Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  “I’m fine.”

  She plucked his sleeve. “You seem disturbed.”

  “It’s been a long day, Francesca,” he sighed.

  She sensed that was true. “Where is Leigh Anne?”

  He did not bat an eye. “She isn’t joining me tonight.”

  Francesca stared. What did that mean? Was Leigh Anne ill? Or were they fighting? “It’s a wonderful opera,” she said lamely.

  He made a sound. “I wouldn’t know. I had better go back to the mayor’s box,” he said.

  She took his hand. “If something is wrong, if I can help, please, you know I’d love to.”

  He softened. “Thank you. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  She nodded, not wanting to discuss the case now.

  He slipped his hand free and walked away.

  Francesca watched him for another moment, until he disappeared through an exit, and she returned to Hart’s side. His gaze slid over her, not quite pleasantly, and she tensed. But she smiled as she slid her hand into his. “Maybe we should return to our seats.”

  “You haven’t drunk your champagne,” Hart said.

  She met his gaze.

  He held it for one moment and then looked away. “So tell me, Darlene, how often do you visit our fair city?”

  Francesca knew Hart was annoyed with her. He remained as courteous as ever, but there was no mistaking that he had tried to provoke her by spending ten minutes during the intermission in conversation with Darlene. Now he held her elbow, guiding her down the wide front steps of the opera house. A line of double- and triple-parked coaches and carriages lined Broadway in front of the theater. Rourke, Sarah, and Mrs. Channing were behind them—Mrs. Channing had eagerly accepted Rourke’s invitation to join them for the second half of the performance in their box. The crowd was heavy on the street, but Francesca saw Darlene and her father climbing into a cab. She hoped to never see the gorgeous other woman again.

  Then she saw Bragg with the Lows. They were parting company, and again she wondered why Leigh Anne had not shown.

  “Shall we?” Hart intoned.

  She glanced at him and saw that he had followed her gaze. She bristled, glanced back at the Channings and Rourke, and said, “I would like a word with you. Alone.”

  He inclined his head, his gaze narrow enough to make her uneasy. “Excuse us,” he said. They were all having supper together that night.

  Hart and Francesca walked away and faced each other, Hart releasing her arm. “Maybe you wish to court Darlene,” Francesca said tersely, then could have kicked herself, as that was not what she wanted to say; in fact, she did not wish to discuss Darlene.

  Hart smiled tightly. “I’m only interested in courting one woman, Francesca. You.” His gaze was black and very direct.

  She could almost forgive him his utterly immature jealousy. “You have no right to be annoyed with me. You have known from the moment we met that Bragg is my best friend.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “So now he is your best friend? That is news to me, Francesca.”

  She flushed. Things were awkward enough between her and Bragg, and it had been a slight exaggeration to call him her best friend. “You know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “He will always be a dear friend, Hart, even after we are married. Your jealousy is inappropriate.” He stared.

  She became uneasy. “Aren’t you going to respond?”

  “Very well. You wanted to marry him. You have spent several hours passionately in his arms—or so I believe. And my jealousy is inappropriate? I don’t think so, Francesca. We are engaged. You are going to be my wife. I have no intention of looking the other way so you can run off to console your oh-so-noble star-crossed lover.” His eyes glittered now.

  She stepped back. “He is not my lover.”

  “But he was. Except that I talked you out it, didn’t I? When you were rushing headlong into a very nasty affair, one which could only have tragic consequences, when I was a real friend to you, and not romantically inclined, I cared enough—as a friend—to beg you to think about the consequences of an affair with a married man.”

  She inhaled harshly. He was right. “Still, we will always be friends. You will have to accept it. And your flirting with that ugly woman was immature, Hart!”

  He dared to smile. “Yes, it was. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and I find her distasteful, too.”

  She blinked. Her heart sped. “Can you ever respond the way I expect you to?”

  He took her hand and reeled her in. “That would be boring, don’t you think?”

