Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02]

by Deadly Pleasure

  “Please, Francesca, stop it. That is absurd!” Julia exclaimed.

  “It is hardly absurd. You cannot force me to wed. I prefer to remain a spinster. I shall live here, with you and Papa, participating in my clubs in the hopes of reforming this city.” Francesca meant her every word. Indeed, the idea was quickly growing upon her. She elaborated, “One day, when you are both old, and I am here, taking care of you, you shall be very happy with my decision indeed.”

  “You will not remain a spinster,” Julia said, horrified. “Only you, Francesca, would come up with such a ghastly notion. I simply will not have it.”

  “I am not joking, Mama.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Besides, you will not succeed in marrying me off, not easily, anyway.” She did not feel quite as triumphant as she had thought she might be as she played a trump card.

  “Francesca, are you serious? Do you know how many inquiries I receive, on a daily basis, about you?”

  “From your friends?” She shook her head. “Not from their sons.” Francesca usually avoided all thoughts on the subject of socializing for the purpose of marriage. Thinking now about it caused the smallest incision to open up in the vicinity of her heart.

  “What is this about?” Julia cried. She touched her cheek. “Dear, what is this about?”

  Francesca grimaced. “I am not a fool. I am well aware that I am considered odd. I have been called eccentric, even mannish, not that I care.” She shrugged.

  And reminded herself that she did not care. And it was mostly true.

  The problem was, inside of herself, there was a tiny part of her that did care and that yearned, quite desperately, to be as idolized and longed for as Connie.

  Julia gaped.

  “I know what they say about me behind my back.” Francesca smiled bravely. “Connie and I may look like twins, but that does not fool anybody. So you see, you are wrong. Your friends might think me suitable for their sons, but those boys do not find me suitable as a bride. And as for Calder Hart?

  Trust me, he is not interested in me, not that way.”

  “Francesca, darling, how could you be thinking such things?” Julia pulled her close. “No one is calling you such names behind your back.”

  Francesca only smiled. She wasn’t about to argue this point, and she had heard, quite clearly, just a few weeks ago, two young ladies calling her both eccentric and mannish, not to mention snooty as well. Besides, she knew how different she was from other young ladies her age. Even as a child she had always known she was quite different from all the other little girls.

  “Francesca, I must get these terrible concepts out of your head. You are a catch. You are beautiful, intelligent, from a fine family, and you have an inheritance. Trust me. There is no issue as far as finding you a husband.”

  Francesca pulled away. “Mama. I do not want to find a husband. And you cannot force me to the altar.”

  Julia smiled, and it was somewhat sly. “Not even if Calder Hart were the lucky groom?”

  Francesca stiffened. “Not even Calder Hart would entice me into wedlock.” She was grim. “Mama, I doubt you will think he is so eligible when I tell you that he is Bragg’s half brother.”

  Julia’s expression changed. “But … how could that be?” And then comprehension flooded her face.

  “They have the same mother.” Francesca could not feel triumphant, but the fact that Bragg’s mother had been a woman of ill repute and that he was a bastard was the reason Julia had told Francesca in no uncertain terms that he was not for her. “He is illegitimate as well.”

  Julia had paled.

  “So, you see, Calder Hart is not for me.”

  “Perhaps not, but perhaps you are wrong,” Julia said.

  “What? You have disqualified Bragg because of his lineage, so surely Hart must be disqualified, too!” Francesca exclaimed.

  “I must discuss it with your father,” Julia said thoughtfully.

  “I don’t understand!” Francesca cried.

  “Bragg is penniless. He is a civil servant—”

  “He was a lawyer before he accepted this appointment,” Francesca shot, furious now.

  “A lawyer defending hoodlums and crooks,” Julia said. “A lawyer taking on the lowliest cases—and receiving little or no compensation for his work.”

  Francesca could not believe her mother had known about Bragg’s past. “How, in God’s name, did you learn about this?”

  “When I saw the way you were looking at him, I made it my business to learn more about him.” She shrugged. “And believe me, I know his defense of the poor, the needy, and the insane only makes him more attractive to you,” she said with a sigh.

