Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Read online

  She nodded, somehow undone and very flustered now.

  He smiled a little at her and turned away. They were traveling up Fourth Avenue now, alongside the excavation for a new railroad tunnel. She seized the opportunity to stare at him, enjoying his strong profile. And finally, the events of the entire evening washed over her. Her arrival at the ball, her brief exchange with Bragg, her encounter with Hart in the servants’ hall, and his ensuing announcement of their engagement. Tension stabbed her. An image of Bragg’s shocked expression assailed her mind. All sense of well-being vanished.

  She had hurt him. She hadn’t meant to. How could they have made the announcement in such an untimely manner?

  He continued to gaze out at the passing buildings. Traffic on the avenue was less than light—a lone hansom accompanied them, the bay’s hooves clopping loudly in unison with Hart’s team in the night. He was more than dangerously seductive—he was dangerous, period. Hart had been the one to make the announcement. It had been his decision—the timing had been his and his alone.

  He glanced languidly at her. “I would be careful with those reward posters.”

  She felt ill now. “Why?”

  “Every Tom, Dick, and Harry will claim to have seen something. You will have a hundred supposed witnesses to Emily’s disappearance, I think.”

  She hadn’t considered that possibility. “You are right. Well, we will have to carefully winnow through all the false claims. I really believe that someone had to have seen what happened to Emily. Someone is out there with information that I need.”

  “You are probably right. What’s wrong?”

  She looked up and met his midnight gaze. “What we have just done has finally sunk in.”

  “And that is?” He watched her carefully now, like a hawk.

  She held up her hand. Even in the cab, the big diamond glittered, catching the light. “I think our timing might have been better.”

  His jaw seemed to flex. The interior of the coach was softly lit, so it was hard to say. “Let me guess. You are worried about my poor half brother’s feelings.”

  “Yes, I am.” She sat up straighter, defensively. “It wasn’t right. I saw his face. He was disbelieving. And he was hurt.”

  Hart leaned toward her, his eyes black now. “He has no right to be hurt, Francesca, and we both know it—only you will never admit it.”

  She inhaled, mentally preparing for an unpleasant battle. “Calder, I know he is married. I know he loves Leigh Anne, even if he refuses to admit it to anyone and not even to himself. But he is very fond of me. And you know that! His feelings are genuine, and he has every right to be hurt.”

  “Not in my opinion. In my opinion, he only seeks to keep you from allowing yourself to care genuinely for me.”

  “That is nonsense!” she cried, flushing.

  “If he truly wanted you, Francesca, he would have slammed his front door—and his bedroom door—in little Leigh Anne’s face.”

  How cruel he could be. She turned blindly away, trying not to think about Bragg and Leigh Anne sharing a bed together. And while she knew Hart was right, she said, “I encouraged him to stay with her. I begged him not to throw away his political future. With Leigh Anne at his side, I feel certain he will one day win the Senate seat. But if he were divorced, no such outcome is assured.”

  A dark silence greeted her words.

  She dared to look his way.

  His smile was twisted. “Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you encouraged him to continue his marriage for the sake of politics, when really you had another, ulterior, motive?”

  She knew his blow was about to come. “What other motive could I possibly have?”

  “His marriage has allowed you to be where you desperately yearn to be—in my arms . . . and soon . . . in my bed.”

  Had he been closer, she would have struck him. She wrenched at the ring to throw it back at him. He seized her hand. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

  “That was cruel,” Francesca said breathlessly. “You asked me to be honest with you, as you are honest with me. I have never been anything but kind to you, and I ask you to treat me the same way!”

  He was silent, and he did not release her hand. Then, “Did it never occur to you that your departure last month, with only that frivolous note for comfort, was an act of cruelty?”

  “What?!”

  He leaned close, his grip tightening. “Did it ever occur to you that the way you speak about him—to me—is cruelty?”

  She stared into his eyes, then at his mouth, which was provocatively close. “But you don’t love me.”

