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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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Francesca decided not to delve into the subject. “I need to ask you a few questions,” she said. “It’s important.”

Bartolla walked over to a huge armoire, which was open. She stared inside, debating hats and gloves. “I know nothing about Sarah’s vandal, Francesca.”

“And if the vandal is someone you know? Someone who wishes to strike at you and not Sarah?” Francesca asked.

Bartolla turned. “What?”

Francesca said, “Only one canvas was destroyed. It was slashed to shreds and obscured with paint. It was your portrait, Bartolla.”

She stared. Then she started to smile. “Oh, please! And you think someone stole into this house in the middle of the night because of me? I hardly think so!” She laughed.

“Bartolla, you are the kind of woman to break hearts. Is there no one you can think of who has recently suffered such a fate?”

Bartolla’s smile vanished. “I have only just arrived in town. I have not had time to break any hearts, Francesca.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am certain,” she said firmly. “And I am also late.” She hesitated, then said, “Sarah does not wish to join us, but I am meeting your brother for a bit of window-shopping, as it is such a beautiful day.”

Francesca tensed. She knew they were just friends, still, she knew her brother, and his head had been turned the moment he had met Bartolla Benevente.

“Would you care to join us?” Bartolla smiled.

“No, thank you. Do you have enemies, Bartolla?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I do. But you may trust me on this, Francesca. No enemy of mine would bother to steal into this house and slash up my portrait. An enemy of mine would do far worse.”

Francesca absorbed that. “What is far worse?”

Bartolla blinked. “She would hurt me where it counts.”

“And that would be how?”

“My, you are so unimaginative! Or is it naive? Francesca, if I were still married, she might do something to damage my relationship with my husband. Does that give you an idea of the kind of game I am talking about?”

Francesca found it interesting that Bartolla referred to such a malicious act as a game.

“Now, if you do not mind? You are going down the wrong path, and I would like to freshen up.”

“I’m sorry to keep you. Bartolla, have you seen Leigh Anne recently?”

Bartolla started. “Leigh Anne? You mean the commissioner’s wife?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes.”

“How could I see her? Is she in town?”

“I heard she was in Boston.”

Bartolla shook her head, smiling. “My dear Francesca, if she is in Boston, how could I see her? The answer is no. Why are you asking such a question?” And she was amused.

“I don’t know. I suppose I am expecting her to come to the city, now that she is back in the country,” Francesca fabricated smoothly. Still, just speaking about Bragg’s wife disturbed her and made her nervous and uneasy.

“You seem so unhappy.” Bartolla patted her arm. “Didn’t I tell you that you are far too naive to manage a married man?” She gave her a knowing look. Now I really must go.”

“May we continue this conversation at another time?” Francesca asked after a pause. “Not about his wife. About the possibility that perhaps this was an enemy of—”

“It was not. Now, if you do not mind?”

Francesca nodded. “If you change your mind—”

“You shall be the first to know.”

“You are very quiet,” Lucy remarked as they paused outside the Channing house a bit later.

Francesca did not smile. “I feel bad for Sarah.” And that was entirely true, but she was also disturbed by the conversations she had had with Bartolla. And she was worried, too,
because when Bragg had left they had not resolved their dispute over Hart’s absurd commission. She hoped he would have recovered his usually good humor by the time she saw him that night.

“So do I. She is terribly nice, and her art is beautiful.” Lucy had peeked in on the studio before they had left. “My bet is that someone hates that countess and this is not a blow against Sarah.”

Francesca was grim. “I do happen to like Bartolla, Lucy, but I am inclined to agree with you. She has undoubtedly made a few enemies along the way, and perhaps one of them has now lashed out at her.” They started down the block. “I will question her at length, as soon as she gives me another chance.”

Lucy shrugged and said, “I’ll wager that the enemy in question is a woman.”

Francesca sighed. Then she said, “Why are the two of you in a competition?”

“A competition? Why would I ever compete with her?” Lucy asked with a shake of her head. “There is no competition! True, she is rather attractive and intelligent, but look at her! She is a widow—she must have married that old man at sixteen! Now she is here to find another husband. A rich one. You may trust me on that.”

