Deadly Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Whatever had she been thinking, to debate a man like that? And had she been adversarial? For that had not been her intention, not at all.

  Did he think her odd? A fool? Or did he, at least, respect her for her intellect?

  And had he not noticed that she was blond and blue-eyed, with a prettily sloped nose?

  Francesca closed her eyes, replaying their conversation in her mind. Had she pressed too fervently? Did he think her outspoken? Outrageous? And why should she even care?

  Francesca opened her eyes and found herself standing alone in the midst of the festive, animated crowd; worse, Wiley was smiling at her from across the reception room. It was just too much to bear.

  She fled down the hall, brushing by someone in her haste and somehow apologizing, and then she dashed into her father’s library, and finally, she was alone.

  For one moment she could not move, oddly out of breath, leaning against the two huge oak doors, now solidly closed behind her. And as she took a few deep breaths, she began to relax.

  Whatever was wrong with her? she wondered. She shook her head, as if to regain her senses. For the life of her, she could not understand what had just happened. In fact, even now, a sense of confusion remained.

  She sighed, glancing around. Her father’s library was her favorite place in the entire world. A gold tapestry cloth covered the walls, the pastoral scenes hand-painted. The ceiling was arched, and ribbed with the same rich, dark wood that ornamented the rest of the room. Stained glass covered the windows. There was a huge fireplace with a beautifully carved mahogany mantel, and a fire roared within it. Francesca walked over to his massive desk and plopped down in the chair behind it. She felt exhausted and drained.

  Francesca stared at the desk but did not really see the papers and books there. Instead, she saw Rick Bragg. Her father liked him, he seemed intelligent and determined, and she realized that she hoped he was not a crook like so many of the city’s previous police commissioners. Unfortunately, one could never tell.

  Francesca shook her head to clear it again. Enough. How had she become so undone? She began to smile and she sighed again, tension draining away from her. The quiet and solitude were so welcome, but she did have a ball to return to, and Julia would remark her absence and complain loudly on the morrow if she stayed away. But Francesca did not move, taking another moment to recover the last vestiges of her composure and to enjoy her peaceful surroundings. She toyed with a pile of mail on the desk. Hadn’t she known this evening would be dismaying? If only she was a bit more like Connie—just a bit.

  Her sister was intelligent, well educated, and interesting. Yet she loved social affairs.

  Francesca wondered if Bragg would have noticed Connie in a way that he had not noticed herself. For all gentlemen noticed Connie. Their admiration was always so frank and remarkable.

  Francesca frowned slightly. Her entire life, she had been told that she and her sister might have been twins. Yet he had turned away from her after her father had introduced him.

  As Francesca contemplated this last thought, she shoved the pile of mail aside. It worried her that Bragg kept intruding upon her thoughts.

  And then she noticed one cream-colored envelope that had slipped free of the pile of mail. It wasn’t addressed to anyone, in fact, one word was scrawled on the envelope’s front where the address should be and it caught her eye. She blinked.

  Urgent.

  This was strange. Francesca picked up the envelope, turned it over, but there was no return address either, nor was there a postmark. Had a guest left it on the desk? Curiosity seized her. Francesca picked up an ivory-handled letter opener and immediately slashed it open. It said:

  A is for Ants

  If you want to see the boy again, be at Mott and

  Hester streets at 1 P.M. tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  Francesca blinked and read the typed note again.

  “A is for Ants ... If you want to see the boy again, be at Mott and Hester streets at 1 p.m. tomorrow.” My God— what did this mean?

  She was standing, the note in her hand. Her mind raced with dizzying speed. She could not seem to think clearly. The note made no sense. What boy did it refer to? And what did “A is for Ants” mean?

  This was a prank, she decided. Because the note had clearly been left on her father’s desk by one of the guests. Or had it been slipped into their mail somehow, and brought by the mailman with the rest of their mail?

  No, she decided firmly, this was a strange prank. Evan was a prankster. Could the joke be his doing?

