Anne stared at herself. Her emerald green eyes sparkled with excitement, with desire. She had been doing nothing but making plans ever since receiving Bartolla Benevente’s note in Boston, the one insinuating that her husband was carrying on with, if not in love with, another woman.

  This was Leigh Anne’s third day in residence with her husband, but they remained strangers—it was as if she was a houseguest. She hadn’t lost confidence in her powers of seduction and persuasion, but Rick had changed. Four years of anger and bitterness had hardened him, and he was no longer simple to manage and easy to control. He had become a set and determined man. She found the changes fascinating
and even frightening. There were moments when he truly intimidated her. And she had forgotten, truly, how gorgeous he was—how looking into his golden eyes and at his lean, muscular body made her mouth water and her body tighten.

  She was fiercely glad that he hadn’t slept with Francesca Cahill. Not because the other woman was more beautiful than she, as she was not. But because she knew her own husband, to a point, and she understood why he was so attracted to the pretty sleuth. Miss Cahill was exactly like Rick—fervently reformist by nature, highly ethical, indifferent to the material world, and intrigued by any mental challenge. They were, Leigh Anne sighed, two peas in a pod. But that was very boring, was it not?

  Vinegar enhanced oil.

  Oil added to oil was tasteless and bland.

  Leigh Anne finished brushing her long raven-hued hair, then realized she was being watched with some fascination in the mirror. She smiled at the angelic toddler drooling as she sucked her thumb in the doorway. “Hello, Dot,” she said softly.

  “Pa . . . pa?” Dot shouted, ambling forward and falling on her face. She began to scream.

  Leigh Anne leaped up and rushed to her. She had many faults, all of which she was aware of, but an indifference to children was not one of them. In fact, once she had hoped for two children of her own, a boy and a girl. Newly wed at the time, Rick had hoped to negotiate with her—he had wanted four. Laughing, she had refused. Then he had pushed her down onto the sofa and pushed up her skirts and they had made love. . . .

  “Dot, come here; it’s Mrs. Bragg. It’s all right, sweetheart,” she murmured, lifting the child into her arms.

  Dot clung, whimpering. “Pa. . . . pa!” she demanded.

  Leigh Anne shifted, realized that she could not get up, and sat down on the floor. “Pretty girl,” she said softly, meeting the child’s huge blue eyes. She had been stricken to find out that not only was Rick fostering two homeless children, but the little one called him Papa. Now it didn’t seem that terrible, just sad. She had learned from Mrs. Flowers, their recently employed nanny, that the girls had been raised fatherless and that only two weeks ago they had lost their mother to a crazed murderer. “Poor baby,” she whispered.