by Brenda Joyce
He rolled his eyes. “Father thinks she will be good for me, in the long term.” He shook his head grimly.
“Did you know that she is an artist? A painter, in fact?”
“I hadn’t a clue,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It just points out that the two of you do not even know one another.”
“I don’t care to know her,” Evan said unkindly.
“Evan, she is shy and timid, but she is nice.”
“I apologize. Of course she is nice. But good God, Fran, I should die of boredom married to a woman like that!” he cried. And he began to pace.
“Papa said something about gaming debts,” Francesca said, watching him. “Perhaps we can find a way to pay them? And then you can back out of the engagement.”
He eyed her. “I cannot pay them.”
“How much do you owe?”
“You do not want to know.”
“Evan! I am trying to help!” Francesca cried.
“Damn it,” he said. “One hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars.”
“What?” Francesca collapsed onto an ottoman. “What?” she said again.
He did not reply.
“How could you have lost such an excessive sum of money?” she cried.
“Now you sound like Mama. And I know you mean well, but I do not need another accusation just now.”
She remained uncomprehending. “I just don’t understand.”
He flung his hands up heavenward. Then, “I know you think me some sort of hero. I am no hero, Fran. I like to gamble.” He hesitated and closed his eyes. When he opened them, she thought she briefly saw despair flit through them. “It is like a sickness,” he said. “Once you begin to win or lose, you cannot stop.”
She managed to nod. “Oh, God. What shall we do?”
“There is nothing to do.” He sat down on the sofa facing her, his elbows on his knees. “I shall marry Miss Channing, Papa will pay my debts, and I shall inherit my fortune—which I shall undoubtedly gamble away within a very few years.”
“Don’t say that!” She was furious. “Don’t even think that! Surely you intend to stop gaming once Papa pays this debt?”
He cradled his dark head on his hands. “Of course I do,” he muttered.
Francesca was relieved. And she saw his anguish. She touched him. “We shall find you a way out of this, now, before the engagement is announced. Poor Sarah. She must love you, and her heart will be broken.”
“I doubt her heart will be broken, as come this June, I shall be exchanging vows with her.” He glanced up. “Do not tell anyone about this, Fran,” he warned. “Please.”
“Of course my lips are sealed,” she said. “I shall speak to Papa. You know how fond he is of me.” Then she flushed. She was well aware that she was his favorite even though a parent should not have favorites. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“It doesn’t matter. No one is more truthful than you, Fran, and it is why we all love you so—it is why you are so refreshing. If anyone can sway Father, it is you. But I have no expectations that you will succeed.”
Francesca stood. “I must succeed, Evan. Otherwise you will be miserably wed for the rest of your life. I intend to succeed,” she said. “I want you to marry for love.”
He smiled a little, for the first time since she had entered the room, shaking his head. “Only I know how romantic you are. Who marries for love in this day and age? Or any day and age, for that matter?”
She thought about Connie and Montrose, she thought about the Burtons. “I don’t know,” she finally said, suddenly grim and filled with despair. “I just don’t know.”
Chapter 14
Thursday, January 23, 1902—10 A.M.
Bragg was not at his office and it had not been hard to learn where he lived. Francesca had arrived at Madison Square by hansom; now she stared up at the brick town-house with its wrought-iron curtain fence, wedged between other, similar homes on Twenty-Fifth Street and Madison Avenue. The house faced the snowy park with its stately trees and shoveled walkways. Madison Park was mostly deserted at this time of day—it was well before noon— although one ragged man with a heavy beard seemed to be asleep on a park bench. There was some activity on both avenues, which were filled with shops, mostly servants going about their business at this early hour. Francesca stared up at Number 11 Madison Avenue.
This was where he lived. Francesca could not imagine why she was so nervous.
Francesca had so much on her mind. Yet last night, Bragg had dominated her thoughts. She had slept only because of sheer exhaustion, but her sleep had been a restless one, more wakeful than not, with images of Bragg flooding her mind. Her compassion for him knew no bounds. And now she could understand his every action and reaction since the Burton tragedy had begun.
One question continued to haunt her. Did Robert Burton know about the twins?
It was not her business, of course, and the question remained, while logical, a highly sordid one.
Was Bragg the object of revenge? Or was it Burton— as Joel Kennedy claimed?
And as she stood there, debating whether she dared intrude upon him, with such a slight cause as her sympathy, she thought she saw a white curtain flutter in one of the windows facing the street.
Her heart skipped. Someone had seen her. A servant, perhaps, or Bragg himself.
How could she not go to him? For she was never going to forget last night, and now she was not thinking about his brutality in regard to Gordino, but the brief glimpse of anguish in his eyes just before he had turned and walked away from her, leaving that policeman, Peter, to drive her home.
Francesca started slowly toward the front steps. She wondered why he hadn’t gone to the office. She knew a late night or even a series of them would not stop him.
She walked up the eight stone steps and used the doorknocker, aware of her nervousness increasing. She had rehearsed what she intended to say. Now she ran a few lines through her head as the door was opened.
I am so sorry. I had no idea. How can I help?
