Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (22 page)

Francesca hurried up the short brick walk to Bragg’s brownstone. The building had been built several decades ago and was typically Victorian—the roof was gabled, the facade brick, the rooms within small, the stairwell narrow. Her knock was answered instantly by Peter, Bragg’s man.

Francesca smiled at him. He was a huge Swede, perhaps six inches over six feet tall and quite wide with brawn and muscle. Francesca knew he was a jack-of-all-trades—at times a butler, a valet, a cook, or a housekeeper. Once Bragg had thought to foist him on her as a bodyguard.

Peter hardly ever smiled and he hardly ever spoke. He nodded. “Good evening, Miss Cahill.” If he was surprised to see her at this hour, he gave no sign.

Francesca stepped inside a small, poorly lit foyer, as only one small lamp was on, sitting upon a side table against the wall, beneath a mirror. The steep, narrow staircase was just ahead and to her left, a dark runner there. Directly down the hall was the parlor, and the door was open, but the room was also dark. To its right was Bragg’s office. His door, she saw, was shut.

Light, however, came from the dining room’s open doorway on her right, beyond which was the kitchen.

Francesca had stopped by earlier that day. Bragg was fostering two young girls whose mother had been murdered by the Cross Killer. Francesca had arranged it, and her mother had arranged for their nanny, Mrs. Flowers. Not a day went by that Francesca did not spend an hour or two with Dot, who was two, and Katie, who was six. Permanent arrangements had yet to be made for the pair.

“Did Katie eat her supper?” she asked. Katie had been very distressed when she had first come to Bragg’s, and not eating had been her way of evincing it.

Peter smiled. It was a rare sight indeed. “Every morsel.”

Francesca was impressed. “And has Dot behaved herself?”

“Always,” he said, with a straight face now and laughter in his eyes.

Francesca did not even try to imagine what mischief the
vivacious toddler had got into. “Is Bragg in his office?” she asked.

“I am afraid he is out for the evening,” Peter said.

Francesca blinked. “Do you know when he will be back, Peter? There really is a lead I wish to discuss with him.”

“He said ten or eleven, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca hesitated. “Do you mind if I wait? Perhaps I can sneak upstairs and kiss the girls.”

He didn’t look pleased with that.

“I do promise not to wake them,” she added, smiling. He nodded. “Should I bring you a tea or a sherry or a glass of wine?”

“No. I am fine. Thank you.” Francesca started for the stairs and tripped over an object upon the floor.

Peter quickly gripped her arm. Francesca saw that she had stumbled over a small valise. Now she realized a large trunk and another valise, medium-sized, were all lined up beside the stairs. Her heart skipped. “Bragg is going out of town?” she asked quickly.

“He did not say,” Peter commented.

Francesca was disturbed. Every hair on her nape prickled with warning and alarm. She bent down. The small valise was a dark red, she saw, and it was definitely a woman’s bag.

There was a name tag encased in leather on the trunk. She seized it. It read:
MRS. RICK BRAGG
.

She inhaled. Her mind scrambled for excuses. Leigh Anne was leaving town—which was why her bags were there, in Bragg’s house, at the bottom of the stairs. Perhaps he was taking her to the Boston train first thing in the morning!

But why weren’t her bags at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she was staying?

Francesca was grim. She turned and stared at Peter. It was a moment before she could speak. “Do you know why Mrs. Bragg has her trunks here?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said impassively. “The commissioner did not say.”

She wet her lips. “When did these bags arrive?”

“Around six this evening, Miss Cahill.”

She reached for and gripped the newel post on the smooth wooden banister of the stairs. So it had finally happened. Bragg had reconciled with his wife. She reminded herself that this had been inevitable—that it was right. She had no cause to be upset or to feel betrayed.

The front door opened. As it did, a woman’s voice sounded, distinct, cultured, soft . . . pretty. There was a teasing note in her tone.

Francesca turned as Bragg’s familiar slightly rough and terse voice responded, “I do not know what Mrs. Lowe intends, Leigh Anne.”

Francesca held on harder to the banister. But she was upset. Because she could not turn off her feelings as simply as one did a water faucet.
Why hadn’t he told her
?

