Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  His eyes wide and serious, he said, "There has been a bit of a fuss. I do believe Mrs. Cahill requested your presence some time ago, upon returning from her luncheon."

  Francesca moaned.

  He managed to keep a very straight face, although his blue eyes were fascinated.

  There would be no avoiding her mother now. However, a confrontation could be delayed—perhaps even until the morrow. Francesca dashed across the hall. It was a large room with black-and-white marble floors, high ceilings, and huge Corinthian columns, spaced at intervals. The staircase was alabaster, wide and graceful, carpeted in red. She raced up it, not at all in a manner that was ladylike or dignified.

  The family rooms were on the third floor. All of the rooms used for entertaining were on the first two floors. Francesca saw no one as she rushed up the corridor and toward her bedroom. She hurried through the door, sighing with relief.

  And then she saw her mother sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

  "Francesca, I would like to speak with you." Julia did not turn.

  Briefly Francesca closed her eyes. Then, with some despair, she started forward. "Hello, Mama. I only went out to take some air."

  "I do not recall taking air being a part of Dr. Finney's instructions," Julia Van Wyck Cahill said far too calmly, finally turning to look at her. "I am dismissing the new doorman."

  Francesca hurried forward. "Mama, that's not fair! You certainly did not intend for him to be some sort of gaoler, did you?" She reached for the back of the couch.

  "He is smitten with you. You will have him so thoroughly wrapped around your finger that you will soon be roaming about this city in the middle of the night—while in the midst of another criminal investigation!" Julia was not angry. Tears sparkled on her dark lashes. Francesca blinked. Julia was never emotionally out of control.

  Then Francesca took a steadying breath, sitting on the velvet sofa beside her mother. "Please do not fire Jonathon on my account."

  Julia looked at her and sighed.

  Eagerly Francesca said, "I am just fine, Mama. Really. You don't have to worry so." But silently she thanked God that her mother was completely unaware of the several times she had been sleuthing in the middle of the night—although Bragg and her brother had caught her out and about.

  "You have been gone for hours, Francesca." Julia faced her grimly. "What am I supposed to do with you?"

  Francesca saw how worried her mother was and did not know what to say or do. When Julia was her forceful, dominant self, it was much easier to wage a futile battle for her cause. Now she felt terrible. "I did need some air," she said. "Everything will be fine, Mama; please don't worry about me."

  "How can I not worry about you? You have been involved in three, three, criminal investigations! I just cannot understand what you think you are doing! I am very proud of you, Francesca, as you have turned into a beautiful woman." Julia took Francesca's good hand in both of hers. "I was so pleased to see you in that red gown at the Channing ball. You were stunning and elegant and you turned every male head there."

  She became uneasy. She did not want to discuss the Channing ball now, for several reasons. "I am not comfortable in that dress."

  "And then," Julia said, as if she had not heard her, "you disappear! You leave your table and simply disappear, and the next thing I know, I come home to find Maggie stabbed and Dr. Finney tending your burned hand, with policemen all about the house and a paddy wagon outside!"

  "I am sorry," Francesca said simply. There wasn't anything else that she could say.

  "I know you are sorry. But I also know you believe you were right in lying to us, in sneaking about, all in the cause of saving Maggie Kennedy's life."

  Francesca stared. "Should I have let her die? Been murdered?"

  "The case was in the hands of the police!" Julia cried. "You should have left it to them! And I am very angry with Rick Bragg for allowing you to become involved! I intend to give him a piece of my mind."

  Francesca saw that Julia meant her every word. She cringed inwardly. "He isn't very happy with me, either," she managed. "He doesn't want me involved, Mama."

  "What am I supposed to do? You are too old to punish. This is my house, but you do not respect my rules. Should I toss you out? Disown you? That is what other parents might do!"

  Francesca froze. Then, "Mama, you're not serious!" She adored her family, no matter the problems, most of which were caused by her mother's desire for her to be a conventional young lady.

