Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “No, they do not. But I do,” Francesca said.

  Rose did not reply.

  “How is Daisy?” Francesca asked. “Perhaps you could say hello to her for me.” Daisy was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen. Like Rose, she spoke in cultured tones, and Francesca had not been able to figure out why they chose to use their bodies to make their living. Also, it had been very clear that they were not sisters, and far more than friends.

  Rose stiffened. Her eyes seemed to turn black. “Why don’t you ask your friend how she is?”

  For one moment, Francesca was utterly confused. “I beg your pardon? I should ask Bragg how Daisy is?”

  “Not the commissioner. Hart. Calder Hart.” She spit his last name.

  Francesca blinked. “Oh, no. I can see that you are upset.” She clasped Rose’s shoulder, meaning to comfort the other, much taller woman, but Rose pulled away. “What has happened? Is Daisy all right?” Francesca could hardly imagine what Hart had done to so anger Rose.

  Rose stared, and Francesca realized that she was so distraught she could not speak. “Rose?” she prodded.

  “Hart has made her his mistress,” Rose said.

  “What?” Francesca gasped, an image of Hart, Daisy, and Rose in bed together coming instantly to mind.

  “He made her an offer she could not refuse. She has moved into the house he has bought her,” Rose said. “He bought her a house!”

  Francesca was stunned. The last she had heard, Hart was fond of both women. And he also kept a mistress. “But . . . he has a mistress.” How many women could one man keep?

  “He got rid of her. Now he has Daisy!”

  Francesca did not know what to think, much less what to say. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  Rose said, “Their agreement is for six months. I could kill him for this!”

  “Well, it is only six months,” Francesca tried, remaining stunned. Of course, she knew why Hart had asked Daisy to become his mistress. She was beautiful, sensual, and kind. Francesca could understand his being smitten with her.

  Still, Rose was more than upset, and she was a very volatile woman. Francesca had comprehended that the moment she had first met her. It worried her a little, that Rose was so angry with Hart. But what could she do?

  Then she thought about Hart’s recent pursuit of Connie.

  “A lot can happen in six months,” Rose returned. “And he is such a bastard, he has made rules.”

  Francesca heard her but did not instantly answer. She was appalled now, that he should be setting up Daisy as his mistress while chasing so blatantly after Connie. Of course, she must tell Connie this latest bit of news right away. Then she thought of Connie’s reaction to Hart’s latest love affair. Connie would be upset—very upset, in fact—and Francesca knew she would give Hart the cold shoulder the next time he approached. She began to smile—their little flirtation would be over the moment Connie learned about Daisy.

  This was a blessing in disguise, she realized, and she thanked God for it.

  Francesca had heard Rose’s words, however. She turned her attention upon her. Was she somehow feeling threatened by Hart? “Surely you and Rose have had a chance to discuss this.”

  “Not really. It has happened so quickly, I still feel as if my head is spinning!” She looked away. Francesca thought she had seen a tear sparkling on Rose’s long black lashes.

  Francesca took her hand. Rose removed it. “The two of you are good friends, and no matter what happens in the next six months, your friendship will survive. I am sure of it.”

  Rose stared. Her rigid face softened. “Thank you, Miss Cahill. You are kind. Daisy was right. She likes you,” she added.

  Francesca smiled. “Please call me Francesca.” An idea swept into her mind. “You know, I would love to call on Daisy. Would you care to join me?”

  Rose blinked, and brightened.

  Francesca quickly decided that Mrs. Stuart could wait, especially as Francesca had no news to relate to her regarding her husband’s affair. Daisy’s house was only a few blocks downtown, and they quickly hailed a cab. As they paused at the curb before an older home that had been impeccably maintained, Francesca heard Rose inhale sharply.

  Francesca glanced at her and saw how nervous she seemed to be. She could only wonder why as she reached into her purse for the fare. Finding the small gun there still surprised her.

  Rose touched her hand. “I have the fare,” she said, handing the driver a half-dollar and some change.

  “Thank you,” Francesca said.

