Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  “Please,” Lydia cried, and she released the gun.

  Francesca took it, shifting off of Lydia and onto her knees. She pointed it at the younger woman. “There is another shot.” Or so she hoped.

  Lydia looked helplessly at her.

  Francesca backed up and rose, quickly pointing the gun at Martha. “Don’t move, Mrs. Gillespie. I do not want to shoot you, but if I have to, I will.” That was a bald lie, because she had no intention of shooting either of these women.

  Martha sank down in the chair in front of Daisy’s desk. “Don’t hurt my daughter,” she whispered.

  FRANCESCA MET BRAGG IN the front hall when he arrived with two officers and Inspector Newman. She had left both women in the study with their hands tied be hind their backs. Lydia’s pistol had not been fully loaded, and there had not been a second shot in it. “Thank God you are here!” she cried, seizing his arm as he rushed into the house.

  “Who is it, Francesca?” he demanded. A patrolman had delivered her message that she had Daisy’s killer in custody.

  “Martha Gillespie murdered Daisy,” Francesca said, restraining him. “Bragg, this is a terrible tragedy. Apparently Martha hated Daisy for what transpired. She blamed Daisy for seducing the judge. She knew that Gillespie had found Daisy here in the city, and she realized quickly enough that Daisy was blackmailing him.”

  “She confessed to all of this?”

  Francesca nodded, filled with worry. “There is more.”

  “I thought so,” he said, his concerned gaze on her face.

  She shuddered. “Lydia witnessed the murder and helped her mother flee.”

  Bragg was grim. “That makes her an accessory, Francesca.”

  “She did not conspire to the crime! She loved her sister and she has been every bit as much a victim as Daisy was, Rick! She has hated her father since he first started molesting Daisy. Rick, she was trying to protect her mother.”

  “What would you have me do? Are you asking me to withhold the details of Lydia’s involvement, are you asking me to tell the D.A. not to press charges against her, too?”

  Francesca hadn’t realized she still gripped his sleeve and now she released him. She wrung her hands. “I guess it is unfair of me to ask you for such a favor.”

  He was clearly unhappy. “I almost murdered O’Donnell today, Francesca. I was this close to killing him with my bare hands and tossing the body in the river. But I didn’t. And I didn’t pay him off, either—I arrested him and his aunt. I have spent my entire life being the most honest man that I can be. I am sorry about Lydia. We can recommend a suspension of her sentence. It is very likely a judge would respond favorably to such a plea.” He gave her a dark look. “Or you can ask Hart to help you. I am sure he could manage the suspended sentence easily enough.”

  She stiffened. “What does that mean?”

  “I think you know.” He signaled to his men and they started through the front hall.

  She chased him. “Is this about his bail?”

  He gave her a look over his shoulder. “As I said, ask Hart to make certain Lydia doesn’t suffer any further.”

  Francesca stopped in her tracks as Bragg and his men went into the study. Her head was aching from the blow she had sustained yesterday. She rubbed the back of her head but it was tender and she winced. Once, a life time ago, knowing right from wrong had been so easy—it had been black or white. Now the world had suddenly become every possible shade of gray. She did not know what to do. Her every moral fiber refused to succumb to the temptation of further bribery, yet she could not stand the thought of Lydia suffering any more than she already had. She was also aware that there would be more charges against Lydia if she told Bragg that she had attempted to frame Hart for the murder.

  The two women came out of the study with the police. They were both in handcuffs. Instantly, Lydia’s gaze met Francesca’s, and no plea for help could have been clearer.

  The officers and the two women left the house. Bragg came to stand beside her and he put his arm around her. “I will hear what Lydia has to say and I will think about it,” he said softly.

  Francesca threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”

  He disengaged himself somewhat awkwardly. “I happen to agree with you,” he said.

  Francesca smiled. Then a new thought occurred to her and her smile vanished. Consternation filled her now. “Rick! What will happen to Gillespie?”

