Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (18 page)

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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Francesca almost winced; clearly Bartolla had not exaggerated when she said that her stepdaughter hated her. “Isn’t
that a bit excessive?” Francesca asked, after she and Bragg shared a look.
“Excessive? That tramp is the worst thing that ever happened to my father! She bled him for every penny he had, then did as she pleased behind his back—and he knew about her lovers! Oh, yes. The count was a brilliant man, until the end, and he knew his little American wife was a whore. That is what she is, a whore,” Jane Van Arke cried passionately. “And I hope Craddock takes her for all that he can get.”
Well, Francesca thought, at least they knew where Mrs. Van Arke stood as far as Bartolla went.
“Where were you Thursday night, between midnight and five A.M.?” Bragg asked quietly.
She started, as if she had forgotten his presence, and flushed. “Commissioner, excuse me. I did not mean to go on so. It’s just that I adored my father, and it hurt me to see her using him the way that she did.”
“I understand,” Bragg said. “Thursday night, after midnight?” he prompted.
Her brows furrowed. “Why would it matter where I was that night?”
“Would you please answer the question?” he said, his tone extremely mild.
She glanced at Francesca and shrugged. “I was here, at home, asleep.”
“Can Mr. Van Arke testify to that?”
“Can … what?” She straightened. “My husband is out of the country, Commissioner. He is in London and will not return for another month.”
“Thank you,” Bragg said.
Jane Van Arke glanced between Francesca and Bragg again, seeming bewildered. “You’re welcome.”
“I think that is all for now,” Bragg said. He thanked her again for her time.
She walked them to the door. “There is one thing I don’t understand,” she said.
“What is that?”
“Why the two of you are here, asking me the same questions as that other gentleman?”
Francesca halted so quickly that Bragg smashed into her back. They both turned to face their hostess. “What gentleman?” she asked.
“Chief Farr.”
Francesca entered the house and heard her mother shouting. She froze.
Julia never shouted. She did not have to. Her will was iron and far too strong for anyone to resist her.
But she
was
shouting. Francesca had just heard her. She turned to look at Francis, the new doorman, who was pale and pretending to be deaf and a statue. “Francis? What is going on?”
He came to life. “Your parents, Miss Cahill. They have forgotten to shut the door.”
She looked in the direction he indicated and realized they were in the salon at the opposite end of the hall. She knew instantly what they were arguing about. And that was another thing—her parents rarely argued.
Either Julia allowed Andrew to have his way, or he allowed her to do so.
They had to be arguing about Evan.
Gingerly, Francesca approached the open doors and, pausing on the threshold, saw her father standing with his arms akimbo, his back to a window. Julia confronted him. “This is your entire fault, Andrew,” she said harshly, not shouting now. “You have done this. You have chased him out of the house—our house—my house! And I will not allow it!” And then she had shouted again.
“He cannot break off his engagement and leave the company and simply get away with it. It is utter disrespect!” Andrew returned harshly, but keeping his voice lowered. “We agreed on the engagement, Julia. You have been happy that
our wayward son will finally have to become a man!” And his voice had verged upon a shout.
“I should not have agreed. I told you she was wrong for him. But oh, no, you did insist, and I stupidly let you have your way! I will not let Evan move out! He is my son—our son—how could you do this?
How?
”
Francesca gaped, as her mother seemed on the verge of tears. She never cried. In fact, Francesca had grown up assuming her mother did not have tear ducts.
“He did not give me a choice!” Andrew cried. “He marched into my office and began to threaten me. He threatened me, Julia! I know that you pretend he can do no wrong, but Evan is dissolute. Dissolute! He is the most irresponsible young man I have ever seen! Irresponsible and dissolute!”
“Don’t you dare call him dissolute! And if he threatened you—” She stopped. “I am sure he did not mean it!” She was shouting now. “You have always disliked him!” Julia was furious. “You adore Francesca—she can catch a killer with a fry pan, and nothing comes of it! Oh, no, she makes the newspapers, and you are proud of her! And Connie, well, you are vastly fond of her—but then, she never does anything wrong, thank goodness. But Evan, why, as a child, Evan’s grades were not high enough, his friends were not good enough, he could not throw a football far enough, and now he does not work hard or long enough … . My son is always failing!”
“That is because he is usually wrong. That is because he has no ambition. Good God, how can you be defending him now? Evan has two interests, period. Two vices! Cheap women and gaming. His standards of behavior are less than acceptable,” Andrew finally shouted back. “And they always have been less than acceptable to me.”
