by Brenda Joyce
Francesca felt tears streaming down her own cheeks.
Jonny had awoken and he clung to his mother like a chimpanzee might to its mother’s neck. “Mother,” he began to sob. “Mother, where have you been? I want to go home!”
Eliza wept harder, rocking him. “I am so sorry, darling, I am so sorry. Are you all right?” She set him back a bit and smiled at him through the torrent of her tears.
But he was crying, and he shook his head no. “Why did Papa bring me here? I want to go home! I’m cold and hungry and I miss you and James. Please, take me home! I hate this place!”
Eliza crushed him to her breast again. “I’m taking you home,” she said against his face. “I’m taking you home and I am never letting you out of my sight again.”
Jonny’s crying eased a little. “I want to go home,” he whispered brokenly.
Francesca had been mesmerized by the reunion, and mostly, by the frightened, unhappy little boy. How could a man frighten and distress his own son so? Then she thought about the man standing beside her and she turned to glance at him.
He was trying to keep his expression impassive, but he was not succeeding. Because he was crying, a few small tears slipping unobtrusively down his chiseled face.
Her heart turned over so hard and with such force that the effect was stunning. She reached for and found and held his hand. Startled, he tore his gaze from the mother and his child and their eyes met and locked. Francesca did not think. She only gripped his hand more tightly.
“He will be fine, Bragg,” she managed, her own voice seeming husky to her own ears. “He is frightened. That is all.”
“I will kill Burton,” Bragg returned grimly, his eyes so dark it was terrifying.
“Your son is alive,” she said passionately. “And with his mother. And with you. Thank God for that!”
Bragg stared at her for a long moment and turned his gaze back to Eliza and Jonny. His son wasn’t crying now, but he remained in Eliza’s arms, and she was stroking his hair. She kissed the top of his head and looked up, at Bragg.
Their gazes met and held.
In that instant, as she looked from Bragg to Eliza and back again, something else stirred within Francesca, something dreadful and uneasy and distressing. She had become the outsider. They had a bond she could never share.
She had forgotten that she was still holding his hand. She pulled her palm free.
Bragg suddenly glanced at her, startled.
The look in his eyes was so soft and unguarded, so vulnerable and gentle, that Francesca realized she was hopelessly in love.
And as she felt her heart falling through the vastness of space, the sensation dizzying and wonderful and horrible and terrifying, she started, staring, stunned.
Bragg hesitated, then turned away and moved to the bed. Eliza smiled up at him, moving aside slightly with their son, and Bragg sank down on the edge of the bed with them both.
Not wanting to watch, yet unable to look away, Francesca saw him slip an arm around Eliza, and after a small hesitation, he slipped his other arm around Jonny.
Mother and father and son.
She closed her eyes, hard, against a new wave of tears. She realized that the tableau would haunt her for years.
They had once been in love. But they had been star-crossed, she managed to think. It could have ended so differently for them.
“Jonathan?” Eliza whispered. “You recall Mr. Bragg, do you not? He is your fa—your father’s and my friend.” Her voice had a tremor.
Jonny Burton looked at Bragg, clearly tentative. “You’re the policeman.”
“That’s right,” Bragg said, his tone husky with unshed tears. His hand had somehow slipped into the boy’s thick, dark hair. “Are you all right?”
Jonny grimaced. “I want to go home. I want to go home now.” Tears filled his eyes.
“You’re going home, son,” Bragg said, a tear sliding down his cheek. “I’m taking you home, right now, this very minute. In fact, I will take you home in the police wagon. How would you like that?”
Jonny had been staring at him, as if deciding whether he believed him or even trusted him, and then slowly, he nodded and he smiled. “A real police wagon?”
“A real police wagon,” Bragg confirmed.
And for Francesca, so much pain mingled with her newfound feelings.
It was time to go.