  "If only you could be more like your sister!" Julia despaired. Then, "I will not toss you out, because then you would truly have the freedom to continue this insane sleuthing of yours. Not to mention that your father would toss me out. Francesca, do you respect me?" Julia asked.

  She was already tense, or she would have stiffened. "You know that I do."

  "Then will you respect my rules?" Julia asked simply.

  Francesca hesitated. "Mama, if someone is in trouble—or danger—how can I turn my back on him or her? How? It is not in my nature to ignore a man or a woman in trouble!"

  "And that is the real problem," Julia said with a sigh. "Your passionate, compassionate nature. Compassion is a wonderful thing. So is charity. We give thousands of dollars every year to dozens of different causes. You know that. We are compassionate people. But your version of charity is to help some desperately troubled man or woman with your own two hands. I am desperately afraid." She stood. "Can you blame me?"

  "No." Francesca also stood.

  "Why did you really go out? Where were you?" Julia asked.

  Francesca hated lying to her parents. And because of Evan's engagement, they would quickly learn of the vandalism that had occurred at Sarah's studio. Suddenly Francesca thought of the ruffian who had so frightened Lucy Savage. What was Lucy hiding? "I decided to visit Sarah." She wet her lips and sighed. "Someone broke into her studio and did their best to destroy it, Mama."

  Julia stared. Then, "Is Sarah all right? How is Mrs. Channing?"

  "They are both terribly upset but, other than that, fine."

  Suddenly Julia looked at her daughter with utter suspicion. "What happened at the Channings' is a police matter," she said firmly.

  Francesca hoped her mother could not see her cringe. She hadn't told Bragg about the crime, and she had told the Channings that she would report it. But then, his family reunion had interfered with her better intentions.

  She did not want to use the telephone. It was awkward, and sometimes one could not hear the other party clearly. Perhaps, if she rested now, she could steal out of the house a bit later and catch him at home. To change the subject, she said, "Bragg's family is in town."

  Julia was surprised. "Rathe and Grace Bragg are back?" She suddenly smiled. "It will be so good to see them again! Why, I had heard they might be returning to the city. This is wonderful news."

  "Do you know them well, Mama?"

  "Both he and Andrew worked very hard on Grover Cleveland's reelection," Julia said. "He is as fervent a reformist as your father and as fervent a Republican."

  "He served in Cleveland's first administration," Francesca remarked. "I cannot wait to hear all about it."

  "Yes, I imagine you will find that conversation fascinating. I shall have them over for dinner." She smiled at the thought. "Perhaps on Sunday. It will round out the table nicely."

  Francesca's heart dropped. She could think of nothing worse! "Mama, about Sunday dinner," she began.

  "Absolutely not!" Julia exclaimed. "Do not think to weasel out of it. Calder Hart accepted the invitation, as you well know—you were right there."

  Francesca was overcome with dismay and unease. She refused to recall Lucy's absurd question of which brother she was in love with. Francesca knew why Julia had invited Hart to dine with them on Sunday—she was determined to marry Francesca off and had foolishly set her cap for Hart. That was insane, because Hart had no intention of marrying, and he was quite open about it. He never even looked at availab
le young women, and Francesca knew that for a fact. His only interest was married women and shady ladies whom he might take pleasure with. God only knew why he had accepted the invitation to dine with them.

  "Why are you scowling?" Julia peered closely at her. "We have an agreement, and I know you have not forgotten it."

  "I have not forgotten."

  Julia smiled, and it was a pleased smile. "While Maggie Kennedy's life was in danger, I agreed to allow her and her four children to remain here, under my roof, placing everyone in this house in danger." She looked pointedly at Francesca's bandaged hand. "In return, you agreed to let me choose the suitor of my choice, and you said you would allow him to court you.

  "Perhaps, in the end, you will turn out like Connie," Julia continued. "Sociable, charitable, and happily married, with a child or two."

  Francesca's heart lurched wildly and then sank. "Mama, please cease and desist with this ludicrous matchmaking. I know you are entirely aware of Hart's reputation. You will never snag him, and I would never accept him anyway."

