by Brenda Joyce
“Busy sleuthing, I believe?” Both slashing brows lifted.
“You know?”
“Bragg called me last night. I understand you apprehended my vicious half sister and her equally reprehensible brother yourself. With a fry pan,” he added, a twinkle in his eyes.
Before Francesca could respond, Connie cried accusingly, “Francesca! I thought Bragg was with you!”
She glanced gingerly at her sister. “Well, Bragg did show up a minute later, and I do mean a minute.”
“You cannot go about apprehending killers by yourself,” Connie said firmly.
“I am in absolute agreement with your sister,” Hart said, his eyes still sparkling. He reached into his interior breast pocket and handed Francesca an envelope.
“What is this?” she asked, bewildered.
“A bank note.” He smiled. “I am accepting your offer to join the board of the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements.”
Francesca gaped and as she opened the envelope, Hart looked at Connie. She glanced at the bank note and froze— it was for $5,000. “Hart!” she cried, stunned. “Thank you!”
“You are welcome,” he said, but his gaze had slipped to Connie’s décolletage. Her beautiful rose-and-ivory-striped ensemble was form-fitting but modest, not low-cut, and absolutely appropriate for day, but his glance was unmistakable.
Francesca felt herself scowl. It was stupid to wonder, but had he ever looked at her that way?
Yes, he had, she decided, when he had been outrageously drunk.
Connie leaned toward Francesca to peek at the note. Her eyes became round. “Oh. Mr. Hart, that is terribly generous of you.”
Hart smiled into her eyes. “It is my pleasure to aid your sister in her efforts at reform.”
“Obviously.” Connie smiled back, into his eyes. “More citizens of this city should be like you.”
He laughed at that. “I do not think so. So, what shall we do about Francesca’s penchant for sleuthing?” he asked Connie with a dimple.
“I think we shall have to convince my little sister of our way of thinking,” Connie said lightly, clearly enjoying the flirtation.
He did not look away. “A joint effort is clearly called for.”
“She can be very stubborn,” Connie warned.
“So can I,” he said softly. “And you, Lady Montrose? Do you have a stubborn streak?”
Francesca looked from the one to the other and knew her eyes were impossibly wide. This had to be stopped!
“Determination is not considered ladylike,” Connie said softly. “Would you have me share my secrets with you?”
“I am very good at keeping a lady’s secrets,” Hart murmured. “And yours I would love to share.”
Connie’s complexion had turned pink again. “I rather believe you,” she murmured in return, glancing coyly aside. “You might get me in trouble, Mr. Hart.”
“I might,” he agreed, causing both sisters to stare at him.
Connie flushed. “You are shockingly bold.”
“I am well aware of it. Perhaps you will come to enjoy my boldness.”
She gazed at him with a soft, slight smile. “Perhaps.”
“Ahh.” His smile widened now. “Does this mean you will finally, at last, accept my invitation to lunch?”
“It has only been three days since you tendered it,” Connie smiled.
“Four, if you count today,” he countered quickly.
Francesca could not believe what she was witnessing. Did they even know she was still present? She opened her mouth to say something, anything, and said, “I wonder if Neil has heard the news. Do you think he knows we caught your father’s killer?”
She was ignored—as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she did not exist. Connie said, “Four then. I had not realized you were counting the days.”
“How could I not? When I offer up an invitation to the most enchanting woman I have met in years, I do not forget it. So? Will you accept my invitation?” he pressed, his gaze steady and intent.
“Nothing would pleasure me more,” Connie said, no longer smiling but staring back at him.
They regarded each other for an interminable moment.
“Connie!” Francesca finally gasped, shocked.
Hart grinned, the moment broken. “I must check my schedule, but I do believe I am free this Friday. Say, at one?”
“Friday at one o’clock would be perfect.”
Hart nodded at her, still smiling—as if the cat had already eaten up all the cream. “I shall be in touch with the details,” he said. He bowed, then looked at Francesca. “Will you be joining us?” His eyes were gleaming with amusement.
“Francesca is busy on Friday,” Connie said quickly, before Francesca could even open her mouth. “Aren’t you?”
Hart seemed to choke back a laugh.
Francesca looked at her sister and wondered what would happen if she reached across the table and actually tried to throttle her. “I happen to be free on Friday,” she said.
Connie gave her a perfect smile. “You have forgotten that you have an engagement,” she said sweetly.
Francesca gave her a look that should have killed; unfortunately, it did not.
Hart had to laugh out loud. Heads did turn at the happy and robust sound. “Good day, ladies. And, Francesca?” His smile vanished. “Thank you,” he said.
She looked into his dark eyes and saw the sincerity there and felt an odd pang. “You’re welcome, Calder,” she said softly.
He bowed at them both and left the restaurant with long, graceful strides. Both men and women turned to watch him go. Whispers as well as stares trailed in his wake.
Francesca turned to see Connie gazing after him, her blue eyes almost shining and certainly thoughtful. “What are you thinking?” she cried. “Have you lost your mind? Have you forgotten that you are married?” she demanded.
It was a moment before Connie replied, and not until Hart had exited the dining room. “I have hardly forgotten that I am a married woman with two children,” Connie said calmly.
