Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  He was stunned. "No! Absolutely not!" Was she insane? Did she think he could tolerate her in his life, his home, his bed, for an entire year? What clever ploy was this? He strode to the door, flinging it open. "Good day, Leigh Anne."

  She did not move. "Very well. Then we shall make it six months."

  He started, staring again.

  She wet her lips nervously another time. "Rick, I will put it in writing. Six months of marriage, and if you still feel this way, you shall have your divorce. With your connections, that means in seven months or so you would be a free man—free to wed Miss Cahill, if that is what you really want."

  His heart beat hard, urgently. For one moment he saw Francesca in his mind, but he could not think about her now. He felt as if his entire life were at stake. In seven months he might be free of this witch. All he had to do was accept this amazing bargain. Of course, he would have his lawyer draw up a contract. He did not trust his beautiful little wife for a moment.

  While she, clearly, believed he would change his mind after the prearranged time. But of course, he would not.

  "Rick? This is fair. It gives us a chance to find out if we should really part ways, or if we should honor the vows we once made and stay together instead."

  Her words were another blow. When he had made his marriage vows, he had intended to keep them forever. He was the kind of man who married only once and forever. Very cautiously he said, "Six months as man and wife. Six months and not a single day more."

  "Yes." Her face was pinched with tension now. It only made her more beautiful.

  It was hard to think clearly—he sensed a fatal trap. But in seven or eight months he would be free, finally. All he had to do was keep a clear mind and remind himself of the liar and adulteress that she really was.

  And how hard would that be? He had been aware of those facts for four long, painful years.

  He smiled.

  She tensed, her eyes widening.

  "I'll do it," he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thursday, February 20, 1902—noon

  Maggie Kennedy paused nervously before the open door to Evan's bedroom. She was wearing her best ensemble, a pin-striped gray jacket and a matching skirt. The white shirtwaist beneath had lace detail at the collar, where she had pinned a pretty cameo, one that had belonged to her mother. Maggie only owned two hats—as she could not make them herself—and a jaunty black affair with a satin ribbon was pinned atop her head. She had carefully pulled her shoulder-length Irish red hair into a chignon, but a few wisps escaped around her face. When her mother had given her the cameo, she had also given her tiny pearl ear bobs, and Maggie wore those as well. Her only other jewelry was her plain, unadorned wedding band. But on its inside Joe had engraved: "Joe Kennedy, Forever Yours."

  Was he laughing at her now? She could see him so clearly, as if it had not been five years since he had died. He had been short and brawny, but he'd had the face of an angel—their eldest, Joel, took after him exactly. No, he probably wasn't laughing; he was looking at her sternly, although there was that twinkle in his eye. And he was chiding her for her foolish ways.

  Now what could you be thinkin', Mrs. Kennedy? To carry on with a gentleman? I know you be missin' me, but a gentleman ? You might as well hope to land on the moon! Ah, Maggie, darlin', how I wish I was with ye now....

  Tears filled her eyes. She would always miss her husband, and he was always right. In a way, since he had died, he had become an angel sitting upon her shoulder, guiding her in the difficult task of raising four children alone.

  "Be brave," he whispered now, his black eyes soft and fond. "Tell the gent good-bye an' begone with you an' the children."

  Silently she told him not to rush her. Maggie glanced inside Evan's bedroom and saw that he was sleeping. Her heart skipped, lurched. Maybe it was better this way, she thought, oddly miserable. She knew that this was the perfect opportunity to sneak away.

  An image of the stunningly elegant and beautiful countess filled Maggie's mind. Sitting there on Evan's bed regaling him with anecdotes of her life in castles in Europe, a life filled with duchesses and dukes, her hand stroking his shoulder, his cheek, his hair. And Evan had not minded, not that any man would. He had laughed at her stories, but when she touched him his laughter had died.

  Maggie hadn't meant to spy or eavesdrop. But when his fiancée had excused herself for a moment, leaving the room, Maggie, who had been pacing in her own bedroom, the door wide open, had crept out into the hall. The handsome doctor had left a bit earlier, and she knew very well that Evan and the beautiful countess were alone.

