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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Sarah smiled back. “I should love to show you. I am a huge admirer of yours, Mrs. Bragg. I have followed your career as a suffragette and an agitator for women throughout the country for years. I am thrilled to meet you. I never dreamed this would actually happen.”
“That is very kind of you,” Grace said.
Francesca could only blink. Now why hadn’t she been able to approach Grace Bragg in such a fashion?
“Peas in a pod,” Rourke seemed to mutter. He raised his voice. “So you are an artist?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes.”
“And what kind of art do you engage in?” he continued. “Other than simple watercolors, as most ladies prefer?”
“I prefer oils,” Sarah said briskly. “In fact, I rarely use watercolor anymore. I consider myself somewhat of an Impressionist, but I have studied the old masters extensively. There is a movement in the art world today called Postimpressionism, but I do not belong in it. In truth, even though I am somewhat of an Impressionist, my background is so solidly Romantic that I might be considered as such. And my second preference is charcoal.” She did not smile. There was an odd light in her eyes. She even spoke differently, in an impatient way, with a staccato ring to her words.
Rourke’s gaze narrowed. “And your choice of subjects? Might I take it landscapes are not a preference?”
“No, they are not. I find landscapes boring. I adore doing portraits of women and children,” Sarah said flatly, and suddenly she smiled and glanced at Francesca. Francesca wanted to wave frantically at her; instead, she sent her a warning look, but Sarah had not seen. She had turned back to Rourke. “Calder Hart has commissioned a portrait of Francesca. I am so very fortunate.”
A silence fell.
And suddenly Francesca realized that Hart was not present, that he had not come—and in that moment she knew that he was not joining them for supper. In that moment there was vast confusion; there was disappointment and there was relief. And somehow she also knew why he had decided not to join them. She felt herself still as the conversation swirled around them.
She
was the reason he had refused to come to his own family supper.
She amended her thoughts. The
conversation
they had had earlier was the cause, not she herself.
She refused to entertain any disappointment. Disappointment was absurd.
Rourke smiled slightly. “So, Hart has commissioned Miss Cahill’s portrait. I cannot say that I blame him.” He smiled far too warmly at Francesca, then turned to look directly at his brother. “Do you blame him, Rick?”
“Hart does as he chooses; he always has,” Bragg said coldly.
“Oh, ho, this is jolly indeed!” Rourke began to chuckle.
“I think Mrs. Channing is right and we should go in to supper,” Rathe said, stepping between the brothers while clasping each one on the shoulder. But his gaze moved to Francesca with speculation.
She felt herself flush.
His regard was not as kind as it had been earlier, and there was a set to his expression that she did not like.
Rathe was about to escort Mrs. Channing, and Bragg had looped his arm in Grace’s, when Inspector Newman appeared in the lobby, two roundsmen with him. In general, detectives were obvious in their shabby tweed overcoats and bowler hats, even if one did not notice the badges pinned to their jackets, for they simply did not look like gentlemen. Of course, Francesca recognized Newman from several of the past cases she had worked on. And the sight of two uniformooed policemen in the lobby of the hotel was not a usual one. Francesca halted in her tracks. The feeling she had was a distinctly sinking one.
Bragg had seen them, too. “What is this?”
Francesca muttered, beneath her breath, “I have no idea.”
“Grace, one moment, please,” he said to his stepmother, and he strode away. Newman was at the concierge desk, where a group of hotel staff had congregated, but he saw Bragg and quickly detached himself, coming forward. Francesca was drawn to them like paper clips to a magnet.
“Newman? What’s amiss?” Bragg asked.
“Gunshots, C’mish, sir. Or at least one, just outside of the hotel.”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“Looks like it. There a trail of blood on Fifty-ninth Street, heading west, between Fifth and Sixth,” he said.
Bragg stared.
“Starts just outside of a side entrance to the hotel, too,” Newman added. He was a short, beefy man with huge red cheeks that were perpetually flushed. He now saw Francesca and nodded. “G’day, Miz Cahill.”
Abruptly Bragg turned. “What the hell is going on, Francesca?”
She inhaled and smiled. “I don’t know. This is the first I have heard of this incident.”
He stared.
She held his gaze, no easy task, oh no.
“But didn’t you and my sister go around the corridor on that side of the lobby—meaning the corridor that leads to Fifty-ninth Street?”
He had watched them too carefully, she realized with a pang. He had seen them bypass the ladies’ room and go down the damning corridor that led to the street.
Suddenly Bragg turned to Newman. “I shall go outside in a moment to see the sight,” he said. “Please, continue interviewing the staff.”
Newman nodded and turned away. The moment he did so, Brag said oh-so calmly, “May I see your gun, Francesca?”