“You were flirting with Hart,” Francesca accused.
“So? That is hardly a crime.” Connie was serene. “I see my friends flirting with gentlemen other than their husbands all the time.”
“But you are not a flirt!”
“I have decided to try it as a pastime; it seems rather enjoyable.”
Francesca gaped. “Con, he is notorious for his liaisons, and I do believe married women are his specialty.”
Connie smiled. “I suppose we shall see.”
“What? Wait!” Francesca was horrified. “Is this your idea of vengeance?”
“Francesca, do not be absurd. A charming man has asked me to lunch, and I have accepted. It is no more than that—a casual, and I do mean casual, flirtation.” But she looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Indeed, she continued to smile, an expression Francesca had not seen in days.
“Well, let me tell you something,” Francesca said in a huff. “If you play with fire, you shall get burned.”
Connie shrugged with nonchalance. “Not if one holds the match very carefully,” she said.
After a meal that had tasted very much like cardboard—during which Connie seemed to be in extraordinary spirits—they paid their bill and left the dining room. The lobby of the Plaza was a vast room with huge Corinthian columns and an atrium in its center. The moment the two women paused on its threshold, Francesca saw a cluster of gentlemen entering through the hotel’s front entrance. In their midst was Bragg. Quite literally, her heart missed a beat.
She froze in mid-stride.
He was surrounded by newsmen, she realized, as every single one was holding a small notebook and a lead pencil. But he stopped speaking in mid-sentence, and like herself, he halted.
Across the spacious room, through the huge potted palms, in spite of the atrium, in spite of everyone coming and going, he looked at her and their gazes met.
It should have been imp
ossible, given the distance and space between them, but it was not.
“Fran?” Connie said with worry.
Francesca didn’t hear her. Smiling, she moved toward him. It was almost as if a magnet were luring her there.
Bragg detached himself from the reporters, as if he, too, were being pulled toward her. Somewhere between the atrium and the long walnut-and-marble reception desk, they paused. He was smiling, too.
“Good afternoon, Francesca,” Bragg said softly.
“Hello, Bragg. It’s a bit late for lunch, is it not?”
His gaze was searching. “Yes, it is. How are you?”
Her own gaze searched his as well. “I am fine. A bit tired, I suppose.”
“Yes, and you should be. I am tired, too.”
She touched his sleeve, too briefly for anyone to notice. “How late did you work last night?” She had already noticed the slight discoloration beneath his eyes and the fact that if he had used a razor that morning, he had done so too swiftly for it to have been thorough.
“Late.” He smiled. “Well after midnight. Mary has admitted everything.”
“She was eager to speak?”
“It seems that way. She is a very troubled young lady.”
Francesca nodded. “And Bill?”
His gaze never left hers. “He is being charged with conspiracy and assault.” His eyes changed. “You did not tell me that he hit you on the head with a lamp.”
“I didn’t know. But I saw Dr. Finney, and I am fine. There shall be no permanent damage.” She smiled.
He smiled back and took her hand and lifted it in order to look at her wrist. He nodded and met her gaze again, dropping her hand. “The abrasions are healing well.”
“Yes.” How easily his touch could arouse her, she thought.
“And other than having been hit on the head with a lamp and having rope burns on your wrist and being tired, how are you today?” he asked.
“Well enough,” she said, but only after a hesitation.
He was the one to pause now. His gaze was so somber. “Will you step outside with me for a moment?”
She wanted nothing more. “Of course.”
He grasped her elbow, but only for the barest of moments, and they walked through the library, careful not to look at anyone, careful not to touch. Still, Francesca felt her skirts brush his trousered leg as they stepped out into the brilliant winter sun. The day was dazzling in brightness.
She squinted and faced him where they stood beneath the hotel’s majestic bronze awning, within a stone’s throw of the. park. “It is an unusual day,” she remarked. She was achingly aware of him.
“And I hope you shall find the time to enjoy it,” he returned. “You deserve a holiday.”
She studied him with a smile. “I have no time for a holiday. I fear to fail all my courses if I do not do some serious studying indeed.”
He laughed. “Then by all means, it is off to the library with you.” He quickly sobered. Then, “Francesca, I keep thinking that there is something that I must say to you.”
“Yes, I have that feeling, too.” Her pulse raced now.
He shook his head. “But all has been said, I fear.”
Her heart skipped a series of beats. “Do you really believe that?” she asked softly.
He hesitated. “No.”
She gazed up at him and he gazed back. So desperately, she wanted to move into the circle of his arms. It would be so right.
But she did not, as it was not right. She felt a tear shimmer on her lashes.
Abruptly he reached out his hand. She did not hesitate, and she slipped her palm into his. His grip tightened.
Briefly, she closed her eyes. There was something magical about the feeling of her palm enfolded in his. There was something so right it was almost impossible to describe. Her hand fit in his, the way she had somehow come to belong in his life, in its very center—the way he now belonged in her life, at its core. Yet it was also painful, and forbidden now.
“Anything I say will only make things worse,” he said, very low. And he slid his hand from hers, slowly and reluctantly.
