Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  Francesca and Lucy looked at each other again. As one, they grabbed hands and rushed back into the side entrance of the hotel. They slammed the door closed, then huddled in the doorway. Francesca looked in both directions down the hallway, but it was vacant—thank God.

  “Did you hit him?” Lucy cried.

  “I’m not sure. I think so. But only in the foot!” Francesca realized that both her hands were shaking now as she hurriedly stuffed the derringer back into her purse. It remained almost impossible to use her bandaged hand. She looked back up the hall, almost expecting to see Bragg coming down it, his expression thunderous. But surely that gunshot had not been heard inside of the hotel and she was merely stricken with paranoia.

  “Did anyone see us?” Lucy asked breathlessly.

  “I don’t think so. Except for those inside the carriages on the street.” Their gazes locked with sudden comprehension. They were hardly unremarkable now, not with Lucy in her crimson evening gown and Francesca in her turquoise one.

  “Damn it,” Lucy breathed.

  “What is going on?” Francesca cried.

  Lucy’s eyes went wide with fear and she backed away, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

  For one moment, Francesca was disbelieving. “Nothing? I was there! I saw and heard everything. He accosted you. You are in trouble, Lucy!”

  Lucy looked ready to cry. “I can’t …”

  This time, Francesca used her bandaged hand as well, taking both of Lucy’s hands in hers. “Let me help. You are already a dear friend. Please, let me help!”

  Tears welled in Lucy’s eyes, but they did not fall. “This is simply a mistake. Nothing is going on! That man has mistaken me for someone else.” She stared grimly at Francesca, on the verge of copious tears.

  And clearly, she was so afraid. Francesca did not believe a word Lucy had just said—that thug was not mistaking her for someone else. She touched her bare arm. “Lucy, please let me help you.”

  “There is nothing for you to do!”

  Francesca inhaled. “You have the most wonderful family behind you. Your brother is police commissioner, your father one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.” She thought about Hart’s wealth and power. “And your stepbrother can certainly move a few mountains here in the city. I can see that you are afraid … but you do not need to be in whatever trouble you are in alone. They can help, as can I, I am sure!”

  Lucy pulled away. “I am going to the ladies’ room,” she said. “And we are about to be late for supper.”

  Francesca had not been able to walk away from Lucy in her distress and had joined her in the ladies’ room. There was a huge bronze clock on one of the bureaus in the lounge, and Francesca realized as they left that they had been gone almost a half an hour. Lucy read her mind. She said, “I will tell everyone I had a coughing fit.”

  Francesca just looked at her.

  Lucy seemed belligerent. “I do not want anyone worrying needlessly, Francesca. There is no reason to mention that … that incident to anyone.”

  Francesca disagreed but did not say so. Lucy was in trouble, and surely her brother could help. Francesca would speak to Bragg the moment they were alone.

  Lucy gripped her arm as they entered the spacious lobby. “Do not breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Rick!”

  Francesca looked into her eyes, which were steely with determination. “You know I desperately want to,” she finally said.

  “No. Or our friendship is over,” she said harshly.

  Francesca recoiled. Whatever dilemma Lucy was in, clearly Francesca must solve it alone; either that or jeopardize their new friendship.

  “Can I trust you?” Lucy asked.

  Francesca nodded. “Yes. Although it is against my better judgment.”

  Lucy sighed, relief flashing in her eyes. “Thank you.” She now smiled. “I will tell them we went up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto.”

  Francesca nodded, as that was a far more plausible lie. But it was a lie, and she was acutely uncomfortable now.

  Lucy faced her as they crossed the lobby, passing the concierge and registration desks. “I know. I hate lying to those I love the most!”

  “In general, a lie is never a good idea.” Francesca glanced ahead. The family had remained in the atrium, but Bragg was standing and looking impatiently at them as they approached. Even from a distance, she could see that Bragg’s stare was particularly intent and suspicious.

  “Oh, we are lucky; the Channings are just arriving!” Lucy exclaimed softly.