  “His sexual crimes were committed more than eight years ago.”

  Francesca cried out. “Are you saying that he is going to walk away from his heinous deeds a free man?”

  “Francesca, there is a statute of limitations. Besides, there is no evidence at all—it is all hearsay.”

  Francesca knew he spoke the truth. “So there is no justice for Daisy after all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Friday, June 6, 1902—6:00 p.m.

  HE HAD NOT A CLUE as to what he was doing. Evan stood outside Maggie’s door, and he could hear the boys’ voices from within. Because he could not show up at her door empty-handed, he had ordered an entire family supper from his hotel, which was in the woven wicker hamper at his feet. But the supper was an excuse for his visit. He was acutely aware of being overcome by nervousness and anxiety. He reminded himself that there was no need. He was just a family friend. He was only bringing supper. He could not court her, not even if he wanted to, not when another woman carried his child. That would be dishonorable in the extreme. And he certainly could not court her when he remained obsessed by the gaming tables. No woman needed a suitor like that; no woman needed such a delinquent husband, and especially not Maggie, who had more than enough hardship for an entire lifetime.

  His heart lurched with hollow fear. Surely he wasn’t thinking about marriage in the same instant as he was thinking about Maggie?

  Earlier today, he had told Andrew he was sorry and his apology had been accepted instantly, much to Evan’s surprise. Andrew had offered him a brandy and before Evan knew it, he had been telling him about some recent investments that he expected Evan to oversee at the family company. If Andrew learned about last night’s gambling, he would be furious—and disgusted. Evan tried to imagine his reaction, should he inform him that he was seriously interested in a widowed seamstress with four children. Evan knew his father would not approve.

  Suddenly Evan leaned against the wall beside Maggie’s door. He did not want to be a lowly lawyer’s clerk, but he’d tasted freedom in these past few weeks, real freedom, and he did not wish to work for Andrew, either. While returning to the familial fold and the company gave him great status, it felt as lowly as being a clerk. Every decision would be his father’s, while he did all of the hack work. And should he ever reveal his feelings for Maggie, Evan could not even begin to imagine the uproar that would cause.

  But did it matter? Maggie was not for him. She could do so much better, and he had to support Bartolla and the child in a very generous manner. But he needed Maggie in his life, if only as a friend.

  “I will be right back,” Maggie was saying, opening the door quite suddenly. She had a light blue shawl in her hands. She saw him and stopped, her pale brows arching in surprise.

  His breath escaped, as if he had been socked hard in the chest. “I was just about to knock,” he managed. “Hello, Maggie.”

  “Evan!” she gasped. Then she smiled, as if she was thrilled to see him, but her gaze was searching. “Are you all right?” Her eyes veered to the large hamper by his feet, widening with surprise.

  He wanted her approval, desperately. “Care for a picnic? An indoor picnic? Or we could take the children to Central Park—I have a coach and driver downstairs.”

  “I was just running to the grocery—I am out of salt, of all things!” She blushed.

  He reached for her hand and he felt the tension instantly ripple through her. Suddenly he was afraid.

  “What is it?” Instead of pulling away she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Why have you come? It isn’
t safe! What if the countess learns you have been here?”

  “She won’t.” He had to tell her everything, he thought. She had every right to know. “It’s a beautiful night. Can we sit outside? I should really like to speak with you.”

  “On the stoop?” she asked in surprise.

  “Maggie…I am not marrying the countess.”

  She dropped his hand, staring at him in shock. Then she took a breath. She closed the door to her flat and, leaving the hamper there, proceeded down the narrow corridor to the stairs. Evan followed.

  It was a beautiful June evening, despite the elevated train distantly roaring two avenues behind them, the men shouting at one another in the traffic of drays in the cobbled street or the raucous noise from the corner saloon. A couple in one of the flats above them was arguing, as well. But two boys were playing jacks not far from the stoop, a grinning mongrel with them, laughing with every turn, and just above their heads, a pair of pigeons was cooing. Evan quickly removed his jacket and placed it on the top step, so Maggie had a clean place to sit. She sent him a small smile of thanks and carefully sat down. He sat beside her, badly wanting to put his arm around her and hold her close. He did not.

