by Brenda Joyce
"You have already told me, Francesca," Bragg said with a kind expression. "He owes a terrific sum, does he not? I can't help wondering if the so-called brawl was the act of a very angry creditor."
Francesca swallowed. "I have already wondered that myself." She inhaled hard. "I fear I must leap to possible conclusions! Perhaps there is some coincidence here. What if the brawl Evan has claimed to be in has nothing to do with Miss Conway's murder and the vandalism both here and at Sarah's? Perhaps an odd killer is on the loose, and after the city's female artists. If Miss Conway surprised him, her murder might have been unpremeditated and it might have nothing to do with my brother at all."
"If that is so, then Miss Neville was the target," Bragg said.
They stared at each other as the ramifications of this new development dawned upon them both. Bragg whirled. Francesca followed him to the door. The patrolman still stood outside it, but Newman was coming up the stairs, huffing and puffing as he did so. "Newman," Bragg snapped.
The chubby inspector hurried forward. "Sir?"
"The victim is the stage actress Grace Conway, a neighbor of Miss Neville's."
Newman's eyes widened. "I seen her once, at the Majestic Theatre! She had the voice of an angel, she did, not to mention the face—"
"We must find Miss Neville," Bragg cut him off. "It is entirely possible that Miss Conway surprised the killer and that he is after Miss Neville as we speak."
Newman nodded grimly. "I'll get right on it, sir. Maybe she's at that Thomas Neville's place or he knows where she is. I can take Hickey and try to speak with him tonight."
"I wish to interrogate him myself. We'll go together, but after we look at Miss Conway's flat. Keep two men here, however, in case Miss Neville returns. And if she does, under no circumstances may she be allowed to reside in her apartment. Bring her to headquarters and notify me."
Newman nodded and took off.
Francesca started toward Grace Conway's apartment. Bragg took her arm, detaining her. "Francesca, it's late," he said firmly.
She stiffened with surprise. "I am searching Miss Conway's apartment with you—and going to interview Thomas Neville as well."
"Your mother will strangle me," Bragg said.
That was probably true. Julia was not very pleased with Rick Bragg. The fact that he and Francesca continued to be so close and to work so closely together displeased Julia no end. And even had Bragg not been married, she would have minded their relationship, as she was determined that Francesca marry into a certain amount of wealth and position. Civil servants had very modest incomes. Francesca found Julia's matrimonial judgment appalling. "Mama is abed by now. I doubt she has discovered my absence. I refuse to leave now, Bragg, and that is that."
He smiled. "You remain the most stubborn woman I have ever met," he said, too fondly. Then his smile vanished. "We shall compromise. Let us search Miss Conway's flat, and then I shall take you home. Tomorrow, first thing, I shall update you on anything Thomas Neville has said." He took her arm.
The gesture was now a painfully familiar and intimate one. Francesca met his gaze, warmed by it. How right it felt to be working side by side in an active investigation once again. She quickly considered his advice, thinking about what might happen if she was met at the door by Julia when she got home. She smiled and then sighed. "Very well. You are right. And I can only pray that Miss Neville is at the address on the letters from Thomas Neville."
"I am hoping so as well." Their gazes met in an understanding of how much they needed this lead. "But the last letter was written last year. He may very well have moved."
He reached for the doorknob to Number Four. "Joel? We may need—" He stopped. The door swung open beneath his hand.
Francesca started, her gaze flying to his. Behind them, Joel said, "Looks like someone got here first, now don't it?"
Francesca hesitated while Bragg opened the door fully, revealing a dark room. He stepped inside, a gun appearing in his hand. Francesca followed him, drawing her own small derringer out of her purse. New tension filled her. It did not take a great stretch of imagination to think that maybe the killer was hiding in Grace Conway's flat.
Bragg crossed the room swiftly to the closest gas lamp, which he illuminated with a match. And a small, cheerful salon became instantly illuminated. Francesca looked past the wine-colored damask sofa, several green-and-burgundy-striped chairs, a dining table that seated six, and saw two adjoining rooms. One was a small kitchen; the other door was closed. It was obviously to Miss Conway's bedroom.