  “He is a champion of the underdog. Of course I find that attractive—the world needs more selfless men like Bragg. But Hart would be acceptable, reputation and all, because he is rich?” Francesca was aghast.

  “I said I would discuss it with your father,” Julia returned. “But your husband must be able to provide for you in the manner you are accustomed to.”

  “Connie married Neil! Montrose was penniless—and Papa gave them a fortune!” Francesca nearly shouted.

  “All British noblemen are impoverished. Montrose brought a noble lineage, not to mention his many titles, to the union. And he is a gentleman.”

  “So is Bragg. Oh, forgive me! He is penniless, he has no title, and he is a bastard! Shall we lynch him now, Mother? As clearly he is too awful to circulate among our kind.” She glared.

  “Do not speak to me in such a manner, Francesca,” Julia warned. “I admire your idealism, but in time, you will come to understand the ways of the world. Bragg is not for you. And I am sorry you are still fervent about him.”

  “Fervent?” She was near tears. “No. You have no idea how I feel, not about him and not about anything. Never mind. Because this hypocrisy of yours is far too unsettling. I am going to bed!” Francesca turned.

  And she heard her mother say, softly, behind her, “One day, you will thank me for all of my efforts, darling. They are all on your behalf.”

  Francesca ran up the stairs. She did not think so.

  And once within her room, with the door securely locked behind her, she thought about her sister and ran to her desk. She tossed aside her notes and notebooks, but there was no note from Connie on her desk, nor any message lying there hidden among her papers; there was no word at all.

  ELEVEN

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1902—9:00 A.M.

  Francesca found her father alone in the breakfast room, where cheerfully papered walls in a canary yellow print provided a sense of intimacy and warmth, and two large windows overlooked the lawns and gardens behind the house, now covered with ice-crusted snow. The sideboard was laden with covered dishes that Francesca knew contained eggs, sausages, waffles, and breakfast rolls. Coffee, milk, freshly squeezed juice, fruit, and jellies and jams also graced the sideboard. Andrew was immersed in the Tribune; clearly he was already finished with the Times. As Francesca poured herself a cup of coffee from a silver pitcher, he laid the paper briefly aside.

  “Good morning, Papa.” She smiled although she remained as worried as ever, wishing fervently for some word from Connie. The sound of silence had become ominous. Francesca did not think she had slept more than an hour or two all night, alternately replaying the conversation with Julia in her mind and worrying about her sister. She remained angry with her mother for her unfairness and hypocrisy regarding Calder Hart and Rick Bragg.

  “Sleep well?” her father asked, with a warm smile.

  “Yes.” Francesca sat down. There was no point in telling him that she had tossed and turned all night, as she did not want to answer any pointed questions. She took a sip of her coffee and her glance slid to the front page of the New York Times. It read:

  MURDER IN HOME OF MISTRESS PAUL RANDALL DEAD

  She set her cup down and scanned the subtitle, which offered little other than the fact that no suspects had yet been identified, alth
ough the mistress had disappeared. But then, the Times was the least sensational and the most objective of the city newspapers.

  “Did you know Mr. Randall, Papa?” she asked.

  “I met him some years ago, playing golf, I believe, in Sagaponack. A rather quiet fellow, if I recall correctly, a typical middle-class gentleman.” He sipped his tea. “Apparently Paul Randall was killed Friday night. Shot in the back of the head while at the home of his mistress.” Andrew shook his head. “It is hard to believe that he had a mistress, having met the fellow, although I did hear that he was quite a wild man when he was young.”

  Francesca assumed he had been sowing his wild oats, to use her mother’s expression, when he had fathered Calder Hart, and she took another sip of her coffee. Her father thrust a different paper toward her. “Did you see this?” he asked. It was the Sun.

  She saw the leading headline and choked.

  POLICE COMMISSIONER INVOLVED IN RANDALL KILLING

  “Oh my God!” Francesca cried, setting the cup down and reaching for the Sun. “What is this?” And her eyes widened as Arthur Kurland’s name jumped out at her from the byline.

