Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (29 page)

She simply stood there, a beautiful woman with cold eyes in a beautiful blue ensemble.

“Join me for a sherry?” he asked, feeling a familiar and chilling desperation. Still, he clasped her arm.

She looked extremely anxious now. She pulled away from him, forced a smile. “Very well.” She quickly walked ahead of him into the blue room where they entertained.

Neil followed, aware of the pain in his heart. He had never had his heart broken before, but now he understood
why it was called broken and not something else.

She sat down, arranging her skirts about her.

He poured them both drinks. “So Hart is pursuing your sister?”

“Yes.”

“And you approve?”

“I think it is a good match.”

He approached, handing her a sherry. And he could no longer contain himself. “We must speak, Connie! Our marriage has become impossible and I do not think I can live like this!” He was shocked by his own emotional outburst.

She jerked, spilling sherry. Her wide eyes found and held his. “What?”

He had taken the first terrible step. Somehow, he could not turn around and go back. “I cannot live like this anymore.”

She stood up with vast dignity, but then he saw the tears filling her eyes. “I see.”

“Do you?” He set his brandy down.

She lifted her chin. “First the affair. Now . . . you wish to leave me.”

As this was the last wish on his mind, it was a long moment before he could comprehend her. “No! I would never leave you,” he said, stunned.

The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She fought them, her slim nostrils flaring. Her shoulders were impossibly square.

And suddenly he gripped her arms. “I cannot bear this marriage this way anymore!” he cried passionately. “I have begged you for forgiveness, and now, I beg you, give me another chance.”

“Let me go,” Connie whispered, trembling and crying, yet as rigid and erect as a statue.

He was a gentleman, so he was about to do as she asked—but then instinct took over. “No.” He took her face in his hands. “Do not shut me out anymore, Connie. If you will not give me another chance, then say so. But tell me
what you are thinking, because I cannot stand this aloofness; I simply can’t.”

She shook her head, the tears coming faster now, streaming down her cheeks, and she was clearly incapable of speech.

“I love you,” he heard himself whisper.

She looked up—and struck him across the face.

He was so stunned that he froze, paralyzed.

She seemed to realize what she had done, because an expression of shock and disbelief covered her features. “Oh, God,” she whispered, backing away.

But he was glad she had hit him, because anger was better than her ignoring him, and he seized her wrist. “No, it’s all right,” he managed.

She burst into tears again and covered her face with her hands, sobbing hysterically—with complete abandon.

At first, he was in shock. He had rarely seen Connie lose control, and never this way. Then he reacted. He moved close and took her into his arms, and when he felt her small body against his larger one, when he felt her softness against his strength, he began to cry, too.

He rocked her while she cried.

She sobbed like a small child for a long time.

They could not find Bertrand Hoeltz. Francesca and Hart searched the crowd in both rooms of the gallery, but he appeared to be gone. When they had rejoined Sarah and Rourke, Francesca pulled her aside. “Have you seen Mr. Hoeltz?”

“No. Francesca, what is wrong? What has happened?”

Francesca looked at her, debating whether to tell her the truth we or not. Rourke took her arm. “Is there something more that we should know about? How is your investigation progressing?”

Francesca met his concerned amber eyes. “There has been another murder,” she said quietly. “The neighbor downstairs, who I believe saw something, was strangled the
way that Miss Conway was, yesterday,” she said.

Sarah gasped. Rourke moved to her side and steadied her. Sarah did not seem to notice. Very pale, she said, “Was she also an artist?”

“No,” Francesca said firmly, hoping that would reassure her. “In fact, Sarah, even though two art studios have been vandalized, neither of the dead women was an artist.”

“I don’t feel reassured,” Sarah whispered. She turned and glanced up at Rourke. “Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, taking her arm firmly in his. “In fact, the more I think about this bizarre case, the more convinced I am that you have nothing to do with it.”

“How can you say that?” Sarah asked, her brown eyes wide on his.

Francesca would have asked the exact same thing.

“I think Miss Conway had an insane admirer. She was a wonderful actress, as anyone would agree. I think the admirer decided to kill her when he was rejected by her. I think it was all carefully planned—destroy your studio as a red herring, then lure Miss Conway across the hall into Miss Neville’s studio to do away with her. He vandalized Miss Neville’s studio merely to distract and confuse the police. The neighbor who was murdered yesterday was an unfortunate victim—as she saw something which she shouldn’t have.”

