Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (35 page)

He smiled gently at her. “It is a story that makes no sense.”

She simply could not believe that he was leaving his wonderful family. But she had been in the Cahill home for almost two weeks, and she had both eyes and ears. She knew there had been a terrible time between him and his father. “I should love to hear it,” she said gently.

He leaned on his cane and took her arm. She trembled and quickly avoided his eyes.

Ye had to come back and get burned, now didn’t you, Maggie girl? What do ye think ye are doin
’?!

“You are the kindest woman I think I have ever met,” Evan said softly, forcing her somehow to meet his vivid blue eyes. “But I refuse to burden you with the unpleasantries of my life. How are the children?” he asked then, eagerly.

“They are fine,” she lied. They were complaining roundly about being home, except, of course, for Joel, who truly understood that their brief stay in the world of the rich had been illusory in every way. “They have asked for you, too.”

He seemed pleased. “Would you bring them to see me? At the hotel? I plan to check in there tomorrow.”

She nodded, her heart leaping, because she would have another excuse to see him. But she quickly pulled away from him now. Her arm felt naked where he had been holding it. Joe was right. This was foolish and, worse, dangerous. She was on the verge of falling in love with a man she could never have, a man from the highest levels of society, a man engaged to another woman—even if unhappily—a man who only thought of her as a friend. Not to mention the fact that he was clearly in love with another woman. His feelings for the Countess Benevente were obvious.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching for her and turning her to face him. “You appear so sad!”

She forced a smile. “Actually, I came because I wished to offer my condolences, Mr. Cahill. I am so sorry about Miss Conway.”

His smile vanished.

She had seen the
Sun
. Rather, a co-worker who knew she had just spent ten days recuperating with the Cahills had told her that the dead actress was Evan Cahill’s mistress and that the story was in the newspaper. Maggie had rushed to six newsstands upon leaving the Moe Levy Factory that evening, looking for a remaining copy of the
Sun
. She had finally found one.

She hadn’t been aware that Evan had a mistress, but she simply knew that he had cared about her, because she knew he would only be with a woman he felt affection for. And she was simply appalled that the newsman had seemed to make Evan Cahill out into a reprehensible and immoral rogue, one who might have murdered his unwanted mistress and then the crime’s only witness. Evan was hardly a rogue. He was a gentleman with a good and noble heart.

“You saw the newspaper?” he asked, limping over to the sofa facing the fireplace.

Maggie nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her as he sat down. She rushed to follow him. “Yes. I am so sorry.”

He stared at his lap. “She was a wonderful woman and I fell in love with her at first sight. But all men did. I loved her very much, once upon a time.” He looked at Maggie grimly. “She was as kind and caring as she was beautiful.” He suddenly smiled at her and she saw tears in his eyes. “When she came into a room, it was like sunlight pouring inside. She lit up every room she entered.”

Impulsively she sat beside him, wanting to embrace him but not daring to. “I saw her at the theater once. She was very beautiful and very talented, too.” But she wondered when he had fallen out of love. Perhaps it had been when he had met the bold and beautiful Countess Benevente. Had he not been engaged to Miss Channing, Maggie felt that the countess would be his perfect match.

“We fought, Mrs. Kennedy, and it is a regret I shall bear
for the rest of my life. The time had come for us to part ways. God, I so wish now that I had stayed with her just a bit longer!”

She had to touch him, she had to comfort him, and she gingerly touched his broad, hard back. He didn’t seem to notice, as he had covered his face with his hands. “I am quite certain she loved you, Mr. Cahill. Please, do not feel such guilt. You are not to blame for her death. And Miss Conway surely knew that your relationship would end someday. She would not want you to blame yourself—not if she really loved you.”

Evan met her gaze and smiled slightly then. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. So that is why you came?”

She nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, suddenly aware of her knee touching his thigh. But she felt as if she would betray her feelings should she reposition herself. Worse, she was incapable of looking away.

He didn’t speak again. A long odd moment passed, one that became stranger with every beat of her heart—one that became more tense. His gaze suddenly dropped from her eyes, moving slowly over her face, darkening. And then he turned and stared at the fire, no longer smiling.