  “This reporter certainly did his homework,” Andrew said. “Apparently Randall is the father of Bragg’s half brother, Calder Hart. You met him, I believe, at the Stanford White affair.”

  His tone was a bit odd and Francesca tore her gaze from the stunning headline as she was instantly pricked with guilt. She prayed that this terrible headline was not her fault. But how would she have known that Kurland would connect Hart and Bragg? She had only told him that Randall was Hart’s father.

  She was sick now, as well as miserable.

  And she took one look at her father’s calm expression and knew that he and Julia had had a talk last night before bed.

  “Yes, I did,” she managed. She scanned the subtitle and grew increasingly appalled:

  BRAGG’S RECUSAL COULD BE IMMINENT

  “That is quite the story,” Andrew remarked as Francesca began to read. “The reporter is demanding Bragg recuse himself from the investigation, because of his relationship with Calder Hart.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Francesca whispered. “Kurland claims that Hart and Randall dined together on Tuesday night at Hart’s club and that they had a huge argument. He claims there were witnesses, and that Hart was so angry he walked out on his own father.” Francesca looked up. She could feel how wide her own eyes were. “He is suggesting, without saying it directly, that Hart might have murdered his own father!” she cried. “And he says directly that Bragg has yet to identify any suspects and Hart has yet to be brought to headquarters for questioning. It is an accusation—of negligence … and more!”

  Andrew nodded grimly. “Hart’s reputation won’t help him much, if this begins to snowball. Perhaps Rick had better consider recusing himself from this one, before the gossip turns to recriminations.”

  Would Bragg once again be skewered by the press as he worked diligently on an investigation? For Francesca knew better than anyone else did how hard he worked and how determined he was—she knew how committed he was to the attainment of justice. She was frightened, and not for herself.

  “I don’t think Hart’s a killer, Papa, and, in fact, I am not sure he even hated his father, as much as he would like the world to think otherwise.”

  Andrew regarded her. “And how would you know so much about Calder Hart—when you only met him Friday?” he asked.

  She hesitated. Finally, at something of a loss, she said, “Bragg is my friend. Hart is his brother. Need I truly say more?”

  “Undoubtedly you could,” Andrew said calmly. “Francesca, please do not get yourself too involved in Bragg’s life.”

  She laid the paper down. “Why?”

  “I cannot tell you why. I’m sorry.”

  Francesca stared, trying to see into his eyes. His words were an echo of her own words to her mother last night. Was Andrew keeping a confidence of Bragg’s, the way she was with Connie? It certainly seemed so. “And if I become ‘too involved’ in Hart’s life?”

  “I should not like that, either.” Andrew slapped his napkin down. “Your mother finds him suitable for you; I do not. He is a notorious womanizer, and worse than that, he shows very little respect for anyone or anything. I find it hard to like a man who seems intent on shocking the world with his every utterance and action. I do not like him, I do not trust him, and I should not like for you to set your cap on him as your mother has for you.”

  “I am not setting my cap on anyone,” Francesca said tersely, her heart sinking at her father’s words. Clearly Julia had made up her mind, and the frightening part was, she usually got her way. “I tried to tell Julia that last night. Well, thank God you are not on her side.”

  “Not in this, at least. And I have put my foot down in no uncertain terms.” He hesitated. “It is a shame, really, about Bragg.”

  She tensed. “Why?”

  “Because he is such an honorable man and, if things were different, I am quite certain the two of you would suit one another very well indeed.” He stood. “But things are not different.” He held her gaze. “And they will never be different, Francesca.”

  It felt like a death knell. “I wish I knew why,” she tried, knowing it would be futile.

  He came around and kissed her forehead. “I am sure he will tell you himself, if the need arises—but hopefully, it will not.”

  Francesca could only watch him leave the breakfast room, and when he was gone, she cradled her forehead on her hands, briefly despairing. Bragg had a secret, clearly, and she was afraid of what it might be.

  Before departing to call upon Mrs. Randall, Francesca tried telephoning Connie again. This time, there was no answer, and she was thoroughly alarmed. Why hadn’t a servant picked up the telephone?

