Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (30 page)

“You could always ask Rose what happened. After all, she is here,” Daisy said with another slight smile.

Francesca started and then the anger began. Being angry was a relief. “You wish to break us up. Rose loves you—I suppose she would do whatever you asked her to. Including lie. I didn’t come here to investigate my fiance, Daisy. I have come here asking for your help.”

Daisy shrugged. “And if I refuse, Hart will order me to act otherwise, won’t he?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes.” Francesca held her tongue. She was an instant away from telling Daisy that if she wished to be a free woman, she should not be living in this man’s house, a bought and paid for whore.

Daisy shrugged. “Then I have no choice.”

“Please ask Rose to join us,” Francesca said, relieved to be in control of the situation once more. But she was perspiring. Facing Daisy—and her accusations against Hart—had been an ordeal. In fact, remaining there in her house, bought and paid for by Hart, remained an ordeal.

Rose stepped into the room. Francesca started as their gazes met, realizing Rose had been in the adjacent room,
eavesdropping. And for one moment, as she stared at the tall, striking, olive-skinned woman, she thought about the fact that Hart had watched Rose making love to another woman last night. But that was all he had done. She was quite certain. Wasn’t she?

Rose nodded. “Hello, Francesca. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Rose wasn’t being hostile to her, but they had been rather friendly up until now. “How are you?”

Rose shrugged, coming forward to stand beside Daisy. “Other than having to entertain your fiance last night?” Her eyes glittered with hatred then. “Fine.”

Francesca understood the innuendo and worked hard to ignore it. “Four girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen are missing. They are all lovely, and we suspect they have been forced into prostitution. I know that you despise Hart, Rose, and Daisy, it is clear that you despise me, but these poor children have been torn out of their families and homes and forced into a horrible world of depravity and lust, and I beg you both to put personal differences aside. We must find the children. We must stop these deplorable creatures who are abducting the children and forcing them to be prostitutes. Can you please help us find them?”

Rose and Daisy stared at her and then looked at each other. Rose slid her arm around Daisy; Daisy closed her eyes for a moment. Then she looked at Francesca. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I lied to you about Calder—Rose said he was pacing the room and drinking scotch and hardly paying attention to her and Linda. He never touched either one of them. I’m sorry.”

“And I am sorry that you are hurt,” Francesca said softly, flooded with relief. “I am sorry that you have fallen in love with him.”

Daisy stared at her, not denying it, and a silence fell. It was hard and harsh. Rose stared at Daisy in disbelief, a wild accusation in her eyes. “You love me!” she cried.

Daisy looked small and fragile, lost and forlorn. “I do, but I love him, too. I am not ready to give him up.” Tears filled her eyes and she hurried from the room.

Rose looked up at Francesca, a frightening light in her eyes. “He had better stay away from me,” she warned. “And he had damn well better leave Daisy alone. I may kill him otherwise. You tell him that, Francesca.”

Francesca inhaled, because Rose looked murderous at that moment. The threat did not seem idle; it felt real.

Rose rushed after Daisy.

Francesca didn’t hesitate—the girls’ lives were at stake. She raced after Rose, seizing her arm. “Rose, I need your help. I have to find those girls. Please, ask around, find out who is running a brothel with children. Please!”

Rose shook her off with a furious glance and left the room.

Francesca sank down in a chair. Her head hurt her now and she cradled it in despair. She had struck out—there would be no help from this quarter.

There was a fire burning in the hearth in his study. He was working at his desk, taking care of the paperwork he had not been able to get to at the department all week. Dot was seated on the floor halfway between his desk and the blaze, playing with her new doll, making soft sounds, and occasionally saying a genuine word, smiling and laughing. Katie sat cross-legged beside her, watching, her small narrow face taut with unhappiness.

Bragg realized he had been staring at the children instead of reading the report before him. He sighed and gave up, cradling his face in his hands. At least Dot was too young to understand that her new mother was gone, but Katie was very upset, and it hurt him.

How could she do it? Come so determinedly into their lives and, in the blink of an eye, walk out?

But she had done it once before. In almost the exact same way.

He stiffened as a real and physical pain arced through his chest. For one moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack, but the pain turned into something suspiciously
like grief, and he realized he was not.
It was as if he was reliving the past, as if that terrible time four years ago had been reinvented and was happening all over again
.