She had misheard, surely. “I beg your pardon?”
“You and Lucy are up to something. And Lucy is not herself. I suspect she is in trouble—again. A shot was fired outside of this hotel recently. Oddly, I am suspicious,” Bragg said flatly.
“Bragg, you will embarrass me in front of your family,” she said nervously.
“Did you fire your gun recently?” he asked, looking very displeased.
She hesitated. “I am sworn to a confidence, Bragg.”
“Whose? My sister’s?”
She closed her eyes and swore silently, to herself. She did not want to be put in this position. Then she looked at him. “Do not make me lie. Please. If I could, I would tell you everything, but I can’t. I promised.”
He hesitated, glanced around them, and then took her arm and pulled her several more steps into the lobby. “Francesca, if you had a cause to fire your gun, then something is terribly wrong.”
“Don’t make me lie to you,” she begged.
“Did you fire your gun?” he asked.
She inhaled, because he was not going to give her a single inch. “Yes. But I did not mean to shoot anyone.”
“So it was a warning shot.” He seemed frustrated now. “I am going to have a long talk with my little sister,” he said abruptly.
Francesca thought that might be for the best. In spite of Lucy’s pleas for secrecy, Francesca’s instinct was to make this a family matter. But she could not betray Lucy, either.
“Bragg,” she said carefully, “I am in quite the position. I really do not know anything, except that Lucy does not want you or anyone else in her family involved. She was very clear on that.” She met his probing regard. “Of course, I cannot stop you from speaking with her. But she trusts me, and I do intend to help her.”
He hesitated, at once grim and bewildered. “You are almost frightening me. How badly in trouble is she? Is it dangerous—or need I even ask?”
She spoke again, as carefully. “That’s just it. I really don’t know anything myself.”
“That is hardly a relief,” he said sharply.
“I do realize that.” Her mind raced. “Could I stop by headquarters tomorrow and look at the Rogues’ Gallery?” she asked, referring to a catalog of photographs and drawings of various criminals.
He stared, and then frustration crossed his face. “You may look at the mug book, Francesca.”
Their gazes locked. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
His smile was odd. “I suppose I might take a look at that mug book myself when you are done. And Lucy doesn’t have to know—now does she?”
She tensed, at once elated and afraid. Clearly Bragg was going to help his sister, no matter the promise Francesca had made, no matter what Lucy wanted.
He stalked away, after Newman, clearly to go outside and look at Francesca’s handiwork.
Francesca stared after him, hoping that Lucy would not blame her for his involvement.
“That was such a wonderful evening,” Mrs. Channing gushed. “Don’t you think so, Grace?”
“It was very enjoyable,” Grace said with a polite smile. “I have so missed my son. I am so happy to be back in the city.” She turned her smile on Bragg.
He smiled back at her. “The feeling is mutual,” he said.
“Are you staying here in New York, then?” Mrs. Channing asked eagerly. “Didn’t you sell your home a few years ago?”
“Actually, it has been leased,” Rathe said with an easy smile. “My wife thinks we should be moving uptown, and we will soon begin to look for a suitable parcel of land to buy.” He took his wife’s hand.
Francesca was walking with the group while Sarah and Evan trailed behind, neither one speaking. Sarah had fallen extremely silent through the meal, barely eating a thing. Rourke was behind them, apparently absorbed in thought—his head was down, his hands in his trouser pockets. Now Francesca watched Rathe smile at his wife, and then she saw Grace send him a soft, answering smile.
She had already sensed that they loved each other dearly, but she was surprised now to realize they were still
in
love.
Rourke moved to her side. He said, “Shall I see you home, Miss Cahill?”
Alarm filled her. She looked into his handsome face, a face that was so eerily like his brother’s. Worse, she met his eyes and saw the comprehension and amusement there. “I should probably go with my brother,” she said swiftly. Bragg was on her other side and she had felt him stiffen.
“But he must escort his fiancee all the way to Dakota,” Rourke said dryly. “And if he wishes to linger a bit with his future bride?” He glanced back at the silent couple. Francesca thought, but was not certain, that there was censure in his eyes.
Francesca glanced at Bragg, urging him to come to the rescue. Not that she minded Rourke. He was intelligent and interesting, but far too astute. But she wished to speak with Bragg and, frankly, had no wish to be alone with Rourke, for she had no desire to parry and fend off his innuendos.
Evan said, his eyes sparkling, “My sister tends to do as she pleases. But I should certainly approve were you to take her home, Rourke.”
Rourke chuckled.
