Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  Sarah’s eyes widened. Bartolla grinned. “Guess what?” she said. “You have a pair of helpers. We shall come with you,” and she smiled at Sarah, “and do all that we can to solve the case. Now this shall truly be an adventure.”

  Francesca stared in dismay.

  As they got out of the Channing carriage, Francesca said quietly, “So Mrs. Stuart is a client of mine, but that is strictly confidential. I cannot tell you anything more. This will be a social call—I am sure she will be thrilled to meet you both, as she is new to town. But when the opportunity arises, I must ask her a question or two, privately.”

  “It is a bit boring not to know what one is investigating,” Bartolla said flatly, her hands on her hips. Her coat was a magnificent sable, and she did not wear gloves. A very large diamond bracelet covered her wrist, and several large rings were upon her fingers. “And I had hoped we would be attempting to solve those gruesome Cross Murders.”

  Francesca sighed. “It is very important that I build a clientele and a reputation,” she said.

  “I think it is simply wonderful that you have the courage and will to become a professional sleuth,” Sarah remarked.

  Francesca smiled. “But are we not the same? Your passion has led you to art,” she said.

  Sarah sighed. “I am hardly like you, Francesca. Except, perhaps, when it comes to my passion for my work—which only you and my cousin seem to understand.” Sarah was wearing a navy blue coat and she shivered, apparently chilled.

  “I do understand it,” Francesca said. “We should go inside.”

  “You are brilliant,” Bartolla added as they started toward the house.

  “Well, I am skilled, but hardly brilliant,” Sarah demurred. Then she brightened. “I am so excited. Calder Hart has RSVPed that he will be attending the party tomorrow.” She looked at Bartolla. “I hope it will not be uncomfortable for you?”

  Bartolla laughed and halted. “Hart hardly bothers me! But God, he is so full of himself.” She shook her head.

  Francesca imagined Hart and Bartolla in bed together. The thought was both disturbing and intriguing. “How well did you know him?” she had to ask.

  “I think you already know,” Bartolla laughed. “We were lovers, and he was simply superb.”

  Francesca had not expected her to be so blunt, and she flushed. “Really?”

  “Oh, come, Francesca, you might be a virgin, but you are an intelligent and worldly woman nonetheless. It’s rather obvious that the man is extremely virile, is it not? My only complaint is that he is so sure of himself. But”—she smiled with a gleam in her eyes—“every dog has its day. That man will be brought to heel sooner or later, and I do hope I am around to witness the event.”

  Francesca did not know what to say, but she hardly thought a woman existed on the planet who might bring Hart to heel.

  Sarah was blushing. “You are so open about it. I wish I were brave enough to never marry, and take a lover if I ever wanted to.”

  Francesca gaped at Sarah.

  “You should do exactly what you wish to do. Society is a bunch of nonsense. Rules are made to be flouted and broken. Especially by you, Sarah, as clearly you are a bohemian at heart,” Bartolla said.

  “I am no bohemian,” Sarah murmured.

  Francesca could hardly believe her ears, and she did like Bartolla. She might wind up in Evan’s bed, in which case Francesca would never speak to her again, but she liked her—how could she not? “Sarah? Is that what you really want? To remain unwed?’

  Sarah was alarmed. “Francesca! I do hope you don’t think I am insulting your brother! I do like Evan; truly I do!”

  “But you are not in love with him,” Francesca said flatly, as it had become quite obvious, even though it was rather incredible. A young, shy, and plain woman like Sarah should now be ecstatic with her luck in finding a man such as Francesca’s brother. But there was so much more to Sarah than met the eye.

  Sarah flushed. “I am not in love with him. But I am sure I will come to love him, in time, when we are married.” There was a hint of despair to her words.

  Bartolla snorted, the sound unladylike and inelegant. “The two of you do not suit, not at all. It is the worst match I have ever seen.”

  Francesca blinked.

  “Well?” Bartolla demanded. “Do you not agree?”

  “Yes,” Francesca managed. “I do. I have thought that myself, all along.”