He would smile a little at her in that world-weary way he had, and tell her that she had already been of the utmost help, and he would decline any further assistance.
She would not, under any circumstance, ask any intimate questions. Not today.
And she would not reveal the fact that Montrose was currently Eliza’s lover. She must, for the moment at least, protect her sister’s marriage. Especially as she believed that Montrose couldn’t be a madman.
“Good morning, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca’s eyes widened as she stared up at Peter’s strong, chiseled face. Then they widened even more, because he was not dressed as a patrolman or as a detective. In fact, in his starched white shirt and charcoal-gray suit, he was dressed as a gentleman’s manservant. “Peter?”
He glanced past her, down the street.
She suddenly realized what he was doing, because she turned, and her eyes widened. Kurland had plopped down on a bench in the park. He waved at her, then shook out his newspaper to read it. Francesca groaned.
And then she was angry, realizing that Kurland must have followed her from police headquarters.
“I am afraid the commissioner is not receiving callers, Miss Cahill,” Peter said very firmly, and before she could respond, he was shutting the door, quite in her face.
“Wait!” Francesca cried, to no avail, beginning to realize that Peter was not a policeman after all, but that he was Bragg’s butler.
And as the door closed, she heard Bragg ask, “Who is it, Peter?”
“Miss Cahill, sir.”
Francesca bit her lip as her heart skipped, while she wondered in the back of her mind what Kurland would make of her calling on the commissioner of police. Oh, well. He did not write a social column, so she supposed her reputation was saved. Not that it was unheard of for a lady to call on a gentleman at his home, but it was early, and she was without a companion. Julia would mu
rder her directly should she ever learn of this.
The door opened. Peter gestured for her to come in.
Francesca did so, and as he quickly closed the door behind her, she instantly saw Bragg. All thoughts of Kurland and her mother vanished. Her stomach clenched with tension, and something else she couldn’t name, at the sight of him.
He stood at the end of the short hall, on the threshold of a parlor with a fireplace. He was wearing a pair of shabby rough wool trousers—the same trousers he had worn last night. Clearly he had changed his shirt, for this one, while thoroughly rumpled, the top two buttons open, and both sleeves rolled up, was not stained and flecked with blood.
Every fiber of her being felt painfully alive; Francesca wondered why this man caused such an extreme reaction within her. Especially now, when he looked so disreputable and even dangerous, more like a ruffian or a rowdy than a gentleman. Even his hair was uncombed; several long gold strands were falling over his brow and into his eyes. His eyes seemed red, and there were circles beneath. And he had clearly not shaved in a day or two, the growth adding to his rather worn and scruffy appearance.
She hurt deep within herself just looking at him. Francesca had not a doubt that he had not slept a wink all night. Had he even tried to go to bed?
But if she were him, she knew she would never sleep, not until her child was found and the monster responsible for his abduction captured and placed behind bars.
“Francesca,” he said very softly. Francesca started at his tone, a shiver passing over her. He was leaning indolently against the wall. He did not come forward. What had that smooth tone signified?
“I... I hope you do not mind.” Her rehearsed dialogue escaped her memory now. Her nervousness had somehow increased. She glanced to her left, into a smaller parlor with a piano, the wood very dark, the furnishings Victorian, and then to her right, into a cozy dining room with green-flocked wallpaper. She guessed that there were two or three bedrooms upstairs.
“How could I mind?” he asked, his smile very faint and very slight. His slight Western drawl was more pronounced than usual, she realized. It was as smooth as honey. The effect was almost narcotic.
“It is hardly usual of me to intrude upon a gentleman at this hour,” she began in a rush.
“There is nothing usual about you, ever, Francesca,” he drawled, whisper-soft.
She became still.
His gaze remained fixed upon her, unwavering. His slight smile did not fade. “Have you brought me another clue?”
She could hardly think. She was trying to decipher just what he had meant by his previous words. Had they been a compliment? Was he out of sorts himself that morning? “Unfortunately, I have not,” she said.
“I am disappointed,” he said.
She blinked. Something was amiss.
He levered himself off the wall and began walking deliberately toward her.
Francesca felt her eyes widen as she stood and stared, tension rising so high and hard and fast in her that she could not breathe. His smile flashed, revealing his dimple, and then he reached for her.
Her knees buckled but he gripped her shoulders, steadying her, and briefly, she was in his arms. Oh, my God, she managed to think, as all kinds of crazy notions and even crazier sensations rioted within her mind and her body.
“Francesca,” he murmured in his Texan drawl.
She looked into a pair of heated eyes. “Yes?” her voice sounded like a squeak.
“I am trying to take your coat.”
She blinked and then realized that he wanted to remove her coat and hand it to Peter, who stood behind her—and whom she had thus far forgotten about. Francesca felt herself blush furiously and she practically jumped out of her coat, at the same time removing her hat and wrenching off her gloves. Two long hairpins somehow spilled to the floor. Francesca bent for them, but so did Bragg, and their hands collided on the floor.
She leapt upward to her full height.
He picked up the pins and handed them to Peter, who promptly disappeared.