But she had almost fooled him into thinking she had changed. She had almost fooled him into thinking she was kind, caring, selfless. In fact, he thought, hurting the way a bleeding man did, she had fooled him because deep in his heart he had believed she was the graceful, compassionate woman she had presented herself to be.

But it had only been that—a presentation. And a damned good one, too.

You damned fool. She did care, and you know it, deep inside, but bastard that you are, you tested her, one time too many, pushing at her, as hard as you could, until she left. This is your fault and no one else’s. Damn you
.

He stood abruptly, clutching the edge of his desk. He didn’t care. It was better this way. He would get the best lawyer in the country and get a divorce even if it meant letting the world know she had abandoned him. And he would adopt the girls. It was better this way. He hated Leigh Anne—he always had and he always would.

He started, realizing Katie had come to stand beside him, gazing up at him anxiously. He forced a smile. “Tired of playing with your sister?”

Katie shook her head “no” and didn’t speak.

It was impulsive; he pulled her close to his side, murmuring, “It’s going to be all right.”

“She’s never coming back, is she? That’s why you’re so sad,” Katie whispered.

He almost choked as he spoke. “No. She’s not coming back.”

Katie buried her face in the vicinity of his rib cage. He stroked her hair; his hands were shaking. “Is she dead?” Katie finally choked out.

“No,” he said, inhaling hard. But maybe he should have told her yes. Maybe the lie would have been easier.

Katie looked up, her eyes glistening with tears. “Then why? Why did she go? I don’t understand!”

He cupped her thin shoulders. “It’s complicated,” he whispered unsteadily.
Why? I chased her away and we are all better off. We are better off, God damn it
.

Katie looked at him, begging him for an explanation she could understand, with her big doe eyes.

He had to come up with something, he realized. But he was at a complete loss now, angry, hurting, resentful, confused. Francesca’s image came to mind—she could help, he realized with real relief. If he told her the truth, she could come and help explain to the children what had happened—and why.

A knock sounded on his door. “Sir?” Peter intoned.

Bragg turned, one hand now on Katie’s shoulder. “Yes?”

Peter looked at him gravely, and the worry was also reflected in his eyes. “Chief Farr is here, sir, and he wishes to speak to you.”

Bragg nodded, too numb to be surprised, and he smiled at Katie, wondering if it was as strained as it felt. “I’ll be right back.”

Katie nodded, clearly trusting him.

And that she did warmed him from head to toe. He followed Peter into the hall and saw Farr at its end, standing there in the entry. Bragg approached. “Chief. What brings you here on a Sunday?” He heard how brisk his tone was, how professional. A police crisis was just what he needed, he realized.

Farr was in his Sunday best, and he twisted a fedora in his hands. “Sir,” he began, his gaze skewer-sharp, “is Mrs. Bragg in residence?”

The question stabbed through Bragg like a blunt knife.
“What?”

Farr actually looked uncomfortable. “I know the question is an odd one, but I need to ask you if Mrs. Bragg is here.”

Some inkling began. “What is going on?” he asked sharply.

“Sir—”

“She’s not here,” he snapped. “Chief?”

Farr was grim. “There was a carriage accident—a runaway coach. Yesterday afternoon.”

Bragg stared, the inkling becoming dread. The room grayed.

“The woman’s purse was lost in the crisis, and the police were called in today to try to identify her. Officer Wade claims she is your wife.”

And for an instant, gray became dark, black, but he fought through, and then Farr was facing him, grave and grim. “How bad is she?”

“Bad, sir, alive, but in serious condition.”

He was going through the door. “Where is she?”

“Bellevue,” Farr said.

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
30, 1902—4:00
P.M
.

“S
HE’S NOT UNCONSCIOUS
, C
OMMISSIONER
. She’s asleep. She’s been heavily dosed with laudanum for the pain.”

Bragg stared at the small form sleeping on the hospital bed. Her face was turned toward him, and she looked unblemished and perfect, as if nothing had ever happened to her. He wanted to rush to her side, take her hand, stroke her hair. Aware of trembling, unable to control it, he forced himself to face Dr. Barnes. It was hard to breathe; he kept telling himself it would be all right, that he must not panic.

“What happened?”

