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Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (32 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Francesca shivered. “So this is how, after all these years, Craddock found Shoz. Shoz was telling the truth. Craddock hates him. This isn’t about money; it’s about revenge.”
“It most certainly is,” Bragg said grimly.
Francesca moved closer to him. “If this isn’t about money, what about Chrissy?”
He met her gaze. “I am praying she is alive,” he said.
 
Francesca had to return home at some point—she had been expected earlier that morning, shortly after the arrival of their train. Her intention was to be back at the Hart mansion at three that afternoon, along with the rest of the family.
She prayed that by then someone would have come up with a lead that would take them to Craddock and Chrissy.
Now she entered the marble-floored foyer, gathering up her composure, as surely she would soon face Julia’s wrath. She refused to think about the fact that Hart had lied in order to protect her from being caught in her own web of deceit.
The house was oddly silent.
Francesca handed her coat and hat to a houseman. “Wallace, where is everyone?”
“Upstairs in the Blue Suite, Miss Cahill,” he said.
Francesca was bewildered. The Blue Suite was used for houseguests, but as it was the most luxurious accommodation they had, only an extremely important visitor was ever placed there—like a duke or an earl or the president of the United States. “Do we have company?”
“It is Master Cahill,” he said. “There has been an accident.”
She felt her eyes widen and her heart stop. “What?! What kind of accident? Is Evan all right?”
“Dr. Finney has just left,” he began.
But Francesca could not wait. If Evan was at home, then something terrible had happened, and she lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs to the third floor. The moment she skidded onto the landing, she heard her mother’s voice, followed by Maggie Kennedy’s. The door to the Blue Suite was open. She raced down the hall and into the sitting room.
The first thing she saw was her father, seated on the sofa in front of the hearth. He had his head cradled in his hands. The gesture was a despondent one.
“Papa?” She ran to him, but even as she did, she could glimpse into the bedroom, for the door was wide open. Evan lay in bed, his head swathed in a bandage. Maggie and his mother hovered over him. “Papa? What happened?”
He looked up and she saw that his eyes were moist with tears he would not shed. “Your brother has been in a barroom brawl,” he said.
“A barroom brawl?” she echoed stupidly.
“He has suffered a concussion, two broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and far too many bruises to count. He almost lost his eye, from a kick, I believe.” Andrew stared at her grimly.
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. She ran into the bedroom.
“Mrs. Kennedy, please, do not trouble yourself,” Evan was saying in a low, pain-filled voice.
“Ssh. The laudanum makes you dry. Did you not hear Dr. Finney say you must drink plenty of water?” She sat by his hip, holding a glass to his lips.
Evan was propped up on numerous pillows. He had a bandage around the top of his head and one across his eyes. Even so, the left side of his face was horrifically red and purple. His right wrist was in a plaster cast. He wore pajamas, but the nightshirt was open, revealing that his torso was also tightly bandaged.
Francesca was pierced with anguish just looking at him.
Julia stood not far from Maggie. She heard Francesca and turned. The moment she saw her daughter, she burst into tears, although she did not make a sound.
Francesca rushed forward and they clung to each other. “He will be fine, Mama, just fine,” Francesca said. But her mind was finally functioning. A barroom brawl? Her brother did not brawl. Hadn’t he said something about being worried about his creditors breaking his neck?
Was it possible?
“Thank you, Francesca,” Julia whispered, recovering her control and breaking away from the embrace.
Maggie was fussing with the covers now. “There, you should sleep. I heard Dr. Finney say so.”
Evan smiled at her. Even black-and-blue and bandaged like a mummy, he was devilishly handsome. “Has anyone ever told you that you are an angel, Mrs. Kennedy?” His tone was somewhat slurred.
“No one has; you are the first,” Maggie said cheerfully. “Now close your eyes, Mr. Cahill. Sleep is the best way to get you back on your feet.”
His eyes drifted shut, and he was smiling.
Maggie stroked his brow, bandage and all, as if he were one of her children. Then she turned, her eyes wide, horrified. “Who could have done this?” she gasped, staring at Francesca. “I have seen my share of fistfights, but this is almost as if someone wished to kill him!”
Julia began to tremble.
Francesca laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder, giving Maggie a warning look. “Come, Mama; come sit down with Papa,” she said.
Julia did not protest. Francesca led her into the sitting room, where Andrew sat staring into the fire. The moment Julia sat down beside him, he pulled her into his arms. Julia sobbed soundless while Andrew said, “This is my fault. I chased him out of the house. This is my entire fault.”
“This is hardly your fault!” Julia cried. “Oh, God, he is so badly hurt!”
“There, there, he is a strong young man; Finney said so.
Besides a few broken ribs, why, he will be up and about in no time,” Andrew soothed.
Francesca was relieved to see them caring for each other again, and she hurried back to the bedroom. Maggie stood at the foot of the bed, apparently watching Evan as he slept. Francesca hurried to stand beside her. “Evan?”
There was no answer.
“Evan?” She walked over to him, but his eyes were closed and unmoving.
“He’s asleep, Miss Cahill. Please, do not wake him,” Maggie said, sounding very shaken. She was extremely pale now.
Francesca returned to her side and took her hand. “What did Dr. Finney say?”
“That he is young and strong and very lucky. He has been kicked viciously in the kidneys, Miss Cahill. Dr. Finney says it will be some time before he is up and about.”
Francesca slid her arm around her, more to comfort herself than Maggie. “Oh, God. Was it a barroom brawl?”
Maggie nodded. “Mr. Cahill said so himself. Claims he was drunk. I don’t know. Does your brother drink like that? He seems like such a gentleman!”
“My brother is a gentleman,” Francesca said, “and he has never been in a fight like this before. I have never seen him drunk, either.” Suspicion assailed her. Could Evan be lying? And if so, why? She desperately needed to speak to him. “But he will be all right?”