Bragg moved to the open doorway of the kitchen, glancing inside. He then went to the closed bedroom door, opening it. He stepped in, and Francesca saw the room flood with light. She relaxed as Bragg came back out. "It's empty," he said.
Francesca smiled and put away her pistol. She glanced curiously around. Grace Conway had certainly put some money into her furnishings—the fabrics on each chair and pillow had been chosen with care, the Persian carpet that she now stood on appeared to be expensive, and a very small ornate crystal chandelier was over the dining room table. A large silver candelabra was in its center.
Francesca found the apartment to be in extremely good taste. Had Evan paid for the furnishings? Had he paid for the flat? She felt ill then, dreading the moment when she must inform him of what had passed.
Bragg was rummaging through the drawers of an elegant secretaire, which sat in the far corner of the room adjacent to double-sized windows with stiff brocade draperies. He sat down at the desk.
She came over, unable to resist a curious glance into Miss Conway's bedroom and flushing as she espied a four-poster bed with a rose-and-white floral coverlet and matching canopy. "Your brother has been keeping this flat," Bragg said flatly.
Her heart sank. Then, "I am hardly surprised."
Bragg shifted in the chair, turning it to face her. "She has several love letters here."
"From Evan?"
"From Evan."
"Well, she was his mistress."
Bragg regarded her closely. "I do not want this in the newspapers, Francesca."
She bit her lip and found herself moving closer to him. "If Evan is involved, it is in a peripheral way. You know that." Her gaze held his, seeking comfort and reassurance.
"I do know that," he said softly. "But I also know that men have been getting rid of unwanted mistresses since the beginning of time. A reporter like Arthur Kurland would have a field day with this, and that is what worries me."
Francesca didn't move, and mere inches separated them. "I know," she whispered, in despair. "I have been haunted by what the public will say and think if this ever comes to light! So many know Evan does not care for Sarah at all! The world knows it was an arranged match. First Sarah's studio, now Miss Conway. It doesn't look good, does it?"
He stood swiftly, and before she could move, she was on her feet and loosely in his arms. "We both know your brother is not a madman, and we both know the only person he is enraged with is your father. We will keep this quiet, Francesca, to spare your brother any unpleasantness. I will meet you tomorrow at your house," he added.
Her skirts engulfed his legs. She gripped his arms. "Evan is not involved. We both know that!"
"We both know that he is not a murderer," he said quietly.
She stared into his solemn eyes. He would always be the most steadfast man she knew. In a hurricane of events, he would never fail her. She knew what he was thinking now, as she so often did. They knew Evan was not a killer, but others might not be convinced.
"You may tell Evan about Miss Conway, but do not interrogate him," Bragg added.
Suddenly she was bitter and she pulled away. "Is that what you shall do? Interrogate him?"
"Frankly, yes," he said. "I must operate under the assumption that somehow your brother is involved." And seeing her unhappy and grim expression, he added, "But if we are lucky, Miss Conway's murder will turn out to be a disturbing coincidence and nothing more."
Francesca stepped a
way from him, distressed and trying to remain composed. For the first time since she had become a sleuth, she wished she did not have a case to solve.
No, she corrected silently, she wished she did not have this case to solve.
They had reached the Cahill mansion, Number 810 Fifth Avenue, which lay between 61st and 62d Streets, just two blocks uptown from the Metropolitan Club. Bragg's Daimler purred in the drive in front of the house; Francesca sat shivering in the front seat beside him, tired now, as it was well after midnight, but certain she would never sleep. Joel was wedged in the small space behind their seats. It had taken less than fifteen minutes to motor uptown, as there was no traffic at this time of night. They had found no more clues at Miss Conway's, although she had kept a small box filled with cards, notes, and letters from her adoring fans. To search out and interview each and every fan would take years. And Bragg had sent two roundsmen to the Channing residence just in case their killer wished to strike again, just in case he meant for Sarah to be a mortal target.