  Sarah said, “Our parents are determined, and I am not strong enough to go up against Mother.”

  “Of course you are. You must simply let your bohemian soul tell you what to do,” Bartolla said.

  “Sarah? Did you really mean it when you said you would prefer to never marry?” Francesca had to ask. Because even though she had uttered those exact sentiments, she did not really mean it. One day she wanted to marry. One day she wanted to marry the other half of her heart. Bragg.

  They would solve crimes together, fight for reform together, and grow old together. It would be perfect.

  Sarah said, “I am not romantic, Francesca. I love one thing—my work. I am afraid to marry.”

  “Afraid?”

  “I am afraid my husband will deny me my true passion. I am free now to paint all day if I choose. Or at least I was free to do so until this engagement came up.” Her face had fallen.

  Francesca looked at Bartolla. They exchanged a long glance. “This isn’t right,” Francesca finally said.

  “No, it isn’t. Sarah is different from us, isn’t she? She has a genius we do not have. God gave it to her for a reason. And Evan, as much as I do like him, doesn’t have a clue.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Francesca said. “Can we talk Mrs. Channing into breaking off the agreement?”

  “We can try,” Bartolla said, and suddenly she was grinning in a conspiratorial manner. “It is worth it, don’t you think?”

  Francesca did not hesitate. “Yes,” she said.

  And Sarah looked wide-eyed from the one to the other. She finally said, “I should be very happy if I did not have to marry.”

  This time there was no interruption from Lincoln Stuart. Lydia was surprised and then pleased to receive them, and in no time tea and breakfast cakes were served. Conversation meandered about from Bartolla’s arrival in the country just a week ago to her life in Europe and then the party being held at the Channings’ that night. Lydia and her husband were promptly invited to attend, by both Sarah and her cousin. Lydia declined, but Francesca could see from the shining light in her eyes that she desperately wished to come.

  When Lydia excused herself from the room to ask for more lemon for their tea, Francesca got up and followed her into the hall. “Lydia?”

  Lydia turned, apparently surprised to find Francesca there. “Yes?”

  “Might we speak privately for a moment?”

  Lydia’s expression changed. She had been enjoying herself all morning; now, anxiety flitted through her eyes. She lowered her voice. “Francesca, I do appreciate all that you have done on my behalf. But I have decided that you are right. Lincoln is not seeing Rebecca Hopper, and his distraction of late has other causes. I have decided that I do not need your services after all, but I am more than happy to pay your bill for all that you have done thus far.”

  It was odd, but Francesca had the feeling that Lydia truly wished to be rid of her in her investigative capacity. It did not seem, or feel, innocent. “Did you enjoy the book your husband gave you?” she heard herself ask.

  Lydia started. “I haven’t had time to read it,” she said.

  “Do you collect poetry?”

  Lydia seemed puzzled by the question. “No, I do not. In fact, I am not fond of poetry at all. It is my husband who reads avidly, in all genres, and he has been insistent that I do so, too.”

  Francesca stared. Many, many questions flitted through her mind. “While you were living in Philadelphia, did you ever meet a young woman named Lizzie O’Brien? She was a working girl—a seamstress, I believe.”

>   Lydia’s confusion increased. She was flushed now. “What a strange question,” she said. “I have no idea. I shall think about it, but the seamstress I used while there was Matilde Lacroix,” she said.

  It had been a shot in the dark, Francesca thought. “Were you at Mary O’Shaunessy’s funeral?” she asked abruptly.

  Lydia blinked. So quickly that Francesca felt certain she was hiding something. “What? Did you ask me if I have been to a funeral?” Her color had increased, Francesca noted.

  “Have you read about the Cross Murders?” Francesca asked softly.

  Lydia stiffened. “What is this about?” she demanded.

  “I am working on them with Commissioner Bragg,” Francesca said.

  “But what does that have to do with me?” Lydia cried.

  “Your carriage and driver were at one of the victims’ funerals. Mary O’Shaunessy was buried Monday afternoon. The service was at St. Mary’s that day at noon. I saw a woman about your height, in navy blue, leaving the service. She climbed into your carriage.”