Francesca’s eyes widened. “That is rather unfair, don’t you think? I mean, you do not even know her! And if anything, perhaps you might feel sorry for her, having had to marry an older man.”

“And do you know her? Really?” Lucy asked pointedly.

“I know her a bit. And by the way, she is wealthy, and my understanding is that she wishes to remain independent. She is not husband-hunting.”

“Be careful, Francesca. For I understand the two of you have just met.”

“We are friends.”

“Really? You are a bit too beautiful to be her friend. And you are a Cahill,” Lucy said pointedly.

“I hope you are wrong. For in some ways, Bartolla and I are alike.”

“You are not alike, except that you both prefer to do as you wish and not as society wishes. Again, be careful. I would not trust her if I were you.”

Francesca felt shaken. They started walking again, only to pause at the curb. Lucy said, “I had better return to Hart’s, where my mother is watching the twins and Roberto. I shall change the supper reservation. Do you think we should also invite your parents?”

“Please don’t!” Francesca said in a rush. “They have plans tonight, anyway.”

Lucy smiled. “So where do we go from here in the investigation?”

Francesca hesitated. “Evan is out right now, so I will speak to him later. I need to snoop around the art world, I think.”

“Well, you can always start with Calder.” Lucy grinned, both brows lifted.

Francesca folded her arms. “He is the obvious choice. I also promised Sarah that I would tell him there will be a delay in delivery of the portrait.”

“You mean
your
portrait,” Lucy said, laughter in her tone.

Francesca ignored that. “But I do hate to disturb him when his house is full.”

“He may not even be home.” Lucy leaned close. “Who is his mistress now?”

Francesca lowered her voice. “She is actually very nice, and beautiful in an unearthly way. I believe her background is genteel, but she will not speak of it. Do you want to meet her? I am sure she would love it if we called upon her.”

“How about on Monday? I really do have to get back to the twins,” Lucy said.

“Monday will be fine,” Francesca said, as she preferred attempting to see Calder and continuing the investigation, as there were still plenty of hours left before supper.

Lucy had espied a cab, and she waved at it. “Are you coming, then?”

Francesca hesitated. She could not deny that the thought of seeing Hart made her somewhat uneasy. But Hart could be a fount of useful information. He was her connection to the art world, quite obviously. She could not avoid him now. “Of course.” She forced a smile.

Lucy eyed her. “My, you do look as if you are walking to the guillotine.”

Francesca did not know what to say, so she said nothing. But the truth was that somehow even approaching Hart for important information made her feel as if she were betraying Bragg.

Suddenly the Channing carriage came up beside them, pausing in the drive before entering the street. Bartolla waved at them.

Francesca smiled at her, although Lucy did not.

Bartolla unlatched and pushed open her window. “Need a lift?” she asked. She was wearing the mink stole and an elaborate and beautiful navy blue hat, one with ostrich feathers. She was frankly breathtaking.

“Yes,” Francesca said with a smile, but at the same time Lucy frowned and said, “No.”

Bartolla smiled at them both. “Have a good afternoon!” she cried. The carriage pulled away. The cab had also driven past them, and the only other conveyance in sight was a trolley. It was, of course, going downtown.

They looked at each other. “So which lover is she off to meet?” Lucy asked archly.

“She is window-shopping with my brother, and he is not her lover.”

Lucy stared. “Is he handsome?”

“Yes—and engaged.”

“Oh ho! Evan Cahill is handsome and rich … . are you insane? How can you even
like
her!” Lucy cried.

Francesca had stiffened. “Evan is a gentleman. He would never betray Sarah.” She did not mention that he hated being engaged, that he did not like Sarah, and that he kept a mistress, a beautiful stage actress, and that he had always preferred stunning and flamboyant women.

“Oh, please! The writing is on the wall. How can you be blind?” Lucy faced her, her eyes flashing. “Let me tell you something, Francesca. She has eyed Rick behind your back—and not in a polite way. Fortunately, he could not care less about a woman like that, or she’d seduce him away from you, quicker than you could say ‘snake.’”

