Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (40 page)

“I am hardly blithe about your brother. But as my sister Connie pointed out, I have no rights, none, and Leigh Anne has every right, Lucy, to be with him now.”

“I thought you loved him.”

She smiled and knew it was sad. “I do.” Then she closed her eyes and thought,
I did
.

Her heart tightened as Hart intruded upon her thoughts. Then it sped wildly. Surely she was not falling in love with him! That would be more than dangerous—it would be fatal. She might as well crawl out on a shaky tree limb—while a saw was going through it! No, she wasn’t in love with Calder Hart. That brief moment of insanity had been due to the trauma of the attack. She was terribly fond of him and terribly attracted—that was all.

“So it is Calder now—instead of Rick?”

She stiffened. Did she dare tell Lucy about Hart’s proposal? She hesitated.

“What is it?” Lucy asked quickly.

Francesca shook her head. “Nothing,” she said.

“If Calder and Rick were not brothers, I would approve.
Because Rick is married and because Calder isn’t what he claims to be—not at all. He deserves love—they both do.” She was thoughtful now. “Calder is different. He seems happier than I have ever seen him. He will always be a rude cynic, but he is not half as bad as he once was. I think it is because of you.” She smiled a little. “I have never seen him so undone as he has been this evening.”

Francesca’s toes curled. A thrill chased up and down her spine. “Well, there is certainly an attraction between us, but only a very foolish woman would think it to be anything more.” She did not want to recall how he had seemed to care so deeply about her just an hour or so ago. She had been very vulnerable then, still raw from the attack of the City Strangler, and she had not been thinking at all clearly where Calder was concerned, oh no.

“Calder is a hard and difficult man,” Lucy mused. “But so was my husband when I first met him.” She smiled then, to herself. “Even hard men can soften—given the right woman.”

“I am not the right woman for Hart,” Francesca said sharply, while a treacherous little voice inside her head answered,
Why ever not
?

Lucy studied her and then shrugged. “Well, I doubt Calder will ever think to settle down and marry, so this conversation is moot. Besides, he knows how you feel about Rick—and how Rick feels about you.”

Francesca leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

Lucy started. “I don’t understand.”

She wet her lips, careful now. “Bragg thinks Hart wishes to strike at him through me, Lucy.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “They have been rivals ever since I can remember!” she exclaimed. “When my father brought them home, Rick was eleven, Calder nine. Rick was always trying to look after Calder, and Calder was always defying him. If Rick told him to be inside the house by dark, he would come back an hour later. They first came to blows when Calder was twelve. I remember it because I was right there. Rick was looking after Calder, as always. I don’t remember
what the argument was about, but Calder turned around and punched him in the nose. Rick was in shock—and Calder was furious. He hit him again—and then Rick struck back. It was horrible—bloody—Father had to break them up. And from that day, they frequently fought that way. Calder hated Rick telling him what he could and could not do—what he should do. He hated the fact that Rick was responsible, while he was always in trouble. But what he really hated was that Rathe was Rick’s father and not his.”

Francesca’s heart turned over with stunning sympathy now. “What he really hated was that Rathe came for Rick, but his own father did not come for him when their mother died,” she said softly.

“Yes, I think you are right.”

Francesca wondered if that was still the basis for Hart’s jealousy of his half brother.

Lucy said, “But they are grown men now. I know them both so well. Calder would never pursue you to hurt Rick. Never! That was a silly, immature game played when they were adolescents. They have both outgrown such rivalry now.”

Francesca stiffened with dread. “
What
? Are you saying that Calder has trespassed upon Rick’s affections
before
?”

Lucy looked upset to have spoken so baldly. It was a moment before she replied. “Francesca, those games were played when they were boys. It was a long time ago!”

Francesca struggled to sit upright, filled with alarm and dread. “What games?” she cried. “Are you saying that Hart has pursued women Bragg was fond of?”

“I shouldn’t have said a thing,” Lucy said, her expression turning stubborn. “That was a decade ago, Francesca. Really. They have long since gone their separate ways.”