  Julia smiled as if she were a fat old cat who had just eaten a mouse or two. "My dear, every rake has his day. Now, where can I reach the Braggs so I may invite them to dinner?"

  Francesca felt faint. "Mama, please don't invite them on Sunday. It will simply be too much—really." She tried to force a smile and failed. She could think of no worse situation than Julia forcing Calder upon her in front of Rathe and Grace Bragg, and now Lucy's comments were haunting her.

  "Why will it be too much, Francesca? Because Rathe Bragg is the police commissioner's father?"

  Francesca felt her world spin out of control. "What does that mean?" she asked carefully.

  "It means I am not a fool and I am not blind." Julia smiled firmly. "Your infatuation has become obvious, but I am certain you will get over it, now that you know he is married. Even you, the most stubborn person I can think of, could not be so foolish as to cling to a hopeless situation involving a married man. I shall send up a dinner tray."

  Francesca was on her feet. Her mother knew? In that moment, she knew that she was doomed.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 9:00 A.M.

  "Francesca! What is this? Shouldn't you be at home?" Montrose cried sternly.

  Francesca smiled breathlessly at her brother-in-law as she entered the house. Not only had she not been able to inform Bragg of the Channing Incident the night before; she also had fallen asleep right after her conversation with her mother and slept as if comatose until just an hour ago. Clearly her burned hand was sapping some of her usual strength.

  But the full night's rest had done wonders for her. She had so much to do! She must continue the Channing investigation, and as soon as she spoke with her sister, she would go downtown to inform Bragg of the Channing Incident.

  "Please, do not chase me away, as I am in dire need of Connie's advice right now," she said. Upon awakening, her first thought had been that she must weasel out of Sunday's dinner. She was now dreading the evening with all of her being. Surely Connie would have some advice for her, as not attending the event did not seem like a possibility.

  Connie and Montrose lived right around the corner from Francesca, on Sixty-second Street just off of Madison Avenue. The house had been a wedding present from Andrew; it had been designed and built during their year-long engagement. It had been a rather typical marriage for New York society: Connie had the wealth, and her husband had the blue blood and titles. What had not been typical was that they had both fallen immediately in love.

  But that had been five years ago. "I am afraid to ask why you are in need of Connie's advice." Still, Montrose's smile was affectionate. He was a big, muscular man with dark hair and turquoise eyes, as handsome as he was noble. "Must you always seize the bit between your teeth like a wild filly? What could it be now that has put such a look of anxiety upon your face?"

  "So now you compare me to a horse?" But she was smiling. It was good to see Neil in a pleasant mood, as there had simply been too much tension in his house for too long.

  "Did I just do that?" He chucked her under her chin. "I meant no disrespect. How is your hand today?"

  "Fine. Although Mama hopes to keep me dosed with laudanum, I think."

  "I wonder why!" he laughed.

  "I cannot help it if I have a life to live."

  "Unlike other young ladies, who only wish to shop and wed and do as they are told without question?"

  "I take that as a compliment," she said seriously.

  "I meant it as one," he returned as sincerely. Then, "My wife is upstairs, and I do not know if she is awake. But you may go up and rouse her, if you wish."

  Francesca was surprised. "Connie isn't up?" Her sister was always up with Charlotte and Lucinda, who were three years old and eight months, respectively.

  "No, she is not. Not that I know of." His expression closed.

  "Is this a new habit of hers?" she asked carefully.

  And he seemed to withdraw even more.

  "Neil?" And in that moment, she saw the anguish in his eyes, anguish that, for one moment, he did not hide. Her own worries vanished. Clearly things were still not right with Connie and Montrose. Francesca was grim, and she felt responsible, because if she hadn't been the one to discover Neil with his lover, Connie might not have ever learned the truth.

  Of course, Connie had suspected something, so maybe she would have learned of his infidelity eventually anyway. Francesca touched his hand. "How is Connie, Neil?"