Sarah gazed unwaveringly at his face, then relaxed visibly. “I do hope you are right.”

Francesca could not believe how well informed Rourke was—and she had not a doubt as to how he had been keeping abreast of the case, as Bragg was his older brother. “That is quite an interesting theory, Rourke.” She, for one, did not buy it. But she knew what he was doing. He did not want Sarah alarmed or made ill from worry again. “Have you and Bragg been having tea?” She smiled sweetly.

“Whiskey,” he returned with a smile that did not reach his eyes. His gaze was warning her to hold her silence.

Starting, Francesca realized he was protecting Sarah Channing.

“The many benefits of having a police officer in the family,” Hart drawled sardonically.

“It must be very beneficial indeed,” a man said from behind them all.

Francesca recognized a voice she had come to dread. She whirled and faced the nerveless reporter from the
Sun
, Arthur Kurland.

“Good evening, Hart, Miss Cahill.” His smile was pleasant, his eyes eager. “You must be a Bragg,” he said to Rourke. “You could be the commissioner’s twin.”

Francesca had stiffened unbearably. They did not need this now!

“Rourke Bragg,” Rourke said, unsmiling and looking from Kurland to Francesca and back again.

“Do I know you?” Hart asked imperiously.

“No, but I do know you, Mr. Hart.” Kurland extended his hand. He was a slim, dapper man, his short dark hair parted in the center. “Arthur Kurland, newsman from the
Sun
.”

Francesca wanted to shout at Hart not to touch the viper in their midst. To his credit, he did not shake Kurland’s hand. “Is there something you wish from us? We are late for a supper reservation.”

“I was merely hoping for a comment from Miss Channing and Miss Cahill.” Kurland grinned.

Dread overcame Francesca. “I fear we are late,” she said, moving past him.

“Miss Channing? Did you know that Miss Conway was your fiancé’s mistress? Do you think he could have murdered her?”

Sarah cried out.

“That’s enough,” Rourke said angrily.

Francesca whirled to see Hart step between Sarah and Kurland. “You have the manners of an oaf. I suggest you find your way out of the gallery, Kurland, before I have you thrown out—or rather,” and he smiled with dangerous glee, “before I do it myself.”

“I see that Miss Channing didn’t know about her fiancé’s
lover. But surely you did, Miss Cahill.” He turned to face Francesca as Hart’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Hart, don’t,” Francesca said halfheartedly. Bragg had never been able to manhandle Kurland, as he was an officer of the law. But Hart had no such issues restraining him.

“And now Miss Holmes is dead. And she was obsessed with your brother. Any comment, Miss Cahill?” Kurland asked, eyes wide.

“My brother had nothing to do with those women being strangled,” Francesca said tersely.

Hart grabbed Kurland by the arm, so forcefully that Kurland cried out. “Don’t bother, Francesca.” Hart dragged him from the gallery.

A silence fell. Francesca faced Sarah, who was pale with shock. “No one told me. No one told me that the actress who was murdered was Evan’s mistress!” she cried, her tone hoarse and low.

Rourke still held her arm. “It’s a terrible coincidence,” he said firmly.

“Of course it’s a terrible coincidence!” Sarah cried, ashen. “But that Kurland is an awful man and he intends to make equally terrible suggestions in his newspaper. Doesn’t he, Francesca?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca said, and then she took her hand. Rourke released her. “But I’m afraid you’re right.”

Sarah straightened her shoulders. A very determined look came over her face.

“What is it?” Francesca asked.

“I’ve been hoping something would come up, something to end our engagement. But now I realize I must stand by your brother—no matter what.”

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY 22, 1902—MIDNIGHT

“I will see Sarah in,” Rourke said.

Hart lounged indolently in the squabs, his big body extremely close to Francesca. “You do that,” he said amiably.

Francesca could feel his thigh burning against her own
leg. She didn’t mind. If anything, she wanted him to press even closer. She had been extremely unladylike that night. She had matched Rourke and Hart almost glass for glass and they had finished two entire bottles of red wine. And the entire evening, Hart had been at her side, patient and somehow deliberate, attentive and oh-so-male, and too appealing for words.