  The door had been left ajar. Maggie had glanced in, only to find the countess leaning over Evan, her milky white bosom almost falling from the jacket she wore, her mouth on his.

  Evan had not pushed her away. The kiss had been long and, from Maggie's perspective, quite intimate.

  Maggie didn't blame him. She knew his upcoming marriage was an arranged one, and she would have to be deaf and blind not to know that he did not want to marry his fiancée.

  "Foolish gel," Joe whispered in her ear now. "What do ye think to do? Wind up on yer back with yer skirts up over yer head? I know it's been a long spell, my girl, but we both know that isn't you."

  Maggie wiped her eyes. It had been five years since she had lain in her husband's arms, breathless and glowing from their lovemaking. And she did not want to be a passing fancy, a lightskirt, a trollop, a whore. She was never going to be in a man's arms again, and she was never going to be held and loved the way Joe had held and loved her.

  She would not say good-bye. She turned to go, trying not to recall a vivid image from the other day, when Evan had returned home with her three little ones, Paddy and Mat and Lizzie. They had all been bundled up in coats and hats, scarves and gloves—her children clearly in new garments Evan had bought for them. And they had all been laughing, shrieking, screaming. Lizzie had been on top of Evan Cahill's shoulders, beaming. As everyone was covered with snow and a huge grinning snowman now graced the front yard of the Cahill home, Maggie suspected quite a frenetic snow fight had just taken place. She had looked at the four of them and had, somehow, felt another piece of her heart warm over.

  "Maggie! Mrs. Kennedy!"

  She froze at the sound of his voice, and slowly she turned.

  He smiled at her. "Did you wish to speak with me? I must have dozed off."

  She wet her lips, reluctant now to enter the room. And even with black-and-blue mottling his face, even with the black patch worn to protect one eye, he remained one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, almost as handsome as Joe.

  "Mrs. Kennedy?" His smile faded a little. "Do come in. Is something wrong? Are you going somewhere?" His gaze drifted over her small body.

  Maggie nodded, forced a smile, and entered the room. "How are you today?" she asked softly.

  He looked now at the purse and gloves she carried. "You did not come to visit this morning. I had to ask a housemaid to read yesterday's news to me."

  Maggie had brought him a breakfast tray yesterday, along with the Herald. She felt that her small, odd smile had become frozen in place. "I fear we must be leaving, Mr. Ca-hill," she said.

  He started, his smile vanishing, and he jerked to sit upright. As he did, he uttered a soft groan. Maggie wanted to run over to him and help him into a comfortable position, as Joe had once had broken ribs and she knew just how painful the injury was. But she gripped her bag and gloves and did not move.

  "Leaving?" he gasped, pale now. "What do you mean? Surely you do not mean that you and the children are moving back to your home?"

  She nodded. Ye have been a fool, Mrs. Kennedy. Stayin' so long in this fancy home, as if it were where ye belong. Ye don't belong here and ye never will. An' ye never should have let the children get so fond of the fancy gentleman in the bed. Maggie swallowed. Joe was never so cruel. But he was being cruel now.

  "Have I done something to offend you, Mrs. Kennedy?" Evan asked seriously,
appearing extremely upset.

  "Of course not," she said quickly. "You have been nothing but kind and generous, as has your entire family. But there is simply no valid reason for us to remain here. Our home is downtown."

  He stared. "I think I have offended you, but I cannot think of how." He grimaced then. "I see no reason for you to leave. The house is a large one. Mother doesn't mind. She said it herself, I heard her, she thinks of you as a saving grace, and she is most appreciative of all that you have done to help me through my injuries."

  Maggie knew that. Julia—whom she found to be the most elegant and intimidating woman she had ever met, bar none—had actually thanked her herself. "I am no longer ill, Mr. Cahill. It is time for us to leave."

  He did not speak for a moment. Maggie wasn't used to seeing him unsmiling and so grim. Then, "Of course; You must make sure that Jenkins or another coachman sees you and the children safely home."