  She glanced at him. Not for the first time, he thought her profile adorable. She had such a small face with a tiny, upturned nose, a hint of freckles scattered there. She was so terribly pretty.

  “Evan? What has happened? You seem upset.”

  “Do I?” He glanced at his knees. Then he met her sky-blue gaze. “I can’t marry her. I simply cannot. Maggie, I don’t even like her.”

  There was distress in her eyes. “But she is carrying your child!”

  He grimaced. “I have some doubts about whether she is carrying my child or someone else’s.”

  Maggie’s cheek turned pink.

  “She may be a countess, but she is not a lady—and certainly not half the lady you are.”

  Maggie suddenly shifted away from him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  That wasn’t the response he had hoped for. “I am going to take care of her and the child, no matter whose it really is. I have sworn it, and in order to do so, I have reconciled with my father.”

  “Oh, Evan, I am so happy you have made amends with your family,” Maggie cried, reaching impulsively for his hand. Then, realizing what she had done, she started to withdraw.

  But he held on tightly. “It was more like groveling,” he said.

  “Evan, no. Family is everything.” Their regards held.

  “There is more,” he whispered after a moment. “I am ashamed.”

  She studied him with worry. “Evan, you must never be ashamed with me. I would never be so bold as to judge you, not after all you have done for me and the children.”

  He felt rather certain she would judge—and condemn—him shortly. He hesitated. “Maggie, I am weak, dissolute. Last night I succumbed to the devil. I went to a club.”

  He saw her eyes fill with dismay.

  “I didn’t mean to play—it was only going to be one bet,” he said desperately. “I have been feeling so trapped! And when I placed that bet, that terrible sense of being ensnared, of sinking into quicksand, went away! I forgot about Bartolla, the child, eloping. Instead of despair, there was excitement. I stayed most of the night. Maggie, one bet became a hundred bets.”

  Her eyes were shining with tears. “It doesn’t matter,” she finally said. “Today is a new day. You were upset about being forced into marriage with a woman you do not care for. But today, today you can start over. You will start over, won’t you?”

  “That is precisely what I intend to do. I woke up this morning hating myself…and now I am afraid you will hate me, too.”

  She shook her head. “I could never hate you! Evan, you have helped me through some terrible times. Maybe this time I can help you.”

  He had not a clue as to what she meant. “I don’t want to drag you into anything sordid. And I certainly don’t want to add to your worries.”

  She hesitated. “I will always worry about you.” Then she smiled briefly. “Please, let me help. The next time you are thinking of gambling, come here instead. We can talk about it—we can take a walk—we can read together.”

  His heart accelerated. “Are you serious?” he asked, filled with hope.

  She bit her lip, nodding. “Maybe it’s my turn now to be the strong one, to offer hope.”

  He realized he wanted to lean on her now, just a little, if he really could. “I thought you would berate me for refusing to marry Bartolla, for spending the night at a club. But you didn’t, not even once. How can you be so kind and so understanding?”

  She did not look away, her color high. “How can you even ask me that? I have always wanted you to be happy. Evan, you deserve a good life. I know you are battling the devil when it comes to gaming, but I also know you will win, because you are a good man, a strong man. I have seen that, time and again. As for the countess, I simply don’t want you to make a terrible mistake. You are wonderful with children. If this is your child, you will love it as you have never loved anyone or anything before.” She refused to look at him now. “I thought you were in love with her.”

  “I was never in love with her!” He recovered his composure somewhat. “When I told her I will provide handsomely for her and the child until the child is of age, she was very pleased. Do not feel sorry for Bartolla,” he said. “I think she may have been after my inheritance from the start.”

  Maggie gasped. “Surely she fell in love with you! Oh, I am certain of that!”

