“Yes.”
“I feel sorry for you, Hart.”
His smile vanished. He became thoughtful. “You know, I envy you your romanticism, but I fear for the day your sweet naïveté comes crumbling down, all around you.”
“There is good in the world, Hart, good and love,” she tried. She touched him lightly.
He shook his head. “There is lust, my dear. Lust is all. Lust for wealth, power, position, prestige . . . for sex, drink, food, possessions. And for vengeance. Lust, Francesca. That is what this world is about. Lust is what mankind is about.”
She shook her head. “No. No. You are a terrible cynic.”
He shrugged. “And you are a romantic. A delightful one, but I do fear for you.” He smiled again. “So, is there anything else you wish to insist upon?”
She smiled back, even though she remained shaken—because he was wrong, she was certain. “I insist you do not tell Bragg about my gun.”
He guided her toward the door. “Francesca, I will tell him as soon as I have the chance. There is no doubt in my mind that a young lady with your penchant for trouble should not be carrying a weapon.”
She was dismayed. At the door she faced him. “Fine. Betray our friendship.”
He hesitated. “Is that what you think my telling Bragg about the gun would be? A betrayal?”
“Yes, Calder, it would be a betrayal.”
His jaw flexed and he sighed, looking up over her head, toward the ceiling.
She was surprised. Would he be so easy to maneuver? She started to smile in delight, then quickly rearranged her expression.
He looked at her unhappily. “Very well. Promise me you will hide the gun at home. I will keep this to myself. It shall be our secret.”
She really did not want to lie to him, but he was being so unreasonable now. “Fine.” She extended her hand. “Do we have an agreement?”
He took her hand and kissed the back, and as it was not an air kiss, she actually felt the pressure of his lips on her skin. She shivered, taken by surprise.
“Agreed,” he said.
EIGHT
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1902—7:00 P.M.
“Do you want a drink?” Bragg asked.
The lobby was becoming crowded. Francesca stepped closer to Bragg. It was hard not to stare. He was devastating in his white dinner jacket, as it contrasted so boldly with his golden skin and hair. There was satin piping along the seams of his black trousers, and he wore a dark signet ring. “A sherry would be wonderful,” she said. She was hoping that she appeared far more calm than she actually was.
There were butterflies in her belly. She had felt like a schoolgirl waiting for a date to the Saturday night church dance earlier, while waiting for him to arrive to take her to the theater. Fortunately, Andrew and Julia had left for the evening earlier, so there had been no one about but servants to see Francesca check her appearance repeatedly in the hall mirrors.
She and Bragg had agreed to wait in the lobby for the others before taking their seats. Evan had gone to pick up Sarah and her cousin, dutifully and not very happily. Francesca had not made him promise to be a gentleman, as she knew his manners would be impeccable no matter how disinterested he was in the evening and his fiancée.
She watched Bragg lean across the long gleaming oak bar, where several theatergoers were sipping glasses of wine or cocktails. She could not help comparing him to his half brother. In some ways, they were so similar: the swarthy skin, the air of authority and power, the blatant masculinity. But in other ways, they were as different as night and day, with Hart most definitely the night, with his dark hair and even darker world view. She was relieved that Bragg was an optimist. She would feel quite differently about him if he were not.
He glanced over his shoulder at her and caught her staring. She flushed.
He did not smile. His gaze was dark and intense.
She could not help thinking about the end of the evening, when he would bring her home. Francesca turned away, imagining herself in his arms as he kissed her. She knew she should try not to think of it, because she was probably going to be sorely disappointed—he would cling to virtue and leave her untouched. She was certain.
She sighed.
He handed her a glass of sherry. “What is wrong?”
She managed a smile. “Nothing. I am glad you are an optimist, Bragg.”
He was amused. “What has brought this on?”
“I don’t know. But without hope, there is not much left to live for.”
“You are wise beyond your years, Francesca,” he said. “And you are right.”