  But it wasn’t very funny, she thought, shaking her head in confusion. In fact, it was so odd it was maddening. What if it wasn’t a prank?

  Francesca decided she would show the note to her father the first chance she had.

  “Miss Cahill?”

  Francesca shoved the note back in the pile of mail and leapt as if she were a thief with her hand caught in a master safe. And her gaze locked with the commissioner’s.

  Bragg seemed every bit as surprised to see her as she was to see him. And then he recovered, and he nodded politely at her.

  Francesca felt herself flushing, and she could not summon up a smile in return. She wanted to say something witty or amusing. Instead, she breathed, “Commissioner?”

  “I did not mean to intrude,” he said, his gaze steady upon her. “I merely wished to use the telephone. Unfortunately, I must leave early, as there is another affair I must attend.”

  Her heart was beating like a drum. The prospect did not seem to please him, but Francesca did understand the politics of a job such as the one he now had. She nodded. “And I shouldn’t be cloistered away like a nun,” she said, hoping for some levity in her tone. She moved away from the desk. “Please feel free to use the telephone.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his gaze on her. His scrutiny was careful.

  She knew she was acting strangely, like a witless idiot, if the truth be known, but did he know? Francesca smiled again and walked past him, making sure to give his body a safe berth—as if brushing too closely by him might be a criminal offense. And then she reached the door. She half turned.

  He had picked up the telephone receiver. But he was looking over his shoulder at her and their gazes collided.

  Francesca did not know what his look meant and she fled.

  “Fran!”

  Francesca whirled to face her brother, Evan. Tall, dark, undeniably dashing and almost too handsome, he grabbed her hand. “There is someone I want you to meet,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

  Francesca could not smile. Why was she so undone— again? What was happening to her? Surely she was not flustered and breathless because she found Rick Bragg rather attractive? She was a mature, grown woman, and more importantly, she was an intelligent and thoughtful person. She was far above succumbing to a silly infatuation.

  “Fran? Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Evan was tugging on her hand. He was just under six feet tall and his hair was pitch-black and curly. He had always reminded Francesca of a classical rendering of a Grecian poet or god.

  “I’m sorry,” Fran cried, jerking her hand free. She rubbed both temples, then smiled at the brother she adored. “I am sorry. I do not know what is wrong with me.”

  “Too much studying,” Evan said teasingly and he dragged her through the hall, past numerous sculptures and paintings, and into the reception room, filled now with dozens of guests. Evan smiled at her as he guided her across the room. “I am anxious for your opinion,” he said with his usual enthusiasm. “There is someone you must meet.”

  Francesca realized that he was moving her toward three women her own age, and most of the comely faces were familiar. Still, Francesca knew no names; she had no friends outside of those ladies in her clubs and at college. She had trouble conversing with the young women who attended her mother’s affairs. They wished to discuss fashion and men; she wished to discuss the most current of events and issues. Their giggles suddenly ceased as
she and her brother paused before them. And it was comical the way the women turned their cow-eyed gazes upon her brother.

  But of course, he was a catch with a capital C. He was the Cahill heir and all of society knew it.

  Evan smiled, and Francesca followed his gaze, rather amused. For even though her brother was a very eligible and preeminent bachelor, she knew him too well, and his liaisons were not the kind sanctioned by society. Of course, she pretended not to know about the string of gorgeous mistresses; even Mama turned the other way. Therefore, Francesca could not believe Evan was introducing her to a proper and available young lady. What could this possibly mean?

  And she was also just noticing that one of the three young women hadn’t turned cow eyes on her brother.

  “Fran, this is Miss Marcus, Miss Berlendt, and Miss Channing. Ladies, my sister, Francesca Cahill.”

  There was a chorus of hellos and giggles. Two of the three women blushed hotly. Francesca thought it comical. They were so terribly obvious.