“I should go.” She leaped to her feet, shaken. Had he stared at her mouth? Or was it her imagination—and wishful thinking?

He got up with some effort, leaning upon the silver-knobbed cane.

“You don’t have to get up!” she cried, more nervous now, oddly, than she had been before.

“Of course I must stand up,” he said, and his expression had relaxed somewhat. “A gentleman always stands when a lady does.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she was not a lady. She wasn’t gentry or upper-class and she never would be—she didn’t count in his equation for respect and manners toward the fair sex. But she simply nodded.

“Are you all right?” he asked, hobbling around the sofa
and walking with her to the door. “Mrs. Kennedy, is anything wrong?”

She stared at him, her heart thundering in her breast.

Oh yes, everything is wrong! I finally find myself yearning to be in a man’s arms, and it is a man I can never have—at least, not in any proper way
! Maggie did not delude herself. She knew that the best she could ever hope for was a shameful affair. And it was simply not in her character to carry on in such a way. “Everything is fine,” she breathed.

He looked skeptical. Then, “I think not. I wish you would confide in me. And I wish you had stayed here,” he added.

“It was time to go home. My side is completely healed.”

He was staring at her.

“Are you all right?” she asked in confusion.

“There is one thing I must ask of you, but I do not want you to be insulted,” he said.

She stiffened. For one moment, a moment that was half-dread and half-hope, she thought he had read her mind and that he would suggest she become his mistress.

“Is it safe where you and the children live?”

“You think this is a good idea, Miss Cahill?” Joel asked warily.

They were standing on Broadway in the crush of rush hour. The avenue was lined with hansoms, carriages, and several backed-up electric trolleys. Crowds whirled around them, the passersby on their eager way home. It had begun to snow.

It was also growing dark. And as they were standing below the bold sign for the Royal, LeFarge’s main saloon and gambling hall, the sounds of male conversation and laughter drifted out to them from within.

Bragg had returned to his office and Francesca had decided there was one last stone to turn over, never mind that Bertrand Hoeltz had the strongest motivation of all their suspects to harm Melinda Neville. The portrait of LeFarge,
painted as Napoleon, remained engraved upon her mind. If Miss Neville had painted LeFarge, the waters were growing murkier indeed. It could be a coincidence, but it had to be explained.

“This is not a good place fer a lady to be,” Joel remarked. “It’s even worse than that saloon where we found Gordino, or the one where we found Craddock.”

He was simply too astute for a small boy. No one had ever learned of her forays into those sordid saloons downtown, except for Bragg’s family, but here there was every chance she would run into a family friend or acquaintance. Francesca sighed. “I fear I have no choice.”

“Yer fly gentleman won’t like this,” Joel grumbled. “I heard him say yer not to go to the Royal, Miz Cahill.”

“I shall not tell Bragg if you won’t.” She smiled briskly at him. “Let’s get this over with. After last night, I am exhausted, and I am more than ready to get home.” She wanted a hot bath, a Scotch whiskey (which she had already debated stealing from the library), and her supper on a tray in her room. Oh, how Hart would be laughing at her shameless ways now!

She smiled to herself.

Joel now sighed, looking more than worried. He gestured in a way that Hart had so often done, asking her to precede him in. Surprised and amused by the imitation, Francesca stepped up the limestone steps of the square building, took a breath, and pushed open one iron door.

Instantly a big man who was standing just inside the door barred her way. But not before she saw a beautiful room that looked like a men’s cigar club. The walls were paneled in wood, Persian carpets covered the floor, and the chairs and sofas were heavy and plush. Two groups of gentlemen were seated separately, with drinks, cigars, and newspapers. This was not what Francesca had expected. For a gaming hall, this was staid and elegant. “Members only, unless you got permission from the boss to come in,” the big man said in a Scots accent.

Francesca hardly heard him. To her dismay, Richard Wiley
was sitting with two gentlemen in a far corner, sipping scotches while engaged in what appeared to be an earnest conversation. Once, her mother had thought to force Wiley upon her as a suitor. He had seemed very fond of her, in fact. Now, Bragg’s admonishment that she was not to go to the Royal rang in her ears. She shifted so the Scot was hiding her from Wiley’s view, should he look toward the door.