  They alighted and walked through a wrought-iron gate and up the stone path leading to the stately brick house. Francesca decided not to share her enthusiasm—the home was lovely, and she could imagine the grounds in summer abloom. Their knock was answered instantly by a manservant.

  But Daisy had appeared at the far end of the hall, a spacious entry with highly polished wood floors, a wide staircase at its end. “Rose!” she cried, hurrying forward, an angelic vision in pale blue silk.

  The two women hugged for a long and emotional moment. Francesca watched, smiling a little, and then, when they separated, she saw that Rose had tears in her eyes. “I miss you,” Rose said.

  “I miss you, too,” Daisy responded, smiling and taking her hand. But she was not crying. She seemed breathless with her happiness and had never been more beautiful. Her eyes were shining, and even her magnificent skin seemed to glow from a light within.

  Francesca suddenly wondered if she was in love—with Hart. Surprise and something else she did not care to identify stiffened her spine.

  Daisy turned to Francesca. “This is a wonderful surprise, Miss Cahill,” she said in her soft, breathy voice.

  Francesca recovered. Daisy loved Rose—she was certain of that. “I just happened to meet Rose on the street. She told me your news, and quite impulsively, we decided to call on you.”

  “You are my first caller,” Daisy said, and then she blushed. It was obvious she was thinking about Hart, who undoubtedly had been her first real caller—if he could be termed that.

  Rose pulled her hand free. She looked around. Francesca followed her gaze.

  The hall was lovely. The mauve ceiling had beautiful moldings, which were painted a soft shade of pink. The walls were a different pastel pink, and three paintings had been placed on them. One was a stunning landscape that Francesca guessed to be from the Romantic period, another was a portrait of a medieval nobleman, clearly executed centuries earlier, and the last was an oil that Francesca thought was a seascape but could not be sure, as it was so impressionistic. A beautiful mahogany table with an inlaid ivory top was centered on the largest wall, a gilded tray for calling cards upon it. There was also a huge arrangement of fresh flowers there.

  Francesca was impressed. Calder must have given Daisy the art—or at least insisted she hang his paintings—and the flowers alone had been extremely costly. Clearly Hart wished for Daisy to live in the most elegant manner.

  Daisy followed her gaze. “Hart told me I should keep fresh flowers there. They are so expensive—I would prefer dry ones. But I would never refuse him.” She smiled. “Shall we go sit down?”

  “The flowers are beautiful; your new home is beautiful. Are you enjoying it?” Francesca asked as Daisy led the way into a salon with rich yellow walls. Heavy gold velvet drapes hung on the windows, and the furnishings were all rich, warm hues of gold and red and orange, in wools, satins, and damask.

  “I feel as if I am in a dream,” Daisy said, smiling softly.

  Francesca saw that she was happy. She glanced at Rose, who was clearly as unhappy. Rose was brusque. She said, “I feel as if I am in a nightmare.”

  Daisy rushed to her. “Rose, please. This is for the best. We have discussed it. I . . . I am so happy you decided to visit me.”

  “Well, at least he has not outlawed that,” Rose said, her hands on her hips.

  “And he shall not,” Daisy said softly but firmly. “You know I wou
ld never agree to that.”

  Rose softened. She slipped her arm around Daisy’s waist, and they leaned into each other’s bodies. Francesca could not help but be both fascinated and disturbed; she looked away.

  “Perhaps the time will fly,” Rose said, her gaze searching.

  “Perhaps,” Daisy returned, and then she looked away.

  Rose dropped her arm. She gave Francesca an anguished look and strode over to the window, staring out of it, her back to everyone in the room. Francesca felt sorry for her. She did not think Daisy wished for her six-month arrangement to end anytime soon.

  And Francesca had seen the “house” where they had both been living and working, previous to Bragg’s raid on the establishment and Daisy’s relocation. Daisy had moved up in the world—Francesca was happy for her. She wondered where Rose was living. She hoped she was not back in Mrs. Pinke’s employ.

  Daisy had ordered refreshments, and the manservant entered, wheeling a cart containing pastries and tea. Strolling behind him was Hart.