  He grew still. He touched her cheek. “Why are you so certain, Maggie?” he whispered, his heart thundering in his chest.

  She shook her head. “I just am.”

  He hesitated, his eyes on her beautiful face. “She is jealous of you, Maggie.”

  “Jealous of me?” She was incredulous, daring to meet his gaze. “There is nothing to be jealous of!”

  He swallowed hard. “Isn’t there?”

  She turned red, glancing away. “We are only friends,” she murmured, so low he could barely hear.

  That was not what he had hoped to hear. “We will always be friends,” he agreed firmly, meaning it. He could not imagine life without Maggie in it. But as he thought about the future, he saw Maggie in his arms, the embrace hardly platonic. He did not know what to do. “I don’t ever want to disappoint you,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

  “You couldn’t! You could never disappoint me,” she cried fiercely.

  “You can’t possibly have that kind of faith in me—”

  She cut him off. “I do! If you have decided to break it off with the countess, then that is the right decision, especially as you intend to provide for both her and the child.”

  He reached for and found her hand and he refused to let it go. “I came here with supper, but that was only an excuse to call. I needed to see you and tell you everything, and I needed to know that you do not think badly of me for what I have done. You have no idea how relieved I am. Your opinion means everything to me, Maggie.”

  She wet her lips. “I am glad you are not marrying her.” Then, “I can help with the child, if you ever need my help that way.”

  He was overwhelmed. She would help him, never mind that his child belonged to another woman. “Come here,” he said. It was reflexive on his part—he put his arm around her and leaned down to claim her lips.

  She froze.

  He hesitated, teetering there on the brink of a second kiss. But this would not be casual or impulsive; this kiss meant everything. He looked into her eyes. “May I?”

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  He put both arms around her, found her lips and gently opened them. His heart felt as if it had expanded impossibly, with more profound emotion than he had ever felt before. He felt her hands on his shoulders, her response to his lips, and urgency exploded in him. Because he had never felt such frantic need before, he quickly pulled away.

  Maggie stared, daz
ed.

  He felt as stunned as she appeared. “The countess was right to be jealous of you,” he finally whispered. “Because it has always been you that I want, not her.”

  LEIGH ANNE WAS IN the girls’ bedroom with both girls and Mrs. Flowers. Katie had put her own linen nightdress on and Mrs. Flowers was preparing Dot for bed. Leigh Anne sat in her chair, close to the bed, a book in her hand. As always, she would read to them for a few minutes.

  But she strained to hear the front door opening downstairs.

  It was almost eight. Rick often worked late, but Leigh Anne could not help herself now. She had been listening for the front door for hours, waiting for his footstep, for his news. At first the act had been subconscious, but now she was very aware of what she was doing. When he had left that morning, he had told her he would meet O’Donnell and give him the money. He had also said he would telephone the house the moment it was over. There had been no call. Leigh Anne had called headquarters herself a few hours ago, and she had been told that Bragg was in the field. She hadn’t left a message, but Sergeant Shea had called the house recently to tell her that Bragg was on his way and she was to know that all was well.

  What did that mean? She tried to reassure herself. She could not help but think that if all had truly gone well, Bragg would have called to tell her himself. Still, she knew the life he lived. Anything might have happened to prevent him from either meeting O’Donnell or calling her to tell her what had happened. Likely some police affair had prevented him from picking up the telephone.

  “Mama?” Katie shyly approached, her eyes dark and huge and searching. “Why are you so sad?”

  “Darling, I am not sad,” she cried, smiling brightly. She reached out for her and Katie slipped awkwardly into her arms. Once, Leigh Anne had despaired to try to embrace her daughter from the special chair. Now the embrace was firm. She understood the slightly awkward manner in which they had to cling, but dismay and despair did not fill her heart in response. An image flashed in her mind, as it had all day, of her husband smiling down at her, his eyes dark with desire as he moved over her, in her, straining with her to reach that miraculous place of completion, of wonder, of love.