“It is very important that I speak with Mr. LeFarge,” Francesca said, handing the Scot her calling card. “I am afraid my business is urgent and simply cannot wait.”

“You stay there,” the Scot said, not even looking at her card. A vast staircase was at the far end of the salon, but the Scot instead disappeared behind a pair of solid, gleaming mahogany doors. Francesca faced Joel, putting her back to the present company.

“So this is where Mr. Cahill plays his cards most nights,” Joel muttered. “Fanciest saloon I ever did see. Where is the bar? Where are the poker tables?”

“I think the lobby serves as a lounge,” she murmured. “I suspect the gaming part of the establishment is up those stairs.”

“Miss Cahill? Is that . . . is that you?”

Upon hearing Richard Wiley’s voice, Francesca winced. Well, her reputation had hardly been that bright to begin with. Now, of course, it was close to shreds. She turned with a bright smile. “How are you, Mr. Wiley?”

He seemed taken aback to see her inside the Royal. “Why, I am fine, thank you.” And then he began blushing madly. He was extremely tall, perhaps six-foot-four, and lanky, and now he towered over her. “I, er, I am conducting some business here with some friends,” he said lamely.

She realized he was far more horrified to be caught at the Royal than she was. Francesca warmed up. “Are you a member?” she asked.

“No!” he gasped. “I am truly here upon the invitation of Messrs. Braddock and Crane!” he cried. “But . . . what are you doing here?”

“I am on a case,” she said brightly. “And I must speak to Mr. LeFarge.”

He hesitated. “I have read all about you, Miss Cahill, and I must say, I had no clue a few weeks ago that you were so . . . so . . . intrepid!”

She didn’t think he meant it as a compliment, but she took it as one. “Why, thank you.”

He swallowed. “Well, in any case, this is no place for a gentlewoman.” He was disapproving now. “I would quickly conduct my business with Mr. LeFarge if I were you,” he said.

Thank God she had never once looked twice at Richard Wiley. “I intend to do just that.” She remained cheerful. “And, Mr. Wiley?”

He paused, about to return to his associates.

“If you do not mention that you have seen me here, then I shall not mention that you do business here, either.”

His eyes widened. “I . . . that is blackmail!”

“Not really.” She smiled, and just beyond him she saw the Scot leaving LeFarge’s office, coming toward her and Joel. Her heart skipped.

“He’ll see you,” the big man said.

Andrew LeFarge’s office was decorated in the same style as the huge salon she had just left. He offered her a sherry, which she declined. He did not offer Joel anything. Then, the doors solidly closed behind them, LeFarge sat behind his large oak desk, with Francesca and Joel seated in the two facing bergeres. “This is quite the surprise. And what may I do for you today, Miss Cahill?” He smiled benevolently at her.

She did not smile back. Every time she came face-to-face with this man she could only recall what he had done to her brother, and it infuriated her. “I have come to ask you about the portrait in your front hall.”

He was surprised. “My portrait?”

“Yes, the one where you are in a French military uniform, posed like Napoleon.”

“So you have admired it?” He was pleased.

“Hardly.” She remained as stiff as a board.

He stood. “It is obvious you dislike me, but I fail to see why.”

“I think we both know the reason,” she said, gripping her hands tightly together. “But I must know who painted that portrait.”

“An unknown artist,” he said, his gaze speculative. “She was highly recommended to me by a patron here.”

Francesca stared, her mind racing. And there was dread, as for one moment she feared that somehow that patron was her brother. If so, he would become a connection between each and every woman involved in the case, dead, alive, or missing. “Was the artist Melinda Neville?” she asked stiffly.

“Yes. How did you know that?” He appeared surprised.

She refused to tell him anything. “And how did you learn of her, Mr. LeFarge, if you please?”

He studied her. “Easily enough. Her brother is a patron here, and he had mentioned that his sister was an artist recently returned from Paris.” He shrugged.

She stood. “Thomas Neville is a patron of this club?!”

“Yes. He is here almost every night.”

She stared, her mind racing. The puzzle had become endless. Where did this piece fit in? “Does he know my brother, Evan?”