Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “You will obey the doctor’s orders?” he asked softly, kissing her crown again.

  “Yes,” she murmured, a tear seeping through her closed eyelids.

  “Bed rest for the next few days. God forbid that hand gets infected, Francesca,” he said.

  She did not move, although she wanted to look at him. “If you continue to hold me like this, I shall agree with your every request.” And she felt his smile, even though she could not see it.

  “I see. Then no more sleuthing, not ever.”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured.

  He kissed her head one more time and drew away from her. She sat up and they met each other’s regard. A moment passed.

  “I had better go, even though I do not want to.”

  She knew what he meant. If Julia decided to check upon them, she would instantly understand the extent of their relationship and the depth of their feelings for each other. “Yes.”

  “I will call tomorrow,” he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1902—AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Dr. Finney, whom Evan had known ever since they had moved to New York, was just exiting Maggie’s bedroom as he came up to the threshold. Finney paused with a greeting, his black physician’s satchel in hand, but Evan did not quite hear him. Maggie had been stabbed. He did not even look at Finney; he saw her instead, sitting propped against a heap of pillows on the bed, looking far too pale and somewhat bewildered. How fragile she seemed, yet he knew she was a very strong woman, as she was raising four fine young children alone. Her three youngest children sat on the bed by her feet. Joel stood by her side in his long sleeping gown.

  She saw Evan and her eyes went wide.

  “The wound is not deep, and nothing vital was penetrated,” Finney was saying. He clasped Evan’s arm. “She is a brave young woman, and a strong one, and I expect her to be hobbling about in a day or so.” He smiled and left Evan standing there in the doorway.

  Maggie struggled to sit upright, also fumbling with the covers as if to pull them to her chin. They were already well past her breasts, covering her completely. Instantly Joel began to help her.

  Evan’s alarm remained in spite of Finney’s comments. “No, please, do not bestir yourself,” he said from the doorway. “Mrs. Kennedy, I apologize for intruding. Are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” she said, avoiding his gaze, her hands becoming still. “Thank you, Mr. Cahill, for asking.”

  He did not feel relieved, not at all. Rather, he felt shocked and stunned. “What in God’s name happened?” he asked. “And may I come in?”

  She glanced at him, but briefly. “It is late,” she said, and in spite of her condition, her words were firm, a definite and polite refusal.

  He felt himself flush and of course he understood. But surely she knew he was not about to make advances, not now or ever. “I know it is late. But . . . I am concerned.”

  “Thank you.” She reached for and took Joel’s hand. Evan realized she was trembling. She was not half as composed as she pretended to be. He already admired her—how could he not? Her courage in the face of adversity was amazing; how did one survive, without a husband, with four young children, with only one’s hands and skill at sewing the means of a livelihood?

  “Can I at least put the children to bed?” he asked, now noticing how wide-eyed and alert they all were. Except for little four-year-old Lizzie, who was struggling to keep her eyes open and failing soundly at it. She was falling asleep while sitting up, propped as she was on Paddy, the only one of the lot who looked exactly like Maggie, with flaming red hair and bright blue eyes.

  “That would be an imposition,” Maggie said softly.

  “Of course it is not an imposition.” Evan did manage to smile, for he knew that he, at least, must not appear concerned or anxious. He strode into the room and scooped Lizzie up into his arms. She sighed, snuggling up against his chest. “Paddy, Matthew, your mother is fine,” he said. “But she must get some sleep now, so she may be as good as new as quickly as possible. You, too, Joel,” he said. “We are off to bed.”

  Joel didn’t seem happy to leave his mother’s side, and he glanced at Maggie, the question in his eyes.

  “I am fine,” she said softly to her oldest son. “And you are the hero of the day.”

  He didn’t smile; clearly he knew the danger his mother had faced. “Miz Cahill is the hero. I can sleep in here on the floor.”

  Before Maggie could speak, Evan said, “You are a brave young man to think about protecting your mother, Joel. But two police officers remain downstairs, and I am right next door.” It crossed his mind that even though this was the case and it appeared that the danger was over for the moment, he might spend the night in a guest bedroom. Discreetly, of course, and on this floor.