Francesca actually clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop! The two of you, please, stop!”
Neither one heard her. Julia pointed her finger at him. “I warn you, Andrew, if he leaves this house, then I shall, too.”
“Mama!” Francesca gasped, rushing forward.
Andrew turned white with shock. And without another
word, he turned his back on his wife. A window faced him. But the draperies were drawn.
Francesca grasped Julia’s hands and saw the tears in her mother’s eyes. “Mama, come outside. Let’s talk,” she said, at the same time wanting to rush over to her father and hug him and reassure him that all would be well.
Julia nodded, casting an angry and tearful glance at Andrew’s rigid back, and the moment they were in the hall, she collapsed on a tufted settee, set against one wall. “How could he do this? How could Andrew let Evan walk out?” She covered her face with her hands and her small shoulders shook.
And for one moment, Francesca was simply frozen, stunned to see her mother so distraught, in such emotional pain. Then she wrapped her arm around her and held her close. The two women were exactly the same size, with Julia being but a few pounds heavier. “Mama,” Francesca said urgently, taking her hands. Julia looked up. “Evan threatened Father. It’s true. And of course that wasn’t right. But he was desperate to get out of his engagement, and can we truly blame him? When Father would not back down, Evan made good on his threats.”
“I do not blame Evan for any of this,” Julia said heavily.
“But don’t blame Papa, either! He only wants Evan to cease gambling and begin a family.”
“I know what your father wants,” Julia said. “Your father wants Evan to be exactly like him, a one-woman man, a family man, a success, and a reformer.”
Francesca stared.
“Evan is not like your father, Francesca. He is far more …” she hesitated, then said, “ebullient than your father ever was. He is young. He is only twenty-four going on twenty-five. This is my fault, too! I should have never agreed to this match.” She closed her eyes tightly.
“Do not blame yourself for anything! After all, it is Evan’s fault, too, for incurring those terrible debts. But let us look at the bright side,” Francesca tried.
Julia opened her eyes. “There is no bright side.”
“Yes, there is. I mean, what has happened is truly terrible, but it is certainly for the best that he and Sarah do not wed, even if it had to happen this way.”
“I cannot lose him,” Julia said, and Francesca knew she meant her son and not Andrew.
“Mama, you will not lose Evan! He loves you so! He even told me that he would never allow this argument to affect your relationship.”
“He simply cannot move out, Francesca,” Julia said, her eyes wide with fear.
“I tried to talk him out of it. He will not change his mind. I have never seen him so resolute,” she said, and did not add “or so angry.”
“But what if he never returns?” Julia asked.
Their gazes locked. “Of course he will come back. But for now, he feels he must make a stand. In a way, I am proud of him. Aren’t you? He has never gone up against Father before.”
“Proud of him? You are proud of him? How can you be proud of him when he has walked out on his familial obligations?” Julia gasped. “He has walked out on us!”
Francesca would not back down. “I am proud of him. Mama? Please, don’t fight with Papa over this. He is hurt, too.”
Julia seemed to be recovering her near iron composure. “I have just set a terrible example, Francesca. One never argues with one’s spouse as I have done. There are other ways to achieve one’s objectives.”
Francesca blinked.
“One always gains more with honey than with vinegar.” Julia appeared grimly worried now.
“Of course,” Francesca said.
Julia gave her a look. “Of course, after twenty-four years, it is only human to make a mistake.”
Francesca nodded. “And what about Papa?”
“He must go to Evan and tell him that we will end the engagement, but Evan shall agree to find another, suitable, bride.”
Francesca stared. “He will never back down. Papa is a benevolent man, but beneath those whiskery cheeks is a will of steel.”
“If he wishes for peace in this household, why, that is what he shall do,” Julia said firmly, standing.
“He is never going to change his mind,” Francesca said with dread.
Suddenly Andrew came out of the salon. He did not look at them as he approached and then passed them. He said, “Francis, my coat, hat, and walking stick.”
Julia stood. Her tone was now calm. “Where are you going, Andrew? We have a conversation to finish.”
For the first time that Francesca could ever recall, her father did not answer her mother. He stood before the front door, his back to them, patiently waiting for all that he had asked for—as if he had not heard them.
“Papa,” Francesca whispered.
“Andrew! Where are you going?” Her tone became strident.
His shoulders tensed. He did not turn. “Out,” he said.
