Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02]

by Deadly Pleasure

  Calder Hart stared grimly at her.

  “He was murdered last night, Mr. Hart,” Francesca said. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you, but now you can see why I must know the nature of your relationship.”

  Hart turned away. He crossed the room. Not far from where they sat was a silver liquor cart. Francesca’s eyes widened as she watched him pour a drink, then slam down half of it. “Mr. Hart?”

  He remained with his back to her, and he finished the whiskey. Then he refilled the glass.

  Connie plucked her sister’s sleeve. She was standing, and her eyes were wide with disapproval. “I think it is time for us to go,” she said low.

  Francesca shook her head.

  Hart turned. He held up his glass as if in a toast. “You have made my day, Miss Cahill,” he said then, and his smile was more than mocking. It was a sneer. “Randall is dead. Hurrah.” He drank.

  Connie surprised everyone then, perhaps even herself. She moved swiftly forward, to Hart’s side, and she took the glass from his hand. “You are upset. I apologize for my sister, who means no harm—but sometimes suffers from terrible lapses in grace and common sense. Please. Sit down. Let me call your man, Mr. Hart.”

  “How kind you are,” he mocked. He tilted up her chin. “I wonder how far your kindness would go—given the right circumstances?”

  Francesca understood his meaning and she gasped. Connie did not pull away for a moment, and she stared as if hypnotized at their host.

  Hart released her. He smiled and looked at Francesca. “The answer to your question is a simple one. And now that Randall is dead, I have no problem answering it.”

  Connie backed away from Hart. She was white. Francesca took her hand tightly. This man was frightening.

  “I am his son,” Calder Hart said. “His bastard son.” He smiled at them both, and it was chilling.

  SIX

  Francesca stared at Hart, horrified. He was Randall’s son?

  “Dear God,” Connie whispered, white with the very same shock.

  “Mr. Hart! I am so sorry; I had no idea,” Francesca began, wringing her hands. Her mind was racing, and it was filled with accusations, mostly directed at herself. She had just told a man that his father was dead, and she would regret her lapse forever. But how could she have known? And why hadn’t Bragg been round to inform Hart of the murder? Surely Bragg knew that Randall was his half brother’s father!

  “You are sorry that Randall is dead, or for having been the bearer of such ill tidings?” Hart asked coolly.

  “Both,” Francesca whispered, mortified.

  Connie stepped between them. “We have bungled terribly!” she cried. “I can only beg your forgiveness, and if I had known what Francesca was up to, I would have never allowed it!” She shot Francesca a furious glare. It said, How could you?

  “I had no idea,” Francesca repeated. “Mr. Hart, do sit down. Let us bring you some tea.”

  He laughed at her. The sound wasn’t pleasant, not at all.

  “We are leaving,” Connie said firmly, glaring again at Francesca. She faced Calder Hart. “Is there anything we can do to help you through this terrible time?”

  His gaze moved over her. Before, when he had looked at Connie, no matter how reprehensible his intentions—if indeed he did have intentions—somehow, his interest and virility had combined to make him more fascinating. Now, his look was ice-cold. It was the look of a man who, perhaps, had no conscience. It was almost reptilian.

  He said, “I can think of numerous ways in which you might comfort me, my dear Lady Montrose.”

  Connie flushed.

  The comment was so rude that even Francesca was silent.

  Connie grimaced, and without a word, she turned and marched away, crossing the salon and heading for the door.

  Francesca stared at Hart.

  “Good day,” he said to her abruptly—as rudely.

  A sharp rebuke for his terrible behavior was on the tip of her tongue. She wondered if he had enjoyed so discomfiting her sister. But then she thought of how he had just learned that his father was dead, and she held her tongue.

  “Mr. Hart, sir.”

  Francesca turned and saw the butler at the door of the salon where Connie was about to exit. He said, “The commissioner of police is here to see you, sir.”

  Francesca’s heart seemed to go right through Hart’s roof.

  “My day just gets better and better,” Hart said caustically. “Show the dear police commissioner in.”