Although it was very late and she had become exhausted, Francesca wanted a moment or two alone with him. Moments alone were now rare. Had his wife remained in Europe, that would not be the case. And even though they remained separated, Francesca was determined to do the right thing, which meant their relationship would be limited to the partnership that had been formed by circumstance as an investigative team.
She hadn't meant to fall in love with him. In fact, when they had met, she had not been aware of men in any romantic way and had thought the whole notion of searching for true love quite comical. She had been rather smug, in fact, watching other young ladies throw themselves at handsome eligible men. But then she had been struck by Cupid's unerring arrow, for she had fallen in love with Rick Bragg at first sight, even before they had engaged in an engrossing political debate. Francesca felt rather certain she wouldn't have been able to control her feelings even if she had known he had a wife. She had never before met a man like him. Not only was he handsome and intelligent; he was as passionate about social and political reform as she was. Until she had realized he was married, she had dreamed of having his children, of campaigning at his side for cause after cause, of sharing his life.
For Rick Bragg had a political destiny awaiting him. Before he had arrived in New York to take up his new appointment, he had been an impoverished lawyer in Washington, where his clients had been the poor, the falsely accused, the indigent, and the insane. There was talk now of how he would one day run for the Senate. It was his dream to carry on his reforms on a national scale. And it was Francesca's dream for him, as well.
Francesca knew she was the other woman, no matter how much he still despised his wife. As her sister had so bluntly pointed out, Francesca endangered his future, his reputation, his life. Leigh Anne had every right, while she, Francesca, had none. Francesca had decided that not only would she and Bragg remain strictly friends, but she would support him in his each and every quest. And no matter how hard it was, she would not interfere in his marriage. She would support it instead.
But it was so much easier to want to do the right thing than to actually give up one's dreams.
"What you waitin' fer?" Joel grumbled, interrupting her brooding. "It's colder than a bunch of stiffs back here!"
Francesca glanced at Joel. "Why don't you go inside? I will be in shortly."
"Oh. I get it. You lovebirds want to be alone." Joel snickered and climbed over the side of the car, starting for the house.
"Good night, Joel!" Bragg called after him.
Joel shrugged and disappeared into the house. Francesca steeled herself against any desire and faced Bragg.
He was studying her. His gaze drifted to her mouth. "It's almost as if fate keeps throwing us together," he finally said. He smiled a little then. "I never expected another case." As they both knew, it was not his job to investigate crimes. But when the crime was of personal interest or had a vast public effect, he had the habit of stepping into the fray.
"Of course it is fate which does so," Francesca said, believing it with all of her heart. But was it also fate to have him married and unavailable? What kind of master plan was that!
"You remain a romantic, hopeful and hopeless," he said with a smile.
"I am not as romantic as I once was," she said softly.
His smile vanished; Francesca wished she had not opened up Pandora's box. He studied her but did not reach for her hand, as he would have once done easily and without hesitation. "I am the one who has made you unhappy," he said quietly. "You were happy before we met."
"It isn't your fault!" she exclaimed. "Bragg, I feel quite certain that even if I had known about Leigh Anne when we met, I would have fallen in love with you anyway. Anyway, what does it matter now? Yes, I am not happy. Leigh Anne is here and she wants you back. And she has every right, which means you and I must be friends and nothing more. This is a huge adjustment to make for both of us, but we will, in time, succeed," she said, hoping she spoke the truth. His friendship was the most important thing to her now.
Instantly his face tightened. "I refuse to discuss her now."
She stiffened. His reaction to the mere mention of his wife hurt her now. It was always this way. The subject immediately made him angry. But then, he had hated Leigh Anne for years—for four years, to be exact. But he had been wildly in love with her up until the day she had walked out on him and their marriage.