Bragg said, “Actually, I am taking Francesca home. There
are some significant matters which I wish to discuss with her.” His gaze was cool upon Evan. “And I assure you that she will be far safer in my hands than my brother’s.”
“At least I am an eligible bachelor,” Rourke murmured.
Alarmed, Francesca said to him, “I am on a case. We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. I really do need Bragg’s advice.”
Rourke gave her a knowing look. “Very well. I shall gracefully bow out,” he said.
Before she could even smile, as he was wryly amusing, there was a thump behind her.
Francesca turned, as everyone did, to find Sarah on the floor in what appeared to be a dead faint. Rourke was already kneeling beside her, and Mrs. Channing screamed.
Rourke lifted Sarah’s head onto his knee, his fingers going to the artery in her neck.
“What is it?” Bragg asked, kneeling beside him.
He did not answer. Francesca saw that Sarah was deathly white. Then Rourke reached into his pocket, but he swore. “Smelling salts, anyone? I usually keep them on hand for my landlord, but I seem to have left them behind tonight.”
“Did she faint?” Rathe asked.
Miss Channing was moaning now.
“It seems so, but I would hesitate to say so definitively. Her pulse is a bit slow. However, she is feverish,” Rourke added, his hand covering her forehead. He laid her head back down on the floor and began to raise her knees. As he did so, his brows lifted in surprise. “She is all bones,” he remarked.
“She is too busy painting to eat,” Mrs. Channing managed, near tears. “Oh, my poor dear Sarah!”
Rourke ignored her. He was fanning the air near Sarah’s face when Evan appeared, having run off to the concierge desk. “Here,” he said, handing Rourke the salts.
“Thanks,” Rourke said. “Miss Channing? You have fainted; do not be alarmed,” he said softly, holding the salts to her nose.
Sarah suddenly cried out, her eyes flying open and tearing.
Rourke slid his hand beneath her head, but he said, “Lie still for a moment. We wish for the blood to go back to your head.”
Sarah looked at him. It was a moment before she spoke. “I fainted?”
“I think so. See?” He smiled at her. “Already the color is returning to that pretty face of yours.”
Sarah started to smile, and then she stopped. She said, “I think I can sit up.”
“Slowly, then,” he said, a soft command. He helped her to sit.
Sarah leaned back in his arms, closing her eyes.
“Dizzy?” Rourke asked. Sarah could not see his expression, but Francesca could, and clearly. He was concerned.
She nodded.
“My medical bag is at Hart’s. See if there is a doctor in the house,” he said, not glancing up. Evan turned and hurried off.
“I don’t need a doctor,” Sarah muttered, opening her eyes at last.
“You have a bit of a fever.” He looked more closely at her. “I thought so earlier. You did not eat a thing, Miss Channing,” he chided.
“I did not notice; I’m surprised you did,” she said a bit tartly. Then she seemed to lean into his arms again. “I’m sorry. I am so upset. I am not myself tonight.”
“It is understandable. Ah, the troops arrive.”
A concierge and another gentleman, who introduced himself as the hotel manager, had hurried over. “There is one doctor in the house, sir, but he is at the opera tonight. We can send for Dr. Johnson and find the lady a room until he arrives.”
“I think that is a very good idea,” Rourke said. He smiled at his patient. “Sarah? We shall find you a room and you can rest until the doctor arrives.”
“I am fine. Just a bit weak. I should go home.” She stared at him, but she appeared fragile, not mulish or stubborn at all.
“Absolutely not. It will only be a few moments until Dr. Johnson arrives.”
“I am sure it will be more like an hour. I must get home!” She was agitated now. Francesca knelt down beside her and laid her hand on her back. Sarah did not seem to notice.
“What is the rush? I really would prefer that your temperature be taken, your throat looked at, your heart and lungs listened to. It is all normal procedure,” he added with a pleasant smile.
“I must work in the morning, Rourke,” she said.
“I doubt you will be working in the morning,” Rourke returned evenly—patiently.
Sarah regarded him and her flush increased. “You are right!” she suddenly exclaimed weakly. “I am not well. I have no desire to paint. I can’t paint! And I haven’t felt well all day.” Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “What if Hart changes his mind? What if I lose his commission?” she cried. “It is the most important event of my life!”
“My stepbrother will not change his mind. He is many things, but indecisive he is not. If he has commissioned Miss Cahill’s portrait, there is a reason, and knowing Hart, neither hell nor high water shall detour him from his course.”
Sarah did not seem relieved. “I prefer to go home. Mama? We can send for Dr. Finney.”
Mrs. Channing hesitated when Bragg said, “I can stop at Finney’s now, on my way to the Cahill residence. By the time you arrive at the Channings’, Rourke, Finney will be there, or shortly thereafter. He is a fine doctor,” he added.