  Francesca stiffened. Hart, as usual, was very dashing in his black suit, dark tie, and snowy white shirt. The shirt made a stunning contrast to his swarthy skin. His strides were long and loose, his jacket carelessly open. Hart smiled at her, Francesca, first.

  She was oddly pleased.

  He then glanced at his mistress, walking over to Daisy. She seemed startled to see him. “Hello,” he said. He did not kiss her or reach for her. He was a perfect gentleman. Francesca was impressed, but what had she expected? For him to embrace Daisy and kiss her in front of everyone?

  He faced Francesca. “This is a welcome surprise.” He glanced at Joel, who seemed bored. “Hey there, Kennedy.”

  Joel gave him a grudging look. He had been ogling both women with a boy’s fascinated admiration.

  And then there was silence.

  Francesca looked from Rose, who had turned to the room, to Hart, who stared at her. Rose looked as if she wanted to claw his eyes out, while Hart seemed amused. “Hello, Rose,” he said softly.

  “Hart.”

  “I thought you vowed to never set foot in my new home?” His brows lifted and he seemed on the verge of laughing at her.

  “Miss Cahill persuaded me to call.”

  “I see. Well, your resolve lasted all of three days.” Now he was laughing.

  “Calder,” Daisy protested.

  He ignored her. Rose erupted, “You are such a bastard. I don’t know what she sees in you.”

  “I think you do. Rather, I think you have. Seen what she sees in me.”

  Francesca felt herself turn red.

  “How can you put up with his arrogance?” Rose demanded. “Six months is a lifetime! Daisy . . .” she trailed off, but it was a plea.

  Daisy looked worriedly from the one to the other. She started toward Rose, but Hart seized her hand and stopped her in her tracks. “Do not think to make a scene, Rose. Not in my house,” he said, and his words were soft and filled with warning.

  Rose smiled tightly at him. “You know what? I don’t care how filthy rich you are! And you don’t scare me, either, Hart.” She was practically bristling.

  “Do you think to scare me?” Hart asked, mocking her.

  Rose looked as if she were about to leap on him. Daisy stepped forward. “Enough! We have guests, and I cannot abide the two of you fighting like this.”

  Hart said, “Don’t even think of trying to push me, Rose. I suggest you come to grips with the reality I have made. Otherwise I shall change the rules—and you will not be allowed in this house.”

  Rose stared. Daisy looked at Hart with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  Francesca said briskly, “Joel and I must go. Daisy, I am so pleased to have seen you again.” She could not believe Hart was being so coldhearted with Rose. She glanced at Rose. “Do you need a lift?” Not that she had a vehicle. But she knew it would be best if Rose left now. Besides, Hart had undoubtedly come to see his mistress for a reason. Francesca tried not to think too much about it, but it was impossible.

  “No,” Rose said tersely. “But I have clearly overstayed my welcome.”

  “Yes, you have,” Hart agreed. He walked over to Francesca. “I shall walk you out.” He smiled at her as if the hostile, tension-ridden exchange had not just occurred.

  Francesca walked over to Daisy. They clasped hands. Daisy tried to brighten, but her eyes were filled with anxiety and her smile fell flat. “Thank you so for calling,” she said. “Please, call anytime.”

  “I shall. Chin up,” Francesca added softly. “I know everything will work out—I feel certain of it.”

  “Do you think so?” Daisy spoke so softly now it was almost impossible to hear her. She seemed a bit relieved. “I hate seeing them argue this way.”

  “I know. Rose needs time to adjust. Hart need a smack on the hand.” She glanced at him.

  He grinned at her.

  Impulsively Francesca gave Daisy a brief hug. She did not want to add that she thought Daisy deserved the life Hart had suddenly given her—for now. But it was probably too much to hope that one day Daisy and Rose would become honest and genteel women. Francesca wished she knew the story behind them both.

  Hart took her arm, and with Joel in tow, they left the two women in the salon. “So, what are you and your little partner in crime-solving up to these days?” His eyes were warm as they slid over her features slowly, lingering a bit on her eyes.

