by Brenda Joyce
“Very well. James, will you excuse us?”
The secretary left. Francesca entered the room, wondering if she was baiting the lion in its den, or if she were on a wild-goose chase. She could only pray that the latter was the case.
Montrose gestured for her to take a chair. He made no move to close the door, left wide open by James. How innocent he now seemed.
Francesca folded her arms tightly across her chest, but that did not still her wildly pounding heart. She told herself to relax, but she couldn’t. And sweat beaded her brow. The fact that she had been somewhat taken with Montrose ever since she had first met him was not helping matters. It was hard to think clearly. How, in God’s name, should she begin?
“Is everything all right, Francesca?” His brow was furrowed now. “And why, may I ask, are you so pale and disheveled?”
“I’m fine. As fine as can be, given the circumstances,” she said hoarsely.
He had not seated himself, as she remained standing, and now he walked directly over to her. She found it hard to breathe. She reminded herself that this was Neil, and he really did seem the same. A big, devastatingly handsome man with flawless elegance, whose gaze now swept over her with penetrating concern. A man who made her tremble when it was not quite right for him to do so. A man who was a wonderful father—but not a wonderful husband, as one and all thought him to be.
“Has someone ... hurt you?” he asked bluntly.
She thought he referred to his mistaken conclusion that she had a suitor. “No. No. There has been a fifth note, Neil.” There. She had said it.
For one moment, he just looked at her, clearly not comprehending what she meant. Then his eyes widened. “You mean, about the Burton boy?” he asked.
She nodded, her pulse continuing to pound. “ ‘E is for Eternity,’ ” she whispered.
His eyes widened fractionally more, and then he whirled away, pacing back and forth. When he faced her, he appeared anguished. “Dear God, if only that boy is alive!”
“Yes.” God, it was impossible to tell if he was guilty or not. He was acting like Montrose, like the Montrose she had known for four years. Then Francesca reminded herself that even if he was not guilty of Jonny Burton’s abduction, he was not the Montrose she had known for four years. He was a liar—an adulterer—a cheat. He was not what he had appeared to be, oh, no. And what about his first wife? The circumstances had been suspicious enough to warrant an investigation. No one in her family had any idea, Francesca was absolutely certain. “The police have a list of suspects. It gets narrower every day. Apparently someone is out to destroy Robert Burton.” And Francesca could hardly believe her own ears. How calm and composed she sounded.
“Everyone has enemies, I suppose. But to use an innocent child, it is unforgivable,” he said, hard.
“Yes, it is.” This was getting nowhere. Francesca sucked in her breath and her courage. “I saw you with Eliza.”
He had been toying with a paperweight on his desk. His hand stilled.
His entire body stilled.
Francesca felt paralyzed.
And then, very slowly, he looked up. “I was wondering when you would confront me,” he said at last.
Their gazes locked. He had not denied it. But then, how could he? And clearly he had seen her; clearly, he had known that she knew of his affair all along. Francesca could not move, she could not breathe, and she thought, E is for Eternity ... his first wife had died under suspicious circumstances.
He walked past her. It took Francesca a huge effort not to flinch when he moved by, and he closed the door firmly. Then he returned to his desk, and he sat down calmly behind it, his gaze upon her.
And Francesca could understand his actions. The desk was massive, the chair he now sat in, thronelike. Even standing, she felt dwarfed and rather like a supplicant. “How could you?” she asked hoarsely. “How?”
His smile was slight, the sound he made harsh. “You would not understand. You are still half a child.”
“I am hardly a child,” she managed.
He did not answer, hands clasped in front of him, his expression grim.
“Do you love her?” Francesca cried. And tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She swatted them away.
He was startled.
And Francesca realized the irony inherent in the question. Which “her” had she referred to? “Do you love Eliza Burton?” Francesca asked harshly. Damn it, but she would not cry, she would not.
“No. Not in the way that you mean,” he said.