  Joel sighed. “G’night, Mom.”

  She smiled a mother’s smile, one filled with maternal love. Evan had to smile as he watched Joel receive his mother’s good-night kiss. Maggie looked up and their eyes connected.

  It was a very rare moment. Her eyes were extraordinary, and he could not look away.

  She did not look away, either, as she usually did, and suddenly it became awkward. He felt himself flush. “They will be sound asleep in no time.”

  Her gaze now skittered away. “Thank you, Mr. Cahill.”

  “Evan, please,” he said.

  She did not answer and he took the children next door, tucking them all in, even Joel, who waited until last to get into bed. Evan patted Paddy’s red head, ruffled Matthew’s dark hair, and kissed Lizzie’s smooth cheek. She, of course, was already asleep. “Shall I leave a night-light on?” he asked.

  “Yes,” both small boys chorused in unison.

  He smiled a little, because he had stolen a peek at them last night when he had come in and they had all been sleeping with a night-light on. He turned it on and then paused beside Joel, who lay stiffly in bed, looking as if he would be awake all night, on guard against intruders. “The house is locked up. You are a growing young man; you need your sleep.” Evan said, trying to be firm and fatherly at once.

  Joel nodded slightly, and suddenly he appeared to be holding back tears.

  “Nothing is going to happen to your mother,” Evan whispered, so none of the other children could hear. “In fact, I am going to sleep in the room across the hall, just to make sure.”

  Joel brightened. “You’d do that? Fer her?”

  “For all of you,” Evan said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He still had not a clue as to what had happened; he needed all of the facts.

  Joel hesitated. A sly light came into his eyes. “You want to be alone with her?” he asked.

  Evan was startled, and then, as he straightened, he realized that he did. But it was not at all what Joel might be thinking, for there was nothing romantic about his feelings for Maggie Kennedy.

  How could there be?

  He was not like some of his friends, who dallied with showgirls and housemaids. Besides, while Maggie was a seamstress, she was clearly a woman of virtue. Of course, he knew that he found Maggie Kennedy attractive. He was a virile man with an eye for the ladies and in tune with his needs. Anyone could see that she was very pretty, with the most amazing blue eyes. But what difference could that make? There were women like his mistress, Grace Conway, and Bartolla Benevente for casual affairs.

  No, there was nothing romantic in his wish to be alone with Maggie; it was an instance of his wanting to comfort her and make sure that she was really all right, as she was claiming to be. “Your mother is my friend,” he told Joel seriously. “And I do wish a moment with her, to make sure she is comfortable for the night.”

  Joel smiled at him. “She’s really pretty, isn’t she?” he said.

  Evan saw that the boy wished to be a matchmaker. He tousled his black hair. “Yes, she is very pretty, but don’t go getting any ideas of romance. I am an engaged man, remember?” He tried not to scowl as he spoke of his engagement, but as always, t
he mere thought of it made him miserable and angry. It was not that he disliked Sarah. She was fine as a friend. But when he did marry, he had truly hoped to marry someone he desired and admired, someone he might actually love.

  “Yeah,” Joel said, his face falling with disappointment.

  Evan hesitated, almost telling the boy that no one was more disappointed than he was. “Sleep tight,” he said instead, and he slowly walked back to Maggie’s room.

  Maggie remained awake, gazing at the doorway. She avoided direct eye contact with him—as if he made her nervous. He already suspected that he did, although he could not imagine why.

  “May I come in? Just for a moment?” he asked, forgetting that he had already asked that question and she had refused.

  She hesitated.

  “I don’t bite,” he said softly.

  She nodded, glancing at the small fire.

  He approached, but stopped when a good ten feet remained between him and the bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

  She looked at him, this time for a moment longer. “Dr. Finney gave me a dose of laudanum. The pain has lessened and I am feeling sleepy.”