  Once again, he was so terribly kind. "We will take the Elevated," she said.

  "Absolutely not." He reached for the bell by his bed and rang it. "Jenkins will drive you home. I insist."

  Maggie nodded as a housemaid appeared and received Evan's instructions. When she had fled to order a coach brought around, Evan smiled grimly at Maggie. "It has been a pleasure getting to know your children, Mrs. Kennedy." He hesitated, flushed. "May I be bold?"

  Her heart skipped with absurd hope. "Yes."

  "I will miss them."

  She stared, felt moisture gathering quickly in her eyes, and refused to listen to Joe chide her now. "They will miss you, Mr. Cahill," she said.

  He hesitated again. "May I take them curling sometime soon? We had a rousing time last week, sledding and ice-skating, but we did not curl."

  She nodded, incapable of speech. He was referring to the popular game of sliding kettle-like objects across the ice.

  He glanced away and then back at her. "And you should be most welcome to join us," he added tersely.

  She meant to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "I doubt I shall have the time," she said.

  "Of course."

  "Good day, Mr. Cahill. I do hope you feel better soon."

  "Good day, Mrs. Kennedy. I... I wish you great luck in your future endeavors."

  She smiled without looking at him and fled.

  Thursday, February 20, 1902—1:00 p.m.

  The first gallery was around the corner on Fourth Avenue. Francesca climbed out of a hansom with Joel, facing an old limestone building with a set of deep steps leading to the scarred and closed front door. Had the sign, GALLERY HOELTZ, not been hanging above the front door, she would not have found it. As it was, the windows on either side of the entrance were too high and narrow to see inside.

  She smiled cheerfully at Joel. "Shall we?"

  He smiled back, but he seemed a bit glum. "Sure."

  As they started up the stone steps, she asked, "Is anything wrong?"

  Joel sighed. "We're goin' home today, Miz Cahill."

  Francesca started, finding the front door locked. "I had no idea! Maggie never said a word!"

  Joe shrugged. Then, "She's awful upset. Can't think why."

  Francesca stared at him, for an instant recalling Maggie's laughter and her brother's smile, but then the front door was opened by a short dapper man with a goatee. "May I help you?" he asked, looking Francesca over, with obvious approval—perhaps thinking of her as a potential client—and then noting Joel, with similar disapproval.

  "Yes. Are you the gallery owner?"

  "Yes, I am. We usually see clients by appointment," he said firmly.

  "I am Francesca Cahill," Francesca said, handing him her calling card. It read:

  Francesca Cahill

  Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

  No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

  All Cases Accepted No Crime Too Small

  He studied it for a moment, then regarded her grimly. "Very odd. So you wish to speak to me or view my collection? I have some fine upcoming artists on hand," he said.

  Francesca knew which way the wind did blow. "Actually, I must do both."

  He began to open the door more fully, then glanced at Joel. "The boy?"

  "He's my assistant," she said.

  The man grunted, his dour humor not changing, and let them both inside.

  The front hall was narrow and dark. They followed him up a steep staircase, at the top of which light was pouring onto the landing. A moment later they had entered a sunny room that had clearly once been an entry hall. The door had been removed to the two adjoining rooms, which had once been a salon and dining room. Paintings were hanging on every visible space, while others were stacked up against the walls, on the floor. Here and there a sculpture rested. Francesca took it all in with a glance.

  She smiled at Hoeltz. "We are trying to locate a young artist by the name of Melinda Neville," she said. "Miss Melinda Neville."

  He said, "Is this a jest?"

  Francesca started. "No, it is not."

  He said, "Follow me."

  Francesca and Joel exchanged glances and followed him through the far room. He paused before a pair of portraits done in a classical and stoic manner. In one, a lady and her daughter were posed in ball gowns, seated together on a gold velvet settee. Francesca recognized them both. "I know these women," she said. "That older lady is a friend of my mother's, but I do not recall her name."

  Hoeltz smiled. "That is Mrs. Louise Greeley and her daughter Cynthia."