Francesca decided she was as mature as a twelve-year-old schoolgirl. While he did not seem in the least bit undone. “You seem so tired,” she heard herself say too quickly, trying to cover up her embarrassing lack of composure.
“I am tired,” he said, and now he was staring at her, no longer smiling even faintly.
Why was he looking at her that way? What did it mean? Was something wrong with him?
“Would you like to come in?” He gestured behind him.
Francesca was about to agree, when she glanced into the parlor, and had to glance back again. Oh, no.
A bottle of scotch was on the table in front of the sofa. It was half-empty. A glass was beside it, with a finger of gold liquid within. She looked back at Bragg. He did not seem drunk, but clearly, he was drinking, and at this hour, that could only mean that he was trying to drown his sorrows. Furthermore, it now explained his honeyed drawl, his seductive smile, and his too-intent gaze. Didn’t it?
She was hardly an expert on men, much less drunken ones.
“Please,” he said, gesturing expansively and indicating that she might precede him in.
Francesca went cautiously forward. She decided to pretend she had not seen the shameful bottle and glass. For while she did not believe in drowning one’s sorrows, Bragg certainly had just cause to do so. She sat down primly on a chair that was not quite facing the table. Bragg stood with his hands in his pants pockets, regarding her anew with a scrutiny that was uncompromising.
“Bragg? What can I do?” she heard herself blurt nervously. She reminded herself that, although she certainly found him quite attractive and even rather heroic, they were friends, and she could manage him when he was like this. Of course she could. The real problem, she thought, might be managing herself.
Francesca tried to tell herself that she was just overtired, and then she gave it up.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said.
“I want to help,” she said simply.
“I know you do.” Another faint smile. His pain was there in his amber eyes, incredibly easy to read. “You are one of the kindest women I have ever met.” He walked over to the table, filled up the glass, and took a long swallow. “Have I ever mentioned that?” And he gave her a long, direct stare.
She felt herself stiffen. And then, thank God, he turned away. She exhaled long and hard.
He poured himself another shot.
She watched. Now what should she do? He had no intention of pretending to be sober. “Bragg? Will it help?”
He held the glass in one hand, against his body. “Will what help? Oh, this? Yes, it helps, Francesca. Believe me, it helps.”
She stood up. How could a few mere words, spoken under the influence of whisky, have such a sensual ring? “Have you slept at all?” she asked with concern.
“How can I sleep?” He drank again. Then his face tightened as he met her eyes. “How the hell can I sleep?”
“I am so sorry,” she cried, moving to him.
“I know you are. But that won’t deliver the madman to us, now will it? And it won’t,” he stopped abruptly and suddenly his expression became so hard and so grim that Francesca was alarmed.
“Bragg,” she began.
The glass shattered in his hand.
Francesca cried out.
Bragg cursed, using a word no gentleman should ever use in front of a lady.
Francesca could not move.
“Damn it,” he said, looking down at the broken glass on the faded Oriental rug.
“It was an accident,” Francesca began, tears suddenly filling her eyes.
Peter appeared. He didn’t say a word, but knelt and began cleaning up the glass and whisky.
“Don’t cry.”
Francesca had been watching Peter, who was very efficient and, within seconds, had whisked all the debris away. She started, as Bragg touched her face, and then she did not dare move.
“Don’t cry for me,” he said,
and with his thumb, he swept the tears over her skin.
Francesca shivered. She found herself looking at his mouth. “Did you cut your hand?” Francesca asked, her nerves about to snap, her tone odd and husky.
He gave her a look that told her he didn’t care. And abruptly, he dropped his hand and paced away, to the window. Tension riddled his shoulders and his stance. He parted the already partially drawn draperies, squinted into the morning light, and snarled, “Kurland.” Then, “He is getting on my nerves.”
Peter had risen to his full, amazing height, holding the dustpan filled with shards of glass in one hand. “I will take care of the situation,” he said.
Bragg nodded without looking at him. “Thank you, Peter.”
Peter left. Bragg turned back to Francesca, and she saw a smear of blood on his hand. “You could get an infection,” she whispered, shaking.
His gaze steady on her, he walked back to her and stopped when they were face-to-face. Francesca became paralyzed.
He said, “You should not have heard what you did last night, Francesca.”
She managed to draw a breath. She felt unsteady on her feet, as if she were swaying like a young tree in the wind, toward him. “It’s true?”
His jaw tightened so hard she thought he might snap the muscles there. Then, “Yes.” And, “I prefer you to forget what you heard.”
She knew she could not forget. “I am so sorry, Bragg.”
“I know.” He did not look away. With the back of his hand he brushed her cheek. Francesca froze.
He dropped his hand. “I should not be touching you,” he muttered, as if to himself.
Had he just caressed her? Or had she imagined it? “Bragg? Others heard, as well. All those other policemen. This might be a secret that cannot be kept.” Francesca was trembling. But she wasn’t thinking about the policemen now, or even the case. How could she? She was thinking about what it would be like to be held by this man, to lose herself in his embrace.
She knew she should not let herself carry on so, not even in the privacy of her very own thoughts.