  “That’s good,” he said, his gaze sliding over her form under the bulky quilt. She had pulled the covers to her chin and it did amuse him. A quilt could not discourage his imagination; he was experienced enough and had seen her enough times to know that she was slim and perfectly curved. “Do you need anything? A cup of tea? A glass of milk? A brandy?”

  “No, I am fine.” But as she spoke, tears suddenly filled her eyes.

  Unthinkingly he sat down by her hip and took her hands in his. He was astonished at how fragile they felt, because he knew her hands were strong and agile. “This has been a terrible night, Mrs. Kennedy. I do wish I could turn back the clock and make the world right again.”

  She pulled her hands free. “I am sorry. I am a bit overwrought. I think I must get some sleep after all.”

  He shot to his feet. “Yes, you must. Tomorrow, in the light of day, you will feel better.”

  She suddenly met his gaze, very directly. “How can I?” she cried. “A woman I thought was my friend has turned out to be an evil and mad woman! She murdered my two dearest friends and tried to murder me!” A tear slid down her cheek.

  He sat right back down, taking her hands, even though she tried to resist him. “It will take some time, I think, to get past this. I wish I could tell you how to move on, but I have never encountered a situation like this before,” he said, feeling helpless. It was not a feeling he was used to having, and he simply did not know what to do when he truly wished to do something to make her feel better.

  She smiled a little at him, through her tears, and this time she tugged her hands free. “You are so kind,” she whispered.

  “Who would not be compassionate in this instance?” he asked, a bit bewildered. She had called him kind before. Had she been so poorly treated by other men that she found him exceptional? He considered his behavior quite ordinary for a gentleman.

  She shook her head. “Many.”

  He felt more sympathy for her welling up in him. “I do beg to differ with you.”

  “Your entire family is wonderful,” Maggie said, appearing choked up with emotion. “You have all been so kind. Your mother, your father, and your sister, why, I would do anything for her!” she cried. “I only hope that the day comes when I can do something special for you all in return.”

  “You do not have to do a thing except get well,” he said gently. And he smiled, because he saw her lids were beginning to droop, undoubtedly due to the effects of the laudanum.

  “I don’t know. My brain seems to be getting fuzzy,” she murmured, her eyes rather closed.

  “The laudanum is taking effect,” he announced, and he stood up, somewhat reluctant to do so and aware of it. “Good night then, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said.

  Her lashes fluttered on her pale white skin, but she did not open her eyes, lift a finger, or say a word. He smiled at the sight of her finally asleep. Very careful not to make a sound, he tiptoed out.

  And took a guest room across the hall for the night.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  It had been such a lovely party, she thought, pen in hand. She felt dreamy and delicious all at once, and images of the evening before danced through her mind. In all of them she was the center of attention in her gold satin-and-lace ball gown, surrounded by attentive and smitten men.

  She thought about Evan Cahill and felt her loins tighten. If his engagement was not broken, she wondered if he would have the courage to become her lover anyway, in spite of the fact that he was affianced to her cousin. But that must not happen, because he and Sarah were so ill-suited, while she and he made a wonderful match.

  She had to remarry, sooner rather than later. No one knew that her despicable dead husband had tied up all of his wealth in railroads, electricity, and mines, willing it to his children from his first marriage. She had spent eight years with the old bastard, and all she had gotten in return was a few hundred thousand dollars. In Italy, everyone was laughing at her behind her back—and to her face—as one and all knew how the count had left her. Here, everyone thought her a wealthy widow, and it was the perfect place to find a wealthy husband.

  Evan wasn’t as wealthy as she would have liked, but when his father died, he would be. And the wait would be worth it, because he was young and handsome and she knew he would be wonderful in bed.

  Bartolla sighed happily, because he hadn’t really left her side the entire evening. In fact, quite a few guests had noticed their raging attraction to each other. Bartolla didn’t have to be told—she was astute enough to know.

  There was a soft knock upon her door.

  Bartolla turned, still clothed in her peignoir, a concoction of sheer pastel green chiffon and handmade ivory lace. She pulled a heavier wrapper closed and called, “Enter!”