  Francesca took another glance at the tall, attractive woman, whose set expression and determined eyes reminded her, in a way, of her own determined mother. Her daughter, who was perhaps Francesca's age, if not a bit younger, was quite plump but also pretty, with a soft, full face, orange red hair, and freckles scattered upon her pert nose. The daughter looked unhappy—miserably so.

  Then Francesca looked at the portrait beside it. A young black-haired man of twenty or so stood in a very rigid pose. Had he not been in a dark suit, Francesca might have guessed him to be a young military officer. His eyes were as dark as his hair, his nose long, his mouth set firmly in a tight line. He might have been attractive if he were smiling, but as he was not, he looked far too serious and far too severe. Francesca knew she would not like him if they ever met. And the pose, with his hand upon one hip and his severe expression, was terribly familiar. Had she seen this work of art before?

  Suddenly a notion struck her, hard. Had the artist who had done LeFarge's portrait also done this one? The works seemed terribly similar to her uneducated eye.

  "And who is this?" she asked finally.

  "Thomas Neville," Hoeltz answered.

  Francesca gasped. "Miss Neville's brother?"

  "Yes, Melinda's brother. And now I must ask, why are you trying to find her?"

  She blinked. Hoeltz had referred to Miss Neville in a manner indicating that they were good friends. "The police wish to interview her, as do I," she said softly.

  He started. His dour look disappeared. He was wide-eyed now. "Why?"

  "The actress Grace Conway was found murdered in Miss Neville's flat," she said.

  He turned white. "They were friends," he said, looking as if he might faint at any moment.

  Francesca gripped his arm to keep him upright. "May I assume you were Miss Neville's friend as well?"

  He looked at her with the same wide, stunned black eyes, and he laughed. The laughter was not a happy sound—it was, instead, rather hysterical. "Friends? We are hardly friends!" he cried.

  Francesca waited.

  "She is my mistress," he said.

  * * *

  Bragg had chosen the Fifth Avenue Hotel for their lunch. Hart strode down a dark, rather dreary corridor, the wall paneled in wood and covered with the portraits of some of the city's most famous and infamous men from the century before. Dark, unwavering eyes stared down at him as he passed. His curiosity was piqued. He hardly had a social relationship with his half brother, so why the invitation to dine?

 
It quickly crossed his mind that, other than the Bragg family, the only thing they had in common was Francesca. Clearly she would be the subject of their luncheon. Did Rick wish to warn him away from her yet again? He could not help but be amused. He was not the kind of man who took orders from anyone. And he could not help imagining his half brother's reaction should he tell him of his intention to marry the lady in question.

  The dining room was extremely crowded, as the hotel did a busy luncheon; table after table was occupied by gentlemen. The room was a sea of dark suits and sideburns. Hart paused on the threshold, instantly espying his half brother seated at the room's most coveted table, facing out upon everyone. His mouth quirked. Was Rick enjoying his newfound power? Somehow, Hart knew the answer was no, and it was a shame. But then, Rick was just too noble to enjoy the perks of his position.

  "Mr. Hart, sir!" The maitre d' rushed over to him, fawning and obsequious. "It's so wonderful to see you, sir. It has been at least six months!"

  "Good afternoon, Henry. I see my party has arrived. I can find my way, thank you."

  But Henry rushed forward, leading him through the linen-clad tables, saying, "The commissioner just arrived. Perhaps not a minute before yourself, sir."

  Hart wasn't really listening. He was nodding at the various gentlemen he passed, all of whom he knew, for one reason or another. A few men he purposefully made eye contact with. He had slept with their wives at one time or another and would not evince the least bit of guilt or regret. After all, he hadn't been the first lover in their beds, and he wouldn't be the last.

  Which was why he had always preferred married women. Those who were already unfaithful, that is. They understood the game and would make no demands. But now his life was going to change.

  He knew he would never be bored with Francesca, and he also knew that if she ever married someone else, he would lose her friendship. No husband would tolerate her being his friend, and with just cause. And it was this last certainty that compelled him to proceed. Her friendship had become as vital to his being as the very air he breathed. And it did not matter that she did not "love" him.