“No! Then how could you?” Francesca cried again.
He looked at her for a long time. “As I said, you would not understand, Francesca.”
“Do you love my sister at all?” she heard herself whisper.
He hesitated and he stood. “I am not going to explain myself, not to you, not to anyone.”
He had refused to answer her. Francesca’s heart sank so hard it was sickening and painful. He did not love Connie. “I imagine that one day you will have to explain yourself, certainly to my sister, and maybe even to your daughters,” Francesca said, aware of how high and loud and angry her voice had become. Her eyes felt moist. “How could you do this to your family? How, Neil, how?”
“I am not the first man to make such a mistake,” he said flatly. “What is it that you want, Francesca? An apology? Or an explanation? Because you will get neither from me.” His blue eyes were dark now with anger.
“I want you to tell me that you are sorry, that you have been a fool, and that you love my sister—that you always have and you always will,” she shouted at him, tears falling. “I want you to tell me that it is over, and that this will never happen again!”
He had come around the desk in a single second and he gripped her arm, hard. “Keep your voice down. I will only say that I am sorry you saw what you did—what you had no right seeing.” His eyes flashed. His color was high. “One day, Francesca, your spying will get you in terrible trouble, indeed.”
She gasped, pulling away from him, certain his big hand had left an imprint on her small wrist. “Are you threatening me?” She was disbelieving, but it had been a threat, she felt almost certain—and she was scared.
Because if Montrose was insane, if he was a madman, then he was capable of harming her.
His eyes widened. “Are you mad? You are my sister! You became my little sister the day I married Connie. I would never hurt you.”
“But you can hurt your wife,” Francesca said bitterly.
He became still. “What are you intending, Francesca?” he asked flatly.
She inhaled. “I don’t know.”
He shook his finger at her. “You will not breathe a word of this to anyone, do you understand me?”
She clamped her lips together.
“Not to anyone, and not to Connie. In fact, you had damn well better stay out of my affairs altogether, and out of my marriage, as well.”
Somehow, his words truly hurt. They stabbed through her like a knife. “I don’t know what I should do. But when I decide what is right, that is what I will do!”
He was wide-eyed and incredulous. “Stay out of my life,” he thundered.
She stepped back, away from him. “I love my sister,” she said. “As, apparently, you do not.” And she wondered if she was insane to fight him, when he might be capable of violence and brutality, with no regard for the mores and laws of society.
He marched to the door and flung it open. “Good day, Francesca.”
She did not move. She was drenched now in sweat; her underclothes stuck to her like a second skin. “Where were you last night, Neil?”
He started. “What?”
“You heard me. That last note, it was slipped under your mistress’s pillow. She found it this morning.” It was a gamble. She did not know when the note had been slipped under Eliza’s pillow.
He blinked. “And... are you accusing me of something? Good God!”
She hugged herself. “Did you see Eliza last nig
ht? Or this morning? When did you last see her?”
His jaw flexed. “You know when I last saw her,” he said dangerously. “I cannot believe you. You think me some insane monster just because ...” He stopped.
“Someone hates Burton. Very, very much. And Eliza makes you insanely jealous.” Francesca waited for his reaction.
He stared at her. “What?”
“This is an exact quote, I believe. ‘God, Eliza, you make me insanely jealous.’ ”
He stared at her, his blue eyes fierce.
Francesca felt the barest moment of smug satisfaction.
Until he shook his head. “Incredible,” he said. “But as I said, you are half a child. Francesca, when a man speaks in the heat of passion, his words tend to be meaningless. In fact, they usually are meaningless.”
She did not believe him. Shaking, she said, “I think you hate Burton. I think you hate him because, like all of her other lovers, you have fallen madly, uncontrollably, in love with her, against your will, against your better judgment.” She was out on a limb, one long and weak. Francesca knew it would shear away at any moment.
