Was he an accomplice?
Instantly both Mary and Henrietta shot to the top of her list of suspects. Still, Mary had adored her father. And Henrietta had known about her husband’s mistress for years.
Francesca felt Joel’s hand on her arm. She looked down at him.
“What is it?” he repeated insistently. “If I’m to be your assistant, you have got to tell me.”
She bent close to his ear. “Randall’s the one who came into the house when I was hiding in the kitchen.”
“Hell no!” Joel cried. Then, eyes narrowed, “Now ain’t that odd.”
“Very. Joel, he lied. If I am right, Bill Randall lied, and he was in the city on the night of the murder.” She thought about that. Was there any way a murderer would return to the scene like that? Francesca did not think so. How unusual this case had become.
“Joel, I am sending you home. I shall hire a hansom while my driver takes you back.” Her first instinct was to run to Bragg and tell him all that had transpired in the past few hours. But she hesitated. She had a few questions to ask Hart. It was just past six in the evening. She might be able to catch Hart at home now, but later he would undoubtedly be out. She also did not think she should call on him at a late and unusual hour.
But she could call on Bragg at any time.
“I don’t need to be home yet,” Joel protested.
“It’s Sunday. You should go home and help your mother.” She paused. “I have two classes tomorrow morning,” she said reflectively. “Can you meet me at my house around noon? We shall spend the afternoon investigating. We must find a way to speak with the Randalls again, and we must find Georgette de Labouche,” she added vehemently. “Even I wish to speak with her again.”
“I can spend the mornin’ while you’re in school askin’ around. She had to have friends. Someone has to know where she is,” Joel said.
Francesca beamed at him and patted his back. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Or perhaps you can locate her brother.”
After he had climbed into the carriage, she closed the coach door and told Jennings to meet her at Hart’s after dropping Joel at his Avenue A flat. The coach rolled off; Francesca stepped into the street to look for a cab. And it was just her luck, a hansom was approaching and it was empty. Her hand shot up and she flagged it down.
Francesca was suddenly nervous as she was greeted at Hart’s front door by the white-haired butler whom she recognized from the other day. She managed a tight smile. “Is Mr. Hart at home?”
“Mr. Hart is not receiving callers.”
She flushed but did not move. Perhaps he was entertaining a lady “friend.” She hesitated, then said quickly, “It is urgent. Terribly so. Are you certain that he will not see me?” She held her muff with one hand, and with her other one she opened her purse to retrieve a calling card.
“Miss Cahill,” the Englishman said, clearly recognizing her as well, “Mr. Hart is indisposed.”
She did not like the sound of that, and somehow her gaze met that of the butler. “I hope he is not unwell,” she breathed.
The man hesitated, obviously conflicted about breaching his sense of professional propriety. “He is indisposed, madam,” he repeated firmly, clearly wishing to close the door but not about to do so unless she had turned to leave first.
“He is ill?” Francesca boldly stepped past the butler, into the huge hall with its nude sculptures and its shockingly irreligious painting by the artist Caravaggio.
“Madam, he has been most precise; he will not receive anyone.”
“Like hell I won’t.”
Francesca muffled a gasp and saw Hart at the far end of the hall, standing there in trousers and a loosely belted smoking jacket. His grin was lopsided and somehow dangerous; Francesca tensed instantly.
“Do come in, Miss Cahill. Oh, Alfred. Did I mention that the Cahill sisters are always an exception to my rules?”
Alfred bowed. “You did not, sir.”
“Next time, then, you shall know to always admit either one of them.” Hart grinned at her again.
Francesca stared. He was unshaven and holding a thick cigar. Beneath the velvet and paisley jacket, his shirt was badly rumpled. His thick, dark hair was waving over his forehead. Even his trousers were terribly wrinkled, yet he was disturbingly attractive. But that was not the problem; her every instinct told her that something was wrong.
Her instincts also told her to proceed with the utmost caution indeed.
“Do come in, Miss Cahill.” He smiled and it was as if he had dishonorable intentions. He seemed to be laughing at her. “Thank you,” Francesca managed rigidly. She handed her coat, muff, gloves, and hat to Alfred, then began crossing the large room. Hart didn’t move. He leaned now against the brass railing of the wide, sweeping staircase at the hall’s other end, watching her as she approached. She felt flustered and did not like it, not at all.
Why did she feel as if she were entering the wolf’s den? And that he was regarding her as if she might become a tasty meal?
He grinned again. He had one dimple to Bragg’s two, but it was identical. “What a pleasant surprise.”
The moment she had reached his side she could smell the whiskey and she was dismayed. “Have you been drinking?”
“Of course.” He looped her arm in his. “I am celebrating, or have you forgotten?”
Francesca was practically enfolded against his side. He was a muscular man, a bit larger of frame than Bragg was, although the brothers were nearly the same in size and height. She tried to put an inch between them, but he held her so tightly, walking her back into the house, that she gave up. “You are inebriated,” she said unsteadily, and it flashed through her mind that the brothers had more in common than they would ever admit. The last time she had been around a foxed man, it had been Bragg—and look at what had happened. They had shared the most reckless and devastating kiss.