She was pleased.
He hesitated, then said, “I cannot get used to seeing you like this—even though we first met at a ball.”
Francesca smiled, as his gaze skimmed from her face to her décolletage. She had dressed with real care for the occasion—she had never dressed to attract a man before. Her pale pink gown had tiny, useless straps, a fitted bodice that left a large expanse of her chest bare, an empire waist, and it flowed in gentle pleats about her beaded pink shoes. The color did amazing things to her complexion, and she had lightly rouged her lips.
She could not even recall what she had been wearing the night they had met—then, as usual, she had been oblivious to her appearance. “Do you like my dress?” she could not help asking, far too boldly—as she looked him right in the eye as she spoke.
“Very much,” he said.
She smiled, leaning closer, her back touching the rim of the bar. “Thank you, Bragg,” she said very softly.
He hesitated, his gaze so intent that her pulse quickened, but he only said lightly, “So how goes it with your parents?”
It was hard to think clearly. The lobby was becoming full now, as patrons continued to enter. This gave her the perfect excuse to sidle closer to him, and their hips brushed. Francesca knew she should chastise herself, but the evening already felt magical and almost perfect. The only thing that would be better was if she had not seen that blasted envelope from his wife on his floor.
She wondered if she should ask him about it.
She was afraid to.
“Francesca?”
She started. “I am sorry. What?”
“I asked about your parents. You seem preoccupied. Is something wrong?”
“No. They are fine. I am on my best behavior.”
His mouth quirked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It is no easy task,” she said. Then, recalling Julia’s latest scheme, and interested in his reaction, she said, “Mama is thinking to match me up with Hart.”
He choked on his scotch. “I hope that is a joke!” His eyes were wide with astonishment.
She met his golden gaze. She knew she had just done a terrible thing. She should not encourage any rivalry between the two brothers. What had possessed her to say such a thing—even if it was somewhat true? “Unfortunately, it is not. Never mind that she is fully aware of his reputation with women. If worse comes to worst, I might tell her that he is chasing after my sister.”
Bragg set his glass aside on the bar, taking a napkin to wipe his hands. “Should I have a long talk with Andrew?” he asked grimly. “I can think of no worse match for you. I should not be able to allow it.”
Their gazes locked. A long moment passed. Of course, Hart was never going to approach her with marriage in mind, so the point was terribly moot. Still, Bragg would not allow it, she knew. “Would you do that for me?” she asked, aware of being a bit coy.
“Of course I would. Even though I should not worry, as Hart has no intention of marrying anyone.” Suddenly he stopped, staring at her closely. “Are you trying to provoke me?”
She felt her eyes widen with false innocence. “Of course not!”
He leaned against the bar, folding his arms across his chest. “You need only ask, Francesca,” he said softly, and somehow the words felt dangerous, “if I should be jealous. And my answer would be yes.”
A thrill swept over her. She looked quickl
y away, before he might see how pleased she was. “I hardly thought you would be jealous of Hart, Bragg,” she fibbed.
He did not comment.
She took a deep, calming breath. “In any case, he has taken Daisy Jones for his mistress, so he is quite occupied now. We do not have to worry about Mama’s hopes and dreams.” She suddenly smiled. Hart would laugh uproariously, she knew, if ever told of Julia’s interest. “I called on her. He happened by while we were there. He bought a huge house for her, Bragg.”
Bragg seemed to relax, and he shook his head. “So now it is Daisy. I wonder if he will ever find happiness. He flits from woman to woman, buys more art than a museum, consumes himself with work, but clearly, he is not content.”
“No. He is not. I feel sorry for him.” She meant it, too, or at least, she wanted to. But it was hard to pity someone who was so arrogant.
He smiled a little at her. “Just don’t feel too sorry for him.”
“You don’t have to worry. He is so annoying; I should never become a victim of his charms. Besides, he wants my sister, and the more I think about him and Daisy, the more angry I get that he thinks to win Connie, too.” It was actually insufferable.