  Francesca could not help but return his smile, warming. “We are on a case, actually. Not one, but two.” Her smile increased.

  His eyes widened. “I was actually hoping you were merely in this neighborhood for a social call. What kind of case?”

  She hesitated. “One is routine. One is quite . . . shocking.”

  He halted, facing her. “I hope you are not involved in something dangerous.”

  Francesca smiled sweetly. “It is dangerous, but I am equipped.”

  He eyed her. “What does ‘equipped’ mean? I do not like the sound of that!”

  Francesca hesitated, then opened her purse and showed him the gun.

  “What the hell is that!” he exclaimed.

  She snapped the clutch closed. “It is a gun.”

  He grabbed the purse and opened it, ignoring her sound of protest. He pulled out the gun. “This is a gun!”

  “It is for self-protection.” She tried to take the gun from him, but he did not let her do so.

  He stared at her as if she were some creature come down from the moon or Mars. “Francesca, this is too much. I must insist that you get rid of the gun.”

  “Absolutely not. May I have my purse—and gun—back please?”

  “Having a gun will only get you in trouble.” His gaze narrowed. “Does Bragg know about this?”

  “He does not. And do not think to tell him,” she huffed, becoming angry. “My purse, Hart. My gun.”

  He handed her the purse and snapped open the gun. Relief filled his features. “It’s not loaded,” he said. He smiled and handed the gun to her.

  Francesca blinked. In her excitement, she had forgotten to load the gun. Not only that; she had forgotten to buy bullets. How could she have been so foolish?

  “Still,” Hart said, “even unloaded, you should not carry this about. Guns are dangerous—provocative and lethal. I insist you get rid of it.”

  She closed the purse and snapped, “Excuse me; you cannot insist upon anything.”

  His eyes glinted. “Oh, no?”

  She grew uneasy. “Would you betray our friendship by going to Bragg?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are unscrupulous!”

  “I am.”

  There was absolutely nothing to say to that. She could only stare.

  He softened and chucked her chin. “Dear, don’t you understand? If you ever really needed a weapon, that toy would not serve you.”

  “I am not asking your advice.” She turned her back on him. “Joel? We are running late. Let’s go.”

  Hart ch
uckled and grasped her arm and pulled her back around. “Francesca, someone has to curb your appetites. That is quite obvious.”

  She had no choice but to face him, so she eyed him warily. “That one shall not be you. Besides, your hands are full now—aren’t they?”

  His own dark eyes sparkled. “Oh ho. So someone wishes to comment on my personal life?”

  She fisted her hands on her hips. “Yes, I do. You have the charm of a mad bull! I insist that you treat Rose with compassion. Do you have to be so unkind to her?”

  He smiled at her. It was feral. But he did not speak.

  She grew uneasy. “I do not like the way you are looking at me.”

  “Rose is having a temper tantrum, or rather a series of them, because I do not share what is mine.”

  Comprehension began. She flushed.

  “And if Daisy is living in my house, and provided for lavishly by me, it is my right to insist upon a certain amount of loyalty.”

  Was he saying what she thought he was? “Surely Rose is not angry because you have . . .” She faltered. “Because you have . . .” She could not complete her thought.

  “Yes. Daisy is now exclusively mine, and if Rose lays even a finger on her, I shall toss Daisy out.”

  Francesca stared. “You are so cold!”

  “Am I? I don’t think so. Daisy and I have made an arrangement. She is costing me dearly; in return, I expect her undivided attentions.”

  Francesca flushed again. “This is not about . . . love-making. I think it is about love.”

  “How naive you are,” he laughed.

  “No, how jaded you are. It is about love,” Francesca said firmly.

  He cupped her cheek. “My dear, it is about sex.”

  She pulled away. No one uttered such a word in any kind of circle! “Hart, love exists. Rose loves Daisy. She is afraid that Daisy will fall in love with you, and that she will lose her.”

  He laughed again. “Rose is horny. She is horny for my mistress, and it is as simple as that.”

  Francesca knew their conversation was not seemly, but she was in shock at his cynical attitude. “Is that what you really think?”