He had turned his face away. Francesca stared at his profile, which she adored—he had a perfectly straight nose, a firm chin, and his eyebrows were darker than his tawny hair. The pang in her breast remained. Francesca no longer felt certain that it was only hatred that he felt for Leigh Anne. His emotions seemed very complicated when it came to his shockingly beautiful and oh-so-petite wife.
"You know how I feel and where I stand," he added darkly. But he now stared up at the stars overhead and not at her.
Francesca looked away, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. If only that were the case. She no longer knew with any certainty what his feelings were. She did not doubt that he loved her, but she also knew he still, oddly, even hatefully, loved his wife. And while he had declared that he would divorce her, Francesca refused to allow it, as it would destroy his political future, and that was far more important than their own personal happiness. She sighed, the sound heavy, staring away, into the night. "Working together will certainly be a test of our resolve," she murmured.
"Yes, it will. I am very tempted to hand this case over to my inspectors and stay out of it completely."
Francesca heard herself gasp—in real dismay. For if they did not have this—their wonderful teamwork, a partnership that had already brought four criminals to justice—then they had so little! "Bragg," she began.
He lifted a hand, forestalling her. His expression was resigned. "Your brother is involved, Francesca. Or so it seems. I cannot allow Newman and a few others to oversee this investigation. Because of my feelings for you." He stared, his golden eyes intense. "I do not want you hurt," he added softly.
That stopped her. She did not, could not, move. She was warmed from head to toe and deep inside—she knew he would always protect her, never mind that she could protect herself.
His gaze had drifted to her mouth. Francesca found herself tensing, even as her own regard automatically found his lips. He had awakened the real woman inside her with his kisses. She now knew what passion was—what it meant— how strong and compelling it was. A part of her yearned for one last kiss. But Leigh Anne had been in her own home, and she was a flesh-and-blood woman now. She was no longer the horrid wife who lived abroad—she was no longer an abstraction. Francesca simply could not become the other woman.
He did not remove his gaze from her face. It became searching. "What did Hart want earlier this evening? I know he called on you. You know I do not trust him! Or was it Julia who invited him over? Does she still think to match the two of you up?" He was grim and hard now.
Francesca for
got all about his wife. She stiffened in alarm—he must never learn that Hart had decided she was the woman he must eventually wed! The half brothers were rivals. Jealousy, enmity, and distrust ran deep, never mind that when their mother had died, Rathe Bragg had taken both boys into his home and his heart, as Calder's father had wanted nothing to do with him.
There was no mistaking the heat and jealousy behind Bragg's calm tone, now, and it glittered in his eyes. Francesca laid a hand on his forearm, which was strong and hard, even through his wool greatcoat. She realized that she was trembling. Leave it to Hart to once again overturn the boat! Everything that man did was unpredictable, shocking. She was grateful that his half brother was as dependable and reliable—and predictable—as he was not.
And it seemed like days ago that Hart had come calling, but it had only been earlier that evening. Rick is right. My intentions are not platonic ones.
Francesca had thought that he meant to seduce her—after all, he seduced every other attractive woman who crossed his path. What?
I intend to marry you. He gave her a strange look. I intend to make you my wife.
Francesca realized she was filled with a new and rigid tension now. It was hard to be reassuring when she herself was not reassured. "It doesn't matter what Julia wants, or what Hart wants." She forced her tone to be light just as she forced Hart's dark, sardonic image away—no easy task. "Remember? I gave my heart to you—forever." Her tone was odd and she cleared it. Hart now loomed between them as Leigh Anne had done so recently. "No matter what happens, Bragg, no matter what happens, even with Leigh Anne, you will always have my heart," she whispered, meaning her every word. "And I will support you in your quest for reform forever, Bragg. In whatever way I must."
Their gazes locked. Bragg finally tore his gaze away, gripping the steering wheel, his hands gloved. She felt certain that his knuckles were white. "You make this very difficult," he finally said. "I do not deserve such loyalty. Francesca, I have been thinking about you all night, even with the new murder on our hands. Until I have resolved my marital affairs, I will be the best friend that you have ever had, but I will not, ever, lose control as I did the other night."