“He is very selfish,” Bragg said. “But I intend to set him straight about your sister. I like Lady Montrose, and I would hate to see her do something she will later regret.”
Francesca could imagine the kind of reception Bragg would get if he told Hart to stay away from Connie. They would come to blows; of that she had no doubt. “Let me speak to Hart about Connie. I think he will be more amenable to my pleas.” She winced. “I have meant to call on Neil and gently pry into their situation. Connie claims things are now fine.”
“Francesca, do not pry,” he said. “Let them sort their private affairs out in privacy, please.”
“But I am worried, Bragg. And I hate Hart chasing after Connie.” The passion in her tone surprised her.
He stared. “Maybe you are the jealous one?” he said after a moment.
“Jealous? Of what? Of . . . Connie and . . . Hart?” She could hardly get the words out, they were so absurd.
He took another sip of scotch, rather grimly.
“I am not jealous, Bragg,” she said, more softly but insistently.
He smiled a little at her.
Someone bumped into her. Francesca slipped against Bragg, and instantly he slid his arm around her; she forgot what they were discussing. His frame felt so hard and masculine and she thought about the end of the night and wished, desperately, that it would be the kind of ending she kept envisioning in her treacherous mind.
Yet she knew it would not.
And for one moment he held her that way, and then, reluctantly, he removed his arm and put a small space between them. They exchanged a very long glance. There was no doubt in Francesca’s mind that he was feeling the same stirrings as she was.
Bragg said, “There has been no luck finding Carter.”
This was a much safer topic indeed. She felt relief. “And have you spoken with Mike O’Donnell?”
“Yes. He would not give me anything, Francesca. He hates all policemen. As I am one of them, he refused to speak with me in anything other than monosyllables.” He shook his head.
She had to smile. “I suspected your interview would be a difficult one.”
“You have been extremely helpful, once again.” His gaze was warm, but then it slipped to her mouth. He seemed to tear his gaze away with an effort. “I am highly suspicious of him.” He cleared his throat again.
“Because he is the link between the two women?” she asked, her heart thundering now. How would they get through the evening when all she could think about was being in his arms? Would she even hear the musical numbers?
“That and because I learned from several dockworkers that he did not think kindly of his wife. He has had nothing but disparaging things to say about her, apparently, and he did not even go to her funeral.” His gaze held hers, the look highly significant.
Francesca started, finally diverted from her shameless thoughts. “He did not go to Kathleen’s funeral? Bragg, what if he is our man!”
He took her arm. “We do not know that. Tomorrow I am returning to the Jadvics’. I am wondering now how he really felt about Mary.”
“He said he loved her. But now I am wondering, too!” Excitement filled her.
“Words are very cheap,” Bragg remarked.
Francesca absorbed that. “Can I join you tomorrow?” she asked, almost holding her breath until he replied.
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened; she was thrilled. “I cannot believe you have changed your mind about allowing me on this case!” she exclaimed.
“It is so much easier when you ask the questions. I want this case solved, Francesca. Which means I need real answers, now.”
She put her sherry down. “Are you afraid there might be a third victim?”
“I pray not. I have no reason to believe so. But I want the killer nabbed, so he does not have the chance to kill again. I also wish to speak with O’Donnell’s confessor.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. “But . . . anything said in the confessional is—”
“I know. But this is different. His priest may well know if O’Donnell is sane or not.”
“Are you thinking of bringing him in?”
“It is too early to charge him with either murder, but if I get an inkling that he might be involved, I shall drag him downtown on drunk and disorderly charges.”
“And keep him off the streets.”
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “And how is your case going?” He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
The gesture was so intimate that Francesca just looked at him. He dropped his hand, and his color seemed to heighten. “Well.” She recovered. “I am about to lose a client.” She took a breath. “I have totally neglected Lydia Stuart’s complaint. But tomorrow night I intend to discover whether or not her husband is seeing Rebecca Hopper.”
