Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (12 page)

“And you must be thrilled!” Bartolla cried, hugging Leigh Anne. “Things have certainly changed since you first arrived in town, haven’t they? And when did you arrive, my dear? It was early February, was it not?”

“I arrived on the fifteenth,” Leigh Anne said with a composed smile. “I must get back to my guests. Ladies?” And she swept past them, inviting them to join her.

But neither Francesca nor Bartolla moved. They stared after Leigh Anne until she had disappeared into the salon or at the end of the hall where the ladies were dining. Bartolla sighed. “Now, I am utterly bored with this insipid little luncheon. I am meeting your brother for tea, and he is taking me shopping. Do you wish to join us?”

Francesca shook her head. “I must mingle. How is Evan?”

Bartolla’s eyes glinted. “Dashing, handsome, irresistible,” she laughed.

Francesca had to smile. She was relieved at the change of topic. “I heard he finally broke it off with Sarah. How is she?”

Sarah and Bartolla were cousins. “Happier than ever. Painting like mad. She has started on your portrait, Francesca; I’ve seen some preliminary sketches. I am truly impressed. Calder will be thrilled.” She grinned.

Francesca winced. She had promised Hart last night that she would speak with Sarah today and reminded herself
now that she must do so before going home. “Tell Evan I adore him—and that I miss him.”

Bartolla’s smile vanished. “He will come to his senses soon. Trust me. I am certain of it.”

Francesca did not think so. Her brother was furious with their father, and she had never seen Evan take such a stand before. “Papa blackmailed him into that engagement, Bartolla. I do not think he will return home or to the company anytime soon.”

“He is being a child,” she said with a shrug. “An angry child. And did you hear he has taken a pitiful job as some lawyer’s clerk? Trust me. I will make sure he does the right thing.” And she smiled.

Francesca wasn’t sure she favored Evan returning home. She was very proud of him for doing what he wanted to do with his life instead of doing as their father wished.

Bartolla asked Peter for her coat. Then she smiled at Francesca. “I did not mean to be rude before. I am so excited for you! But things have truly changed, haven’t they? How strange life can be. Do you love Hart? Has he seduced you?”

“Bartolla,” Francesca tried.

“You can tell me!” she exclaimed. “I saw this coming months ago! Hart was so jealous of your sleuthing with Bragg. But he is irresistible, isn’t he? And frankly, darling, there is
no one
better in bed.”

Francesca trembled. She already knew that years ago Hart and Bartolla had had a brief affair. Now, done with each other, they had mutual feelings that bordered on mild dislike for each other. Still, Francesca did not need to be reminded of his long ago affair now.

But Bartolla knew she had discomfited Francesca. “Darling, with a man like Hart, you will be faced with his previous paramours constantly. In fact, when you walk into a room, you will always wonder who he has slept with and who he has not.”

Francesca stared. Suddenly she was stricken. But it was true. Hart had been with so many women—suddenly she
was ill. How would she ever bear it? She and Hart would attend an affair and there would always be a woman present who knew him intimately. In that moment, Francesca knew she could not bear it. It would kill her, not knowing who his ex-lovers were—and knowing would be even worse.

Bartolla thanked Peter and took her coat. “And how is Bragg taking the news? He certainly seemed upset last night.”

Francesca flinched, unable to stop thinking about all of Hart’s ex-lovers. “He is very happy with Leigh Anne,” she lied.

“Oh, please. He can hardly bear to be around her—it’s so painfully obvious—although I suspect they are a good match in bed.” She shrugged on her gray brocade coat, trimmed with chinchilla. “He still loves you, Francesca. That is painfully obvious, too.”

She froze. With Bragg, she would never have to worry about ex-lovers and his eventually breaking her heart. “He does? You think he still loves me . . . that way?”

“How could you not see what everyone else sees?” Bartolla asked with surprise, drawing on her gloves.

Francesca inhaled. Hart had warned her not to trust this woman, but they were friends and Bartolla was such a worldly woman. “I am confused,” she whispered unsteadily. “I am very confused, Bartolla.”

Bartolla took her hand. “Tell me about it. Although I am sure I already know. You are torn, aren’t you?”

Francesca nodded, suddenly miserable. “But I do adore Hart,” she whispered.