Francis handed him his coat and hat and then, after he had donned his coat, his silver-headed cane.
“That is hardly an answer,” Julia said, her eyes wide. “I apologize for how I have argued with you but not for what I have said. I must insist that we finish our conversation.”
He turned. “There is no such thing as having a conversation with you, Julia, when the children are involved.” He turned and walked out of the house.
Francesca was stunned. Had a two-by-four fallen from the sky and smashed down on her head she could not be more stunned. How could this be happening?
Julia whirled to her. “My home is falling apart!”
She fought for composure. “Mama, nothing is falling apart.”
“My home, my family, my life is falling apart!” she cried. “Did you see that? He walked out on me! He has never treated me in such a manner.”
“He’s coming home. He’ll be back. And then you can
calmly come to terms,” Francesca tried valiantly. But she did not think they would come to terms on this particular subject. And then what?
Julia stared at her as if she had grown two heads. She began to shake. “Oh, dear God. Andrew has walked out on me. Evan has left home. Connie is in her rooms, refusing to come out. And you!” Julia leveled accusing eyes on her. “You fancy yourself in love with the commissioner, who is married. That I have had enough of, Miss Francesca Louise Cahill!”
Francesca dared not speak.
“Oh, I do know you! Once you have convinced yourself of something, there is no arguing with you! It is like taking a bone from a terrier! Well, I do have news for you! Just because you have decided he is ‘the one,’ that does not mean it is true! He is not ‘the one,’ obviously, as he has a wife, my dear. So I expect your nonsense to cease!”
Now was not the time to argue. “Mama, I know all about Bragg’s wife.”
Tears filled her eyes. Clearly she had not heard. “Oh, God. I so love Andrew. What have I done?”
Francesca tugged her hand. “Go after him. Now!”
Julia seemed about to do so, and then she stiffened. “I cannot,” she said.
 
Bartolla entered the hotel lobby, unable to contain the soft thrill of anticipation that washed over her in warm, almost sexual waves. She glanced around and saw the restaurant where she was expected. Smiling, she crossed the parquet floors, which were covered with Persian rugs.
She was aware of heads turning her way as she passed. She knew she left a wake of interested men craning their necks to get a better look at her.
She had dressed with extreme care for her engagement. The royal blue suit exposed her trim waist, her womanly hips, and a larger expanse of bosom than was usual for day. She had found a new lip rouge at the Lord & Taylor store. Instead of the usual crimson, it was a darker, berry-colored
stain. It did amazing things to her fair complexion, and it made her green eyes sparkle. But then, she had carefully applied kohl to the rims, and she had used it on the tips of her lashes as well.
A pale blue fox stole completed her look. She knew she looked elegant, sensual, and wealthy, but not in that order. In fact, she had to look twice at a young six-foot-tall bellman who ogled her as she passed. He was a superb male specimen, all muscle, blond and blue-eyed, his features strong and pleasant. She sent him a soft smile. God, it had been too long!
She wished Evan Cahill were not engaged to her little cousin. But even if he were not, she could not lead him into her bed anyway—the stakes were simply too high. She felt faint now, thinking about him.
They hadn’t even kissed.
And then there was all that Cahill money.
She was still smiling as she stepped into the dining room. She was purposefully late, a half an hour late, as she wished to be the one to make the entrance.
But her party was not present. Dismayed and then annoyed, Bartolla was led to a small table set for two, where she took a seat, ordered a tea, and then tried to appear indifferent to the fact that her grand entrance had been denied.
To amuse herself as she waited, she allowed several gentlemen to make eye contact with her, in spite of the fact that they were with their wives or sweethearts. One gentleman went so far as to drop his card by her feet as he walked by on his way to the men’s cloakroom. Bartolla picked it up and tucked it into her bodice for use on a rainy afternoon.
She straightened.
Every male head in the restaurant turned.
Bartolla looked at Leigh Anne Bragg and sighed. Nothing had changed. The tiny woman remained impossibly beautiful—perhaps because she was as small as a child yet as curved as a woman. Or was it the flawless face with the huge green eyes that always seemed to look slightly bewildered and perfectly innocent? Added to those assets was a perfect
rosebud mouth, which was perpetually swollen, and Bartolla knew exactly what men thought of when they looked at those lips. She sighed again. In spite of the fact that she was the tall one, the red-haired one, the statuesque one, Leigh Anne always turned more heads when they were together. Bartolla had decided it was her air of innocence that was the most enticing of all her charms.

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