“She was brought into Emergency yesterday afternoon at three. A coach ran her down, sir. Apparently it was a runaway,” the doctor, a tall, silver-haired man, said.

He could not think now about all of the accusations he had been making against her.
She hadn’t left him. This entire time, Leigh Anne had been here in the hospital, hurt,
suffering, alone.
“How badly is she injured?” he asked hoarsely, unable to look away from her.

“It’s serious, sir.”

He whirled—and there was so much fear. Briefly, there was also no air. He couldn’t inhale; he was on the verge of choking.

“Commissioner, sit down. Let me get you some smelling salts.”

He shook his head, somehow managed to breathe, hugely, deeply. “Is she dying?”

“No. She’s currently stable—but her condition is very serious. She went into shock yesterday—we managed to bring her out of it. She’s a bit better today than she was yesterday, sir. Her vital signs have improved slightly.”

Relief made his knees buckle, his breath escape.
She wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t going to leave him.

“Sir, I am optimistic—I am hoping to see a little improvement every day. We should be fairly certain of an outcome in the next few days.”

Bragg couldn’t smile, but he managed to nod instead. “Has she woken up?”

“Briefly, once. She is heavily drugged, Commissioner, against the pain from her injuries. She will undoubtedly wake up again, but I can’t say when. However, feel free to talk to her. She may hear you.” The doctor smiled at him.

Bragg managed a thank-you and hurried into the hospital room.

There were two other beds in the room, but both were empty. He knelt beside the hospital bed, noting now how unbelievably pale she was. She seemed as fragile as Katie, as small, as vulnerable and helpless. He reached for her hand, clasping it tightly, trembling even more. And it was then that he saw her left leg, slightly elevated by a pulley, three times its usual size, covered by a second sheet.
What had happened to her leg?

Leigh Anne moaned softly.

His gaze flew to her face, but she remained asleep. Had he just heard her moan? Was she still in pain? He wasn’t
himself—he hadn’t asked for all the details—she had been struck down by a carriage, but how? He was afraid, now, afraid to know every detail. He stroked her hair with his other hand and his heart broke.

What had he done to this woman? How could he have treated her so miserably?
“Leigh Anne. It’s me. Rick.” He tried to smile, but if she heard him, she gave no sign. “Don’t wake up; ssh, sleep; it’s good for you,” he said, thinking silently,
Darling
. “I’m sorry,” he added thickly, and to his horror, his composure shattered then.

Tears fell. He could not stop them and he could not speak so he held her hand tightly. What a bastard he was.

All this time he had been accusing her of leaving him, and she had been in the hospital, gravely injured, in indescribable pain, alone. He hated himself. He would never forgive himself. And not just for thinking the worst—but for the past six weeks, for the terrible way he had treated her: for punishing her, day after day and night after night, for using her like a whore.

She wasn’t a whore. Dear God, she was his
wife.

He gained a semblance of control. He smiled through his tears. “I have been a complete bastard. I am so sorry. But I’m here now, and you are not alone.” He touched her cheek with his knuckles then, and froze. Had her dark lashes just fluttered slightly? Had she heard him?

He swallowed hard and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry,” he repeated firmly. “When you get well, when you come home, it will be different, I promise you.”

And this time, he knew her lashes moved.

“Leigh Anne? It’s me, Rick, I’m here, and I won’t leave you. I promise.” He hesitated and had to add, “You’ll never be alone again.” He smiled a little, facing his own vulnerability then, and the fear inside him was an ocean, deep and dark and vast, but if she heard, there was no indication. Her breathing remained deep and even, her face an expressionless mask of beauty and perfection.

He no longer understood himself. He only knew he wasn’t noble at all; the world saw a thin surface layer, his
most superficial side. For if he were noble and good, he would have never made that sordid deal with her, allowing her to move in with him for six months in order to gain her consent to a divorce. If he were truly noble, he would not have taken her to bed each and every night, a prisoner of his own lust. He should have given her the house, moved out, and treated her with the consideration and courtesy she deserved. How could he have been so rotten to her? How? It was amazing that she had tolerated him at all. She had been a loving mother to the girls and a good wife to him. And every time he added the past twenty-four hours to the terrible equation that was their married life, the guilt consumed him, overwhelming, black, and unbearable. She had been lying here alone, all this time, and he had been in their home, hating her.