  Francesca knew she had to leave and debated the slim possibility that she might do so without encountering Bragg. Was there another exit to the room? She saw a series of huge doors ahead, clearly leading to another room. How she yearned to beeline for them.

  Bragg strode into the salon.

  Francesca arranged her expression into one that she fervently hoped resembled passive innocence. She tried to come up with a credible excuse for calling on Hart, and failed. Bragg faltered with surprise the moment he saw her.

  Hart was pouring another drink. “Your paramour beat you to it, Rick,” he said. “The news is out; the king is dead. Long live the king.”

  Bragg looked from his half brother to Francesca and back. Then his gaze slammed onto Francesca. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if he just could not believe it—as if he were seeing things.

  “It was an innocent mistake,” Francesca cried. “Please, Bragg, do not leap to the wrong conclusions!”

  “I am trying very hard not to do just that,” he said. Francesca winced.

  Hart chuckled. “The taming of the shrew. This should be an enjoyable little family drama, one I shall cherish from the sidelines.”

  Bragg looked at him. “Shut up, Hart. As you are in dire straits.”

  “What? Will you arrest your own brother? And for what? A few timely barbs?” Hart drank, but leisurely now. His eyes appeared black as he watched his brother coolly.

  Bragg approached Francesca. Their gazes locked. “I am debating, Francesca, very seriously, taking you downtown. Perhaps then you will understand the gravity of the situation.”

  “Connie and I are going shopping,” she began.

  “That is not true!” Connie cried from the doorway. She was still angry with Francesca.

  Francesca sent her a baleful look. Then, “I am so sorry!”

  “Go outside. Wait for me in the foyer. I will discuss this with you privately, after I have spoken with Calder.”

  “Yes,” Francesca said meekly, debating running for Connie’s carriage and home. Of course, defying him right now might not be the best of ideas. She flew across the room. As she left, she felt as if she had just escaped the executioner.

  In the entry, Connie stared accusingly at her. “You are investigating a murder, Fran?”

  She wanted to be defensive, but she was too shaken. “I will never forgive myself,” she whispered, “for telling Hart about his father that way.”

  “You should not forgive yourself,” Connie snapped. “Even if he is a most reprehensible man.”

  Francesca looked at her and then heard raised voices coming from the salon. She became still. They were arguing.

  Yes, she was terribly sorry for telling Hart about his father, but the mistake had been an innocent one. However, she would die to know what they were speaking about. And there was no mistaking that the conversation coming from the other room was an argument, one that was escalating even as she thought about it.

  “I would give anything to be a fly on the wall in that room right now,” Francesca whispered, looking at her sister.

  “No,” Connie said, shaking her head. “We are waiting for the police commissioner right here.”

  Francesca ignored her. It was as if her feet had wings—and a mind of their own. She ran into an adjacent room, which turned out to be a smaller but equally opulent salon. The huge double doors she had seen from the other salon faced her, and she ran to them, ignoring Connie’s cry of protest. Francesca pinned her ear to the wood an
d strained to hear. Connie approached.

  “You should be throttled! Have you no decency? Their conversation is a private one!” Connie cried.

  “Ssh,” Francesca hissed, trying to hear the two men.

  Connie hesitated, then said, softly, “What is going on?”

  Francesca wet her lips. “Hart denies killing Randall.”

  Connie gasped, and then she laid her ear against the door as well.

  “I did not kill him, if that is why you are here,” Hart said indifferently. He turned to the bar cart. “Drink?”

  “Have I suggested that you killed Randall?” Bragg asked coolly.

  Hart took his time, pouring Bragg the drink he had not asked for and stepping over to him in order to hand it to him. His smile was feral. “I know you well, or do you forget? After all, we are brothers.”

  Bragg smiled, but it was solely a baring of his teeth. He put the drink down, untouched. “You do not know me at all, Calder, and do not fool yourself, in spite of the fact that we are half brothers.”