Very quietly, so as not to disturb them, Francesca started from the room. She must not cry. The case had been solved. All’s well that ends well, she managed to think, but inside her heart, she was choking on tears she did not want to spill.
A soft voice with a slight Western drawl made her pause on the threshold. “Thank you, Francesca,” Bragg said.
Francesca felt more hot tears rise up in her eyes. She nodded without turning to him, and she left.
Chapter 19
Saturday, January 25, 1902—9 P.M.
Where was Evan? He was late to his own party, and Francesca could see that while her mother was embarrassed but hiding it very well, indeed, her father was growing angrier and angrier by the minute.
Francesca stood near the wall in the reception room as the two hundred and fourteen guests who were attending the engagement party arrived and passed through on their way to the ballroom. She was still exhausted from the events of the previous week. Bragg had not let her off easily—her parents knew that she had briefly been captured by MacDougal and Burton and they were so furious with her that they had yet to tell her what she might suffer for her part in the investigation. Francesca thought that Bragg had been somewhat happy to finally tell her parents all.
Her heart fluttered. She would see him tonight. Of course, it had only been twenty-four hours since she had last seen him, but this would be the very first time since they had met that they were meeting under normal social circumstances.
The press was cautiously hailing Bragg as a hero. One journalist had gone so far as to say he might be the next Theodore Roosevelt.
But where was Evan? Francesca scanned everyone present in the reception room. How could he be late? She had the most dreadful feeling, and she had so hoped for some normalcy—and happiness—in her life.
She continued to watch the scene in the front hall. Her parents stood on the threshold of the reception room with Sarah Channing and her mother. Sarah’s mother seemed absolutely bewildered by Evan’s tardiness, but Sarah herself seemed fine. She smiled at each and every guest politely, absolutely composed if somewhat reticent. But by now, Francesca knew that was her personality. And in her pale blue gown with its niched bodice and flounced hemline, she was lovely in a small, sweet way.
Connie paused beside Francesca. “Where could he be? He should at least be in his apartments getting dressed.”
Francesca smiled worriedly at her sister, who was stunning in a brilliantly yellow taffeta gown that completely bared her shoulders. She was wearing a yellow diamond choker to match. “I am afraid, Con. I don’t like this.”
Connie nodded, both sisters watching the new arrivals as they spoke. “So am I. Surely Evan will show up?”
“Of course he will,” Francesca said staunchly. Her brother might be a bit wild, and perhaps a bit irresponsible, as their father had claimed, but he was not so thoroughly irresponsible as to not appear for his own engagement party. On the other hand, he had never been backed into this kind of corner before.
Francesca suddenly wondered what she would do if she were ever in his shoes. And suddenly she knew. She would never cave in and marry under any kind of threat, she would hold out for true love, or at least, for what appeared to be true love.
She had definitely become a romantic. Or had the sleeping romantic within her been awakened by this week’s past events?
She thought about Bragg and smiled, then told herself quite sternly not to get carried away. After all, although they had shared a single devastating kiss, he was not a suitor. Not yet.
She smiled again.
“Well, at least J
onny Burton is at home with his mother and brother, where he belongs,” Connie said, sighing.
At that precise moment, Bragg stepped across the threshold, shaking her father’s hand and speaking with Julia, Sarah, and Mrs. Channing. Francesca was aware of her heart pounding madly, of her cheeks heating. He was by far the most striking man in the room. He had a charisma and a presence that even now was causing heads to turn his way. And he did not seem to notice. “And Burton is behind bars, awaiting a psychiatric evaluation,” Francesca murmured, unable to remove her regard from Bragg.
“It is just unbelievable, that he would do such a thing to his very own wife,” Connie said, glancing closely at her and then following her gaze. She smiled.
Still watching Bragg, Francesca said, “He wanted to destroy her mentally. He wanted to break her heart the way she had broken his. That was his vengeance. I was standing there—I heard him.”
“He is extremely handsome, is he not? Especially in his evening clothes.”