“Good night,” Sarah said. “And thank you for a wonderful evening.”

Hart leaped up, no longer in the least bit indolent, getting out of the barouche with Rourke, followed by Sarah.

“Good night,” Francesca said, leaning out the door. In another moment they would be alone. Throughout the evening, in spite of the wine, the conversation, and the case, she’d had flashbacks to that afternoon. And every time Hart had turned to look at her, she had melted like chocolate in a fry pan. “And don’t worry about anything!” she called.

“Tomorrow right after class,” Sarah returned, with a gay wave. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and as Sarah hadn’t even finished a single glass of wine, Francesca knew she had enjoyed herself that evening. She watched Rourke escorting her up the path to the house, her gaze narrowing with speculation. Sarah had hardly spoken to Rourke all evening. She had spent all of her time conversing with Francesca and Hart, almost ignoring her escort.

“Is there any chance that Sarah and Rourke might be a successful match?” Francesca asked as Hart entered the carriage, closing the door behind him so that they were completely alone.

He settled down in the seat beside her. “I never make matches,” he stated, as if that topic were closed.

“It is a foolish and usually hopeless endeavor,” Francesca agreed, her heart tightening. Two small lamps illuminated the interior of the carriage, and she thought about what a perfect evening it had been and what the perfect ending to the evening must be.

She could open his shirt the way that Daisy had done.
Button by button, and then, if she slid onto his lap, she could truly experiment.

She jerked free of that fantasy but wondered if she dared to try to seduce him. She did not have Daisy’s experience. On the other hand, she was a quick study and she had seen an inordinate amount of lovemaking that day.

He seemed to take up every available inch of space inside the compartment. He was watching her now, closely. She shuddered and sighed. If she did not try to seduce him, she might not even get a good night kiss. She could not imagine the evening ending without his lips on hers.

“I fear I have created a monster,” he murmured.

She gave him a look. “No, a woman with a single cause.”

He chuckled. “We could announce our engagement tomorrow,” he drawled. “So I can teach you the right way to kiss a man.”

She inhaled. The tone of his voice jerked her directly back to a very vivid recollection of that afternoon. “So you can teach me other things,” she breathed.

“What?” He was startled. Then his gaze narrowed. “What other things?”

She had to try. The desire was killing her. She smiled at him—it felt grim—ignored his wary surprise, and, terribly afraid of his rejection, climbed onto his lap.

“What are you doing?” He seemed to choke.

It wasn’t as comfortable or as sensual as she had thought it might be. Her skirts had twisted, so her legs were tied up, with one knee bent underneath her—she couldn’t even sit him properly and her leg felt as if it might break. Francesca didn’t answer. She met his dark eyes, saw laughter there, and quickly looked away. How dare he laugh! He would not be laughing much longer. . . . She reached for his shirt.

“What are you doing, Francesca?” he purred.

In spite of the fact that her knee felt like it was about to break off and prevented her from really having close contact with him and his intriguing anatomy—and she did wish that she knew what it was doing—she untied his tie.

He caught her wrist. “I asked you a question,” he said.

She glared. “I am taking off your tie—and then I shall unbutton your shirt.”

“Oh, really?” He was trying very hard not to laugh. She felt like smacking him for his silly grin. “Francesca, are you trying to seduce me?”

She glared. “Yes!”

He burst into laughter.

She lightly struck his face.

He caught her hand, the laughter dying, turned it over, seared her with a look, then pressed his mouth to the sensitive flesh between her thumb and forefinger.

Her loins warmed, swelled.

He looked up. “I am afraid you are going to break your leg,” he said softly.

“So am I,” she managed. “Hart, please.”

He wasn’t smiling now. He clasped her waist and moved her off his lap, onto the seat. Francesca quickly extended her aching leg; then, not to be stopped, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his throat.

He grasped her shoulders and pushed her back. “I am very, very serious about treating you as a gentleman should. Francesca, once you accept my suit—once we are officially affianced—a kiss or two would be in order. Otherwise, I am not compromising you—not in any way.”