His face tightened. “I do not love her. And I do not hate Burton. In fact, if you must know, I pity the poor fellow, as I shall not be the last to warm her bed, and I was hardly the first to do so.”
Francesca said, “Someone very close to the Burtons is responsible for that little boy’s disappearance, and now, for his fate.”
Montrose stared. He did not speak for an endless moment, as if weighing whether to reveal himself or not.
Francesca summoned up the rest of her courage. Bragg’s words of wisdom chose that moment to pop into her head: “Words once spoken can never be taken back.”
She said, “There was an investigation into your first wife’s death.”
His eyes closed. He turned deathly white. And he cursed.
Francesca flushed, stepping back, prepared now to flee.
Then he said, hard, “Perhaps you had better look closer to the Burton home for your murderer, Francesca.”
Her mind scrambled and raced. He was pointing the finger at Robert Burton again? It was as if she and Bragg were going around and around in circles.
And Montrose said, “Eliza hates her husband with a vengeance.”
Chapter 16
Thursday, January 23, 1902—1 P.M.
Francesca closed her bedroom door and leaned against it. Her mind was spinning.
Eliza hated Burton with a vengeance.
Was it possible? Could Eliza wish to destroy her own husband so passionately that she would concoct such an outrageous scheme as to abduct her own child and then cruelly toy with Burton by delivering a series of clues that all seemed to lead to one inescapable conclusion? That Jonny was dead?
Francesca had to sit down. She cradled her head in her hands. She could not imagine Eliza being so devious, so ruthless and so insane. The problem was, Francesca had always liked Eliza, even if from a distance, and she had certainly admired her.
In fact, even now, knowing that Eliza remained unconscionable when it came to her adulterous affairs, Francesca found it hard to sit in judgment of her. Which made no sense.
Francesca believed in right and wrong. And adultery was certainly wrong.
She closed her eyes, leaning back fully in the chair. She tried to imagine what it was like to be Eliza Burton.
She was intelligent, vivacious, and her joie de vivre was contagious. When she entered a room, she brightened it considerably, and she always caused the heads of both genders to turn. She had obviously married Burton while young. The twins were six, and Eliza was perhaps twenty-six or -seven. Both boys seemed to possess their mother’s energy and enthusiasm.
Francesca thought about Burton, who was a lawyer and a partner in his own firm. She recalled the many times she had seen the couple together, with Burton doting on his smiling, beautiful wife. She sat up, eyes open now. Eliza had a grace and self-confidence that was mesmerizing. Burton, on the other hand, while attractive and dapper, truly did seem to dote on his wife.
Dote, or fawn?
Francesca now analyzed the pair ruthlessly and decided that Burton had neither his wife’s charm, charisma, or intelligence. In fact, she was the outspoken one, and he was the one always seconding her opinions. Eliza was the stronger of the two. It was an unusual turn for a couple. Francesca wondered why she had not realized this before.
Just how many lovers had Eliza had?
Unless she was inherently flawed in her character, she would have sought her affairs because Burton failed to hold her love, and perhaps even her respect. And suddenly Francesca thought she understood Eliza, just a little. She was a vibrant woman and her lovers, at least Bragg and Montrose, were exceptional men. Of course she would be drawn to outstanding men. Burton was just not on her level—and unlike most women, Eliza had the courage to go after what she wanted.
But did this mean that she despised Burton enough to want to torture him and drive him insane?
It was far-fetched. Still, no one had better access to the Burton home than its mistress had.
Francesca was thoroughly bewildered.
There were two soft raps at her bedroom door and Francesca’s heart sank as Connie opened it and poked her head in. She was smiling. “Hello. I thought I would stop by on my way home. I just had the most fabulous lunch at Sherry’s.”
Francesca managed a smile. The conversation she’d just had with Neil replayed in her mind. “Hi.”
“Fran?” Connie stepped in. “What’s wrong? You are very pale. You don’t look well. Are you still ill?”
“I guess I must still have a touch of the flu or something,” Francesca said, her temples beginning to throb. She could not face her sister now.