  She was in his arms. She made a slight effort to dislodge him, not really wanting to, because she loved being in his arms, against his chest. “You will have to trust me, Calder, when it comes to Rick.”

  “I do trust you,” he said, “but I am insanely jealous when you rush off to him. And I do believe with just cause.”

  She could only stare breathlessly at him. He was insanely jealous. She tried to remind herself that Hart was jealous of his half-brother no matter the subject, just as Bragg was jealous of Calder. But it didn’t work. She realized she was smiling. He was insanely jealous of her!

  “Stop looking so pleased,” he breathed, smiling now.

  “I am pleased,” she said, smiling even more. “You don’t have to be jealous,” she began, her instinct to reassure him. But in a flash then she thought about all she had shared with Bragg and she knew how false her words were. Calder had every reason to be jealous, because she shared a special bond with his brother that no one could sever, not ever, not even him.

  He raised a brow, clearly skeptical.

  “We are engaged,” she said, touching his face. “And the one thing you must know is that I will be loyal to you.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  She hesitated, because clearly he had more on his mind. “What is it?”

  “Your loyalty isn’t enough.”

  She flinched. “What more can I give you? What else could you possibly want?”

  He hesitated now, his jaw hard and tight, his eyes as black as the night.

  “Your heart,” he said.

  Hart hesitated on the threshold of the very exclusive and private club, a club of which he was not a member. He had paid handsomely to get in—he had bribed the doorman with fifty dollars. “The Jewel” had a very sordid reputation—one of lechery, drunkenness, drugs. It was also well known that here a gentleman might find any type of pleasure that he wished—should he be able to afford his own exotic habits.

  The Jewel was housed in a Fifth Avenue mansion that had once, half a century earlier, belonged to a Flemish merchant. From the spacious front hall where Hart stood, he could look into a salon and a dining room, all elegantly furnished, right to the original paintings hanging on the walls. Several young gentlemen gambled at poker; others dallied with young, lush prostitutes. The whores were all attractive and expensively dressed. In the dining room several patrons and their paramours were dining. Not far from where Hart stood, a pianist ripped out a jaunty tune on a grand piano. Beyond the pianist, a wide staircase led to the two upper floors of the house, where one could indulge in one’s whims, both sexual and otherwise.

  A woman approached. Hart instantly knew she was the madam of the house, but he did not know if she was the owner. She was in her thirties, blond, elegant, beautiful—the pale blue gown she wore was high-necked and had sleeves to the elbows; still, it could not disguise her superb figure. She wore several small rings—a sapphire and two diamonds, as well as a beautiful sapphire bracelet. Everything about her was understated. As elegant and modestly clothed and jeweled as she was, she could easily enter any genteel salon and fool everyone present into thinking she was a real lady. She was smiling as she paused before him, but he was a master at reading people, and he knew she was alarmed by his presence.

  Why? The doorman had accepted the bribe but had then had to ask permission to allow him in. He had used his real name, consideri
ng it an asset in this particular instance, and while he was engaged to the woman investigating the missing girls, he highly doubted that news would have reached the ears of the management of this club. Not yet, anyway.He smiled charmingly at the woman and took her hand. “Madame?” He spoke the word as the French did—he found the anglicized version too harsh and ugly. “I am Calder Hart, at your service.” He bowed over her hand. Her gaze did not flicker. “Thank you for allowing me entrance into your establishment.”

  She inclined her head, the slight gesture quite regal. “Mr. Hart. I do believe your reputation precedes you. I am flattered to have you with us tonight.” She smiled as charmingly back at him. “I am Solange Marceaux, and you may call me Madame Marceaux. Until we are better acquainted.”

  He knew her first words were false. Why? She should be thrilled to have a man of his wealth in her club. And what did that last statement mean? “The Jewel’s reputation is quite well known as well.” He smiled and glanced around. “I am impressed.”

  Her smile slipped easily back on. “That is difficult to believe; nevertheless, I am pleased. Would you like a drink? A cigar? A bite of supper, perhaps? Our chef is from Paris. He is superb and he is serving a wild duck in a peach brandy sauce tonight.”