Francesca realized the way she was staring and that Connie had noticed the object of her attention. She felt herself flush. “Yes, he is,” she said as evenly as possible.
“So Fran.” Connie faced her, smiling. “Let the cat out of the bag. Is something going on between the two of you?”
Francesca felt her cheeks warming even more. “What could you possibly mean?” She batted her eyelashes at her sister and felt absurd a moment later for doing so.
Connie giggled. “Aha. I see,” she said happily. “You have finally found someone who interests you romantically.”
Francesca did not move. Bragg smiled at her with the slightest incline of his head, from across the room. Her heart chose that moment to perform a distinct series of somersaults.
And then, her elation vanished. Bragg wasn’t suitable. At least, not in Julia’s opinion.
“Con, Bragg and I have worked together and that is all. We are friends—in a manner of speaking.”
Connie laughed at her. “Very well,” she said demurely.
Francesca shot her a glance. Clearly Connie did not believe a word she had said. She scowled. The last thing she needed was for Connie to get a bee in her bonnet. Connie was not the best at keeping secrets. Francesca dreaded the idea of facing her mother over the issue of her seeing Bragg socially. “Look, he has not called on me; he is not a suitor. And you know that I am not looking for a suitor.”
“Love can change all of that in a heartbeat. He will call on you,” Connie said without a doubt. “Sooner, rather than later, I am quite certain.”
Francesca’s gaze immediately found Bragg, who was shaking hands with several gentlemen who were part of a group that included the mayor. She realized she hoped, very much so, that Connie was right. It would be very pleasant indeed to go skating with him on a starry night in Central Park or to sit through a musical on Broadway. In fact, it would be very nice to wind up in his arms a second time.
Her breath seemed to catch in her chest.
“Oh, there is Neil,” Connie said, an odd, high note to her tone.
Francesca had seen him entering the reception room, as well. He was by himself, and magnificently handsome in his black tuxedo. She had already wondered why Connie had arrived alone, then had decided it was because she had come half an hour early to help Julia with any last-minute problems that she might have. But Francesca had only half-heartedly believed her own excuse. All thoughts of Bragg and any possible romance vanished. “Why don’t you go join him?” Francesca asked very quietly. She almost despised Montrose. She knew she would never forgive him for betraying her sister, not ever.
“I think I will.” Connie’s smile was brief as she pressed Francesca’s hand. “I’ve hardly seen him all day.”
Francesca managed a smile, not liking the sound of that. Especially as she knew where Montrose had been that afternoon. He had been at Eliza’s.
The impossible man.
And just as Connie was about to walk across the room to her husband, Evan appeared on the threshold.
Francesca’s instant burst of relief vanished. He was drunk.
“Evan, how could you?” Francesca cried in a very low voice, so as not to be overheard. Perhaps thirty minutes had passed since his arrival.
Evan put his arm around her. “Please, Fran. I am here, aren’t I?” His smile was lopsided and endearing.
He was drunk, but not miserably so. Francesca wondered if everyone could tell that he wasn’t sober, or if it was only obvious to those who knew him well. They were now in the ballroom, standing on the fringes of the crowd. A few couples were waltzing, and waiters in white coats were passing trays filled with flutes of champagne. Well, at least in a few more hours Evan’s state of inebriation would hardly be unusual. “Where have you been?”
He smiled at her again. “Ever the inquisitive Fran. You would not like it if I told you the truth, so accept a small lie. At my club.”
Her mind sped. An image of the ravishing redhead she had seen him with last summer flitted through her head. “Surely you don’t mean ... ?” she began, not completing the question.
“Ssh,” he said, hugging her briefly. “I am here, the ever dutiful son. And being so ever dutiful, I shall claim a dance with my beloved.”
Francesca winced at the way he spoke, and watched him stroll away. At least he had dressed before arriving. But she was worried now; how could the evening conclude pleasantly? She had a distinctly bad feeling, one she did not like.