  Hart laughed at that. “I know you. My brother the crusader, ever on the wings of Lady Justice, her sister Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as a God-given right for all.”

  “The right is a constitutional one.”

  “Not according to Rick Bragg.”

  “Do you not even have one whit of remorse for your selfishness?”

  “Have you not ever regretted being the slave of moral rectitude?”

  Bragg said, “Of course I have.”

  “And honest, disgustingly honest. How can I compete?” Hart mocked.

  “Only you have made this a competition,” Bragg returned evenly.

  “As always, the fault is mine.” Hart sighed with immense melodrama. “Wouldn’t you say it is odd that this is the very first time you have set foot in my home? Would you care for a tour?”

  “It is hardly odd, as I only just returned to New York City to accept my appointment as police commissioner. It is hardly odd, as you damn well know that we do not frequent the same circles. And as far as a tour goes, when I have a need to see your house, it will be for official reasons, not social ones, and you shall be the very first to know.”

  “Oh, dear, I had forgotten; my world is too debauched for you.”

  “It is,” Bragg agreed. “But only because you strive so hard to be so shameless.”

  “I think you are jealous,” Hart taunted.

  “Of what? Of what would I be jealous? Surely not your debauchery.”

  There was silence. Hart was smiling. He made an expansive gesture, indicating his home and its expensive furnishings and objets d’art.

  Bragg laughed, the sound as cold and unpleasant as Hart’s previous laughter. “Why would I be jealous of a man who has no heart and no moral fiber? I do admire your intelligence, Calder, and I always have. But I cannot admire anyone who has stolen and cheated and slept his way to wealth and position.”

  “And how else would you have a poor bastard like myself achieve anything?” Hart asked with a shrug.

  “Rathe offered to bankroll you in a start when you dropped out of Princeton. I know it for a fact,” Bragg said, referring to his own father, Rathe Bragg. Then, “And we are off the topic. Way off. I am here on official police business, Calder.”

  “No, for this is so much better, I think. Have they told you?”

  Bragg stiffened. “Has who told me what?”

  “Has your father told you the news?”

  Bragg became wary. “What news?”

  “Apparently they have decided that life in Texas no longer suits them now that Lucy and Shoz are married and have settled down.” Lucy was Rathe and Grace’s eldest child and Bragg’s half sister. They had five other children, all boys. “Apparently young Nicholas is thinking of following in your footsteps at Columbia next year. He has made an early application. Rathe and Grace are returning to New York with Nicholas, Hugh, and Colin, and they intend to stay with me while they reopen their home.” Hart smiled and it was wide. “I believe Grace wishes for Rathe to sell the house and build a new one, smaller but uptown here on Fifth.”

  There was a short, surprised, and tamped-down silence. “I have heard nothing,” Bragg said quietly, at last.

  “I just cannot believe that beloved Rathe failed to tell his own real son of his plans! Of course, we both knew that their decision to stay in Texas after Lucy’s wedding would not last for long.”

  “Yes,” Bragg said, his jaw flexed.

  Hart laughed. “I am sure you will hear from him soon. They plan on coming up to town in another month or so.”

  Bragg smiled then. It did not reach his eyes. “How many points does this little coup of yours score—in your mind?”

  “I don’t know. I had forgotten what score we were left at.”

  “You have never forgotten the score,” Bragg said brusquely, “and we both know it.”

  Hart smirked and lifted his glass in a salute. “Bragg five hundred, Hart ten. I am catching up. Hurrah, hurrah.”

  Bragg ignored that. “Let’s get back to the business at hand so I can leave. I would not mind ending my day today at a reasonable hour—in spite of Randall’s death.”

  “And to think I thought you could not wait to leave me, as your little crime solver awaits you in the next room.” Hart laughed.

  “I suggest you cease with your innuendos about Francesca,” Bragg said harshly.

  “What? Will you lock me up or punch me?”

  “The latter is becoming a difficult notion to resist, Calder. Francesca Cahill means well. She is also a young lady—meaning she is naive in a way you cannot even imagine. Leave her be, and do not shatter her illusions.”