  “I don’t believe in love, but I am damnably fond of you, and you know how I treasure you, Francesca,” he said tersely. “And there are times—like now—when I feel like killing off Leigh Anne myself and tossing you and him together to be done with it all, at last!”

  “Please, don’t speak that way,” she begged.

  He released her hand, moving back into the space he had previously occupied. “I am sorry if my emotions are not always noble ones. I am sorry I am not the epitome of virtue as he is.”

  “You are very virtuous,” she whispered weakly, “when you wish to be. When you forget about competing with Bragg, when you forget about shocking pleasant company.”

  He made a rough sound, and it might have been one of acquiescence.

  Francesca hugged herself. “What possessed you, Hart, to make that announcement tonight?”

  “It is Calder, Francesca, not Hart, damn it.”

  “Please.”

  Hart stared without comment.

  “We should have never made it public that way,” Francesca whispered. “But I forgot he was there, my mind was so addled from lovemaking.” When he remained silent, she added urgently, “Please, tell me you had also forgotten he was there.”

  He met her gaze. “I knew he was there.”

  She inhaled.

  “But that doesn’t mean I made the announcement to spite him, which is what you are thinking.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. She hugged herself.

  “I made that announcement to end your indecision, Francesca. I made that announcement because you accepted my proposal a month ago, and proved to me in the hall tonight that you had not changed your mind. Yes, my decision was a selfish one. But frankly, one of the reasons I am who I am today is because when I want something, I do what I have to in order to get it.”

  She swallowed. “I am not a painting.” Hart was a world-renowned collector of art. “Nor am I a collectible.”

  “And I have always been opposed to marriage, in theory and in fact. But since meeting you, I have decided to undertake matrimony—with you as my wife. No, you are not a thing, Francesca, far from it. You are a unique—no, an amazing—creation of contradictions, wit, and will, not to mention beauty. I need not defend my desire to marry you. I probably should have discussed making the announcement tonight.” He suddenly hesitated. “I am used to doing what I want, when I want, Francesca. Most bachelors are. In my case, I fear I am worse that way than most. However, you did run away in a very unseemly manner—the trigger for my behavior tonight. All of it,” he added with a rueful look.

  Francesca was having trouble getting past his statement that she was an amazing creation of contradictions, wit, will, and beauty. She shook her head to clear it. “Are you apologizing to me for announcing our engagement?”

  “Yes, I am. However,” he held up a hand to forestall he surprised comment, “if I had the entire night to do over, while I would not have behaved like a beast in the hall, I would still make that announcement.”

  She sat back against the squabs, wide-eyed and staring. “Hart,” she finally said, “you are a very difficult man.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  She began to smile, as well, then was struck with an image of the voluptuous Mrs. Davies on his arm. She hesitated. This was a subject she need not bring up—he had promised her fidelity, but she
had run away and he had thought the engagement to be off. Still, she despised the other woman without knowing her and could not stand the thought of her with Hart.

  “Is something on your mind, Francesca?”

  She jerked, told herself to say “No,” and instead said “Yes.”

  He seemed amused. “Do tell.”

  “I didn’t have a chance to meet your friend . . . Mrs. Davies,” she said carefully.

  He didn’t seem to understand what she was really saying. “She is an old friend,” he said dismissively. “I doubt you would enjoy meeting her—” He stopped and stared. “Francesca, I made you a promise.”

  “But I left the town—and you thought our engagement was over,” she said tersely.

  His eyes widened, riveted on hers. “Surely you know I am a man of my word?”

  She could barely believe her ears. Was it possible that he hadn’t rushed into another woman’s bed?

  He took her hand. “I promised to be faithful, and if a man like myself cannot play a waiting game when the stakes are this high, then he is hardly a man.”

  She could only stare, thrilled and simply breathless now. “Calder? Isn’t this the moment when you pull me into your arms?”

  He didn’t bat an eye. “No.”