“I am drunk,” he said cheerfully. “And feeling no pain.” He smiled warmly at her.
Her heart fluttered in response. And in that moment as he smiled into her eyes, she understood. She understood why he could have any woman that he wished; his charm was magnetic, mesmerizing, and fatal to its recipient. She wondered if he even knew that he was turning the full force of his charisma upon her now. She did not think so. She had the feeling it was habit. “I do not think you should drink any more,” she whispered. “And would you please release my arm?”
“Why?” he asked, leading her into a large and spectacular library. Most studies were sanctuaries for their owners, but not this one. Books and artwork, both canvases and sculptures, filled the room. But so did a half a dozen seating arrangements. One massive desk was at its farthest corner, clearly where Hart worked.
The art consisted of landscapes, portraits, nudes, and depictions from mythology and religion. No style dominated; one landscape was impressionistic, another realistic.
“Because you are embracing me,” she said tartly.
He laughed and turned her so she was in his arms. “And that is a terrible crime?” he asked, gazing into her eyes.
She ducked free and was almost swamped by a tide of relief. “We are strangers!”
“Really? But you are in love with my brother. That hardly makes us strangers, my sweet Francesca.” His eyes were laughing now.
She swallowed. “Think what you like. I—”
“I always do.” He walked away from her, and there was more relief.
Francesca reached for the collar of her shirtwaist. She lifted it away from her throat, where her pulse hummed. She felt certain he enjoyed toying with her.
He turned from a beautiful bar, all marble and mirrors, now holding a glass. “Hot?” His eyes gleamed.
“Yes. No. Mr. Hart, I wish a word with you.”
He laughed and drank.
“Is that funny?”
“Life is funny, is it not?” Briefly the smile disappeared and he stared at the glass he held. “Funny, unpredictable … insane.”<
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She sensed his pain. She knew it ran deep. “You do not have to drink like a fish, Mr. Hart. Perhaps you should throw in the towel and weep?”
He stared at her. No charm emanated from him now. His gaze was frigidly cold. “Weep for what? Are you suggesting—dare you to suggest—I weep for Randall?”
She nodded, clasping her hands tightly.
“Like hell,” he said. “Like goddamn hell.” He lifted the glass and hurled it across the room with all of his might.
Francesca cried out as it exploded at the far end, against a stunning canvas, a floral arrangement done in oils.
“Shit. Get out of here,” he said, not looking at her. “Run away; cower and tremble; hide!” He turned back to the bar. He was the one who was trembling now.
Francesca fought for courage and found it. “I don’t think you should be alone right now, Mr. Hart.”
He was pouring another drink. He turned, leaning one narrow hip on the marble countertop. He had not recovered all of his composure, she thought, for he seemed to be a bit breathless.
“Oh, so now you wish to comfort me?” He was mocking.
“Yes, but not in the way your tone suggests.” Francesca remained unmoving. If she moved, she did fear she might flee.
“Why not? You are a rather unusual woman. Odd, eccentric even. I daresay you have no use for rules and social dictums.” He stared, his gaze intent, brilliant.
She inhaled. “Yes, I am rather eccentric, I agree. And many rules are to be bent or broken—but not all.”
He put the glass down and slowly moved toward her. Francesca became so stiff she could not move, even had she wanted to, and she was also breathless. He took her by her shoulders. “We are alike, you and I,” he breathed.
“No, we are not,” she tried.
He grinned. “Both odd, eccentric—and misunderstood. They talk about us behind our back.” He shrugged. “But we do not care. We live as we please.”
Her heart was racing with alarming speed. “Please release me,” she whispered, and her mind raced as well. There was some truth to what he said. Dear God, no one understood her—except for her father and except, she thought, for Bragg. But he was also very, very wrong. “I care what people say, what they think, and I think you do, too.”
He released her and laughed. “No, Francesca, in that you are so wrong. I do not give a damn what the world says about me. I did, once, a long time ago. But I have since outgrown my folly and seen the error of such thinking.”
“I don’t believe that,” she whispered, unable to look away.
He tilted up her chin. “How can you and your sister be so different? She is so proper, so legitimate, and you are a woman of passionate inclinations. How?”
“I am a reformer,” Francesca said, wondering if he was going to kiss her and terrified that he would. Her entire body was shaking, but she was not quite immune to his charm and his masculine appeal. How could she be? “Please, remove your hand from my face.”
“Why? Because you are saving yourself for your husband? Or my brother?” But he dropped his hand, and the glance he gave her was piercing.
She backed away. But even the distance of several feet and a good-sized chair did not feel like a safe distance or a good barrier. “I am not an adventuress.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “How easily I could disprove that.”
She wet her lips. “Please don’t.”
He met her gaze and a silence fell, hard, between them. “I am sorry,” he said, shocking her. “It is the liquor. I like you, Miss Cahill, and I apologize.”
“No, I understand, and it is not the liquor; it is your pain and grief speaking today, so eloquently.”
He gave her an angry look and walked back to the bar. She saw him lurch slightly as he did so, and she was stunned, realizing he was far more inebriated than she had thought. “Mr. Hart? May I ask you some questions?”