  Francesca glanced over her shoulder and saw Sarah and her mother entering through the large front doors at the opposite end of the lobby. Both women were dwarfed by huge sable coats.

  Bragg stepped over to them. “Where have you two been?” he asked, his gaze moving carefully from Francesca to Lucy.

  “We went up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto,” Lucy said with a wide smile. “And I decided to show Francesca photographs of the ranch and Shoz.”

  Francesca smiled at Bragg.

  He did not smile back. He knew a lie when he heard one.

  Rathe had stood and he came forward, looking closely at his daughter. “Are you all right? Is everything all right with the children?”

  “Jack has a bit of an upset stomach, but other than that, we are all as perfect as can be,” Lucy said, far too happily.

  Her father gave her a long look. A pause that seemed endless ensued. “Good,” he finally said.

  Francesca sensed that he suspected quite a bit. To make matters worse, Grace had also come over. She said, “Have you been crying?”

  “Of course not. I have an allergy.” Lucy smiled at her mother. She did not smile back.

  Instead, Rathe and Grace exchanged a glance. “We are looking forward to seeing your parents tomorrow night,” Rathe remarked, turning to Francesca. “It has been awhile since Andrew and I spent an evening solving all of the world’s political and social problems.”

  Francesca laughed. It felt good to laugh just then, after the past few moments. Then she realized that Rourke had gone up to Lucy and he seemed angry. He pulled her aside. Francesca pretended not to notice, but she strained to hear. Whatever he whispered to her, Lucy became angry and she pulled defiantly away.

  “The Channings are here,” Bragg remarked quietly.

  “I am so sorry we are so late!” Mrs. Channing replied, handing her sable to the cloakroom clerk who had suddenly materialized. “But that awful detective returned and he just would not leave Sarah and the countess alone. It was an impossible and endless interview!” She turned a dark look on Bragg, as if it were his fault. “Sarah, dear, do hand off your sable,” she said.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Channing, if Inspector O’Connor has disturbed you. I did not realize he would return to interview you and your daughter tonight.”

  “It was the worst timing,” Mrs. Channing said, but she beamed now at Rathe and Grace.

  Bragg quickly made introductions all around, and as he did so, Francesca saw Rourke cast a once-over at Sarah. She winced as she saw Sarah’s gown, then glanced back at Rourke. She saw him wince as well.

  Sarah did not look well to begin with. She was far too pale, yet she had two bright, garish spots on her cheeks, which looked like rouge from an earlier epoch—but they were clearly a natural and agitated flush. And she was wearing a dark emerald green gown that overpowered her small size and delicate features. The color suited her, but the bulky shape and amount of fabric made Sarah look plump, when she was anything but. She was also wearing a ridiculously expensive emerald choker that was absolutely inappropriate for a young unwed girl. Francesca knew Sarah’s mother had chosen it for her, just as she now knew that Sarah couldn’t care less about the clothes or the jewelry she wore.

  Evan had turned to his fiancée. “Sarah,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I am so sorry about your studio.”

  Sarah seemed tense. She pulled away. “Thank you, Evan. But I am su
re the culprit will be found.” She turned wide eyes upon Francesca. Francesca now winced again—she had to help Lucy, but she also had to find the vandal who had destroyed Sarah’s studio.

  “Evan dear, how handsome you look!” Mrs. Channing cried, kissing his cheek. “Yes, it has been the worst nightmare, and poor Sarah is beside herself.”

  Lucy came over and hugged Sarah. “How about a sip of champagne? It will help, I am sure.”

  “I can’t drink. My stomach isn’t quite right,” Sarah said tersely.

  Bragg laid his hand on her shoulder. “Has O’Connor upset you, Miss Channing?”

  “No.” Her tone was abrupt. “I am glad he is on the case. I just want this solved and over with.”

  Bragg seemed somewhat unsatisfied with that. His glance met Francesca’s with concern.

  But she was also concerned. She had never seen Sarah so tense or terse or abrupt.

