by Brenda Joyce
As he led Bragg into the library, he could hear his mother’s high, distraught tone. Julia was a formidable force and never panicked. She was in a panic now.
He felt his heart lurch as Bragg picked up the heavy black receiver. He was in a bit of a panic himself, he decided. Fran loved Calder Hart. Only something terrible would have kept her from her own wedding.
“Beatrice, it’s the police commissioner,” Rick Bragg said. “Please connect me to HQ.”
Evan jammed his hands into the pockets of his evening trousers. He’d shed his tuxedo jacket the moment they had arrived at the Cahill mansion, about an hour ago. He was a tall, dark, handsome man of twenty-six. Unfortunately, he liked to carouse and was obsessed with gaming, and as a result he had accrued some monstrous debts. Recently he had had a grave falling-out with his father. Andrew Cahill had decided that the time had come to refuse to pay his son’s debts—unless Evan married a respectable young lady. Their battle had become terrible and Evan had moved out. Recently, though, he had reconciled with his father, returning to the family business and his own home, adjacent the Cahill mansion.
It should have felt wonderful to be back in the family fold, to be living like a prince and to have a handsome cash flow again. It did not. He hated being ordered about as if he did not have a brain in his head, as if he were a hired—and dim-witted—lackey.
He realized Bragg was asking a desk attendant at police headquarters if Chief Farr was in. He sighed. His own problems could wait—and he did have problems. His mistress claimed she was having his child. He did not want to think of the flamboyant Bartolla Benevente now. He had refused to speak with her at the church.
A moment later, he heard Bragg speaking with an inspector, requesting a police detail. “We will treat this as a missing person’s case.” Bragg replaced the receiver on the hook.
“What now?” Evan asked grimly.
“We currently have no leads. However, I will let Newman and his team do what they are trained to do—find clues, no matter how small. In the meantime, I suggest you comfort your mother. I am going to make a quick stop at my home and then return to interview your staff at great length.”
They left the hall and were about to enter the marble foyer, when Evan saw Maggie Kennedy standing there with her son, Joel.
He halted. They were really only friends, but her blue eyes instantly locked with his. He knew she was there not just because of Francesca, but out of concern for him.
Evan felt himself smile. Tentatively, Maggie smiled back. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.
Evan felt his heart turn over, hard. Recently, he had had to admit that he had become very, very fond of Mrs. Kennedy. He had met her some time ago through Francesca. Maggie was a seamstress, and she had been making gowns for his sister. And then she had become the target of a killer.
Evan had actually been the one to find her in a struggle with Father Culhane, and he had rescued her from the madman. But even before that moment, he had been so admiring of her. Maggie Kennedy was an angel. A widow, she worked tirelessly in order to care for her four children by herself. He had never met a woman as gentle and kind, as solid and determined.
He had begun to visit her and her children, bringing gifts and cookies and cakes, and he had even taken the family on several outings. The very last time he had seen Maggie, he had asked her if he could kiss her, and she had said yes.
He wished he could stop thinking about that single, very chaste kiss, but he could not. He hurried to her. He had seen her and her children at the church, but hadn’t had a chance to say hello. Had the wedding gone as planned, he would have danced with her at the reception. Instead, he had been busy with his father, explaining to their guests that Francesca was suddenly ill and that the wedding was postponed. No one had believed them. “Hello.”
“Has there been any word?” Maggie asked anxiously. She was a few years older than he was, with very fair skin, a splattering of freckles, vivid blue eyes and shocking red hair. He knew she was wearing her very best Sunday dress.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, flinching.
She took his hand. “No one is as resolute as your sister.”
He stared into her eyes, feeling the strength of will and purpose in her tiny hand. He raised it to his lips briefly. “I am very worried.”
“I know,” she said. She glanced past him.
He followed her glance. Bragg was asking Joel if he had any idea about what had happened to Francesca. Joel was eleven years old, and he knew the underworld far too well. He had been apprehended many times for picking purses. Of course, his cutpurse days seemed to be over, as Francesca paid him a salary for his assistance. Joel shook his head soberly. “Miz Cahill never said a word about any note. She loves Mr. Hart an’ only the worst sort of rough could keep her away today.”
Bragg tousled his hair, but he did not smile. Evan wondered if his odd expression had more to do with Joel’s statement about Francesca’s feelings for Hart than it did with her disappearance.
Evan realized he had stepped even closer to Maggie, as if her warmth could comfort him now. “Come inside,” he said softly.
“I don’t want to intrude. But I am worried about Francesca—and you.”
Had the situation not been so dire, he would have thrilled at her words. “You cannot intrude. Mother adores you—as do I.” He could barely believe what he had said and he felt himself blush. She blushed as well, and he took her arm and led her into the salon.
Julia sat on the sofa with Andrew and Connie, an alcoholic drink of some sort on the table in front of her. It was obvious she had been weeping; Julia never wept, or not that he had ever seen. It was warm in the room, but someone had thrown a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. She sat up stiffly as they entered the room. “Has there been any word? Any clue? Is she back?”
Bragg was grim. “I am sorry, Julia, but my answer is no to all your questions.”