Francesca stared at her new friend and again thought about the fact that Bartolla was a friend of Leigh Anne. Then she recalled far too vividly the wide-eyed and somewhat pleased look on Bartolla’s face when she had found Francesca and Bragg in the throes of passion on the couch at the Channing ball. She was suddenly ill at heart—and nervously afraid.

“What is it?” Lucy asked quickly.

Francesca hesitated. “She happens to be Leigh Anne’s friend.”

Lucy cried out, “I should have known!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it takes a bitch to be friends with one,” Lucy said, and she was red-faced with anger now.

Francesca stared at Lucy, wide-eyed. But why should she be surprised by such a reaction from Bragg’s sister? She touched her arm. “I take it you don’t like Leigh Anne?”

“That’s an understatement. I
hate
her,” Lucy hissed. “After all she did to Rick, I hope she dies—now. Apache style!”

Francesca had a feeling that Lucy had not exaggerated her feelings, not in the least. “What did she do?” she whispered, her lips feeling numb.

“What did she do?” Lucy was incredulous—aghast. “Do you have to even ask? She broke my brother’s heart,” she said.

Five

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 4:00 P.M.

Hart’s mansion, No. 973 Fifth Avenue, was about ten blocks farther uptown than the Cahill residence. The five-story stone mansion was the only house on the block, as the area was sporadically developed and Hart’s property apparently
was
the entire block. Behind the house were sweeping lawns, tennis courts, a stable, and a guest “cottage.” (The cottage had five bedrooms.) Unsurprisingly, a huge bronze statue of a stag graced the mansion’s roof. As soon as Francesca entered Hart’s huge mansion, a house that was so vast it was almost impossible to imagine a bachelor residing there alone, there was pandemonium.

The twins came rushing into the huge front hall, which was large enough to host a small ball. They were screeching at their mother, who went wild in turn. Francesca smiled as Lucy knelt to hug both twins at once, asking them a dozen questions all in one breath. Her smile was strained.

Leigh Anne had broken Bragg’s heart?
That was not possible. He had never been in love with her—he had said so himself.

Roberto had followed the twins into the hall, and he paused beside a life-size statue of a reclining woman, an extremely beautiful nude girl with large breasts who was holding a dove in her cupped hands and in doing so strategically shielding her loins. As Grace entered the hall on Roberto’s heels, Francesca started, because she had been at Hart’s home several times and this sculpture was a new one. Not surprisingly, its eroticism was shocking, but it was undeniably beautiful. It stood opposite another sculpture that
she had seen before. A pair of women, also life-size and nude, were running in great fear.

Francesca quickly glanced around at the rest of the art in the hall, but nothing had changed—the domed ceiling above was a fresco that seemed to be depicting hell, as the men, women, and children being whisked upward were screaming and afraid. Another painting, this one a large oil on the wall, depicted a man on his back, about to be trod upon by his steed. It was titled
The Conversion of St. Paul
and it was as disturbing as it was powerful.

“How are you,
caro
?” Lucy was asking, hugging her ten-year-old son.

He protested but bit back a smile and did not pull away. “Shoz sent a telegram. He wants you to send one back to him immediately,” Roberto said seriously.

Lucy’s eyes brightened. “What did it say?”

“He misses us,” Roberto said simply.

“Did you have a pleasant day?” Grace asked her daughter, having followed Roberto into the hall.

“It was perfect.” Lucy grinned. “And we are having guests for dinner—Mrs. Channing and her daughter, Sarah, and her fiance, Evan, who is Francesca’s brother, and Francesca.”

Grace smiled and looked at Francesca. “Hello.”

Francesca felt flushed. “Mrs. Bragg, I do hope it won’t be an imposition,” she began.

“Not at all.” Grace glanced back over her shoulder.

Francesca stiffened. She suddenly realized that Hart stood at the far end of the hall, as still as any one of his statues. He was staring at them. Or was he staring at her?