  True, they only had one telephone, and like the Cahills’, that telephone was in the study. It was possible no one had heard it ringing. Possible, but not likely. The Montrose household was a busy one, and they had a dozen in staff, at the least.

  Francesca wrote Connie a note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to a stable boy to deliver, with precise instructions—it was to be handed directly to Lady Montrose and not her husband. If Lady Montrose was not available, it was to be handed to Mrs. Partridge, the girls’ nanny, and she was to deliver it personally herself.

  Francesca reminded herself that, even though it felt like an eternity had passed since she had last seen her sister, it had only been yesterday in the late afternoon. In all likelihood, all was well, and she was imagining all kinds of terrible scenarios.

  And what could be happening? For all Francesca knew, Connie had taken to her rooms to nurse her broken heart. Still, she had confronted Montrose, and every instinct Francesca had told her that was only the tip of this particular iceberg.

  Joel was waiting for her outside of the Cahill mansion’s front gates. Briefly Francesca’s spirits lifted; she was happy to see him. The Randall residence was on 57th Street, between Lexington and Fourth Avenues. Francesca hailed a hansom, not wanting to alert anyone in her family where she was off to. As she and Joel got out, she instantly saw Bragg’s handsome motorcar double-parked alongside a waiting coach, and she hesitated.

  “Now what do we do?” Joel asked by her side. “Copper won’t like this.” He shook his dark head.

  Her heart seemed to do a series of somersaults. “Let me think,” she said tersely. There was no denying that her first reaction to the sight of his roadster and the knowledge that he was at the Randalls’ was a nervous excitement and a real elation—it seemed as if their paths were meant to coincide. But following her initial response was a different kind of anxiety. Francesca reminded herself that she had every right to pay Mrs. Randall her respects. And she was now a bona fide part of the police investigation, if she played along with Bragg and pretended that she believed he had enlisted her to find Miss de Labouche. Surely her clever mind could concoct a plausible and convincing explanation
as to why the search for Georgette de Labouche had led her there.

  She sucked up any dwindling courage and knocked on the door of the red brick Victorian townhouse. A maid answered it immediately.

  Francesca gave her a calling card and waited in the small, shadowed foyer while Joel glanced curiously around and the maid presented it to the widow. She could see that her father was right—Paul Randall had led a very genteel but usual life, neither poor nor wealthy, but somewhere in between. His home was pleasant but small; it was one-half of the brick house she had entered. A narrow staircase led to the bedrooms upstairs—there were probably three. She could glance into the dining room, where a table and chairs seated six. He undoubtedly had two or three servants; the maid would also be a laundress and perhaps even a cook. His coachman would also serve as valet. The wood floors beneath her feet needed a new stain and a bit of repair, but they were acceptable. Francesca could smell a Sunday dinner cooking. Roasted guinea hens, unless she missed her guess.

  At the end of the hall was the parlor, and the door was now closed. The maid reappeared from within it. “You may come with me, miss,” she said, blinking at Joel.

  Francesca moved down the hall, giving Joel a look, that meant children were to be seen and not heard—especially when on an investigation. She was ushered into an overdone parlor, crammed with too many chairs and tables but just one somewhat frayed red sofa. Popular art vied for one’s attention with framed photographs and many collectibles. Mrs. Randall sat on the sofa, clutching a handkerchief, her eyes swollen and red. She was a plump woman who had probably been quite pretty in her youth. A rather plain blond girl, about Francesca’s age, stood behind her mother, her thin hand on her shoulder. She, too, appeared heartbroken, and her nose was red and swollen, as were her eyes. Bragg had been sitting in an armchair, but he stood as Francesca was shown into the room. He wore his usual dark and finely cut suit, but his overcoat was draped upon the back of the chair.

  She smiled tentatively at him.

  He said, “Good morning, Miss Cahill. I was wondering how long it would take you to call upon Mrs. Randall.” His amber eyes were filled with warmth and good humor. He was neither disturbed to see her present, nor angry about the day’s newspapers. Francesca was pleased to see him well rested and in good spirits. Their gazes met.