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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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She did not want to use the telephone. It was awkward, and sometimes one could not hear the other party clearly. Perhaps, if she rested now, she could steal out of the house a bit later and catch him at home. To change the subject, she said, “Bragg’s family is in town.”

Julia was surprised. “Rathe and Grace Bragg are back?” She suddenly smiled. “It will be so good to see them again! Why, I had heard they might be returning to the city. This is wonderful news.”

“Do you know them well, Mama?”

“Both he and Andrew worked very hard on Grover Cleveland’s reelection,” Julia said. “He is as fervent a reformist as your father and as fervent a Republican.”

“He served in Cleveland’s first administration,” Francesca remarked. “I cannot wait to hear all about it.”

“Yes, I imagine you will find that conversation fascinating. I shall have them over for dinner.” She smiled at the thought. “Perhaps on Sunday. It will round out the table nicely.”

Francesca’s heart dropped. She could think of nothing worse! “Mama, about Sunday dinner,” she began.

“Absolutely not!” Julia exclaimed. “Do not think to weasel out of it. Calder Hart accepted the invitation, as you well know—you were right there.”

Francesca was overcome with dismay and unease. She refused to recall Lucy’s absurd question of which brother she was in love with. Francesca knew why Julia had invited Hart to dine with them on Sunday—she was determined to marry Francesca off and had foolishly set her cap for Hart. That was insane, because Hart had no intention of marrying, and he was quite open about it. He never even looked at available young women, and Francesca knew that for a fact. His only interest was married women and shady ladies whom he might take pleasure with. God only knew why he had accepted the invitation to dine with them.

“Why are you scowling?” Julia peered closely at her. “We
have an agreement, and I know you have not forgotten it.”

“I have not forgotten.”

Julia smiled, and it was a pleased smile. “While Maggie Kennedy’s life was in danger, I agreed to allow her
and
her four children to remain here, under my roof, placing everyone in this house in danger.” She looked pointedly at Francesca’s bandaged hand. “In return, you agreed to let me choose the suitor of
my
choice, and you said you would allow him to court you.

“Perhaps, in the end, you will turn out like Connie,” Julia continued. “Sociable, charitable, and happily married, with a child or two.”

Francesca’s heart lurched wildly and then sank. “Mama, please cease and desist with this ludicrous matchmaking. I know you are entirely aware of Hart’s reputation. You will never snag him, and I would never accept him anyway.”

Julia smiled as if she were a fat old cat who had just eaten a mouse or two. “My dear, every rake has his day. Now, where can I reach the Braggs so I may invite them to dinner?”

Francesca felt faint. “Mama, please don’t invite them on Sunday. It will simply be too much—really.” She tried to force a smile and failed. She could think of no worse situation than Julia forcing Calder upon her in front of Rathe and Grace Bragg, and now Lucy’s comments were haunting her.

“Why will it be too much, Francesca? Because Rathe Bragg is the police commissioner’s father?”

Francesca felt her world spin out of control. “What does that mean?” she asked carefully.

“It means I am not a fool and I am not blind.” Julia smiled firmly. “Your infatuation has become obvious, but I am certain you will get over it, now that you know he is married. Even you, the most stubborn person I can think of, could not be so foolish as to cling to a hopeless situation involving a married man. I shall send up a dinner tray.”

Francesca was on her feet. Her mother
knew?
In that moment,
she
knew that she was doomed.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 9:00 A.M.

“Francesca! What is this? Shouldn’t you be at home?” Montrose cried sternly.

Francesca smiled breathlessly at her brother-in-law as she entered the house. Not only had she not been able to inform Bragg of the Channing Incident the night before; she also had fallen asleep right after her conversation with her mother and slept as if comatose until just an hour ago. Clearly her burned hand was sapping some of her usual strength.

But the full night’s rest had done wonders for her. She had so much to do! She must continue the Channing investigation, and as soon as she spoke with her sister, she would go downtown to inform Bragg of the Channing Incident.

“Please, do not chase me away, as I am in dire need of Connie’s advice right now,” she said. Upon awakening, her first thought had been that she must weasel out of Sunday’s dinner. She was now dreading the evening with all of her being. Surely Connie would have some advice for her, as not attending the event did not seem like a possibility.

Connie and Montrose lived right around the corner from Francesca, on Sixty-second Street just off of Madison Avenue. The house had been a wedding present from Andrew; it had been designed and built during their year-long engagement. It had been a rather typical marriage for New York society: Connie had the wealth, and her husband had the blue blood and titles. What had not been typical was that they had both fallen immediately in love.

But that had been five years ago. “I am afraid to ask why you are in need of Connie’s advice.” Still, Montrose’s smile was affectionate. He was a big, muscular man with dark hair and turquoise eyes, as handsome as he was noble. “Must you always seize the bit between your teeth like a wild filly? What could it be now that has put such a look of anxiety upon your face?”