“Please, do not climb any trees.” He was laughing a little now.
Francesca flushed, and in a very unladylike way she poked him in the ribs. “Bragg! Do not remind me of that fiasco. I shall enlist Joel to do such dirty work. Although he is too young to see that sort of thing.” She felt her color increase.
His amusement vanished. “You are the one who should not view a pair of lovers in an intimate moment.”
“Do you think to guard my innocence?”
“I am trying.”
“I saw Montrose with Eliza, Bragg. You know that.”
His color was high, there was no mistaking his flush. “You should have never been sneaking about her house, no matter the circumstance. Surely that taught you a lesson!”
It most certainly had. She had seen the two lovers in acts she had never dreamed existed. Worse, she had seen Montrose in all of his virile glory. She blushed at the memory.
“Francesca?”
“I have certainly learned my lesson,” she said demurely, looking at the floor.
“Somehow, I do not think so,” Bragg muttered.
She had to smile at him.
“You are the most enchanting woman,” he suddenly said. “I know of no woman with the zest for life that you have. Your eyes sparkle, Francesca, like gems, when you are laughing or excited.”
She could only blink at him in amazement. “Bragg, that is the nicest—”
“I am not trying to be nice, and I am not trying to flatter you.”
She did not know what to say or do. She plucked his sleeve. “But you are—”
“I am thirsty,” he said, cutting her off before she could tell him how she admired him, too. He faced the bar, asking for a glass of water, and breathlessly Francesca stood behind him, gazing at his back.
He received his glass of water and turned back to her, now composed. “Perhaps we should go to our seats?” he asked. “They are running late, and the curtain goes up in a few minutes.”
“That woul
d be fine,” Francesca said.
Bragg set his glass down and she smiled at him, allowing him to loop her arm tightly in his. They turned, their hips brushing, and came face-to-face with Julia’s close friend Cecilia Thornton of the Boston Thorntons. She was a small but heavy woman wearing far too many jewels, and she smiled widely at them both.
“Francesca!” she cried. “How wonderful to run into you like this. And you are with the police commissioner. How splendid,” she said.
But her gaze went back and forth between them both, and it lingered on their linked arms.
“We have made it just in time,” Evan announced.
Francesca sat beside Bragg, three seats vacant on her left. She turned as Bragg stood up. Evan smiled at her, and she was surprised, because he seemed in quite the good mood. He allowed the ladies to go past Bragg and Francesca first. As always, Evan was so handsome with his curly black hair and vivid blue eyes, his complexion rather fair. He was just shy of six feet tall, and as he enjoyed tennis, golfing, and football, not to mention skiing and his yacht, he was a well-built young man.
And every time Francesca saw him, she prayed that he would fall in love with his fiancée, or that Andrew would change his mind about forcing Evan to wed her. The amount of his gaming debt was staggering. Andrew had refused to pay the bills unless Evan married Miss Channing.
Sarah Channing was a small, slender woman with big brown eyes and chocolate brown hair. Her face was small, her features rather ordinary, except when she smiled. She nodded at Bragg, but as she stepped past Francesca she smiled and it filled her eyes with warmth. “Francesca, hello.” She spoke somewhat shyly.
Francesca smiled in return, although inwardly she winced. She knew Sarah gave not one whit about fashion and that her mother pushed her into her clothes. It was hardly surprising to find her in a dark red gown, one that was entirely wrong for her. Every detail of it was too large for Sarah’s petite frame, and the color was overwhelming. It was too bold for a demure and soft-spoken young woman like Sarah. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to call,” Francesca said, taking the other woman’s hands and squeezing them.
Sarah gave her a significant look. “But you have been very busy, Francesca. I read all about your latest crime-solving efforts. How wonderful for you, to have apprehended Randall’s killer all by yourself.” Her eyes shone with admiration.
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