  “So now you are her champion,” Hart chuckled. “This is rich indeed!”

  “I am no one’s champion; I merely do what must be done—what is right.” His eyes were almost black now. “Where were you, Calder, last night, between five and nine P.M.?” Bragg snapped, clearly in a foul temper now.

  Hart laughed. “So I was right after all, knowing you as well as I do. Hart eleven, Bragg five hundred. You have come to see if your monstrously immoral brother has an alibi.”

  “Do you?” He smiled too nicely and waited.

  “I fear that I do. Thus I now ruin your day. Tsk-tsk.”

  Anger flashed in Bragg’s eyes. “Let’s get this over with, why don’t we? As I have more to do than to stand here and spar with you. Just tell me where you were during those hours and whom you were with.”

  “Very well.” He drank. “I was at my office until six-ten. My secretary can attest to that. His name is Brad Lewis.”

  “And after that?”

  “I was in my carriage, with my driver, Raoul. He left me around seven P.M.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “At apartments on Third Avenue and Forty-eighth Street.” Hart grinned at him.

  “Let me guess. Your mistress?”

  “Hell, no. I keep her uptown, on Fourth Avenue, in a very fine manner. These ladies have an arrangement with their landlord, I believe. Their names are Rose and Daisy. Jones, I think, is their last name. They are sisters.” He laughed at that. “Or so they say.”

  “You mean they are whores.”

  He shrugged. “They are adept, and that is what counts.”

  “At what time did you leave the … sisters?”

  “A few minutes before nine. I was at White’s little fete, remember? That started at nine; I was actually rather prompt. I stayed until midnight, then went home.”

  “When was the last time that you saw Randall?” Bragg asked.

  “Tuesday night.” Hart shrugged.

  “Really? I didn’t know the two of you had formed a friendship.”

  “We hadn’t.” Hart looked at his watch. “I have appointments downtown, Bragg.”

  “How timely. I will be but a moment more. Why did you see him, and where did this meeting take place?”

  “As I am sure you will learn of it eventually,
I will save you the time and the trouble of sleuthing. We met for dinner at the Republican Club, of which he is a member. As to why I saw him, it is none of your business. The meeting was extremely brief, actually.” Hart smiled, as if that memory was amusing.

  “Actually, your relationship with him is my business, because he has been murdered, and you are at the top of my suspect list.” Bragg smiled—with pleasure.

  “How loyal you are.”

  “We both know how much you hated him. And I suppose the question is, did you hate him enough to murder him?”

  “I have never kept my feelings a secret. I rarely do.” Hart finished his second drink of the morning. “And now I must go. Oh—and the answer is no.”

  “Do not even think of leaving town, Hart. You are both an important link in my investigation as well as a suspect, and if you leave the city, I will have to call in the U.S. Marshal. I would also have to place you in custody.”

  Hart pretended to shudder. “Oh, dear, and what would I do then?”

  “I want your word,” Bragg said, ignoring his remark, “that you will not leave the city until I have given you permission to do so.”

  Hart stared. “You have it, then. But I find it hard to believe that you would accept my word on anything.”

  “Normally, I would not. But your father has been murdered, Hart, in cold blood. And as much as you claim to despise him, I believe that, if you did not kill him yourself, you do have some small conscience somewhere in that black heart of yours, and you will want to see this matter resolved more than anyone, even the widow.” Bragg nodded and walked out.

  Hart stared after him. “You are wrong,” he said. But he spoke only to himself.

  Francesca straightened breathlessly and faced her sister, who was wide-eyed. Did Bragg really suspect Hart of murdering his own father? And why did they seem to so dislike each other?

  Connie whispered, “I feel sorry for Mr. Hart.”

  Francesca stiffened. She did not like her sister having sympathetic feelings toward Hart.

  And Bragg had seemed to defend her. While Hart kept making odd little remarks about her relationship with Bragg. Did he see or sense something that Francesca had also thought to be happening between them? She smiled a little then, to herself.