“So now you compare me to a horse?” But she was smiling. It was good to see Neil in a pleasant mood, as there had
simply been too much tension in his house for too long.

“Did I just do that?” He chucked her under her chin. “I meant no disrespect. How is your hand today?”

“Fine. Although Mama hopes to keep me dosed with laudanum, I think.”

“I wonder why!” he laughed.

“I cannot help it if I have a life to live.”

“Unlike other young ladies, who only wish to shop and wed and do as they are told without question?”

“I take that as a compliment,” she said seriously.

“I meant it as one,” he returned as sincerely. Then, “My wife is upstairs, and I do not know if she is awake. But you may go up and rouse her, if you wish.”

Francesca was surprised. “Connie isn’t up?” Her sister was always up with Charlotte and Lucinda, who were three years old and eight months, respectively.

“No, she is not. Not that I know of.” His expression closed.

“Is this a new habit of hers?” she asked carefully.

And he seemed to withdraw even more.

“Neil?” And in that moment, she saw the anguish in his eyes, anguish that, for one moment, he did not hide. Her own worries vanished. Clearly things were still not right with Connie and Montrose. Francesca was grim, and she felt responsible, because if she hadn’t been the one to discover Neil with his lover, Connie might not have ever learned the truth.

Of course, Connie had suspected something, so maybe she would have learned of his infidelity eventually anyway. Francesca touched his hand. “How is Connie, Neil?”

He avoided her eyes. “Fine.”

Francesca stared and, knowing him so well, knew he was lying and that nothing was fine. “How are you?” A few days ago, he had been very angry and very upset. He had told her that his heart was the one that was broken. And that had simply made no sense.

“Why don’t you go up?” He now looked at her. “I am going to read the morning papers, and then I have a board meeting.” He nodded and walked out.

Francesca was left staring after him feeling rather uneasy. Today he had no wish to confess his feelings to her, but then, he was usually a private man. That slip the other day had been just that, an angry, emotional outburst. Francesca sighed. If Neil did not wish to confide in her, there was nothing she could do about it.

But Connie was her best friend in the entire world. Francesca knew Connie as well as she knew herself. Connie never loitered in bed. She was the busiest woman Francesca knew, a wife, a mother, a socialite. Until recently, she had loved her husband, her children, her life. And she never overslept.

Francesca turned and made her own way through the house and upstairs. Outside of Connie’s suite she paused. Not a sound from within could be heard. She knocked, but there was no answer. Stepping inside, she saw that the sitting room was hardly empty. Connie sat at her secretaire, but she was not writing. Instead, she had her chin on her hands and she was gazing down at Madison Avenue through gauzy parted curtains.

“Con?”

She whirled. “Oh, I did not hear you!” As always, even in a peignoir—which was stunning—Connie was breathtaking in her beauty and extremely elegant. Only Francesca’s sister could roll out of bed looking as if she were on her way to a ball.

Connie was a platinum blonde with vivid blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a perfectly curved figure. Actually, Francesca and Connie were often thought to be twins, as they so resembled each other. The only differences between them in appearance were their height—Francesca was two inches taller—and Francesca’s coloring. Her hair was a rich honey gold, her skin as dusky.

And of course, they were not alike at all. Not in character and not by nature or inclination.

“You slept late today,” Francesca said softly. The pensive expression she had just witnessed had disappeared. “Are you all right? May I come in?”

Connie nodded, standing. “I don’t feel quite myself. I decided
not to get up,” she said, flushing, but with what emotion? Guilt? Then she smiled, and she seemed quite her normal self. “But I am glad to see you, Fran. Even if you are the one who is supposed to be in bed.” She shook her head with disapproval but continued to smile.

“I simply could not stand another moment of confinement,” Francesca said, happy to see her sister behaving normally. “Are you going to get dressed?”

“In a moment. So what brings you by?” Connie went to a cord by the door and pulled it; a bell would sound below stairs, alerting a servant that he or she was needed.

“I need advice.” Francesca smiled, pulling up an ottoman and sitting upon it.

“From me?” Connie was amused, settling on the sofa. “I do find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“If you wish my advice, this must be about a social event—or a man.”

Francesca winced. “It is about both.”

Connie studied her.

Francesca hesitated. “You aren’t still flirting with Calder, are you?”

Connie flushed. “No. He suddenly lost interest in our flirtation, I think. I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

Francesca did not tell her that Hart had ceased chasing her because she, Francesca, had insisted he stop. But it wasn’t too long ago that he had ruthlessly been intending to seduce Connie and that Connie had been enjoying a very dangerous flirtation. It still disturbed Francesca no end whenever she recalled the two of them together at the Plaza, flirting so intently that they hadn’t even been aware that Francesca was present.