She was aware of a new tension and she watched him start slowly forward. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. His silver vest was open, his tie undone, his shirt collar unbuttoned, revealing a small swath of dark skin and midnight-black hair. He was actually quite disheveled, but
disheveled
wasn’t the right word to describe him. She did not know the right word or words to describe him. There was always something languid and patient about his posture, his movements. There was always something sensual and even dangerous about the way
he stood, watching her so carefully. Yet there was also the hint of amusement in his eyes, as if he were in a dangerous game that he very much enjoyed. Hart would always be a predator, she thought. It was his basic nature.

She did not move.

A very faint smile etched his hard mouth as he finally emerged out of the shadows. “You like my new nude,” he murmured.

Her heart beat hard. “I think so.”

Now he did smile, and his eyes gleamed, holding hers. “I’m glad. I am rather fond of her, myself.”

Francesca glanced at the young woman holding the dove. Now she noticed that one tendril of curling hair was entangled with a very erect nipple. “She is too young for you. Besides, she must be a pacifist,” she said as tartly as possible, no easy feat when one could not breathe properly. “Which you are not.”

His white teeth flashed. “She is probably fourteen or fifteen. And that is rather young, even for me. And that is not a dove which she is holding … so carefully. It is a pigeon,” he said softly. “And why do you say I am not a pacifist? Only a fool enjoys war.”

“But frequently the symbolism is the same,” Francesca breathed, not looking at the nude but at him. She didn’t exactly want to talk about the fact that the nude was cupping a pigeon against her loins. “So you are a pacifist, Hart?”

“Until prompted to be otherwise.” He smiled at her. “I do not think the message this sculptor intends has anything to do with pacifism.”

In spite of her unease, she felt a flash of excitement. “Why else use symbolism associated with peace?”

He grinned. “The young lady we are so admiring is holding the pigeon in a certain manner—not for the classic strategic reason. This sculpture was only recently completed. Today artists are not afraid to reveal anatomy, Francesca.”

“I am missing your point.”

“Take a good look at Lady Brianna,” he murmured.

Francesca supposed that was the model’s name, and she did.

“No, look at her hands,” he suggested far too smoothly. Amusement was in his tone.

Her heart seemed to stop. “She’s stroking the bird,” she whispered.

Very softly, he said, “At least.”

And she thought,
Feathers. How erotic they would be
… .

Her heart lurched, far too intensely for comfort. She jerked her gaze back to Hart and found him standing stockstill, staring. His eyes were narrowed and filled with speculation now.

It was hard to breathe, much less think clearly. “I have changed my tune. The sculpture is about erotica, not pacifism.”

“I have not been fair,” he said, his smile odd now. “I do know this artist’s work and background. And yes, it is about erotica, and most galleries refuse to show Monsieur Dubei, considering his work far too scandalous and shocking for public purview. Do you find it too scandalous? Should I hide the lovely Brianna in my master suite?”

She inhaled, fighting for her every breath. “You have children in the house, but …”

“But?” He stared intensely.

“But”—she wet her lips—“she is beautiful. It would be a shame to hide her in a back room.” Francesca somehow shrugged.

He smiled widely at her. “You are a bohemian at heart, Francesca. And clearly I agree with you completely. As for the children, the twins and Roberto do not understand.”

She couldn’t help agreeing with him.

“So? What brings you to my humble home? Let me guess. You are enamored of my stepsister.” His gaze was hooded now.

“I have come to see you,” she said hoarsely. She tried to clear her throat and succeeded.

His black brows slashed upward. “Really? I am touched.”
His fingers brushed over the vicinity where his heart lay.

“It is business, Hart,” she said, her brisk and purposeful self once again. But she knew better, she truly did, than to expect to encounter Hart without any turbulence. He loved throwing others off balance.

“And now I am crestfallen,” he murmured. “But I do hope you mean anything but sleuthing?”

She shook her head at him, not in response to his last question, but to his pretense at being broken-hearted. Yet annoyance escaped her now. Did he always have to use that tone of voice with her? Did he enjoy provoking her somehow?

“Shall I have Alfred send in refreshments, Calder?”

Francesca almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of Grace’s voice behind them. She had forgotten that they were not alone—and she had forgotten it entirely. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned.