She wondered why, after the turmoil and tragedy of the past week, this night could not be a splendid celebration. That would be so very appropriate. She sighed.
She watched him pause before Sarah, who was standing with a group of young women, listening to the animated conversation around her. Sarah turned to face Evan, who bowed over her hand, gallantly kissing it. There was nothing inappropriate in his behavior, and Francesca watched Evan smile at her. She smiled back and a moment later Evan was waltzing her across the dance floor.
Francesca realized she had been crossing her ringers behind her back; she exhaled and relaxed. Evan might be furious with their father, but he was a kind man and he would never take it out on Sarah. If they married—no, when they married—he would be amicable, she felt certain.
She glanced past the dancers and her gaze locked with Montrose’s. She stiffened.
He looked away, turning his broad back to her. The slight was obvious.
Her heart began to pound. He was chatting with three other gentlemen. Francesca stared at his broad shoulders. What should she do? Their relationship had become damnably awkward. She almost regretted confronting him over his affair with Eliza. She grimaced, reminding herself that she was not the one at fault—she was not the adulterer. And what about the fact that she had, briefly, suspected him of being the madman responsible for Jonny Burton’s abduction? Francesca winced to herself.
That had been a terrible faux pas.
Montrose left the group of men, and was momentarily standing alone, the gay, festive crowd swirling about him.
Connie was not with him. Francesca wondered why as she glanced around the room. She saw Connie standing in the midst of a group of couples, laughing and smiling, but she kept glancing in the direction of her husband. And Francesca knew her so well. Something was wrong; she was anxious and worried.
Francesca sucked up her courage, reminding herself that this was Montrose, her brother-in-law of the past four years—the doting father of her nieces. She walked over to him, refusing to allow her courage to fail her and trying to tamp down her anger at the very same time. “Neil?”
He turned, halting. He did not smile, although he bowed. “Good evening, Francesca.”
“Good evening.” Francesca realized she was so nervous that she was wringing her hands. She fought to still them. Damnable images of him with Eliza kept trying to creep into her mind. “Can we have a ... a word?”
He eyed her briefly. “Of course.”
Francesca stiffened as his hand touched her wai
st, moving her through the crowd. He was very angry, she realized. But what did she expect? She had to be even angrier, she thought grimly. And she wished he would remove his hand from her body, it was just too large, sitting there on her small waist. She did not like being so aware of it. As they left the ballroom, Bragg entered it. Their gazes instantly met.
Her eyes widened slightly; so did his.
Montrose nodded at Bragg. “Good evening, Commissioner. Congratulations on a case well solved.” His tone was level. Any remaining hostility that he might have harbored was well disguised.
Bragg’s gaze lowered and Francesca realized he was noticing Neil’s hand on her waist. “Thank you. Miss Cahill? Will you save me a dance?”
She felt her cheeks burst into flames. “Of course.” The pressure of Neil’s hand on her waist increased.
They nodded at one another and Montrose guided her into the hall. They walked into a large room used for recitals. Montrose dropped his hand and leaned one broad shoulder against the doorjamb, folding his muscular arms across his chest. “Well?”
“I owe you an apology,” Francesca said simply, then realized she was grimacing.
“You do,” he said flatly.
She crossed her arms as well, thinking about the apology that he owed her sister. “I am sorry I ever thought, even for a moment, that you might be involved in the abduction of Jonny Burton.”
He regarded her. “Are you? And are you also sorry for spying on me?”
She felt her own temper rising. “I wish,” she said, choosing her words with care, “that I had never seen what I did. I wish I did not know what I do.”
“Then why don’t you just forget about it?” he asked bluntly.
Her temper got the best of her. “And how can I do that?” she said, too loudly. “I mean, it might be helpful if you ended things, wouldn’t it?”
He levered himself off the doorjamb. “Once again, you are butting into affairs that are not your concern.”