Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (31 page)

His wife had been gravely injured and he hadn’t been there for her.

Never again.

He stroked her cheek, her forehead, her temples, her hair.

And he cried some more.

Francesca was at her desk, going over her notes, hoping she would find a clue she had somehow missed. And every now and then she would think about Calder Hart, wondering if he would go out prowling that night, trying to find someone who could lead him to the children. Perhaps tonight she should go with him. She could don a disguise. Maybe she could even pose as a prostitute.

She sat up straight, dropping her pen.
She could pose as a prostitute.

The idea was a brilliant one. Why rely on Daisy and Rose to find the children? She could find some terribly revealing clothes, go down to the Jewel, meet Solange Mar-ceaux, and try to gain employment there. It crossed her mind that if she succeeded, she might find herself in a terrible position. She wished that she could dismiss that worrisome
possibility, but she could not. She had to get into the club and begin asking questions, yet she also had to avoid winding up in some patron’s bed.

Francesca grinned widely. She would drug any man she wound up with! In fact, as she had no idea where the Jewel was, she would have to ask Rose or Daisy. Perhaps she could convince Rose to refer her to Solange Marceaux. Surely she would help her in this instance! And surely Rose or Daisy would show her how to drug an unwanted customer. Francesca was triumphant. Her plan was a brilliant one. The only flaw was that it needed some preparation and she would have to wait until tomorrow evening to actually put it into effect, as she did need Rose and Daisy’s help.

She stood and flung open her armoire. Hart had said that Solange Marceaux had been elegant. Still, she was a genuine madam, so it didn’t matter. Francesca was a rather obvious intellectual—she would have to dress the part or Solange Marceaux would see right through her.

Francesca debated having her maid, Bette, alter one of her gowns. Then she smiled. The Countess Benevente had the most daring dresses. It was early; she was probably at the Channing home, where she was a guest, preparing for an evening out. Francesca decided she would telephone her and ask her if she could borrow a dress. She was thrilled. Her plan was a perfect one.

Francesca hurried to the door and bumped directly into her unsmiling sister. Connie grimaced at her. “Where are you off to?”

“I have a telephone call to make,” Francesca announced cheerfully. She was beyond excitement. What if she found the children tomorrow? She could not liberate them herself; she’d have to get Bragg and the police.

“I see you haven’t heard the news.”

“What news?” Francesca asked, thinking about logistical details now. She would undoubtedly need to be interviewed. And how should she dress for that occasion?
Should she call on Madame Marceaux in the morning or the afternoon?

“Francesca, have you heard a word I said?” Connie demanded sharply, having seized her wrist and preventing her from sailing down the hall.

Francesca faced her, her smile fading, finally noticing that Connie looked extremely serious. And she had been trying to tell Francesca something, but Francesca had been too involved in her scheming to hear what she was saying. “I’m sorry; I was thinking. Con? Is something wrong? You look very grim.”

“Please sit down.”

Francesca went on alert. “Has something happened? Is it Neil? The girls?”

Connie took her hand. “Neil and I were to have dinner tonight with Rathe and Grace Bragg. We just received a telephone call from Rathe. There has been an accident.”

In that moment, Francesca’s world went dark. “Bragg?”

“No, Fran, it is Leigh Anne. She was hit by a runaway carriage yesterday and she is gravely injured.”

Francesca cried out, “Where is she?”

“Bellevue,” Connie said. “Fran? What are you doing?”

But Francesca was already running down the hall. “What do you think I am doing?” she flung over her shoulder, now madly and dangerously dashing down the stairs. “I am going to the hospital, Connie. Dear God, poor Leigh Anne. . . . Bragg needs me!”

When Francesca arrived on the second floor, a floor for seriously ill patients, she saw the Braggs standing at the far end of the hall in a hushed conversation. Francesca hesitated for a single moment, then started toward them.

Grace looked perilously close to weeping. Rathe had his arm around her. Even in middle age, they still made an outstanding couple. Nicholas D’Archand, a dark-haired eighteen-year-old who was Bragg’s cousin, stood with them, as did Rourke. Hart was not present. But surely he
had not yet learned of the tragedy, otherwise, surely, he would be there.

As Francesca approached, Rourke was speaking. She heard him saying, “Very serious, but stable. She is slightly improved today from yesterday. Dr. Barnes is hopeful there will be some improvement every day.”