“Francesca!” Bragg halted in his tracks.

She meant to smile. But she could not, so she stared instead.

They made a striking couple. He was tall and golden; she was small and dark.

“Miss Cahill!” his beautiful wife cried, hurrying forward. “Is everything all right? Are you all right, my dear?”

Francesca recovered. “I have come to discuss a new lead with . . . your husband,” she said briskly. “But I can see that I have come at an inopportune time.”

“Oh!” Leigh Anne had paused before her, handing off her silver chinchilla fur coat to Peter. She wore a silver gown beneath, one gorgeous in its design and one that revealed her perfect yet petite figure—and a great deal of surprisingly voluptuous bosom. Of course Bragg would remain attracted to her. What man wouldn’t?

“Well, why don’t you and Rick go into the parlor and I shall send in some refreshments?” Leigh Anne smiled pleasantly. “I don’t really know what is lying about in the kitchen, as I have only just moved in, but I am certain I can come up with something. Peter? Do help.”

She had moved in
. Francesca was not surprised. She had
known it the moment she had seen those bags. It was really, truly, finally over.

Leigh Anne had started for the dining room doorway. Bragg came forward, draping his greatcoat on the chair beside the side table. “Francesca,” he said urgently.

“I think this can wait until tomorrow,” she managed, and she hurried past him, through the entry hall, and out the door into the night. The sorrow overwhelmed her then. What had she been thinking, to carry on even if only emotionally with a married man? But could she really let go? Did she even want to?

“Francesca!” Bragg cried, chasing her.

She turned to face him. “I am happy for you, for you both, Rick. You deserve a marriage, a family—you deserve happiness.” And that noblest part of her meant it.

“It is only for six months,” he said.

“What?” Hope flared. And past his shoulder, she saw Leigh Anne in the doorway of his house, watching them.

“Leigh Anne offered me an arrangement. One I am getting in writing, Francesca,” he said, his tone low and urgent. “She will live with me for six months, and then I am free. Then she will give me a divorce,” he said in a rush.

She was stunned. “I don’t understand.”

He grimaced. “I do believe she thinks that after six months, I will change my mind.”

Her mind sped and raced, but uselessly, in confusion. Until she realized that Leigh Anne was probably right. “Of course you will. You still love her.”

“That’s not true,” he said angrily. His eyes flashed. “I despise her. She is very clever, that is all. My feelings for you haven’t changed,” he added.

She stared. It was a long and even sadder moment before she spoke. “No, Rick, I think you should face the truth. You love her, not me. And that is as it should be.”

“You dare to tell me who I carry with me in my heart, minute by minute and day after day? It is you, Francesca. You are the one I think about, yearn for, dream of. You are the one who makes me laugh and smile. You have always
been the one to put a smile in my heart.” He added, “And I hate it when you call me Rick!”

She finally pulled away from him. “Don’t do this. Not now. Not anymore.” And Hart’s knowing, mocking image filled her mind. It clearly said,
I told you so
.

“I am not asking you to wait,” Bragg said. “But damn it, I am not going to lie to you, either.”

“You are lying to yourself. I simply do not know why,” she said, but she was torn. A part of her wished to discourage his marriage—to tell him what he wanted to hear. “Hatred and love—both extreme passion . . . and, as Calder has said, the opposite sides of the same coin.”

He stared, his eyes agonized. “Not in this case.”

“Have you slept with her?” Francesca asked, and then could not believe the burning question had popped out. But she had to know. And terribly, she recalled the fact that just an hour or so ago, she had finally been kissed by Calder Hart.

He was clearly taken aback. “No.”

Francesca shook off her sudden guilt. But what had happened at Hart’s was not the issue, not now. And she would analyze that incident later. “But you will. Don’t deny it. I see the way you look at her.”

“Francesca, men are different from women. A man can sleep with a woman he has no feelings for.”

“I am aware of that. But more important, we don’t get to choose whom we fall in love with,” she said sadly.

“You are being as bullheaded as ever,” he snapped. “I am allowing Leigh Anne to live in my household for exactly six months. And after that, she will agree to a divorce and I shall be free. I should have told you. But we concluded this arrangement only today. For God’s sake! I have been in shock myself, trying to adjust to the fact of my wife’s return—and her very clever manipulations.”