  “I am afraid I have already dined, but a scotch would be nice.”

  She turned and a beautiful young woman of about eighteen appeared, her dark eyes sultry and inviting, a pleased smile on her lips. She had dark milky skin, suggesting some African-American heritage, and she wore a magenta gown that revealed a good portion of her small breasts.

  “Linda, please get Mr. Hart a glass of our finest Scotch whiskey.”

  Linda smiled seductively at him and left to obey. As he turned back to his hostess, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face, and his heart skipped. He did not, however, look back again at Rose.

  But as he calmed, he thought about the fact that his mistress’s lover was present at the club. And while he had stopped seeing Daisy the moment he had become engaged to Francesca last month, he had allowed her to remain in the house he had bought for her until the end of the term they had agreed upon for their affair—which would be in another four and a half months. Hart had discovered Daisy on the street one day and had mistaken her for a lady. He had soon realized she was a prostitute, and, rather taken with her unusual beauty, he had gone to visit her at the brothel where she worked. There he had met her lover, Rose. One thing had led to another, and before long he was in bed with them both. The fact that Rose was present now was a problem. She had been furious with him for his setting Daisy up as his mistress. And undoubtedly Rose also knew about his engagement to Francesca, as Daisy had surely told her. She hated Hart with a vengeance and he did not trust her for an instant.

  “So what brings you to the Jewel, Mr. Hart?”

  “Boredom,” he said with a smile.

  Both of her pale brows lifted—she was hardly impressed. “I can hardly imagine a man like you being bored. But I am sure we can remedy that.”

  “I have little doubt. Which is why I am here,” Hart said easily. He now felt eyes upon his back and knew Rose was staring at him.

  “Shall we adjourn to my office? We can discuss the matter of your boredom there.” Solange Marceaux smiled at him.

  Hart agreed and followed her past the two salons and into a lavish sitting room. The door to the adjoining bedroom was open, and he glimpsed an elegant bedroom with gold wainscoting on the ceiling, jade-green fabric walls, and matching brocade draperies. The furniture in both rooms was antique.

  He turned back to his hostess, who had been watching him, and took the seat she gestured at. “Your rooms are quite elegant.”

  She sat in a facing chair, the sofa and a small table between them. “I have heard the same about your home, Mr. Hart. Now, how may I help you?”

  At that moment, there was a knock and Linda appeared with his scotch and another drink, which looked like ice water. She smiled at Hart as she handed him his drink, then looked inquiringly at Solange. “You may go,” Solange said. “Please make certain that we have no interruptions.”

  When Linda was gone, Solange set her glass untouched on the table between them. “What is your pleasure, Mr. Hart?”

  “I am looking for innocence,” he said. “And beauty, of course.”

  She did not bat an eye. “And the age preference?”

  “Fourteen perhaps. Thirteen might do. But no older than fourteen.”

  Solange smiled politely at him as she stood. She paced slowly to the fireplace behind where they sat and paused, one hand on the white marble mantel there. She faced Hart. “I am afraid you are in the wrong establishment. While we offer various types of entertainment for you patrons, we do not offer children.”

  Hart settled back in the chair, crossing his legs, taking a sip of his scotch. “This is excellent,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Can we possibly amuse you with mere beauty? We have many beautiful young women here, Mr. Hart. I have a magnificent redhead who is only sixteen.”

  He shrugged with elaborate indifference. “My dear Madame Marceaux, I have had many mistresses of that age. I am looking for unspoiled innocence in the extreme. And I will pay handsomely to attain it.”

  She stared. Then, “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  He stood. “Then you are right, I am in the wrong place tonight.” But he smiled warmly at her.

  She approached and touched him for the first time, her hand lying lightly on his forearm. “I hate for you to leave unsated tonight. It is late. Perhaps you might wish to briefly amuse yourself. It is on the house.” She met his gaze.