Grace wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t frowning, either. Her gaze was extremely thoughtful and not necessarily happy.

Lucy was also staring, wide-eyed. She had a twin by each hand, with Chrissy trying to go in one direction and Jack in another, both of them arguing not quite coherently with each other—and clearly Lucy was impervious to the tug-of-war. Roberto was merely waiting patiently with his mother, although he seemed to be trying to give Jack a small toy soldier.

Francesca met Lucy’s eyes and was overcome with guilt.
Which brother do you love?
That question remained absurd, but Francesca was not wishing she had never heard it.

“Francesca? Are you hungry?” Hart’s black eyes held hers. “Do you have an appetite?”

“No,” she said flatly, thinking about the sculpture and the pigeon. She knew she flushed slightly again.

He laughed, his glance a knowing one. Then he shook his head. “We shall be in my study.” He gestured for her to precede him inside. “After you, Francesca.”

She managed an odd smile at Grace and Lucy. Then she
hurried down the hall as if to escape him, which was absurd. She felt him following at a slower, more leisurely pace. But then, had she ever seen Hart in a hurry? He was one of the most unflappable men she knew.

And the moment she stepped inside his study—a room three times the size of that of the “average” rich man—she faced him, far too nervously for comfort. He had hardly closed the door when she said, “How could you, Calder?”

He was amused, and he strolled toward her slowly. “How could I what?”

“How could you talk about that woman like that, in front of them?”

He laughed. “It is not a woman. We were discussing a work of art and, if anything, one artist’s perception of a moment of pleasure.” He shrugged. “Miss me?” he asked in a tender drawl.

“Not in a million years!”

He chuckled again, more softly. “Come here, Francesca.”

Purposefully doing the opposite, Francesca walked over to a window, but failed to see what was outside. She had to clear her head. She had come to him for a reason, but he always turned every encounter into a battle zone with sexual overtones, no matter the time or place.

Suddenly his hand was on her shoulder. She leaped away.

He eyed her. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I am hardly nervous,” she lied.

He was amused and it was obvious. “I suppose I should apologize. But I am not really sorry. That mind of yours is so inquisitive, and no subject should be taboo. I cannot help myself. I was very curious as to what you were thinking.”

“I am thinking that you are impossible. Why, Calder? Why ask me in front of Grace and Lucy? Why not debate the subject—and merit—of that piece of art at another, more appropriate time?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I do not care if Grace and Lucy see you as you really are.”

She froze. Then heatedly, “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, unsmiling, “that I know you wish to
impress them with being ever so proper—after all, she is Rick’s mother, and God forbid she should not like you when you are so in love with her son.” He calmly folded his arms over his chest. He had large, muscular arms and a broad chest, which was not noticeable when he wore a suit. His physique was noticeable now. “But you are not a proper little moron. You are an independent woman with a dizzyingly clever mind. Sometimes I think of you as a sponge, Francesca.”

She folded
her
arms over
her
chest. “What does that mean?”

“It means you have a thirst for knowledge that is infinite. But most important, your mind is an open one.”

She was mollified. Warily she said, “I am here to discuss a case.” But speaking about Bragg reminded her of Lucy’s angry declaration. Had his heart been broken by his wife?

“Oh, wait. Did I say
love
?” His brows lifted. “I meant lust. You are still lusting after my half brother, aren’t you? Or have the two of you consummated your tragic, starcrossed affair?”

She closed her eyes and fought consciously to control herself. “We have been over this before. What Bragg and I do is none of your business. And as I shall never convince you that love exists, why should I bother yet again to defend myself? Do you want to help me solve a case or not?” she snapped.

“If you are on a case, then I might turn you over my knee myself,” he said flatly. “As if you were twelve, not twenty.”

“What the hell does that mean?” The tension had become unbearable. Her neck felt like it would soon snap.

“Is that, or is it not, a bandage on your hand?” he demanded.

“Have we not been over this before? I am a grown woman and—” She stopped.

He smiled at her, because they had been over this before, and he had been thoroughly insulting. “You are not quite grown up,” he said softly.

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

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