“In a week he should be up and about,” Maggie said, wringing her hands. “But he will be stiff and sore for a month or more.” Tears filled her bright blue eyes and she covered her chest with her palm. “This is too terrible for words.”
Francesca inhaled deeply. “Yes, it is.” She glanced at her sleeping brother. And prayed this was not because of the inordinate sum of money he owed.
 
Francesca left her brother’s room and quickly freshened up and changed her clothes. As she did so, she was startled to find her blue eyes filled with the same anxiety she had seen the night before on the Albany train. She sobered as she
pinned a hat on. Images of Bragg and Calder Hart clashed in her mind, followed by a recollection of Leigh Anne, waiting for them outside of Grand Central Depot.
She sighed, as her personal life seemed impossible now, deliberately turning her thoughts to Chrissy and Craddock. At least the little girl was unhurt—Craddock had nothing to gain and everything to lose by harming her. As she went downstairs, she prayed that by the time she arrived back at Calder’s, Craddock would have been found.
It was only two and a half hours since they had split up to search for the hoodlum, not three. In all likelihood, all the Braggs would not be back by the time she got to Hart’s mansion.
Francesca had almost reached the ground floor when she heard her mother’s voice drifting from the smallest of the entry’s three salons. She could not make out her words, but clearly they had a guest. And instantly she was filled with dread.
She froze upon the stairs. She simply knew who the caller was—but not why she had come.
Julia stepped out of the salon, clearly having recovered her composure, although there was a somber set to her face. Leigh Anne Bragg was with her.
Francesca looked past her mother, her heart stopping, and her gaze locked with that of Bragg’s wife.
Leigh Anne did not smile. Nor did her gaze waver.
“Francesca? You have a caller. Mrs. Bragg,” Julia said simply. She did not seem surprised. “I will have refreshments sent in, perhaps a cup of hot tea and some muffins.”
Julia walked down the entry hall and disappeared in the corridor, obviously preoccupied. Francesca realized she remained posed upon the stairs, as if a statue. It was hard to breathe.
If only the other woman did not seem so lovely, and not just in appearance. If only she looked like a seductress, a harlot, a villainess.
“Miss Cahill? I do hope this is not an inconvenient time,”
Leigh Anne said. She had a soft, pretty voice. It suited her completely.
Francesca came to life, thinking she would pretend to be her sister, who was the perfect lady, always, and for whom, in elegance and poise, there was simply no rival. And plastering a smile on her face, she glided down the stairs, her head held high, somewhat amazed by her own grace. In fact, a stranger might mistake her for her sister now, she thought with satisfaction. The trick was to pretend one had one’s hair in a braid, and then to attempt to have that braid tickle one’s waist. Then, on the bottom step, as she was not watching where she was going, as she could not, with her chin so elevated, she tripped.
Leigh Anne rushed forward, “Are you all right, Miss Cahill?”
Francesca straightened, flushing. “I am fine.”
“I must say, those stairs are undoubtedly tricky,” Leigh Anne said.
Francesca looked into eyes the color of expensive emeralds. She had never seen such green eyes, such thick lashes—or such an expression of pure innocence.
What if Bragg was wrong?
She shook her head to clear it. Even Hart claimed that this woman was a virtueless viper. “Shall we?” She led the way back into the salon without responding to Leigh Anne’s comment about the stairs or waiting for a reply.
Francesca then shut both doors closed behind Leigh Anne. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Bragg?”
Leigh Anne smiled, and it was rueful. “I hope my note did not shock you.”
Of course it had shocked her. “Of course not.” She brightened her smile. “I have been so looking forward to meeting you.”
Leigh Anne smiled. “Likewise.”
Oh, this was good indeed. Her sour mood grew. “Bragg speaks so highly of you—and so frequently.”
Leigh Anne continued to smile. “Do you love him very much?”
Francesca stiffened as if shot. “I beg your pardon?”
“Should we really play games?” She gave Francesca a sidelong look and wandered now to a cabinet, as if admiring the blue-and-white china collection there.
“Games?” Francesca repeated, as if a dummy who did not understand the meaning of the word.
Leigh Anne turned, continuing to smile in a pleasant manner. “He loves you. He told me so—and I can see it in his eyes when he speaks of you. I suppose I understand. The two of you have a great deal in common. I have heard you are a very active woman politically. I have also heard that you are an accomplished sleuth. I understand why Rick so admires you.” Her expression was serious and grave.
How had this woman learned so much about her? Who had been giving her information? “Bragg and I have worked together on several ghastly crimes,” she said stiffly. “We are friends.”
Leigh Anne’s smile was tearful. “Well, he certainly does not consider you a friend, Miss Cahill. I suppose that in a way, this is entirely my fault, for not being with him, at his side, the way a wife should be. I am so sorry that this has happened, Miss Cahill. I really am,” she ended softly.
Francesca folded her arms across her chest. The speech was such a perfect one—had she rehearsed it? Surely she did not mean a single word! “Let’s dispense with games,” she said abruptly, and was pleased to see Leigh Anne start. “You have lived apart from Bragg for four years. Why have you so suddenly returned?”
“Cecelia Thornton,” Leigh Anne said simply, no longer smiling, her gaze uncomfortably direct.
“Cecelia Thornton?” Francesca fought to recover a memory on the edge of her recollection.
“She saw you and my husband at the theater and presumed you were both intimate. She lives in Boston and came to me instantly, to warn me of what was happening.”
Francesca became even more uncomfortable. Oh, she did remember that moment now, when she and Bragg had been having drinks before the show. They had turned around to
find Mrs. Thornton of the Boston Thorntons—a friend of her mother—watching them ever so closely.
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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