  Except for Miss Channing. Francesca stared at the one woman who neither spoke nor laughed and who did not blush; she stared at a pale, petite brunette with huge brown eyes that could only be described as soulful.

  Sarah Channing stared back. Like Francesca, she wore no rouge; unlike Francesca, her gown was terribly overdone with frills and flounces and a huge lavender bow. The gown would have been a disaster on the most beautiful and seductive of women. On Sarah Channing, it was absurd.

  Francesca felt a pang of pity.

  “Miss Channing and I met the other day at Sherry’s. I was having lunch with a friend, and she was dining with her mother.” Evan smiled, stepping closer to Sarah Channing.

  Francesca had assumed the stunning brunette to be the object of her brother’s interest, and she felt her jaw drop and her mouth open wide. Quickly she rearranged her expression. “A wonderful restaurant,” Francesca managed, looking with real surprise at the young woman who had yet to speak and who was rather plain for a man like her brother, if she dared be frank.

  Sarah smiled slightly.

  “I have eaten there frequently, in fact,” Francesca said politely, hoping to draw Sarah out.

  “Yes,” Sarah said, low.

  “It is the most wonderful of restaurants,” one of the other women gushed. Francesca thought it was Miss Berlendt, the dark brunette with the amazing green eyes and the even more amazing figure. She was so obviously the kind of woman her brother enjoyed flirting with. But Evan hardly spared her a glance.

  “I do so love it,” agreed the pretty blonde, Miss Marcus. “The other day after shopping, Mama and I had the chance to stop there. Have you been to the bargain counter at Macy’s? I bought the most wonderful pair of kidskin gloves and a marvelous facial cream.”

  Her friend instantly turned and the subject of discussion went from shopping at Macy’s to shopping at Lord and Taylor’s and then Bergdorf Goodman’s, some of the city’s most exclusive stores. Francesca shut out their chattering, because Evan had ducked his head and was asking Sarah if he might escort her upstairs to the ballroom. Of course, she should not eavesdrop; she strained to hear.

  Sarah glanced at her brother, holding his gaze only briefly. Clearly she was shy. “Of course.”

  Francesca could only stare. Did her brother harbor some serious affection for Sarah Channing? The woman could not seem to utter a word, and it was clear she had the most meek of characters. Francesca just could not believe her eyes and ears. This was so surprising!

  Evan had tucked Sarah’s arm in his. “We are going on up. Do come.” He hesitated. “Fran, why don’t you call on Sarah sometime?”

  Francesca blinked. “Well...” She could not refuse her brother, ever. But what on earth would they talk about?

  Francesca imagined confessing to Sarah that she was an undergraduate student at Barnard College. Or inviting her to join her for a charitable visit to Blackwell’s Island. Sarah would swoon. She had no doubt.

  Sarah murmured, “That would be lovely.” She seemed as reluctant as Francesca—or was that just her timidity?

  “Of course I will call,” Francesca said valiantly. For here, clearly, was a woman in need of a friend.

  Smiling, Evan led Sarah away.

  Francesca took a few steps after them in order to continue to watch them. Evan kept up a stream of conversation; Sarah listened, her head ducking slightly, and finally, once, she smiled briefly at him.

  Francesca did not know what to think. Her brother was a man of high intellect and even more passion—in fact, passionate natures were a Cahill trait. Even her mother could form the most vocal and fervent of opinions, when aroused to do so. Francesca thought about all the debates she had shared with her brother, she thought about his passions and convictions. And he was also a very active man; he loved to motor, to hunt, sail, play polo, and to ski. Was he truly interested in such a mild-tempered woman?

  Francesca thought about the notion that opposites attract.

  “She is so odd,” a voice said, from behind her.

  The remark was made in such a tone that Francesca stiffened. She was certain that the speaker, one of the young women she had just walked away from, referred to timid Sarah Charming. Francesca didn’t really know Sarah, but she was about to turn, ready to defend Evan’s latest love interest—if that was what Miss Channing truly was— should the need arise.