  “What happened to your studio?” Rourke asked.

  Sarah turned. “Someone broke into it, apparently last night. They overturned most of my paintings, spilled and threw paint everywhere, and slashed up one particular portrait. And I just cannot think of who would do such a thing, or why.” She held her head high. Francesca felt that the effort of being social was costing her dearly and that she wished to be anywhere but at the Plaza.

  “Sarah surely has no enemies,” Evan said, in an attempt to be gallant. “As she is very kind and everyone thinks so.”

  Sarah gave him a cursory smile.

  “I am sorry,” Rourke said, his amber eyes speculative. He glanced at Francesca. “Are you on the case?”

  Francesca hesitated. “Mrs. Channing specifically asked me to help.”

  Rourke seemed amused. “I have never encountered a female sleuth before.”

  “Are there not female doctors?”

  “There is one in the entire medical school. She is extremely unpopular with most of the students and staff.”

  “What a shame,” Francesca said. “Surely you are not so quick to judge?”

  “I tried not to, but she goes out of her way to be rude and I have given up.” He shrugged.

  “I am sure she will be a better doctor than all of her male counterparts combined,” Sarah said.

  Rourke looked at her.

  So did Francesca. Of course, Francesca was less surprised; after all, she knew Sarah, who was actually very bohemian—but one would never guess from looking at her. However, what was surprising was her voicing her thoughts in the mixed company in which they were in.

  Sarah’s color increased. “Well, when a woman wishes to do something that is reserved exclusively for men, the passion she has usually causes her to excel. Take Francesca. As a sleuth she is superb.”

  “Ah, not really,” Francesca murmured.

  Rourke lifted both brows. “I take it you know this from experience?” His gaze moved over her features one by one, as if he were dissecting her in one of his medical classes.

  Sarah shrugged, clearly careless and indifferent. She was so out of character tonight, Francesca thought, she could not help but be worried, and her eyes were simply so bright. “I think so.”

  “Shall we sit down for supper?” Mrs. Channing cried with alarm. “Dear sir, my daughter is the most polite lady, and her painting is a pleasant little hobby, the kind most ladies enjoy. A few simple watercolors here and there, and that is the brunt of it.”

  Francesca looked at Sarah and felt horrible for her and wished Mrs. Channing would not try to ingratiate herself so much into the present company. She was about to make a quiet remark, but a rebuttal nonetheless, when Lucy said, “I think she is brilliant.”

  Sarah smiled grimly at her.

  Grace turned to Mrs. Channing. “I happen to agree with Sarah. In fact, for a long time I have seen what I only suspected when I was Sarah’s age—that women have superior intellects, when they are allowed to use them. And those women who dare to fearlessly go where Man does not wish her to, why, they are simply superb doctors and lawyers and artists.” She smiled at Mrs. Channing and then at Sarah. “I should love to see your art sometime.”

  Sarah smiled back. “I should love to show you. I am a huge admirer of yours, Mrs. Bragg. I have followed your career as a suffragette and an agitator for women throughout the country for years. I am thrilled to meet you. I never dreamed this would actually happen.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Grace said.

  Francesca could only blink. Now why hadn’t she been able to approach Grace Bragg in such a fashion?

  “Peas in a pod,” Rourke seemed to mutter. He raised his voice. “So you are an artist?”

  Sarah nodded. “Yes.”

  “And what kind of art do you engage in?” he continued. “Other than simple watercolors, as most ladies prefer?”

  “I prefer oils,” Sarah said briskly. “In fact, I rarely use watercolor anymore. I consider myself somewhat of an Impressionist, but I have studied the old masters extensively. There is a movement in the art world today called Postimpressionism, but I do not belong in it. In truth, even though I am somewhat of an Impressionist, my background is so solidly Romantic that I might be considered as such. And my second preference is charcoal.” She did not smile. There was an odd light in her eyes. She even spoke differently, in an impatient way, with a staccato ring to her words.