  “No?” She was more than surprised.

  “In case you didn’t notice, we somehow survived our little indiscretion in the servants’ hall tonight and your father is less than pleased with our decision. I am meeting him at your house tomorrow afternoon, Francesca. I intend to win the battle I must wage for your hand, at all costs, and therefore, I am delivering you intact and untouched to your door in the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Papa will come round. Because Mama always gets her way and she adores you, and you know it.”

  “Bless Julia,” he said with a warm smile.

  Her heart turned over. He was so unbearably handsome. And at times, he was also unbearable. But she didn’t mind. She knew she could, in the end, outwit him. The real problem was, he did not believe in love and he never would.

  She quickly looked away, aghast with herself, because it was suddenly so clear that everything might be different if he were espousing undying love for her, as Bragg had done. But Hart was never going to be in love with her. He would be a warm friend and a wonderful lover, but that was as much as he would ever give to her.

  Hart cut into her thoughts. “We will be at your door in five minutes, Francesca.”

  She started, flushed, and barely met his eyes. “I am actually very tired,” she said.

  “And now you are once more running away from me? Why?” He reached for her hand, finding it even though she had no wish for him to hold it.

  “It has been a long and unusual day,” she said, not looking him in the eye.

  “Yes, it has. Did you know I would be at the ball, tonight?”

  She finally met his gaze. “Yes.”

  “And did you wear that red dress for me?”

  She lifted her brows. “What red dress?”

  He laughed. “The one I shall tear off as soon as you wear it for me when we are married,” he said.

  She went still. Then, “It was very expensive—”

  “Oh, I mean it.”

  She stared, images rioting through her, images she did not want, not now.

  He smiled a little and said, “I am still waiting for the portrait you promised me. Sarah and I have discussed it at length.”

  She wet her lips, her pulse racing uncomfortably. “I will make an appointment to sit with Sarah immediately,” she said. Sarah Channing was a brilliant artist and a good friend. Hart had commissioned Francesca’s portrait well over a month ago, the very first time he had seen her in the gown, stipulating that she must be portrayed wearing it.

  “Good.” He leaned toward her. “I have changed my mind about one thing, however.”

  “That is?” she asked warily.

  “I want you to pose nude.”

  She stared, speechless.

  “We will probably be wed, my dear, by the time I get my portrait.”

  She melted in a heap. “I don’t mind. You won’t hang it . . . ”

  “Publicly? Of course not. I intend to hang it in my private rooms.” He smiled at her in a way that made her skin begin to burn.

  The coach jounced wildly and Francesca realized they had turned into the driveway in front of the Cahill mansion. The grounds sweeping up to the limestone house were now muddy instead of snow-laden, and lights flickered in the two lower stories of the twenty-room house. Francesca looked back at Hart, flushing wildly. “I am flattered,” she managed.

  He grinned. “I am sure that you are. Other ladies would be insulted. You do realize that?”

  “I do.” She hesitated, aware of how pleased she was that he wished to admire her portrait at any time of night or day. Then, “I am not voluptuous, Calder.”

  He laughed as the coach halted in front of the wide steps leading up to the front door. “I know exactly what you are, Francesca; have no fear of that.” His grin was a wicked one.

  He helped her to alight from the coach and he walked her to her door. There they paused. Francesca trembled and moved closer, but he gripped her elbows and did not pull her into his arms. His gaze was oddly speculative now.

  “My parents can’t possibly be home,” she said huskily. “It’s far too early, Calder.”

  “Anything is possible,” he said. Then he added, “And tomorrow? Will you enlist the aid of the police?”

  She hesitated. Hurting Rick Bragg was the last thing that she ever wished to do. And she thought he would also be very angry. Facing him tomorrow would be terrible. She did not know if she could do it.

  But she had no choice. She needed his help; of that she had little doubt. Because time was of the essence and in order to find a real lead they had to move swiftly now.

  She tensed. “Yes.”