  Sarah stepped in, beaming. “Was it not a wonderful night?” she cried, looking almost pretty, as she was so happy.

  Bartolla laughed. “Yes, it was, and I know why you are so happy.”

  “Hart has said we should meet this afternoon to discuss the portrait and agree upon his purchase price!”

  Bartolla had only seen Sarah this animated when she was in her study, painting in frenzy.

  “Can you believe it?” Sarah rushed on. “One of my paintings will hang in his home, in his world-renowned collection!”

  Bartolla laughed, happy that Sarah was happy, as she was truly fond of her. “But, dear, you might have a bit of a problem coaxing Francesca to agree to this. It is delicious, you must admit, Hart chasing Francesca, with her infatuated with the oh, so married Bragg—his very brother!”

  Sarah’s face instantly became sober. “He is chasing her? Oh, no, Bartolla, how wrong you are. I think they are just friends.”

  “Oh, Hart has no use for women friends.” Bartolla waved dismissively, meaning her every word and knowing she was right. “Although perhaps he thinks to annoy Bragg, as he does despise him so.” She knew Hart would love to ruin any love interest Bragg might have.

  “I know Mr. Hart has quite the reputation for being rude, unkind, and self-serving, and of course everyone knows he is a terrible rogue when it comes to the ladies, but truly, Bartolla, he would not steal the love of his brother! He is genuinely fond of Francesca. It is rather obvious.”

  “It is rather obvious that he would love to ravish her in his bed,” Bartolla mused.

  Sarah appeared shocked. “I think not!”

  Bartolla shrugged. How naive Sarah was. She did not add that Hart’s “genuine interest” and his “fondness” would quickly wane once he had satisfied himself with Francesca. “Shall I advise you?” she asked.

  Sarah sat down, nodding eagerly.

  “Francesca cares for you, and if you press her, she will give in and sit for the portrait. It will give you a name in the art world, or at least give you an entree and the attention of de
alers and collectors, and she would never deny you that.”

  Sarah hesitated.

  “Dear, it is convince Francesca to pose, or lose the commission and the entrée into the art world that it gives you.”

  Sarah stood. “I know. I shall convince Francesca to sit for the portrait, but not in the way you suggest. There is no harm in it! She is a beautiful woman, with an unmatched spirit, and the kind of selfless goodness that is just so rare these days. And clearly Hart sees that. The portrait will be my best work ever. How can she mind? Really? I am going to call on her in a bit, and I thought you might wish to join me.”

  As much as Bartolla liked Francesca—and she did—she hadn’t liked her in that dark red dress, looking far too sensual and beautiful, all at once. The countess had had enough of Francesca for the moment and decided to encourage her in her sleuthing and her bluestocking ways—and mode of dress. “I shall lie about my rooms today, as I am very tired from last night.”

  Sarah’s face fell, but she then brightened. “I suppose I should speak with her alone.”

  “Yes, you should.” Bartolla thought about the triangle developing, and she chuckled and patted Sarah’s hand. “It shall be an interesting winter,” she said with a grin.

  “Yes, it shall,” Sarah said, animated once again. She jumped up. “Will you join me for breakfast, then? Oh—I see you are penning a letter.”

  “I think I shall take chocolate in my rooms,” Bartolla said.

  “Very well.” Sarah kissed her cheek and left the room.

  Bartolla reread what she had written thus far:

  My dearest Leigh Anne,

  I hear you are presently in Boston, as your father is not well. First, may I offer my sincerest prayers on his behalf? I am thinking about you and your family daily.

  I am currently in New York and having a lovely time. Last night my cousin held a ball in my honor, and a few of us danced until dawn. I happened across your husband, and I can see, my dear, why you were first compelled by him. In some circles, he is already being highly acclaimed as a noble man of action, one capable of reforming this city’s notoriously corrupt police department. Clearly he is a strong, intelligent, and determined man. But you never mentioned how intriguing his looks were! I hear he is half Indian, or some such thing. He has been turning quite a few female heads, one in particular.