by Brenda Joyce
“Why did you have to go over there this afternoon? You just could not stay away!” Francesca could not control herself.
His eyes widened. “I don’t believe it! You were spying on me again?” He was disbelieving. “Can you not mind your own business, for God’s sake, Francesca!”
“It was an accident,” she said, meaning it.
“I somehow doubt that,” Neil returned.
Francesca almost hesitated, then demanded, “Why, Neil? Why did you have to go to her today? Why?”
His gaze blackened. “She is my friend, not that it is your concern. Francesca, one day you will pay for your insufferable prying. And one day, when you are older, you will understand that relationships—that marriage—is hardly simple or easy.”
She did not take his words as a threat. “Prying is hardly a sin. Lying is—among other things.”
He turned to go.
“Why are the two of you arguing?” Connie asked, standing on the threshold in the hallway. She was pale, her gaze going back and forth repeatedly between her husband and Francesca. Her blue eyes were filled with anxiety.
Francesca felt her heart skip too many beats to count.
“Ask your sister,” Montrose said harshly, and he moved abruptly past his wife, striding angrily away from them both.
Ill, Francesca met her eyes.
“What have you done?” Connie cried. “To upset him so? What is going on?”
Francesca could not think of a reply. It crossed her befuddled mind that she could tell her sister the truth. The evening was going to turn into a disaster anyway, and would there ever be a good time? She said, “Montrose has discovered that I have secretly enrolled at Barnard College, and we are fighting because he thinks I have gone too far. He thinks I should tell Mama and Papa,” Francesca said unhappily.
She could not tell Connie the truth. Not yet. Not so precipitously. Bragg’s words returned to her now, full force. Words once spoken could never be taken back. She did not know what to do; she would have to think carefully about it.
Connie’s worried expression had eased. “How did he find out? You don’t think that I... Fran! I did not tell him, I swear!” she cried.
“I know you didn’t,” Francesca said, stepping to her and putting her arm around her. She did not want to add to Connie’s woes. “He guessed himself. He is a smart man. Shall we go back to the party?” But even as she spoke, even as she forced a smile, she was thinking, Doesn’t my sister have a right to know?
Dear God, she was caught between a rock and a hard place!
“Let’s,” Connie said, finally smiling in return. “We don’t want to miss the announcement.”
Francesca just looked at her. And she knew, with every instinct that she had, that one day, soon, Connie was going to find out about Montrose’s philandering ways. If she did not already suspect the truth.
“You do not seem to be enjoying yourself, Francesca.”
Francesca started and met Bragg’s gaze. He had come up behind her, catching her unawares. She smiled happily. “I am not the kind of woman who is truly fond of parties,” she finally said.
He smiled in return. “And why does that not surprise me? Let me guess. Attacking ruffians with saws is more your fashion?”
Francesca laughed. “The saw was Joel’s idea. But it did allow us to cut the ropes and free ourselves.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” Bragg said, still smiling, but slightly, his gaze very intent upon her face.
In fact, it was so intent that Francesca was aware of becoming increasingly nervous and flustered. Why was he staring? What was he thinking? “And how is Burton?” she asked as lightly as possible, given the nature of the question and her nerves.
“Ah, shop talk,” he said. His golden eyes moved slowly, deliberately, over her face. “I personally believe him deranged. But he has actually lapsed into a monumental silence ever since being locked up at Bellevue. He refuses now to speak. Still, we are working determinedly to build an ironclad case against him.” He then sighed. “At least there were over a dozen witnesses to his confession yesterday in the foyer.”
She studied him seriously. “What is it? Is it Eliza?”
Francesca plucked his sleeve. Trepidation had risen within her. He and Eliza shared a past. They had had a love affair and two wonderful boys. The fact was somehow frightening.
His gaze met hers. “You are so astute. Yes, I am worried about her. Whether or not Burton is insane, the odds are very high that he will be found mentally competent, enough so to stand trial. I would not wish for the world to know the details of their marriage.”
“You do mean, the details of her personal life,” Francesca said, worried in spite of her slight jealousy. Eliza did not deserve such a fate. She had suffered enough. Somehow, Francesca was still fond of her; somehow, she still admired and liked her. “She would be ruined.”
“Yes, she would.”
“That is probably the last thing on her mind right now,” Francesca said, imagining that Eliza was at this moment at home with her two boys, resolving never to let them out of her sight.
“She has yet to think of it, I am sure. I was reluctant to intrude, but I did stop by this morning, to see how everyone was faring. Jonny is fine, of course. He hasn’t a clue as to what happened, he believes he and his father were on some kind of holiday.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” Francesca said, and they both smiled at her use of his words.
“Eliza still seems shaken. I believe she is blaming herself for driving her husband to such madness. In any case, time does heal all wounds.”
“Oh, Bragg. Such a cliché,” Francesca said lightly, touching his arm.
His gaze twinkled. “As you know, I am hardly infallible.”
“You are a wonderful crime investigator,” Francesca said staunchly. “And I suspect you will be a superb commissioner of police.”