He sighed, taking his drink and flopping in a big red chair. “Only if you must.”
She gingerly took a chair facing him. A small table remained between them. It was foolish to hope that any object might keep him at bay, should he truly decide to act the cad and make improper advances.
He laughed. “I said I would not bite, and I won’t. I can control myself, my dear Francesca. If I choose to.”
She was rigid again. She clutched her palms tightly together. “I trust you,” she lied.
“Bullshit,” he said.
She flushed.
“Surely you have heard worse?”
“Would you speak that way in front of Connie?” Francesca asked tersely.
He eyed her, and it was lazy, sensual, considering. “Yes. I speak as I choose, always. If someone does not like it, they need not share my company again. It is actually quite simple.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t think there is a single simple aspect to you or anything that you do.”
He grinned, pleased. “And you are also astute. I begin to fully understand Bragg’s fatal attraction. So. How is your sister? You know, the two of you could be twins, you so resemble one another. Except that you are an inch or two taller, and you have more golden tones in your hair and your skin, and even in your mouth.” His gaze moved to her lips. It was considering and speculative now.
She sat up straighter.
“I am not being suggestive, although you have a lush and lovely mouth, Francesca. I am an art connoisseur. Art is about color and shape, at first glance. It is about form and arrangement—at second glance. More importantly, it is a story, about life. Ultimately, it is about the artist and, dare I say it, God.” He grinned. Francesca stared at him in shock. “Or the Devil,” he added, his smile widening.
He continued while she remained speechless. “If I cannot comprehend the vague nuances between tones of pink and gold, then I cannot comprehend form, arrangement, the larger story, life, or the pain or passion of the artist—now can I? And if that were the case, I should not be a collector of art.” He smiled at her, now sprawled so indolently in his chair that Francesca wondered if he would drop his drink. “Color is but the mundane and contemporary tip of the prehistoric iceberg,” he said.
“I see.” She realized she was whispering. This man was not at all what the world might think or claim—oh no. “The Randalls hate you,” she abruptly changed the topic.
He grinned, apparently not disturbed. “Not half as much as I hate them.”
She leaned slightly forward. “Did you kill your father, Mr. Hart?”
“Calder. No.” He did not look away.
And as she stared into his eyes, she thought that she believed him, but she was too unsettled by his presence and his behavior to be sure. For how could she analyze anything when her heart was racing and she was so discomfited by his every word and every action? “Were you blackmailing Randall … Calder?”
“Blackmailing him?” Hart erupted into laughter. “Is that a joke?”
“No. It is what Mary claims.”
He laughed again. “That man-hater.” He shook his head. “I first met my father face-to-face when I was sixteen years old. That year—” He stopped.
“What?”
He looked away, his entire face rigid. “That year, I was a fool. I had … expectations. They quickly changed.” He smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. “I have not had anything to do with that family ever since. They are certainly not my family. I despise them all. I would not bother to blackmail Randall. Why give myself such a headache?” he asked.
Francesca bit her lip. “Perhaps it would please you to frighten him.”
He shook his head. “You mean, to torture him? Actually, it would please me, but the flip side of that coin is that any involvement with them would torture me far more than it would torture them.” He stared at her.
She knew he meant every word. His plight moved her, yet she had to remain somewhat objective now. “But you had dinner with Randall at your club last Tuesday.”
He sat up. “Oh ho. So the little sle
uth is as clever as she appears. Are you blushing, Francesca? I seem to make you blush.”
“You are changing the topic.”
His grin flashed. “Yes, I did try. Randall approached me. He seemed desperate. I agreed to meet him for supper. I haven’t seen him socially in years, Francesca. And I do mean years.”
“What did he want?”
“Money. Isn’t that what we all want?” He smiled at her.
“No, Calder. Some of us want love, liberty, and happiness.”
“Money buys it all, except for love, which is an illusion.”
She stared and thought, Dear God, he truly believes it. “I shall debate you on that point some other time, Calder.”
He grinned. “And I shall look forward to the debate.”
Only he could make it sound so sexual, as if a debate were the prelude to far more intimate activities. She ignored the remark. “I understand he was deeply in debt.”
“Deeply.” Hart seemed pleased.
“And? Did you loan him the money?”
Hart stared at her, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?” He chuckled. “No, I did not. Not a single penny.”
Francesca was appalled. “You would not lend your own father a dime?”
“Paul Randall was not my father. He gave up that claim many years ago.” Hart was cool.
“But … how could you refuse Randall? You have so much.”
“Easily, my dear. I do have so much. I have enough money to buy this city and everyone in it two times over.” He stared, his eyes dark and hard. “And I have earned every cent that I possess—the hard way. It is my wealth—to do with as I choose.” He seemed angry.
She didn’t want him angry. “Would you care to join the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements? There is a place on the board,” she said. Actually, she was the society’s only member thus far.
He stared—and he laughed.
She smiled. “We could use a sponsor, Hart.”
“Thank you, Francesca. Thank you for that.”
She blinked. He wasn’t laughing now. Instead, he seemed very serious—and very intent. It was a moment before she could look away, and when she had, she was shaken.
Then he yawned. She hid a smile.
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