“You adore his bed,” Bartolla said, her eyes big and sincere. “We both know that if Bragg were single, you’d never look twice at a rake like Hart.”

She shook her head, wanting to deny it, but she was afraid that Bartolla had hit the truth. “No. Hart and I have become real friends. It simply happened.”

“Hart doesn’t have friends,” Bartolla said.

“I am his first,” Francesca whispered.

Bartolla raised her dark brows, clearly disbelieving. But
that was the one thing Francesca was sure of—that Hart was really her friend. He had proven it too many times to count.

“Have you slept with him?” Bartolla asked.

Francesca flushed. “Bartolla . . . ”

“I won’t tell.” She smiled.

Francesca hesitated. “Hart insists that we wait for our wedding night.”

“Really?” Both dark brows lifted. “How odd.”

“He is not a predictable man,” Francesca said.

“No, he is hardly predictable. And I daresay he will be a difficult husband, too.”

Francesca hoped not.

Bartolla shrugged. “Not that it matters. You will do as you choose, for you are a headstrong woman, which is one of the reasons I so like you. And marriage isn’t the end of the world, really. If you did get bored, or decided that Hart was too much of a tyrant—or became bothered by his affairs—why, you could always have an affair, as well.”

“I’m not that way,” Francesca said, shocked.

“But you are so bohemian!”

“I am actually, foolishly, rather romantic.”

“Oh, dear. Then you had better think twice about marrying Calder Hart, as he will break your heart quicker than I can utter these words.”

Francesca turned away. She already knew this, and now her fear and panic were surging forth. She must be mad, to be marrying Calder Hart, because he would do more than break her heart; he would rip it into useless little shreds. She knew it—and Bartolla knew it, too.

“At least Rick will always be waiting in the wings to pick up the pieces,” Bartolla remarked.

Francesca inhaled, hard. Bartolla was so perceptive. Because that was what would happen, wasn’t it? She would eventually find Hart with another woman, she would be broken into pieces, and Bragg would be there, to hold her, comfort her, and tell her it was all right. And she knew he would never say, “I told you so.” Francesca closed her eyes,
overwhelmed with the reality of her dilemma.

But would he still be with Leigh Anne?

“I didn’t mean to upset you so!” Bartolla exclaimed, taking her hand again.

Francesca forced herself to smile. “I am not upset. And fortunately, I am not in love with Hart. I am fond of him and I look forward to sharing his bed.” She could not believe she had been so nonsensical, so matter-of-fact. To add to the effect, she shrugged as if she had not a care in the world.

“Well spoken.” Bartolla grinned. “And I am off. Good luck then.”

Before joining the company, Francesca watched her leave. She was grim. Worse, she was afraid again, the way she had been a month ago when she had run away from Hart. How could she even think of marrying him? She was simply too fond of him!

“Francesca? Are you joining us? Oh, dear, what is wrong?” Leigh Anne asked, a silver tray containing pastries in her hands.

Francesca blinked. “I am fine,” she managed.

Leigh Anne stared. “Whatever Bartolla said to you, I would not think too much about it.”

Francesca felt herself send Leigh Anne another sickly smile. “Really.”

“Bartolla adores causing conflict.”

Francesca looked away. She wasn’t about to tell Leigh Anne that in this instance the conflict already existed and Bartolla had merely been confirming Francesca’s worst fears.

“She is the one who wrote to me in Boston, urging me to come back immediately—she is the one who told me that my husband was in love with you,” Leigh Anne said.

Francesca gasped.
“It was Bartolla?”

Leigh Anne nodded gravely.

Before Francesca could assimilate the extent of such treachery, the front door opened and Bragg walked in. He halted upon seeing both women.

“Rick?” Leigh Anne gasped in surprise. She gave Francesca an odd look and hurried to him, still holding the dessert tray. “What brings you home in the middle of the day? I am hosting that luncheon I told you about.”

“I know.” He looked at his wife for one more moment and then looked past her at Francesca. “I came to speak with Francesca.”

Francesca already assumed this. Tension overcame her.

“To speak with Francesca?” Leigh Anne set the tray down on the small entry table, beneath a wall mirror, looking from her husband to Francesca and back again. “But how did you know she would be here?”