His smile faded. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze searching, and Francesca knew she flushed. Then, “She is planning to take the boys out of school immediately; she is making arrangements to spend some time in Europe.”
“That is a wonderful idea,” Francesca cried.
He did not smile. He stared. He stared with such intensity that Francesca began to fidget. But more importantly, there was one question she just had to ask. And suddenly he smiled. “What is it, Francesca? What is bothering you?” His words were whiskey-soft and laced with his slight Texas drawl.
She wet her lips. “You still love her, don’t you? Eliza.” And she found herself holding her breath.
His slight smile vanished. “No. I do not.”
She blinked. His words were so flat, so firm, that there was no doubt that he meant what he said. “I am sorry,” she managed, thoroughly flustered now. “That question was so inappropriate, given that—”
“Was it inappropriate?” He cut her off. “Considering my behavior in my house with you, the other day?”
She froze. He was referring to the passionate, astonishing kiss that they had shared. She could not speak.
“About my behavior,” he said. And he stopped, flushing darkly, as if the sun had somehow scorched his high cheekbones.
She looked at him, afraid of what he might or might not say. Carefully she said, “You do not have to apologize.”
His jaw flexed. “I do. I was hardly a gentleman.” He winced then. “Francesca, I treasure our friendship. I would never do anything to jeopardize it.”
Francesca’s heart sank. She looked at him, filled with dread and a new, rising hurt. He only thought of her as a friend?
“I should not have let you in,” he continued, “not when I was in such a state. I am sorry for putting you in a damnably compromising position.”
She had to turn away, blinking back sudden, hot tears. What a fool she had been! To think she had expected some kind of chivalrous declaration of love!
“Francesca.” He turned her back around to face him. “Why are you upset? I behaved ab
ominably. You deserve an apology. You deserve more than a stolen kiss on a secondhand sofa in the middle of the day.”
She smiled at him, knowing she must appear miserable, as she felt several tears sliding down her cheeks. “Apology accepted,” she said as brightly as possible.
“Why are you crying?” he asked in his police commissioner’s voice.
She had no intention of obeying him by answering the question. “I have an allergy,” she said. “It is the time of year.”
Both dark brows slashed upward. “In the middle of winter?”
“It is a very unusual allergy,” she replied.
Their gazes locked. It was an endless moment, Francesca incapable of looking away, her heart feeling trounced upon. Suddenly he said, “Shall we dance? I do believe you promised to save me one.” And he smiled.
She met his golden eyes, knowing he was being polite, knowing that Connie was wrong, and wishing for so much more. But of course, it was better this way. She did not want a suitor as she did not want to marry, and Julia would never approve of him anyway. “Why ever not?” she managed lightly.
He swept her into his arms and onto the dance floor.
Nothing had ever felt so right—other than the kiss they had shared.
“Hello, Francesca,” Sarah said somewhat shyly after Bragg had escorted her off the dance floor.
“Hello, Sarah. Have you met Bragg? I mean, Rick Bragg, the commissioner of police?” Francesca was breathless and flustered and confused. Bragg lightly held her arm. It was bare, and she relished the feeling of his fingertips on her skin even though he was only her friend, even though she had decided she wanted it that way.
“I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” Sarah said, extending her hand.
Bragg bowed over it. “May I be premature and congratulate you on your forthcoming engagement?” he said with a charming smile.
Francesca studied him as Sarah replied. His mother might be a woman of ill repute, but he was certainly a gentleman. Then she felt eyes upon her and she turned and met her mother’s direct stare. Julia wasn’t smiling.
Francesca turned away, her pulse racing. There was no mistaking her mother’s disapproval, and it wasn’t fair. They had only shared a single dance and Bragg should not be blamed for the facts of his birth. Besides, he had made himself clear and he was not courting her. Oh, no.
Bragg excused himself. Francesca made certain not to watch him go. “How are you, Sarah?” She had recovered some of her composure at last. It had not been easy.
“I am fine, thank you. And you?” Her brown eyes held Francesca’s.
“Fine. Are you nervous about the announcement?”
“Not really.” Sarah smiled. Then, with excitement, “Have you given any thought to my doing your portrait?”
Francesca was startled; she had completely forgotten about it. “I... actually, I have been so occupied, I had forgotten you wished to paint me.”
“Oh.” Sarah’s face fell with disappointment. “I was so hoping we could begin with preliminary sketches this week.”
Francesca was surprised. “Sarah. You are about to get engaged to my brother, but we are discussing your painting.”
Sarah regarded her evenly. “What does the one have to do with the other?”
Francesca bit her lip. She could not point out that Sarah did not seem very enthusiastic about her upcoming engagement. She hesitated.
“What is it, Francesca? I can see that something is on your mind.”
Francesca hesitated, then decided, Why not? “Sarah. You must be one of the happiest women in New York. Evan is considered one of the city’s best catches, and you are the one who has ensnared him.”
Sarah blinked at her. “I am very pleased to be marrying him,” she said.
Was it possible? Was it possible that Sarah really didn’t care one way or the other about her marriage? Was it possible that she was not smitten with her brother? But she would never land another suitor like him. “Sarah, do you love my brother?”