  Lydia stared coldly. “It was not me.”

  Francesca thought that she lied. “Are you certain?”

  Her smile was brittle. “I am very certain that I was not there, and I do believe you were mistaken about my carriage. Lincoln had the coach. We have but one, and Monday he took it with him to his store.”

  “I see,” Francesca said, second-guessing her own conviction now. Perhaps Lydia was telling the truth. She could no longer be sure. But she had to find out who the lady in blue had been. That much was clear.

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Lydia finally asked, her expression strained.

  “It is not a crime to go to a funeral,” Francesca returned.

  “The only funeral I have recently been to was that of my mother-in-law.”

  “I am sorry,” Francesca said.

  “Yes, so am I. The murder was a senseless one.”

  Francesca blinked. “Your mother-in-law was murdered?”

  Lydia seemed taken aback. “Yes. I thought you knew.”

  “I had no idea,” Francesca said. And her calm was only surface deep.

  FOURTEEN

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1902—NOON

  Francesca could not believe her ears. “How was she killed?” she asked. “And more important, why?”

  Lydia glanced toward the room they had just left. “As I said, it was senseless. She was an elderly woman, and a bedchamber sneak was at his work. The police decided she had caught him trying to lift one or two of her jewels. Unfortunately, the crook, who was never caught, stabbed her in the back before fleeing.”

  Francesca stared. “How unusual. Most sneaks simply steal. Most are not even armed. Why kill an old lady when you could simply outrun her?”

  “I do not know,” Lydia said. “Poor Lincoln. He was so distraught. We never went to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon as we had planned.”

  “I am sorry,” Francesca said, her blood thrumming within her. She had to search the house. She did not know what she might be looking for, but all was off-kilter here. “And you must have been distraught as well.”

  “I have yet to recover,” Lydia said. “She was such a kind lady. I lost my own mother when I was a child; it was so nice having Dorothea about. Now, is that all? I do believe we need more lemons for our tea.”

  Francesca smiled, but it was superficial. Previously, Lydia had not seemed fond of her mother-in-law. “I am sorry to be so nosey,” she said. And as Lydia turned away, Francesca thought of how eager she was to tell Bragg!

  “Well?” Maggie Kennedy asked breathlessly. “What do you think?”

  Francesca could only gape at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her dressing room.

  “Miss Cahill? You do like it?” Maggie asked with worry.

  Francesca stared. “This is not me,” she managed. The woman she regarded was a vision, a bold and daring vision in dark red. She was a temptress, a seductress—there was nothing intellectual about her. The woman she stared at now was not a reformer or a bluestocking. She was a woman who had but one thought: to turn male heads.

  “You are so beautiful like this,” Maggie whispered. “But perhaps it is a bit much.”

  The gown was bare and fitted. Francesca felt extremely naked, as the bodice was low, the vee very deep, and, more important, both the body and the short sleeves attached to it were a very sheer layer of fabric, the bodice lined with lace. But more significantly, the red silk, which had a snakelike pattern upon it, slithered over her hips and backside and thighs before flaring out gracefully at the hem. Most evening gowns had much fuller skirts. “I look like my sister.”

  “Not really.” Maggie met her regard in the mirror. “Connie is so . . . polished . . . and . . . cool. There is nothing cold about this.”

  Francesca trembled. “Everyone will stare.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  Bragg would faint when he saw her, she thought. Then she felt a small thrill begin deep within her. No, he would not faint, but he would never be able to say “no” to her again when she was in his arms.

  Hart would be admiring as well.

  She tensed. She had not seen him since she had slapped his face. Was he still angry? She had the unfortunate feeling that he was the kind of man to harbor a grudge. She did not look forward to crossing his path that night.

  “Can I loosen your hair? It is too tightly pulled back.”

  Francesca hesitated, then thought, Why not? Unlike most women, she hated having her hair done, and her solution was to pull her long hair into a tight chignon. Fashion dictated a much softer style, with the hair rolled and waved and swept softly back into a chignon or a roll.