Francesca was relieved. “Stable” sounded good to her, and an improvement from yesterday, why, that was simply wonderful! But how badly hurt was Leigh Anne?

Grace seized his hand. “What are her chances of fully recovering?” Her voice was hoarse.

Rourke hesitated, excessively grim. “Mother, she will never fully recover. Her left leg is injured beyond recovery; she will never walk again.”

Grace gasped.

Francesca stifled her own cry.

Grace turned and saw her. So did the three men.

Francesca said, “I am so sorry.” And she looked past the Braggs, into the hospital room.

There were three beds in the room, but only one was occupied. Bragg sat by the bed closest to the corridor, slumped in a chair, holding his wife’s hand.
Leigh Anne would never walk again
. “How is he holding up?” Francesca asked worriedly, not taking her gaze from Bragg.

At first, no one answered. Francesca looked up, suddenly realizing the family might consider her an intruder, but Grace smiled at her tearfully and said, “The best that can be expected. Thank you, Francesca, for coming.”

“I had to come. Dear God, how terrible this is.” So many images of Leigh Anne rolled through her mind now, and in each and every one the tiny woman was impossibly graceful as she moved. She would never walk again. It was more than a tragedy.

“They were going to amputate her leg,” Rourke said, “but decided against it.”

Rathe and Grace turned, about to go into the room. Rourke stopped them. “He doesn’t know about her leg. Dr.
Barnes thought he would speak with him later, when he is not quite so shocked.”

They nodded and went in.

Bragg looked up as his father clasped his shoulder and Francesca saw how emotionally ravaged he was. His face was lined—he had aged ten years in a day. There was no mistaking his grief, his anguish, his fear. She closed her eyes, hard. She so wanted to comfort him now, but how could she? And didn’t this prove what she had always known, that he loved his wife before anyone else—including her? She wasn’t sad, nor was she bitter; she only knew she had to comfort him, reassure him, soothe him. Then she looked at Rourke. “Has anyone told Calder yet?”

“I sent word; he wasn’t home,” Rourke said.

Nicholas, a dashing young man with silvery eyes, smiled grimly at her and went into the room as well. Francesca shifted, hesitating.

“Come on,” Rourke said kindly, taking her arm.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered, going into the room with him. She grimaced, as Leigh Anne no longer looked like an angel; she was deathly pale, frighteningly so. Francesca wondered if, in her surgery, she had lost a lot of blood.

Rourke had touched Bragg’s shoulder, letting him know that he was there. Bragg smiled up at him and his smile was so lost, so forlorn, so fragile, that it broke Francesca’s heart. She had never seen him more anguished.

She smiled sadly. She ached for them both.

He saw her. He started, their gazes locking.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Is there anything I can do?”

He stood up slowly. “Your being here is enough.” And as if his family weren’t present, he walked over to her— right into her arms.

She held him as if he were a child. She didn’t speak, because the situation was too grave for platitudes, and she knew that what he wanted from her was comfort and nothing more. She felt him tremble in her arms as she stroked
his back. Then she realized that his parents had walked out of the room and Rourke and Nicholas D’Archand were following. She was relieved; she wanted to be alone with him.

He looked up at her, agonized. “When I think of how I have treated her . . . “ He could not continue.

“Don’t,” she said thickly. “Don’t go back to that dark, ugly place. The present is what matters. She needs you and you are here.”

“She was here for over twenty-four hours, hurt and alone,” he whispered roughly. “I thought she had left me, Francesca. I thought she had left me and the girls.”

She pulled him close again. “But she didn’t. She didn’t leave you because she loves you. Let go of the past, it’s over now, Rick. Please.” And realizing the many layers of meaning in her words, she felt tears rise in her own eyes as their gazes met again. He also understood, she realized. Maybe she had to let him go, too. Maybe he had to let her go. But could she, really? Could he? He might love Leigh Anne, but nothing would ever sever the odd bond that remained between them.

He reached out and tucked hair behind her ear, his hand unsteady. “I need you so, Francesca. I really do. Maybe I always will.” He held her gently now.

“And I’m here.” She hesitated, swallowed. “That’s what friends are for.” Her smile felt tenuous then. “Leigh Anne will be there for you, too, if you let her.”