She cried out. Andrew put his arm around her and held her close. “Oh, God! Francesca is reckless and impulsive, but she would never be this irresponsible, Rick! What has happened to her? Where is my daughter?”
“Darling!” Andrew said sharply. “Francesca is fine. She will return at any moment—with some cockamamy explanation for what has occurred today.” But he was as pale as his wife.
“Francesca will be fine, Mama,” Connie said. “You know Fran. She is unstoppable.”
Julia moaned. “And when she does return, then what? Three weeks ago her fiancé was accused of murder! We have hardly gotten over that scandal—and now, there is this! Everyone will be gossiping about Francesca jilting Hart at the altar for months to come.”
“Let’s worry about the scandal another time,” Andrew said firmly.
Evan couldn’t agree more.
Bragg stepped forward. “The police will be here shortly. I have to leave, but I will return in two hours.”
“In two hours?” Julia gasped in disbelief. “Do you have to leave?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bragg said.
Andrew rose and strode to him. “Can I have a private word, Rick?”
Andrew was as much an advocate of reform and as politically active as Rick. They had met years earlier, when Rick’s father was in Grover Cleveland’s administration. Now they were close friends. The two men stepped into the hall.
For one moment, a heavy silence filled with fear and dread fell over the small salon. Julia seemed frozen. Connie got up and walked into her husband’s arms. Montrose was as worried as anyone. Evan tightened his grasp on Maggie, turning to her and lowering his voice. “I will get you a cab.” He didn’t want her to go, but he imagined she had left her other three children with a neighbor, and surely had to return home.
As they left the salon, Maggie murmured, “I hate leaving you now, in crisis. You have been so helpful to me.”
Her concern thrilled him, but he was careful to remain poker-faced. “It’s all right. Joel?” he called. He realized Joel had gone outside. “Did h
e leave?”
“He told me he would help the police tonight. I have never been able to keep him from running around as he pleases,” Maggie said with dismay. “I know he wants to find Francesca.”
Joel had more courage than most grown men, and shrewd wits. Evan wondered if he had run off to try to find Francesca on his own. At that point, he didn’t truly care who found her—as long as she was found.
The doorbell sounded. Evan could not imagine who would call upon them now. As he and Maggie turned, the doorman opened the door, revealing Bartolla Benevente.
His tension knew no bounds.
Maggie flinched.
His ex-mistress strolled into the front hall, holding a pastry box wrapped in ribbon. She was still dressed in a very daring ruby-red ball gown for the reception that had not taken place. She was a stunning, statuesque woman with auburn hair. Once, her face and figure had driven him mad with desire. Now, he found her distastefully obvious.
Bartolla smiled slowly at them. “Hello, Evan.” She ignored Maggie, coming forward with the sweeping stride of royalty. In reality, she had no royal blood, although at sixteen she had married a sixty-year-old Italian count. “Has your sister been found?”
“No, she has not. What are you doing here? This is a very difficult time, Bartolla.”
“I am aware of that! I must say, I never dreamed Francesca would jilt Hart. I have always thought that he would be the one to break her foolish heart—sooner than later.” She laughed, clearly amused by the events of the day. “I do not think Hart will be very happy with your sister when she returns, Evan.”
“You are wrong. He is smitten. Francesca has gotten herself into trouble, otherwise, there would have been a wedding today. Once she is found, I am certain they will plan another wedding day.” He realized he had come to despise her. He did not know how he would manage a relationship with her after their child was born.
Bartolla laughed again. “I know Hart very well, my dear, and he loves to hold a grudge. There will never be a wedding now.”
Evan realized she still hadn’t looked at Maggie even once—as if Maggie were not standing there with them. “I am not going to argue with you. I must get Mrs. Kennedy a cab.”
“Perhaps you should put her on the El, instead.” She smiled. “After all, that is the fare a seamstress can afford.”
He trembled with anger; Maggie touched his hand. He looked at her and she sent him a silent message with her eyes. She did not want him upset by the countess. He inhaled. “Bartolla, this is not the time to call. My family is very distraught. My mother is not receiving tonight.”
“Balderdash. I have brought cakes, Evan. I am so very fond of Julia and I wished to commiserate with her. Surely she needs a shoulder to cry on now.”
Evan knew she only wished to gloat.
Maggie tugged on his hand, clearly wanting to leave. Then Bragg appeared, his strides long and brisk. He and Evan went outside together as Bartolla swept into the other room in search of Julia.
“What do you really think?” Evan asked him tersely.
Bragg hesitated. “I think Francesca has gotten into some trouble. But I am going to find her, Evan. You may count on that.”
SHE WAS AFRAID to get out of the cab.
Hart’s home was a huge, neo-gothic mansion, consisting mostly of charcoal-hued stone. Recently built, it was a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. He had no neighbors as of yet, and his grounds took up half a city block. Lawns and gardens surrounded the house, while a brick stable, servants’ quarters, tennis courts and a large pond were all set farther back on the grounds. A tall, wrought-iron-and-stone fence bounded the entire property.
Francesca did not move as the cabbie got down from the driver’s seat. The front gates were closed, although it was only six o’clock in the evening.