  “I can curl it,” Maggie said. She came to stand directly behind Francesca. “We have time. It’s five-thirty.”

  Francesca was due at the Channings’ at seven; they most certainly did have time. Maggie had wanted her to try on the dress early in case it needed another dart or two. But it fit perfectly. No last-minute alterations were necessary. “All right. I shall go all out for this one single night.”

  Maggie smiled at her.

  There was a knock on her door and at the very same time Evan poked his head inside. “Fran, have you seen—” He stopped. He straightened, blinking at her.

  “Please, if you say anything at all, be kind!” Francesca cried, facing him. “I feel a bit like a little girl dressed up to play grown-up!”

  Evan’s eyes remained wide, but admiration filled them. He whistled. “I never imagined that you could look like this. You will break a hundred hearts tonight.”

  She had to smile. “Do you think so?” There was only one heart she was interested in, and breaking it was not on her agenda.

  “I know so,” he said. He smiled at Maggie. “This is your handiwork?”

  Maggie nodded, flushed with pleasure. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Will you please call me Evan?” he cried with exasperation and a smile. “Mrs. Kennedy?”

  She smiled a little but ducked her head. “I shall try,” she said.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, I was actually wondering if I might take the boys for a sleigh ride again tomorrow. They did enjoy themselves today.” He smiled at her.

  “You are very kind to them. I have no objections,” she said.

  “Perhaps you might wish to join us? Say, around noon?”

  “Oh!” Maggie looked at him, startled. “I simply cannot. I have Miss Cahill’s wardrobe to finish and—”

  If Francesca did not know better, she would think an odd romantic chemistry existed between her brother and Maggie. But Francesca knew it did not, as he was a man who enjoyed the attention of the most beautiful and elegant women—women like Bartolla Benevente and his mistress, the actress Grace Conway. Maggie was pretty, but she was a seamstress, and Evan would never look twice at such a woman romantically.

  Francesca interrupted them. “Maggie, I should love it if you went sledding with my brother and your children. It would b
e a perfect escape from all that has happened. In fact, it would be so much fun that if I were invited, I should also join you.”

  Evan grinned at her, promptly embracing her in a huge bear hug, one that crushed her ribs and swept her off her feet.

  “Evan!” she protested. “My dress!”

  “Oh ho!” He laughed at her. “So now it is your dress?” He winked at Maggie. “Well done, we shall reform her yet. At noon, then.” Smiling, he strode out, forgetting to close the door behind him.

  Francesca had to laugh, but nervously. However, Evan would never lie to her, and if he approved of her gown, why, then so be it.

  “Your hair,” Maggie said, sounding breathless.

  Francesca whirled and stared, but Maggie was looking away.

  Francesca entered the ballroom on Evan’s arm, behind her parents. He was grinning proudly as he led her in, and Francesca had never felt quite so good, especially not at a fete like this one. Julia was also extremely pleased; at the sight of Francesca in her Chinese red ball gown, a slender chain with a pearl-and-diamond pendant about her neck, and her hair done so correctly and sweetly, she had stared as if gazing upon a stranger. She had even whispered, in stunned surprise, “Francesca? Is that you?”

  For once, Francesca had been happy to have her mother’s approval. It was an odd feeling to have.

  They were a few minutes late, and as they greeted Sarah, her mother, and Bartolla, the guest of honor, Francesca saw that the ballroom was quickly filling up. Not far from where they stood, she saw Connie and Montrose. They were not alone; Connie was smiling and chatting with several of their friends, but Neil seemed stiff and unhappy.

  Guilt assailed Francesca. She had forgotten all about calling on him. Clearly all of their troubles were not solved, and a sudden determination to help them through this patch filled her.

  “My, Francesca. That is a stunning gown.”

  Francesca met Bartolla’s gaze. She was looking her over from head to foot, and she wasn’t smiling. Francesca was jolted, for she had an odd feeling that her new friend did not like seeing her in such a dress. “Thank you.”