  Her eyes were pale gray and simply impossible to read. She did not remove her hand. He wondered if she was offering herself—he sensed that—yet she was undoubtedly a master of the game and could probably beat him in a poker game, or come damned close to it. If she was offering herself, it was very hard to say.

  He thought about Rose. She hated him, but she had to be thrilled that he was no longer sleeping with Daisy. And he did not know whether Solange Marceaux was telling him the truth. If she did traffic in child whores, she probably wished to test him. Had he not been engaged to Francesca, it would be so very easy to bed her and get the information he wanted from her. However, he would have to find a different way to achieve his ends.

  He smiled at her. “Perhaps you are right.”

  She held his gaze with her lovely yet remarkably cool gray eyes for one more moment and dropped her hand. She smiled, inclining her head.

  “I saw a magnificent woman when I first walked in, dark skin, dark hair, sloe eyes. I know her from Madam Pinke’s. Her name is Rose. Perhaps she is available?”

  If Solange Marceaux was surprised, if she was disappointed, it was impossible to see. She did not even blink. “A good choice,” she said. “Rose is magnificent, as you have said, and she is the kind of woman capable of sating a man like yourself. I believe she is free tonight. Excuse me,” she said, and she smiled.

  He was alarmed, as he had no wish for Rose and Solange Marceaux to speak about him with his not being there. Rose might say too much; in fact, he rather thought she would. “Madame Marceaux, excuse me, you did not let me finish,” he said smoothly.

  She turned back to him, and for the very first time that night, he thought, her expression changed—he thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I am sorry.”

  He smiled and said, “I do not want Rose for myself.”

  She seemed to stiffen. “Oh.”

  He had finally won, and he smiled even more, thrilling now before the final blow. “I would like to amuse myself by watching Rose with another woman,” he said.

  She knew. Her smile was gone.

  “And that woman would be you,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  SUNDAY, MARCH 30, 1902—9:00 A.M.

  FRANCESCA HAD BEEN TOLD she could use the carriage as long as she was home by noon. She had taken that
to mean that her parents needed the coach back at noon, not herself, so she intended to send Jennings back with it after he dropped her off downtown. Now, having told him to wait, she paused before the rusted iron gate in front of the St. James Cemetery.

  It was a dreary morning, cold and windy and threatening rain. Francesca wore a heavy wool coat, and as she stared through the iron bars at the small churchyard cemetery, a centuries-old stone church not far from where the coach was parked, she shivered, but not from the cold. It was an awful day to meander among the small, plain headstones and grave markers, looking for a twelve-year-old girl’s grave. Nor did she look forward to setting up shop on the corner of 10th Street in order to interview the forty-one people claiming to have information about Emily O’Hare’s disappearance.

  She wondered what Hart had found out last night.

  Francesca sighed and pushed open the gate, its hinges squeaking loudly. It must have rained in the night or dawn, as the grass underfoot was very damp, while the stone path in the center of the graveyard was mostly overgrown with weeds. Francesca vaguely disliked cemeteries and this one was no exception—it felt dismal, sad. She scanned the headstone at her right—the person buried there had died twenty years ago. She moved forward, past markers dated in the two previous decades. Her heart was not in this. She fervently hoped that John Cooper had lied and his daughter was alive and well. Claiming that she was dead was, after all, the perfect excuse to cover up her disappearance. Francesca dreaded finding out otherwise.

  Francesca increased her pace. If Bonnie was dead, hers had to be the newest grave in the cemetery—or one of them. At the far end, she saw some stones that were brightly white and one had freshly turned-up earth beside it. She hurried down the overgrown path, slipping once on the slick stones.

  The first white stone read: “Mark Johnson, May He Rest In Peace, 1858-1902.” She was briefly relieved, and she turned to the even smaller marker beside it. She froze.

  A bouquet of wildflowers lay beside it.

  BONNIE COOPER

  DEARLY BELOVED DAUGHTER OF JOHN AND RITA COOPER