Francesca realized that she was hugging a fluffy pillow now. She couldn’t force a smile; she could only stare and recall Bragg’s furious insistence that Hart was using her to strike a fatal blow at him. And Bragg believed it.

Francesca refused to believe it, but she was afraid.

And suddenly her mother and father rushed into the
room, Grace and Hart pausing behind them in the doorway. “Francesca!” Julia cried. “Calder says you slipped on some ice and fell from a hansom! Are you all right? Oh, dear! Your face!”

As Julia embraced her, Francesca looked past her mother’s shoulder at Calder Hart. His eyes were warm as they met hers, but they held a cautioning note.

Francesca looked away. She was not reassured—she did not know what to think.

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY 23, 1902—10:00 A.M.

Somehow she had overslept. Francesca paused on the threshold of Hart’s breakfast room, a room the size of most people’s formal dining rooms. She was not surprised to find the long, dark, polished oak table empty, with a single setting left there. As she had come downstairs, the mansion had been extremely quiet—clearly, none of the Braggs slept in, and she suspected everyone was out, the house deserted except for the staff.

Francesca walked over to the sideboard, chasing away all of her memories of the night before. One covered platter contained scrambled eggs and sausage, another pancakes. She helped herself to the former, and despite her resolve, images of Hart, Bragg, and Brendan Farr assailed her mind. Thinking of Farr, she lost her entire appetite.

Was she right about him? Could he possibly be the City Strangler? In the light of day, it seemed absurd.

But last night, when he had looked at her, she had been certain.

“So you are up,” Hart said softly, behind her.

She whirled, almost spilling the contents of her plate. “Yes.” Faced with Hart now, completely dressed in a black suit, so devastatingly seductive, her heart began to thunder. “Good morning. Thank you for all that you did for me last night, Calder.” She avoided his dark eyes.

He studied her. “Something happened last night, didn’t it? When I returned with your parents you refused to look
me in the eye, and now you are as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date.”

Francesca meant to smile. She grimaced instead and hurried to the table. She had hoped he would be downtown at his offices when she awoke.

Hart followed. “And I don’t think this is about Farr.”

She sat down and attacked her eggs, moving them about her plate.

“Francesca.” He sat down beside her and laid his palm over her hand.

She faced him, trembling. “I could be wrong about Brendan Farr. I realize that.”

“You are probably wrong. All of the evidence points to Neville. But I do not want to discuss the case now. Have I offended you?” His black gaze held hers.

And she simply could not look away. She reminded herself that he had been nothing but a good and honorable friend since they had met. Then she reminded herself of his terrible reputation and the rivalry with his brother she herself had witnessed firsthand. She recalled the sheen of tears in his eyes last night. Or had she been seeing what she wanted to see?

This man had openly professed his absolute disinterest in marriage when they had first met as near strangers. Now, months later, he had reversed himself. Why?

Francesca was hardly a fool. She knew she had some charm, but she wasn’t half as beautiful as the women she had seen him with.

Still, she knew with her entire heart that he was genuinely fond of her. Of that she was certain.

But a man like Calder Hart didn’t marry a woman because he was fond of her. What should she do?

The solution was simple:
Carry on as they were and do nothing
.

She trembled and turned away from him, closing her eyes tightly, stunned at the disappointment surging within her. And a terrible image of her in a wedding dress and veil,
walking down the aisle of a church with Calder Hart waiting for her at its end, assailed her then.

“Francesca? You are clearly upset with me. I am beginning to think my sweet sister Lucy has said something to you. She is the worst gossip.” He spoke very quietly, and no matter how she tried to tug her hand free of his, he would not let it go.

“I am fine. I am not upset with you. You have been nothing but kind,” Francesca said, not looking at him.

“Sir?” Alfred entered the room. “Commissioner Bragg is here and he insists upon seeing Miss Cahill.”

Francesca jerked, her heart lurching, facing the doorway. Bragg strode in, past Alfred, looking very grim. No, he was more than grim; he was angry.

Hart shoved back his chair and slowly stood. “I wondered how long it would take you to come,” he said mockingly. “I take it your wife sleeps in?”