“We are working on a case,” he said, not looking at Leigh Anne now.

Francesca came forward. “What has happened?”

“I sent my men to arrest Tom Smith. He is dead, Francesca.”

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
28, 1902—3:30
P.M
.

F
RANCESCA GRABBED
B
RAGG’S COAT
sleeve. “What? He is dead? Do you mean murdered?”

“He was found by a resident of the area in an alley that cuts between Tenth and Eleventh Streets. His throat was slit.”

Francesca knew she gaped. Her mind raced.

Leigh Anne said, “Would you both like to retire to the dining room? You can have some privacy there.”

Bragg never took his eyes off Francesca as he nodded. She somehow followed him into the dining room, where Leigh Anne closed the single oak door solidly behind them. Francesca said, “There is simply no reason to think that his murder has anything to do with the disappearance of his daughter, or of Emily. We do not even know that Emily’s and Deborah’s disappearances are linked.”

“I agree. The Daimler is outside and still running. Unless
you truly must attend this luncheon, I suggest you get your coat.”

Francesca smiled grimly. “The school?”

“I think so,” he said, finally smiling in return.

Francesca rushed into the hall. “Peter! May I have my coat, please—the one covered in mud?”

He nodded and went to the closet.

Leigh Anne stepped out of the salon, coming slowly down the hall, looking from Francesca to Bragg. There was the barest hint of anxiety in her eyes. “I take it this is an emergency?” she asked Bragg.

He finally looked at her. His eyes narrowed as he did so. “Murder is usually an emergency,” he said.

“I am only asking. We are supposed to dine at Ron Harris’s tonight.” Harris was the city’s treasurer. “Mayor Low will be there. And so will Robert Fulton Cutting.”

Bragg nodded grimly. “What time?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll meet you there,” he said.

“Will you be late?”

“I’ll try not to be.”

Francesca had put on her coat, and watching them, she felt terribly sorry for them both. She also felt like kicking Bragg in the shins. His wife was being proper and polite, not to mention very generous about the investigation he was on—and who he was on it with. But Bragg was being a real boor. She came forward, unfortunately aware of how disastrous her appearance was compared to Leigh Anne’s. “I will make certain he arrives at seven precisely,” she said, meaning it.

Leigh Anne turned to her and smiled in relief. “It is a very important dinner, Francesca. It’s an honor that Rick was invited.”

Francesca had no doubt that some serious political bargaining would take place after supper tonight. “He will be there, on time and fully dressed.” She gave Bragg a look, because he could not attend such an affair in his current clothing. He would have to go home to change.

But he smiled at her, understanding. “I have a set of dress clothes in the office. I’ll have an officer bring them to me when the time is right.”

“Then let’s go,” Francesca said lightly, excitement now joining her determination. Because no matter what she had said, she suspected that Tom Smith’s murder had something to do with his missing daughter. After all, he had lied about sending his daughter to her aunt’s, and he had been murdered immediately after speaking to the police.

The public school was just a few minutes south of Madison Square, and as they were traveling downtown, with most of the city traveling uptown to home and hearth, they arrived within fifteen minutes. School, of course, had been let out. As they approached the limestone building, which badly needed a wash, Francesca realized it was an elementary school, from first to sixth grade. Deborah Smith had obviously been in the graduating class.

They entered the building, where some faculty were in the halls, along with a janitor who was mopping the granite floors. Bragg stopped a plump middle-aged woman who was clearly on her way home. “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you direct us to the principal’s office?”

“Right down the hall,” she said, giving them a curious look. “Is this about poor Deborah Smith?”

Francesca almost fell down. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“He’s a policeman by the look of it, and she was in my class. I am Mrs. Hopper,” she said, smiling briefly. Then her smile vanished. “So was Rachael Wirkler. I just don’t understand how two such beautiful girls could simply disappear.”

“Rachael Wirkler?” Francesca echoed.

“There is another missing child?” Bragg asked.

“Yes. Rachael has been missing since February. Her parents are beyond distraught.”

Francesca glanced at Bragg. She said, “How did she vanish?”

“I don’t know. She was here one day, and they say she never went home. It was February tenth. The same with
Debbie, but that was only a few weeks ago. I so adored those girls, so sweet and kind they were. Two of my best students.”