“I think she still harbors love for you, too.” In fact, Francesca had little doubt now.

“She loves only herself.” His anger vanished, his tone became pleading instead. “I don’t want you leaving this
way. No matter what happens, we are friends.”

She realized she was hugging herself. She glanced past him and saw that his wife had left the door and it was now closed. And suddenly she wondered if she and Bragg could really remain friends. It now seemed a monumental task.

She knew he wanted reassurance from her—that she would be his friend no matter what happened—but she was not up to the task of offering comfort now. She tried a small smile instead. “I’ll drop by headquarters tomorrow. There is a new development you should know about. It’s late. I have to go, Bragg. If my mother sees me when I come in, I am in serious trouble.”

He didn’t smile. He clearly couldn’t.

Francesca hesitated, kissed his cheek, felt her heart suddenly break, and walked off to Hart’s waiting carriage.

F
RIDAY
, F
EBRUARY 21, 1902—10:00 A.M.

She knocked gingerly on his closed office door. Headquarters was oddly silent that morning—no telephones were ringing, and she had heard only one telegraph. Voices were kept low, in a murmur. It was as if everyone were in mourning. Or was she the one in mourning and the atmosphere prevailing her imagination?

Bragg briskly called out. “Come in!”

She opened the frosted glass door hesitantly. She had spent most of the night tossing and turning, first thinking about him and then, against her will, considering Hart. She had gone over and over the memories she and Bragg had made. Every few moments, Hart’s nearly black eyes would intrude, their message clear:
I told you so
. He had been warning her that she was headed for ruin as long as she loved Rick Bragg for some time now—ever since they had first met. Then his eyes would change, turning to gray smoke. Furious—not wanting to think about the sensual interlude of that evening—she would jerk her thoughts back where they belonged. Hart’s dire predictions were wrong. She wasn’t ruined, not in the traditional sense of the word,
but her heart had been broken, not even once but several times over, in fact.

She had decided just last week to stand back and be Bragg’s friend and support his marriage and his career. She simply hadn’t known how difficult that resolution would be to keep. A night of brooding had not changed anything. She remained sad, the sense of loss insistent, but she was also confused—and afraid.

It felt as if her entire life was in upheaval once again. It felt as if nothing was ever going to be the same. It was as if she were on a terrible precipice. One step and the past would be forever out of her reach; one step and an endless fall would begin. If only she knew where she might land—and if she could survive the leap.

Now, she halted in the doorway as he looked up. Their gazes leaped together, locked. The moment of seeing him now felt terribly awkward.

He shot to his feet. “I wasn’t sure you would come downtown after all.”

She managed a smile. “We have a killer on the loose, Bragg. That hasn’t changed.”

He smiled a little, tentatively, his gaze searching. “No, that hasn’t changed.”

She hesitated. “I won’t appear at your door again at such an ungracious hour.”

He rushed around his desk. “Francesca! You may appear at my home at any time of the day or night!”

“I don’t think your wife will like that.”

He eyes were hard. “I don’t care what she likes.”

She realized he meant what he said—or he thought that he did. She almost told him that perhaps he should care about what she liked, then decided not to interfere in his marriage. That was a certain recipe for disaster.

Besides, somewhere deep down in her soul she knew he was never going to divorce Leigh Anne.

“So, are you bringing me a fresh clue?” His tone was light, as was the touch on her elbow. But the awkwardness remained.

She turned. “Bertrand Hoeltz, the owner of Gallery Hoeltz on Fourth Avenue, is Melinda Neville’s paramour, Bragg.”

His eyes widened. “Well,” he said after a significant pause.

Francesca finally smiled. “Is that all you can say?”

He smiled back, his expression suddenly easing. “When did he last see her?”

She was relieved that they had somehow broken the tension. “Monday morning. They shared a light breakfast and then she was returning to her studio to work. He seems quite frantic.” Francesca thought about Bertrand Hoeltz and added, “If he is dissembling, I cannot tell. Joel’s theory is that Hoeltz might have killed Melinda because of jealousy.”

“Over whom?” Bragg asked quickly.

“We do not know.”