  Rourke’s gaze narrowed. “And your choice of subjects? Might I take it landscapes are not a preference?”

  “No, they are not. I find landscapes boring. I adore doing portraits of women and children,” Sarah said flatly, and suddenly she smiled and glanced at Francesca. Francesca wanted to wave frantically at her; instead, she sent her a warning look, but Sarah had not seen. She had turned back to Rourke. “Calder Hart has commissioned a portrait of Francesca. I am so very fortunate.”

  A silence fell.

  And suddenly Francesca realized that Hart was not present, that he had not come—and in that moment she knew that he was not joining them for supper. In that moment there was vast confusion; there was disappointment and there was relief. And somehow she also knew why he had decided not to join them. She felt herself still as the conversation swirled around them. She was the reason he had refused to come to his own family supper.

  She amended her thoughts. The conversation they had had earlier was the cause, not she herself.

  She refused to entertain any disappointment. Disappointment was absurd.

  Rourke smiled slightly. “So, Hart has commissioned Miss Cahill’s portrait. I cannot say that I blame him.” He smiled far too warmly at Francesca, then turned to look directly at his brother. “Do you blame him, Rick?”

  “Hart does as he chooses; he always has,” Bragg said coldly.

  “Oh, ho, this is jolly indeed!” Rourke began to chuckle.

  “I think Mrs. Channing is right and we should go in to supper,” Rathe said, stepping between the brothers while clasping each one on the shoulder. But his gaze moved to Francesca with speculation.

  She felt herself flush.

  His regard was not as kind as it had been earlier, and there was a set to his expression that she did not like.

  Rathe was about to escort Mrs. Channing, and Bragg had looped his arm in Grace’s, when Inspector Newman appeared in the lobby, two roundsmen with him. In general, detectives were obvious in their shabby tweed overcoats and bowler hats, even if one did not notice the badges pinned to their jackets, for they simply did not look like gentlemen. Of course, Francesca recognized Newman from several of the past cases she had worked on. And the sight of two uniformooed policemen in the lobby of the hotel was not a usual one. Francesca halted in her tracks. The feeling she had was a distinctly sinking one.

  Bragg had seen them, too. “What is this?”

  Francesca muttered, beneath her breath, “I have no idea.”

  “Grace, one moment, please,” he said to his stepmother, and he strode away. Newman was at the concierge desk, where a group of hotel staff had congregated, but he saw Br
agg and quickly detached himself, coming forward. Francesca was drawn to them like paper clips to a magnet.

  “Newman? What’s amiss?” Bragg asked.

  “Gunshots, C’mish, sir. Or at least one, just outside of the hotel.”

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Looks like it. There a trail of blood on Fifty-ninth Street, heading west, between Fifth and Sixth,” he said.

  Bragg stared.

  “Starts just outside of a side entrance to the hotel, too,” Newman added. He was a short, beefy man with huge red cheeks that were perpetually flushed. He now saw Francesca and nodded. “G’day, Miz Cahill.”

  Abruptly Bragg turned. “What the hell is going on, Francesca?”

  She inhaled and smiled. “I don’t know. This is the first I have heard of this incident.”

  He stared.

  She held his gaze, no easy task, oh no.

  “But didn’t you and my sister go around the corridor on that side of the lobby—meaning the corridor that leads to Fifty-ninth Street?”

  He had watched them too carefully, she realized with a pang. He had seen them bypass the ladies’ room and go down the damning corridor that led to the street.

  Suddenly Bragg turned to Newman. “I shall go outside in a moment to see the sight,” he said. “Please, continue interviewing the staff.”

  Newman nodded and turned away. The moment he did so, Brag said oh-so calmly, “May I see your gun, Francesca?”

  Eight

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 8:00 P.M.

  She had misheard, surely. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You and Lucy are up to something. And Lucy is not herself. I suspect she is in trouble—again. A shot was fired outside of this hotel recently. Oddly, I am suspicious,” Bragg said flatly.

  “Bragg, you will embarrass me in front of your family,” she said nervously.