  He avoided her eyes. "Fine."

  Francesca stared and, knowing him so well, knew he was lying and that nothing was fine. "How are you?" A few days ago, he had been very angry and very upset. He had told her that his heart was the one that was broken. And that had simply made no sense.

  "Why don't you go up?" He now looked at her. "I am going to read the morning papers, and then I have a board meeting." He nodded and walked out.

  Francesca was left staring after him feeling rather uneasy. Today he had no wish to confess his feelings to her, but then, he was usually a private man. That slip the other day had been just that, an angry, emotional outburst. Francesca sighed. If Neil did not wish to confide in her, there was nothing she could do about it.

  But Connie was her best friend in the entire world. Francesca knew Connie as well as she knew herself. Connie never loitered in bed. She was the busiest woman Francesca knew, a wife, a mother, a socialite. Until recently, she had loved her husband, her children, her life. And she never overslept.

  Francesca turned and made her own way through the house and upstairs. Outside of Connie's suite she paused. Not a sound from within could be heard. She knocked, but there was no answer. Stepping inside, she saw that the sitting room was hardly empty. Connie sat at her secretaire, but she was not writing. Instead, she had her chin on her hands and she was gazing down at Madison Avenue through gauzy parted curtains.

  "Con?"

  She whirled. "Oh, I did not hear you!" As always, even in a peignoir—which was stunning—Connie was breathtaking in her beauty and extremely elegant. Only Francesca's sister could roll out of bed looking as if she were on her way to a ball.

  Connie was a platinum blonde with vivid blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a perfectly curved figure. Actually, Francesca and Connie were often thought to be twins, as they so resembled each other. The only differences between them in appearance were their height—Francesca was two inches taller—and Francesca's coloring. Her hair was a rich honey gold, her skin as dusky.

  And of course, they were not alike at all. Not in character and not by nature or inclination.

  "You slept late today," Francesca said softly. The pensive expression she had just witnessed had disappeared. "Are you all right? May I come in?"

  Connie nodded, standing. "I don't feel quite myself. I decided not to get up," she said, flushing, but with what emotion? Guilt? Then she smiled, and she seemed quite her normal self. "But I am glad to see you, Fran. Even if you are the one who is supposed t
o be in bed." She shook her head with disapproval but continued to smile.

  "I simply could not stand another moment of confinement," Francesca said, happy to see her sister behaving normally. "Are you going to get dressed?"

  "In a moment. So what brings you by?" Connie went to a cord by the door and pulled it; a bell would sound below stairs, alerting a servant that he or she was needed.

  "I need advice." Francesca smiled, pulling up an ottoman and sitting upon it.

  "From me?" Connie was amused, settling on the sofa. "I do find that hard to believe."

  "Why?"

  "If you wish my advice, this must be about a social event—or a man."

  Francesca winced. "It is about both."

  Connie studied her.

  Francesca hesitated. "You aren't still flirting with Calder, are you?"

  Connie flushed. "No. He suddenly lost interest in our flirtation, I think. I haven't heard from him in a week."

  Francesca did not tell her that Hart had ceased chasing her because she, Francesca, had insisted he stop. But it wasn't too long ago that he had ruthlessly been intending to seduce Connie and that Connie had been enjoying a very dangerous flirtation. It still disturbed Francesca no end whenever she recalled the two of them together at the Plaza, flirting so intently that they hadn't even been aware that Francesca was present.

  But that was Hart. He could not seem to resist beautiful married women.

  "Why are you asking, Francesca?" Connie asked curiously.

  "Well, Mama has invited Calder for dinner on Sunday."

  Connie merely gazed at her. "So?"

  Francesca fidgeted. "Mama is insane, Connie. She thinks to match me with Calder."

  Connie almost fell off of the sofa. She had paled. "What?!"

  "I know. It is absurd. What should I do?"

  Connie stared.

  "Con?" Francesca's unease grew. Did her sister still have a small fascination for Calder Hart? Was she jealous?