  “You should,” Hart said dispassionately. “If you intend to canvass the entire neighborhood, you will need the help of his men. You also need the additional manpower to get a timely clue.”

  She asked warily, “You don’t mind?”

  “I hardly said that.”

  “After tonight, he may not be inclined to help my investigation,” she said tersely.

  “I wouldn’t,” Hart said. “But we both know he will. Remember, he would never let an injustice go unattended, and that is a major difference between us.”

  “You sell yourself short,” she said swiftly. “I think you are more concerned with injustice and suffering than you let on.”

  “And you remain hopelessly naive and romantic. Another aspect of your charm,” he said, and he kissed the top of her head as if she were a child. “Good night, Francesca.”

  “I am not as naive as you think,” she protested.

  Hart knocked and the Cahill doorman opened the door. “Well, let us put it this way—you are not as naive as you were several months ago.”

  She blushed.

  He smiled and turned away, striding swiftly back to his coach. Francesca did not move, watching as the elegant barouche swept around the circular drive and finally exited back onto Fifth Avenue. Then, finally, she shivered.

  A nude portrait. She would be the talk of the town if anyone ever found out.

  She smiled.

  Perhaps she would sit for Sarah tomorrow.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—8:00 A.M.

  IN ORDER TO LEAVE the city—and when Francesca had left in late February she hadn’t had any idea of how long she would be gone—she had finally given in to what now seemed inevitable. She had sent the dean of students at Barnard College a letter advising her of her immediate withdrawal. She had worked very hard to secretly enroll in the exclusive women’s college, and her sister had helped her with the tuition. The enrollment had been kept secret because Julia never would have allowed it had she known—as she already rued Francesca’s previous reputations, as a
bluestocking, an eccentric, and a reformer. However, Francesca had decided that withdrawal was for the best; since embarking upon her new calling as a sleuth, there had been no time to study, and she had repeatedly missed classes.

  Today was Friday, and had she not withdrawn, she would have been at a political studies class, her favorite, undoubtedly engaged in heated debate. Francesca smiled now at Joel as they paused before the grocery on the corner of 11th Street. “Why don’t you post those reward posters up and down this block and the next one as well?”

  The poster read:

  WANTED:

  INFORMATION ON THE DISAPPEARANCE OF EMILY O’HARE

  LAST SEEN IN THE VICINITY OF AVE. A AND IOTH

  MONDAY, MARCH 24, AROUND 4 P.M.

  THIRTEEN YRS, DARK HAIR, BLUE EYES, PRETTY

  POSTED: $IOO REWARD

  HONEST WITNESSES ONLY NEED COME FORTH

  Joel was holding a dozen handwritten pages, a hammer, and a tub of nails. “Right away,” he said with a grin.

  Francesca watched him dash off happily, and then she faced the door of the grocery. A sign hanging inside the window said: OPEN. Through the clear glass she saw a heavyset man fussing with some items on a long oak counter. She smiled grimly and entered the shop.

  Inside, it was neat and clean, the rough planked floors swept bare of any dust or dirt, the counters scrubbed and gleaming with wax. Big sacks of flour and sugar were lined up alongside the counter, while on top of it were loaves of fresh bread and platters of smoked meats. Tins of lard and butter were also present. Several aisles contained other dried food items, soaps and candles, and even some spices. The grocery was a very small shop, as much merchandise as possible crammed into its confines.

  “Mr. Schmitt?” Francesca asked, approaching him as a young woman came out from the back.

  “Can I help you, miss?” Schmitt smiled. He had a thick German accent.

  Francesca took another glance at the young woman, realizing that she was far younger than she appeared—and Francesca now guessed she was probably about fifteen. The girl, who was quite plain and unremarkable, met her gaze and smiled. Francesca returned the friendly gesture and turned back to the grocer. “I do hope so.” She handed him her card, waited while he read it, and said, “I am working on the Emily O’Hare investigation.”