But that was Hart. He could not seem to resist beautiful married women.

“Why are you asking, Francesca?” Connie asked curiously.

“Well, Mama has invited Calder for dinner on Sunday.” Connie merely gazed at her. “So?”

Francesca fidgeted. “Mama is insane, Connie. She thinks to match me with Calder.”

Connie almost fell off of the sofa. She had paled. “
What?!”

“I know. It is absurd. What should I do?”

Connie stared.

“Con?” Francesca’s unease grew. Did her sister still have a small fascination for Calder Hart? Was she jealous?

Then Connie said, very thoughtfully, “You know, maybe that is not such an absurd idea, Fran.”

Now it was Francesca’s turn to almost fall from the ottoman.
“What?!”

Connie shrugged. “He is the most eligible bachelor in this city. He is, I think, the wealthiest one. He does, eventually, have to marry.” She paused, contemplating the scenario. “Why not you?”

Francesca was on her feet. “Because I am in love with someone else.”

Connie stood. “You think you are in love!”

“How dare you tell me how I am feeling?”

“Fran! I am on your side, remember? And even if you have fallen truly in love with Rick Bragg, he is married, remember?”

How could she ever forget? Francesca tried to inhale, with extreme difficulty. “Con, believe me, I know he is married. But he is separated—or have you forgotten?”

“It doesn’t matter if he is separated or not. He isn’t available. You cannot ever marry him. So you cannot remain in love with him—and frankly, Hart is far more interesting, wouldn’t you say?” Connie demanded.

Francesca backed up. “What would you say if I told you that Bragg has decided to divorce his wife?”

“I would say that you are dreaming,” Connie said slowly. “A divorce would destroy him, his career, and you, because you would immediately become the other woman.”

Connie was right. Francesca sat back down again. Bragg had told her that he was going to divorce his wife, but he had been extremely upset when he had said so, as she had
just escaped the Cross Murderer’s efforts to murder her. And even so, Francesca had known the moment he spoke that a divorce was unthinkable, because his political future was more important than their personal one.

“Did he really tell you he wants a divorce, Fran?” Connie asked quietly, seriously.

Francesca nodded and looked up. She felt moisture gathering in her eyes. “I could never allow him to do it. He is destined for greatness, Con.”

“Dear God, he really does love you.”

Francesca nodded and could not speak. The magnitude of the sacrifice Bragg wished to make was simply incredible.

Connie sat down and took her good hand. “Fran? No good can ever come of your love for Bragg, just as no good can ever come of a man’s divorce. I fear for you, Fran. I am afraid there is going to be so much heartbreak.”

Francesca hugged her sister, hard. “You are going through your own ordeal, and still you worry about me and my foolish dreams,” she whispered.

“Of course I worry about you.” Connie broke the embrace. “You are my headstrong little sister who is always leaping in front of trolleys and just barely getting out of the way.”

Francesca smiled and wiped away a tear. “I have never jumped in front of a trolley.”

“Then a Cross Murderer,” Connie amended. “Fran, Mama is very wise. Her matchmaking might not be a terrible idea.”

Francesca shuddered. “Calder told me himself. He will never marry.”

Connie raised both brows. “Famous last words,” she murmured.

“I really am in love with Bragg.”

Connie patted her hand. “I know you are. And it frightens me.”

Francesca knew the moment would never be more opportune. She stared at her sister.

“Uh-oh. What is it? You look ill.”

This was her chance to tell her sister
everything
. “I am in a bit of trouble,” Francesca said slowly.

Connie became grim. “You are always in trouble, Fran.”

“Not this kind,” Francesca whispered.

Connie suddenly started. “You are not …
pregnant
, are you?”

“No!” Francesca stood. “No, Con, we have been noble, Bragg and I, even if he is separated, even though he despises his wife, even though she left him and he has not seen her in four years.”

“Thank God,” Connie said fervently.

Francesca inhaled, meeting her sister’s gaze. “You are right. I am ill. I am ill with fear.” She opened her purse and withdrew a carefully folded note. She handed it to Connie. “I received this a few days ago. Read it,” she said.

Connie unfolded the note and silently read it. It said:

My dear Miss Cahill,

I should be in New York City soon, and I wish to meet you at your convenience. I shall be staying at the Waldorf-Astoria when I arrive. I look forward to making your acquaintance.

Yours Truly
Mrs. Rick Bragg

Slowly Connie looked up. She seemed stunned.

Francesca smiled at her and felt how weak her smile was.

“When did you receive this?” Connie asked.

“It came by hand on Thursday,” Francesca said. “I have been telling myself that it is a joke, but the truth is, I know it isn’t a joke.”

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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