Sarah’s eyes widened.
Francesca wanted to kick herself. “That was a horridly rude question! I do apologize,” she cried.
Sarah took her hand. “I find your honesty refreshing, Francesca. Do you know, with all the gossip flying about town about Evan and myself, that you are the only one who has asked such a question? We have only just met,” she said. “We hardly know one another.”
“But... you are to become engaged. The two of you are making a commitment to spend the rest of your lives together,” Francesca said.
Sarah shrugged. “I know. It is a good match. It is good for him and it is good for me. I do mean, we both must marry, sooner or later. And I believe that, in time, we shall become fond of one another. Are you so romantic, Francesca?”
“I had never perceived myself that way, but apparently I am,” Francesca said, remaining astounded. Sarah was not in love with her brother. It was almost unfathomable to Francesca.
“Would you please think about the portrait?” Sarah said, rushing her words.
Francesca realized why. The orchestra had gone silent, and her father and mother had taken to the podium. Evan was about to go up the steps. Julia was waving at Sarah to come over.
“I don’t have to think about it,” Francesca said. She squeezed the hand of the woman who would one day become her sister-in-law. “Of course you may paint my portrait.”
Sarah’s eyes brightened and she smiled and then she hurried through the crowd.
Francesca turned. Evan was waiting at the bottom of the steps of the podium for his fiancée. He took her arm and helped her up, following behind her.
“Everyone. May I have your attention, please? I have an announcement to make,” Andrew Cahill said loudly.
The crowd began to hush.
Someone came to stand beside Francesca. She did not have to look to know who it was. She glanced at him. He smiled at her. “A very big day,” Bragg said.
“Yes, indeed,” Francesca agreed, pleased in spite of herself to have his company again. One of them shifted slightly, and Francesca did not know if it was he or she herself. In any case, their arms brushed, as did their hands. Not even an inch separated their bodies. Francesca wondered if he noticed; if he did, he gave no sign. Neither one of them moved away.
“I am very pleased to announce the engagement of my son, Evan Martin Cahill, to Miss Sarah Beth Channing,” Cahill said.
Everyone clapped.
Aware of Bragg watching her from the corner of his eye, Francesca also applauded. She prayed the match would turn out far better than she had thought it would.
Then she thought about Bragg’s apology, and she felt sick inside of her heart.
Evan was taking a jeweler’s royal-blue velvet box from his breast pocket, and he opened it. He held up a huge ruby ring, flanked with large diamonds. The women in the crowd oohed and aahed. Even a few men gasped. The ring was worth a fortune. Evan smiled, grimly, Francesca thought, and slid the ring on Sarah’s finger. She smiled politely back at him and he kissed her briefly on the lips.
More applause rang out.
Francesca imagined what it would be like to receive a ring like that, but to receive it out of love, not duty. She wondered what it would be like to be so loved by a man that he would declare himself and want to spend the rest of his life with her. Acutely aware of Bragg beside her, she just could not move. She could not even breathe.
What was wrong with her?
The gathering was breaking up. The orchestra had begun to play. Francesca turned to move off the dance floor, but instead she bumped into the man at her side. She looked up.
Bragg was staring at her. Very intently. So intently that she felt herself flush.
She smiled, hoping all of her thoughts and all of her anxiety were not written there on her face.
“I am going to call it a night,” he said, his gaze never wavering. “It has been a very long week, Francesca.”
“Yes, it has,” she said,
not daring to move.
“I will see you soon,” he said.
Francesca watched him leave.
Chapter 20
Thursday, January 30, 1902—Noon
Francesca stepped out of Tiffany’s, feeling quite pleased with herself. Five days had passed since the engagement had been announced. Five days that were rather boring, if she dared be honest with herself. For life had gone back to its normal routine. She was attending classes and studying at the library every day, while trying to hide her studies from her mother, who seemed as suspicious as ever about her activities. And then, of course, there were the evening engagements, which she just could not avoid. In fact, last night she had attended the ballet, and Mr. Wiley had been a member of their group.
Francesca had put off having that discussion with Julia. She grew grim at the thought. It could not be put off for much longer, for Julia had actually invited Wiley to dine with them at the house tomorrow night.
She paused on the corner of Fifteenth Street on Union Square. Some of her satisfaction over the morning’s endeavor wore off. She hadn’t seen Bragg since the engagement party, and she missed their sparring, their conversations, and their crime-solving together.
He hadn’t called. But then, Francesca had known he wouldn’t, even if his last parting remark to her had been that he would see her again soon. Connie hadn’t been right, but Francesca refused to think about it or even to be disappointed. She refused to be hurt that he had not noticed her as a beautiful and intriguing young woman. She had courses to take, classes to attend, charities to do. She had everything she wanted in her life.
She was on her way to drop by police headquarters before going home.
Not because she was still romantically inclined toward him, oh no. But they had become friends; he had even said so. So why shouldn’t she drop by? And as they were friendly, how could the action then be considered forward on her part?
All she wanted to do was share her good news with Bragg.
It was as simple as that.
How nervous she was.
“Miss Cahill! Hey!”