“A good plan,” Rourke said. He smiled at Sarah. “Can you stand up?”
“Of course,” she said.
Rourke helped her to her feet. “Cahill? I shall escort you and your fiancee back to her home, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” Evan said, appearing relieved. “I’ll go get a cab.”
 
Rathe and Grace had taken off in one cab, their destination Hart’s. Rourke had accompanied Evan and the Channings to
the West Side. Lucy had gone to her rooms in the hotel—Francesca had learned that she had thought it too much of an imposition to stay at Hart’s with three children and her nanny. Francesca felt certain Calder would not have cared. Bragg had gone with Lucy, clearly to have a word or two, while Francesca had waited alone in the lobby. Now, finally, he appeared, looking grim. “I am sorry to have been so long,” he said, helping her on with her coat, which she had been holding.
A doorman held open the door for them as they stepped outside. “How did it go?” Francesca asked worriedly.
“My sister can be a stubborn jackass,” Bragg said, his hand on the small of Francesca’s back. They went down the steps and another doorman understood. He stepped out into the mostly deserted street to hail a cab. Bragg had apparently left the sometimes temperamental Daimler at his home.
“Which means?”
He slid his arm around her and she moved against his side. He looked down at her; she looked up into his eyes. Warmth spread quickly through her. “It means she denied everything, even your firing a gun outside of the hotel. Then she reversed herself and told me to mind my own business, as her affairs were just that, her own affairs.”
Francesca trembled. Even though he wore a heavy greatcoat, his body was hard and strong and male against hers. “So we have not learned a thing.”
“Not a thing. Cold?”
“No.” She smiled just a little.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, finally looking at her mouth.
A wild excitement suddenly flamed and she leaned just a bit closer to him. It was enough. His hand clasped her hip. Their gazes locked.
The urgency was sudden and overwhelming. And so many thoughts went through her mind at once, they were less coherent than a kaleidoscope of feelings and fears. She thought about how much she loved and admired him, and then in the same breath she thought about his wife and her note. She thought about the terrible fight she had witnessed between
her brother and her father. She thought about poor Sarah and the trouble Lucy was in. She thought about Calder Hart, who had promised to never touch her. And she thought about the fact that finally, at long last, they were alone—and moments away from being within the privacy of a hansom.
The realization was stunning. It was simply absurd to deny and control the depths of their feelings for each other.
“Commissioner? Cab’s here.”
As the doorman spoke, Bragg’s hand dropped from her hip. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, handing the man a coin.
Francesca climbed into the hansom first, flushing and praying the doorman hadn’t noticed any intimacy between her and Bragg. Reality was like ice-cold water. One second before, it had seemed obvious that they should go to his house and become lovers. Now, all she could think of was what if the doorman spoke to a news reporter?
Bragg climbed in after her, closing the door. “We are making two stops, the first at Eight-ten Fifth Avenue,” he said.
The driver murmured an affirmative, released the brake, and whipped his gelding on.
Francesca began to look at Bragg with worry when he abruptly pulled her into his arms.
“Bragg!” she began.
His mouth seized hers and her protest died. Their lips locked, her hands found his shoulders, his back, and she fell back onto the swabs of the seat, Bragg on top of her. He opened her mouth, and his tongue became a forceful, thrusting instrument. His hand moved inside her coat, up her side, and over her breast.
She moaned, moving his own coat out of the way, running her hands up and down inside his white dinner jacket, exploring the hard planes and angles of his torso and chest. His mouth moved to her throat. Fiery sensation trailed in the wake of his lips, his tongue. Francesca gripped his head, encouraging him to go lower.
He did.
He rained kisses on her bare chest, and when he reached the edge of her bodice he paused.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered frantically.
He rubbed his cheek over her breast until the silk of her gown raised her nipple.
Francesca pushed her bodice down.
He inhaled, hard, his lips inches from her nipple, and then she heard herself beg, “Please,” and he touched it with his tongue, slowly, deliberately, again and again, until she began to writhe, wildly, on the cab seat.
He sucked it into his mouth.
Francesca cried out, then felt his hand beneath her skirts, sliding up her stockinged knee, her bare thigh. She froze.
He lifted his head and looked at her and she saw passion straining his face. And then she felt his fingers move up her thigh, finally brushing her sex.
She collapsed against the seat, moaning, mindless. He began to kiss her again—her mouth, her face—but his fingers stroked over her and then she felt what had to be an electrical current or a bolt of lightning. Her body arched wildly, stars exploded inside the cab, not once, but many times, and as they began to flutter down through the night sky she began to drift with them, lower and lower still, weightless.
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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