Connie sat down beside her, touching her forehead with her delicate palm. “Well, I do not think you have a fever.”
Francesca studied her sister, who seemed as radiant as ever. And of course, as always, she was splendidly dressed in a fitted rose silk suit trimmed with ivory lace. Her blouse matched the lace, and rubies dangled from her ears. “Who did you have lunch with?”
Connie smiled. “Sarah Channing and her mother.”
Francesca stiffened, thinking, Oh, no. “And what did you think?”
“I think Mrs. Channing is not terribly clever, but Sarah is far more clever than one would ever suspect.” Connie stood up. “But she is awfully quiet.” She gave Francesca a look and wandered over to the window. “What a beautiful day.”
Francesca also stood. “Don’t you think she makes a poor match for Evan?”
Connie turned. “I don’t know. They seem vastly opposite, but opposites do attract. Besides, he seems infatuated.”
Francesca stared. “He’s not infatuated, Con. Papa is demanding that he marry, but I suspect Mama is the one behind this ... this ... tragedy!”
Connie was startled. “I doubt either Papa or Mama could force Evan to marry against his will.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Not unless he has gotten himself into financial straits with his gambling. Please tell me that he hasn’t.”
“Why is it that I was the last to know that Evan has gone outrageously overboard with gaming?” Francesca demanded.
Connie made a face. “That is one benefit of being married, my dear. Neil, of course, frequents some of the same establishments as our brother. He’s told me of Evan’s exploits. We’ve both been rather worried about him, if the truth be known.”
“I had no idea until last night,” Francesca complained.
Connie shrugged then smiled. “Perhaps you need to get yourself a husband, hmm?”
“Very funny,” Francesca said, suddenly recalling Bragg’s kisses. She watched her sister turn back to the window.
Connie made a soft exclamation. “That’s Neil’s coach! He must be calling on the Burtons.”
Francesca almost fainted. “What?” And she thought, How could he? How dare he go back over there, and right after our conversation!
“I
think I shall go join him.” Connie turned to leave.
“No, wait!” Francesca cried, rushing to her.
Connie looked at her with bewilderment. “Fran? What is it?”
Francesca stared at her sister, at a loss. Too many horrible scenarios were going through her mind at lightning speed for her to count. But chief among them was Connie walking in on Montrose and Eliza as Francesca had yesterday.
“Fran? Why are you staring at me—and in such a peculiar way?”
Francesca forced a wide smile. “I need your help,” she blurted.
Connie regarded her closely. “In what matter?” she asked.
Francesca stared, her mind going blank.
Connie suddenly frowned. And Francesca thought, but was not sure, that she saw worry flit through her blue eyes.
“Is there a reason you are trying to detain me?” She suddenly glanced back at the window—toward the Burtons’ home.
She knows, Francesca thought wildly. Or she suspects! “Connie, I do need your help.” She grabbed her arm and led her over to a chair. “Please sit down.”
Connie stared at her and sat. “What is this about?” she asked quietly.
Francesca’s mind raced. “I need to go down to police headquarters and I need you to come with me.” She fabricated as she spoke.
“What?” Connie was disbelieving.
Francesca sank down on an ottoman. “Oh, God, you won’t believe this, but I have been helping investigate the disappearance of Jonny Burton.”
“What?” Connie said again. Her expression was so incredulous that it was comical.
“I found some of the clues, Con,” Francesca said seriously. “In fact, just this morning there was another terrible note.”
“What did it say?” Connie asked, now wide-eyed and leaning forward.
“I can’t tell you,” Francesca said. “Bragg would throttle me if I did. Time is running out. If Jonny is still alive, this case must be solved immediately.”
“Do the police think he is dead?” Connie asked worriedly.
“It is up in the air. It is possible that whoever has done this wishes to torment either Eliza or Robert Burton.” Or Bragg, Francesca thought silently.