Bragg did not look away from Francesca, although she saw his eyes darken even more. “Get out, Calder,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” Hart said smoothly. “This is my home. If anyone is to leave, it is you.”

Bragg whirled.

Francesca sensed he was about to strike his half brother in earnest and she leaped to her feet. “Not now!” she cried nervously.

Hart smiled unpleasantly at Bragg, clearly waiting for a blow and relishing the opportunity to strike back.

“Calder, would you leave us for a moment?” she pleaded, walking over to him and touching his hand.

He started and met her eyes. Then, with real disgust, he nodded and strode out.

He had left both doors wide open. Francesca walked to them and closed them solidly. Then she paused to take a deep breath before facing Rick Bragg.

“You were attacked last night! And I learn of that this morning at headquarters?” He was as disbelieving as he was angry.

She remained standing with the doors at her back, her
hands behind her on the brass handles. She didn’t know how to respond, but the one thing that had always been there between them was honesty and truth. “I went to you first,” she said, and heard how rough her own tone sounded.

He stared—and his eyes widened with stark comprehension.

“Leigh Anne said you were asleep.” Francesca held his gaze. She fought not to tremble. She fought to smile. “I had clearly come at an inopportune time. I left.” She squared her shoulders with all the dignity she could muster.

He was turning red.

Francesca raised her hand, sensing an explanation—one she did not want to hear. “I made a huge mistake. I should have never called at such an hour. You are married—rightfully so. Do not explain. Please, do not.”

“Damn it!” he cried. “You don’t understand—I don’t even understand! How badly were you hurt? Newman made light of the attack.” He came forward but paused before her and did not move to touch her.

How odd that was. Because once, not so long ago, he would have swept her into his arms, held her, comforted her, loved her. Once upon a time, he had been her safest harbor. But all of that had changed in one fell swoop last evening. Or had it been changing for some time? She opened her mouth to tell him that she was fine, thinking that it was better this way, not to discuss his private life, his intimate affairs.

Yet once, they had been able to share everything. Now his wife stood between them as solidly as a brick wall. It was impossible to speak.

He cursed again, savagely, turned away, ran his hand through his dusty golden hair. It was shaking. Then he faced her, shoving his hands abruptly in the pockets of his wool suit jacket, as if to restrain them there. “Are you all right? You look terrible. Your face is scratched and bruised. Your neck . . .” He could no longer speak, either.

She had to turn away from him. Because in spite of the evening he had shared last night with his wife, it was so
evident that he still cared.
When did life become so terribly complex? So incomprehensible
? she wondered.

“Francesca, please.”

She finally met his frantic gaze. “I survived. I am a bit bruised and I was frightened, I admit, but it is not as terrible as it looks.” She hesitated as he stared, then added, “We lied to Mama. It does no good to tell her I was attacked. She thinks I fell on a patch of ice.”

“You had better change your shirtwaist,” he said grimly.

Francesca nodded. The collar of her white shirt was too low to hide the bruising on her neck and throat.

“I want you to tell me everything that happened. Do not omit a single detail.”

Francesca walked away from the door and realized she was putting more space between them. But the need was instinctive now. Not turning, her hands idle on the dining table, she told him about her conversation with LeFarge and finding Thomas Neville at the Royal. She then revealed that Evan and Thomas were well acquainted and that Melinda Neville had wished to paint Evan’s portrait—that he had lied about not knowing her. And when she had walked out of the saloon, she had been attacked just a moment later.

Francesca tensed, remembering being seized without warning from behind. The memory was so vivid and acute that it felt real. As if the assault were happening all over again. “I never even heard him come up behind me, Bragg,” she whispered. “He was so swift that I never got a look at him. He dragged me into the alley and shoved me against the wall and . . .” She stopped. “You know the rest.”

He cursed. “Hoeltz has confessed nothing, Francesca. And we kept him overnight—so he is
not
our man.”

Francesca stared at him. She was sweating, she realized, and a knot of fear curdled her insides and stiffened her spine. “It’s not Hoeltz, Bragg.”