“I don’t think so,” she said, glancing at the two liveried doormen out of the corner of her eye. But if they had noticed the city’s married police commissioner holding her hand, they were not batting an eye.
“What is it that you wish me to say?” he asked, low and strained. “I am so sorry, to have hurt you and to have misled you, but I cannot wish we had not met, because I treasure our friendship, and wishing that my own circumstances were different would be a useless and pitiful act. There is a saying—I made my bed and now I shall sleep in it.”
“Do not punish yourself for making a mistake when you were young and far less wise than you are now.”
“Only you would say something like that to me, now,” he said softly. “It is why—” He stopped.
Her pulse accelerated. “It is what?” she asked softly.
“There is no point,” he began intensely.
She grasped his wrist. “Yes, there is! Do you love me?” She could hardly believe herself. She no longer cared if she broke every rule of etiquette.
“Yes,” he said, his golden eyes riveted upon her face.
She nodded, feeling tears well. She was not surprised, for she had known what his answer would be. “I love you, too, Bragg,” she said, very careful to keep her voice down.
“Damn it,” he said, and he took her hand firmly in his and he held it, hard, as if daring society to look at them and speculate and point fingers and cast shadows.
It was hard to speak now. A tear interfered with her vision. “What do we do now?” she asked quietly. “Where do we go from here?”
“I do not know,” he said. His smile appeared fragile. “But I wish that I did.”
Her own smile felt fragile in return.
“Miz Cahill!” someone shouted.
Only a reporter would shout her name that way. Francesca stiffened; Bragg released her hand, and they turned as Walter Isaacson from the Tribune came hurrying out of the hotel’s front doors. Two other journalists were with him. “Is it true that you apprehended Mary Randall and her brother last night? By yourself?” he cried, rushing over to them.
Francesca looked past the reporters at Bragg. He smiled at her, with encouragement. She turned. “Yes, it is true.”
“But how did you know she was the killer? Did you suspect her all along? And how is it that you came to be involved in the first place?” Isaacson rapidly asked her. All three men held pencils, prepared to write down her every word.
“Well,” Francesca began, quite pleased with the attention— though her parents would surely lock her in her room for days, months, even years, if they knew the truth, so she must carefully choose her words—”it is a long story, but one I am glad to supply.” She looked past Isaacson and his colleagues.
Bragg had walked over to the hotel doors, where he paused. Silhouetted against the bronze and glass, he made a magnificent sight: a tall man with tawny, sun-streaked hair, high, high cheekbones and nearly olive skin, and strong, broad shoulders. Their gazes locked; he saluted her. In his eyes was far more than love; there was respect and, she thought, admiration.
Francesca smiled in return, and against all common sense and better judgment, her heart did sing and exult. She turned back to the reporters. “Now where was I?” she asked.
All three newsmen began firing questions at her. “How did you become involved in the Randall Killing?”
“Weren’t you involved in the Burton Abduction?”
“Are you intending to become the city’s first policewoman?”
Francesca was about to reply when she noticed a blue-eyed woman in a worn, hooded cloak standing behind Isaacson.
She was staring at Francesca so intently it was as if her eyes might burn a hole through Francesca’s clothing. Francesca started, tensing.
“Which clue led you to Mary Randall?”
Francesca returned her atten
tion to the journalists, held up her hands, and as she started to speak, glanced back at the hotel’s bronze doors. Bragg was gone.
She turned back to the newshounds. It did not matter. There would be another day, and another case for them to solve together—of that she did not have a single doubt. In fact, she would go downtown to Headquarters later that day; she had forgotten to ask him about the Kurland incident. And as for the road they must travel, she only knew that it would be exciting indeed, with Bragg at her side. She would worry about the rest of it another time.
Then she felt the woman’s eyes upon her again. Francesca looked her way, and their gazes locked.
The woman seemed to realize that she was staring, because she flushed and began to back away.
“Miss Cahill? Which clue led you to the murderer?”
Francesca knew that she was not imagining it. The other woman, who was close to Francesca’s own age, had been staring and was extremely upset and afraid. What was this? “Miss? Wait!” she called impulsively.
The woman whirled. As she did so, her hood fell back to reveal rich, chocolate-brown hair. She ran down the steps to the curb.
“Wait!” Francesca shouted, rushing after her.
Her cry only made the woman run faster. Francesca suddenly realized that a brougham was approaching and that the young woman was running directly into its path.
“Stop!” she screamed, halting at the curb.
Too late, the woman realized the danger from the oncoming vehicle. She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide with terror.
The coachman saw her, too. He jammed down the brake, cursing at her. The two bays reared as he wildly tried to rein them in.
Francesca dove after the woman, knocking her down and out of the way of the two plunging horses and the carriage.
She felt a carriage wheel graze her shoulder as the coach passed. It slowed and then stopped a short distance away.
The woman blinked up at her, and for one moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Francesca knew the woman’s terror had nothing to do with almost being hit by a carriage.
Francesca had landed on top of her, and she quickly rolled off, still stunned. The woman leapt up, and without a word, she lifted her coat and skirts and ran.