She saw his nose redden and he glanced at his wife, in real despair. She stroked his shoulders, his back, studying his perfect profile. Endings were here, but so were beginnings, if they both had the courage to go forward without looking back.

“Francesca.” He turned to her and took her shoulders in his hands. And somehow, they moved into each other’s embrace, cheek to cheek, breast to chest. And briefly, he held her hard.

Then he stepped back, but he cupped her face in his hands. “You are an amazing woman, the most selfless, kind,
and compassionate human being I have ever met.” Their gazes locked.

Fear rose. What if nothing had changed after all? “I am hardly as you make me out to be,” she whispered, her heart beating hard.

He just stared at her, and murmured, “What am I to do?” And his gaze moved to his wife.

The question could have meant many things, but Francesca knew it meant one thing and one thing only: how to navigate a journey of the heart, with Francesca one berth, his wife another.

He pulled Francesca close, stroked her hair, and stepped away from her then. He returned to his wife’s side, taking up her hand, holding it tightly, his knuckles white.

Then she had an inkling, a bad one, and Francesca turned to look at the door.

Hart stared coolly back at her.

How long had he been standing there? Francesca felt quite sure, from his dark expression, that it had been for some time. She tried to smile at him, about to ask him to come in, but he turned and left abruptly, without a word, his strides hard and angry.

He had misunderstood. He was angry and jealous; of that she had little doubt. Francesca could not cope with him now. She could not run after him and beg him to calm down as she always seemed to do. Leigh Anne was seriously hurt, and Bragg was a wreck—Bragg needed her. She would have to explain to Hart later.

“Alfred, dismiss everyone,” Hart said, striding through the huge front hall of his home.

Alfred had greeted him at the door. Now the slim bald butler carefully closed it. “Shall I have Cook prepare and leave you supper, sir?” Worry was reflected in the flickering light in his gray eyes.

Hart was striding past the life-size nude sculpture of the
lovely Lady Brianna. “No. I want everyone out, immediately.”

Alfred stared after him.

Hart felt the stare as he bounded up the sweeping gold-carpeted stairs two at a time, ripping off his tie. He did not like Alfred’s obvious concern; once upon a time, his butler hadn’t given a damn, and he preferred it that way. But those times had changed, hadn’t they? And he knew damn well who had changed them. His clever and pretty little fiancee.

Francesca affected everyone whose life she entered, clearly, even his butler. Well, he didn’t like seeing worry in Alfred’s eyes. He wanted to see nothing in his eyes. He did not want a reaction when he gave an order. He wanted to be obeyed, instantly—he expected that and nothing more.

Images of Francesca and Bragg in each other’s arms danced in his mind
.

The wing of rooms that comprised the master suite was on the second floor. He strode violently down the hall, finally giving in to his blackest rage. His jealousy was blinding then. It was as if he could not stand it; the memory haunting him was beneath his skin, in his blood, boiling it, him. If he could peel off his own skin and the memory with it, he gladly would. But he could not, now could he?

There had been so much love in her eyes.

He didn’t care.

“Fuck it.” It was hard to breathe. He slammed into a salon with dark green walls and high ceilings trimmed in gold, through another private salon, his private den, and finally the master suite itself. The room was triple the size of every other bedroom in the house. The walls were upholstered in dark red paisley flecked with amber, brown, and gold, and two fireplaces were on its opposite sides, the marble mantels orange flecked with gold. Three lavish seating areas invited one to recline and relax, one by the bar, one by the wall of books, one in front of the far hearth. A massive bed that had once been in a duke’s state bedroom was in the bedroom’s center on a raised dais. This room
had been intended to be the master of the house’s ultimate sanctuary by the house’s architect. In fact, Hart never used it except to sleep and dress. Until recently, that is.

Now he poured himself a stiff drink and walked over to the first fireplace, a new habit of his.

Above it, he had hung a portrait of a lady who looked terribly like Francesca. He had found the portrait several weeks ago in a small barely reputable gallery downtown when Francesca was out of town. The artist was Russian, the model French; it had been painted twenty years ago in Paris. He knew it wasn’t Francesca, but he had fallen in love with the painting the moment he had seen it, and even as angry as he had been at her disappearance, he had purchased it on the spot, with no negotiation, and had hung it there on the wall, facing his royal bed.