Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (10 page)

Francesca hesitated. How best to proceed? “Miss de Labouche is a
dear friend
of Paul Randall. I believe you are an acquaintance of his?” Francesca smiled.

He did not return her smile. His tone changed, becoming cool. “I know Randall,” he said.

“How?” Francesca asked eagerly. “Do you have business dealings? Are you friends?”

Hart stood. “I hardly see how this is any business of yours, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca was stunned by his change in personality. “Am I somehow intruding?”

“Yes, you are,” he said bluntly.

Connie stood. “Francesca, perhaps we should leave. I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”

Francesca ignored her, her eyes glued to Hart’s. Hart also ignored her sister now. “Mr. Hart, I apologize if I am intruding, but your relationship to Paul Randall might very well be crucial to my investigation.”

“And just what the hell are you investigating. Miss Cahill?” he demanded.

She wet her lips. “Paul Randall is dead, Mr. Hart,” she finally said. “And I am investigating his murder.”

Connie gasped. Francesca only vaguely heard her, because she was watching Hart so closely. Of course, she did not suspect him of anything, except perhaps of being a friend or associate of Randall. But his expression changed. Something passed through his eyes, so quickly she could not tell what the emotion was. Had it been surprise? Or something else, something she was not astute enough to recognize?

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.

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 and 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.”