She trembled, fighting tears of exhaustion and dismay. She had spent the past thirty minutes traveling uptown, trying to imagine what the scene had been like at the church when the bridal march should have begun. Her mother would have been hysterical, her father grim. She couldn’t imagine the reaction of her guests.
Then she had tried to imagine what Hart’s mood had been.
The cabbie had opened one of the front gates, wide enough for his cab to go through. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, above her closed cubicle. She was filled with dread. She could no longer tell herself that Hart was worried about her. She simply knew him too well.
He had a terrible, explosive temper and a jaded, cynical worldview.
As the gelding trotted forward onto the graveled driveway, she gave in to her overwhelming distress. She always saw the glass as half-full; she always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Hart never did either of those things. He trusted no one and nothing.
Except, he had come to trust her, hadn’t he?
It didn’t matter. She was afraid he was going to be very angry.
But it was even worse than that. She had glimpsed, just once or twice, a terrible vulnerability hiding behind the facade of arrogance and disdain, wealth and power. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him. She almost laughed, somewhat hysterically. How many times had she been warned that he would be the one to hurt her?
All relief at escaping the gallery had vanished. She had to explain to Hart what had happened, calm and reassure him, if need be, and then they had to go downtown and retrieve her portrait from the gallery. That last action could not wait! She hadn’t said a word to the roundsman, as she had not wanted him to go inside and look at it. When she had been leaving Waverly Place, she had seen him closing up the gallery, a single, small consolation. But now, in hindsight, she wished she had found an object with which to destroy the painting before leaving the gallery.
She paid the driver. The downstairs of the mansion was not lit up. Every now and then, Hart’s mood was so black that he dismissed his entire staff, only to wander about his mausoleum of a home by himself, a scotch in hand, admiring his art—and brooding. She would almost believe that he was doing that now, except that she happened to know he had guests. Rathe and Grace Bragg were staying with him indefinitely, as they built a home on the west side of the city. Just then, so was Nicholas D’Archand and two other Bragg siblings.
She had a terrible feeling, and she did not even try to shake it off as she climbed the front steps of the house, passing two huge limestone lions at the top of the staircase. On the roof, far above the front door, was a bronze stag. Before she even lifted the heavy brass knocker, the front door opened. She expected Hart to be standing there, but it was Alfred who let her in.
Francesca hurried inside. “How is he?”
Alfred’s eyes widened. “Miss Cahill! Are you all right?”
She knew she was dirty, disheveled and scratched from having to shatter the glass window. “I am not all right, but I do not need a physician—I need to speak with Hart.”
“Mr. Hart is in the library, taking care of business affairs.”
She started. “Surely you are not telling me that he has taken my failure to arrive at the church in stride?”
“I do not know how he is at the moment, Miss Cahill. He is excessively calm.”
She stared, shocked. She lowered her voice. “Is he drinking?” Hart often sought refuge in alcohol when under extreme emotional duress, in an attempt to avoid pain. She found him frightening when drunk, but not because he was inclined toward violence. She knew he would never lift a hand toward her. His mood was always the blackest and he was always the most self-deprecating when he was drinking himself into a state of oblivion.
“No.”
She prayed that this was a very good sign—that he wasn’t hurt—and that he would be eager to hear her explain what had kept her from their wedding. “Thank you,” Francesca said. “I can find the library myself, Alfred.”
He hesitated. “You look a sight, Miss Cahill. Do you want to freshen up?”
She shook her head and hurried down the hall, hoping she would not run into any of the fami
ly. The house was terribly quiet. It reminded her of a home in mourning. She did not like having such morbid thoughts and she ignored them. She wanted nothing more than to be in Hart’s arms.
The heavy rosewood door to his library was closed. Francesca hesitated, her heart racing with unnerving force. Finally she pushed it open.
Hart was seated at his desk, hunched over the papers he was reading. He lifted his head, his gaze slamming onto her.
She managed to smile. “Hello.”
The distance of a tennis court was between them. Francesca shut the door and hurried forward, her heart pounding wildly. “Hart, I am so sorry! I have had the most awful day!”
He slowly rose to his full height, which was an inch or two over six feet. There was something controlled about the way he rose to tower over his desk and she faltered. Surely he noticed how untidy and scratched she was. Surely he was worried about her! “I have been locked up,” she cried. “And I found my portrait!”
He did not give her his characteristic once-over. Unblinkingly, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said, he said calmly, “I see you have had a change of heart, Francesca. I see that you have seen the light.”
She was very alarmed. “Didn’t you hear me? I was locked in a gallery—that was why I missed our wedding. I am so sorry!” she cried. “I have not had a change of heart!”
He was as still as a statue. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. “I am well aware that you missed the wedding.” He spoke as if they were discussing the summer rain. His calm monotone never changed. “Are you hurt?”
Didn’t he care that she had been locked up? “No! Not in the way that you mean!”
“Good.” He looked down at the papers on his desk and reached for one. Francesca was shocked. What was he doing? Wasn’t he going to look at her face, her hands, and ask what had happened? Didn’t he want to know where the blasted portrait was, so they could retrieve and destroy it?