  “She is quite eccentric,” whispered another of the young women—the blonde, who did not sound silly or frivolous now. The two ducked their heads and moved away, but not before Francesca became alarmed and heard the brunette say, “I think it is so strange, don’t you? She is miserably aloof. Perhaps she thinks she is better than we are because she is a Cahill. It certainly seems that way. She looked right through us as if we were, why, worms! Well, if she wasn’t a Cahill, she would not find many doors open to her, I am certain of that. And she might be beautiful, but she would not have a single suitor with her mannish opinions and ways.”

  Francesca was paralyzed.

  The brunette turned and gave her a cold glance and then the two women wandered off. The shock began to abate.

  Mannish ways?

  Worms?

  Very deliberately, Francesca crossed the reception room, reminding herself that she did not care what those marriage-mad women thought of her, as they had not one whit in common. Tears blurred her eyes.

  She reminded herself that she was proud of her education and intelligence and her desire for reform.

  Angrily, she rubbed the tears away.

  She had not meant to be aloof. She had not meant to look at anyone as if they were a worm. Had she really done that?

  She left the room, moving slowly down the corridor, shaken to the core. She told herself again that she did not care what those two frivolous women thought of her. Francesca paused, leaning against the wall, knowing that she must go up to the ballroom. She took a deep, steadying breath.

  Did all of society think her odd? Rude?

  Suddenly she thought about Bragg. Had he thought her odd? Had he thought her opinions mannish? Oh, God! If he had, she would die, right then and there.

  Francesca blinked back a few more wet, recalcitrant tears. “Oh, balderdash,” she whispered aloud. “I am an intellectual and they want nothing more than to marry and shop. We are worlds apart. Of course they would think me odd. It is not important, not at all.”

  “Francesca? Are you going up—dear! What is wrong?” Julia cried.

  Francesca stiffened, caught in the act of brushing another absurd tear of self-pity aside. Julia was the last person she wished to face. “Of course I am going upstairs, Mama,” she cried too brightly.

  “You are upset,” Julia said, pausing by her side. “Whatever has happened, Francesca?”

  Suddenly Francesca looked at her mother and heard herself say, “I don’t know why you make me do this. I am a bluestocking, Mama, and I have nothing in common with anyone here!”

  Julia studied her and then smiled, tucking Fr
ancesca’s arm in hers. “You are young and beautiful and you have plenty in common with every other young lady in this room. You are no different from the other young ladies present, Francesca, and stop telling yourself otherwise, as it will do you no good. Please, Francesca, just this once, listen to what I am saying. I am your mother, and no one loves you more—or wants the best for you more than I.” Julia smiled again, as if certain she had made her point and made it well.

  Her mother would never understand. Francesca summoned up a weak smile. “I am different,” she whispered. “And I am very tired ...”

  “Let’s go upstairs, for the dancing will soon begin. And just wait until you see the buffet,” Julia added, guiding her to the door.

  Francesca had no choice. But then, that was hardly unusual when it came to her mother. And as they left the reception room, she felt eyes upon her, and she flung a glance over her shoulder, slipping free of her mother as she did so.

  She stiffened, meeting Montrose’s gaze.

  It was the first time he had looked at her that entire evening. Francesca did not know what to do, so she did nothing.

  He bowed as any gentleman would and then he turned away.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

  Francesca was awake, but she was drifting in that soft, cozy cloud where sleep vied equally with consciousness, enjoying the warmth of her bed. She opened her eyes and gazed across the room. Evan stood grinning at her from the doorway.

  Suddenly she was fully awake. A quick glance at the parted velvet draperies told her that it was not seven o’clock—the time she usually awoke. The sun was too high in a cloudless blue sky. Francesca threw off the covers, leaping to her feet. “What time is it?” she cried in a panic. The biology examination loomed in her mind.

  He laughed. “Whoa, there. It’s ten—but it’s Sunday, Fran. No school today.”