by Brenda Joyce
Connie understood. “Fran, if that man doesn’t come running to see you after what has happened, I will be amazed.” She sat down on the ottoman Rourke had vacated. “You could have been badly hurt—what if you had been killed?”
“But I wasn’t, was I? You do know what this means, don’t you?” Francesca gazed at her sister. “I am very close to solving this case, Con. And Daisy’s murderer knows it.”
“Fran! I hope you are wrong, because if you are not, that means that the murderer wishes to stop you!”
Francesca sobered. Her sister was right and she had to proceed with caution. From that point forward, she would be armed, wary and very defensive. “The sooner I close this case, the better.” She thought about Hart and her heart tightened. “Hart can be so stubborn! Connie, he doesn’t see himself the way that I do. He has always claimed he is not good enough for me and that I deserve someone far nobler. Now Daisy’s murder has become some kind of excuse for him to break off the engagement. I am afraid that even when this is over, he will not come back to me.”
Connie was thoughtful and sad. “Then he doesn’t love you enough, Fran. Either that, or he loves you too much.”
Francesca started.
“You know I supported this match. But I must tell you, to be with someone who has such a reputation and such a past seems a bit daunting. And he is so difficult! I don’t know how you manage sometimes. I found him very intimidating when I spoke to him yesterday.”
“He can be difficult,” Francesca admitted. “But when he becomes cold and even cruel, that is his way of lashing out, because he is really scared.”
Connie’s pale brows lifted. “I cannot imagine Hart frightened of anything.”
“Beneath the arrogance, behind the wealth, and power, he can be very vulnerable,” Francesca said.
Connie gave her a look, one that said she clearly did not believe that. The salon doors were open and they both heard the knocker on the front door of the house. Connie grimaced. “I do hope you won’t be too angry with me.”
“Why would I be angry with you?” Francesca asked warily.
Connie hesitated, and their mother’s voice could be heard in the hall outside. “Where is Francesca?” Julia was demanding, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she approached.
Francesca groaned. “Why did you call her? She worries excessively.”
“Because you were hurt and she is our mother!” Connie said, standing as Julia rushed into the room.
Julia took one look at both her daughters and hurried to Francesca’s side. “What happened?” she cried, clasping Francesca’s hand.
“I am fine, Mama. It was just a little tap on the head.”
Julia’s blue eyes were wide with worry. “Have you seen a doctor? Connie, is she telling me the truth?”
Connie stood beside their mother. “It was more than a light tap on the head, Mama. But Rourke was here and she seems to be fine, nevertheless.”
Julia sat down, still holding Francesca’s hand tightly. “You know how afraid I am for you when you are on these investigations. Why does every case have to be come violent?”
“Mama, I am fine,” Francesca stressed. “You do not need to worry.”
“How can I not worry? You are my precious daughter, my youngest child. I worry day and night! It is my duty to keep you safe—it is my duty to worry about you! When will you come home, Francesca? Your father and I are brokenhearted. We both miss you so much.” Tears had gathered in Julia’s blue eyes.
“I can’t move back,” Francesca said. “I am so sorry, but nothing has changed. I love Calder and I intend to marry him. If Papa cannot support my decision, I have no other choice. Mama, it hurt me terribly to move out.”
Briefly Julia closed her eyes. “Do you now how much he adores you? Do you know that you are his pride and joy? Do you know how proud of you he is, how he boasts about you at every party?”
“I love him, too,” Francesca said quietly. “And I already feel guilty, so you do not need to make me feel more so.”
Julia smoothed her hair. “That is not what I am trying to do. But it hurts me to see Andrew in such a state, just as it hurts me to have somehow lost you.”
“Mama, you haven’t lost me! I have merely moved out. And while I may marry against your wishes, that doesn’t mean we are not family.” Francesca’s secret fear leapt out at her now. “Please, do not let Papa disown me the way he did Evan.”
“Darling, he would never do such a thing!” Julia cried.
Francesca somehow nodded. “I love you both so much,” she said shakily.
“Then come home,” Julia whispered, her tone pleading. “Please.”
It was so tempting, especially now, with her head throbbing and her heart hurting over the breakup with Hart. “I can’t.”
Julia was grim. “I really don’t understand why you are doing this. I saw the announcement in the paper. We both did. Your engagement is off. So why not come home?”
“It is temporary,” Francesca whispered. “I am going to get him back.”
Julia regarded her daughter and a long moment passed. Julia said very quietly, “If you are so deter mined, if you trust Hart so much, if you love him this much, then I will support your marriage, Francesca.”
Francesca sat straight up. “Mama! Thank you!” She flung her arms around her mother, holding her hard.
Julia’s gaze was moist. “I have always adored that man, anyway.”
Francesca smiled brightly, relieved. “I know. And he is innocent.”
“I never thought him guilty!” Julia exclaimed. “That wasn’t the point. The point is that this scandal will follow him forever. And if you are with him, it will hurt you, too. Are you really prepared to be ostracized from polite society?”
Francesca could not tell her that Hart’s breaking off the engagement hurt far more than any nasty gossip. “We will still have your invitations, Mama,” Francesca said. “I do care what people say behind our backs, but I care even more for Calder. I know we may never be invited out again. If that is the case, we will manage.”
Julia regarded her sadly. “You are very brave. I just want you to be certain that this is the life you want.”
“I am certain.”
“Then I will do everything I can to help.”
“Will you help me persuade Papa?”
“Yes, I will make certain your father changes his mind. And if I have to spend my entire life campaigning among society to see you included again, then that is what I will do.” Francesca saw that her mother had a new cause. She was one of society’s reigning matrons, and in the past, no one had ever been able stand in Julia Van Wyck Cahill’s way.
“Thank you,” Francesca whispered. She had never loved her mother more.
“SIR, COMMISSIONER BRAGG is here to see you.”
Hart did not look up. He sat on the sofa that was in front of the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames, a letter in his hand. He hadn’t intended to go through his mail tonight. He had only done so to try to get his mind off the dismal grayness that threatened to overtake his life. The letter had just arrived—and it was from the dead.
Dear Calder,
You have made yourself very clear, and I will never make the mistake of approaching you personally again. You do not want this child—our child—just as you no longer want me. Your life is with Francesca now. Everything is always about Francesca and you could not careless about me. I never expected you to give her up or change your plans for a future with her. But I did expect you to be more generous toward me, in light of the fact that I now bear your bastard. I wonder what Francesca would think—I wonder what she would do—if she knew I was carrying your child?
Of course, she will never find out, will she? My lips are sealed. Because I expect you to provide very generously for me in return for my silence. I will even relocate to a new city, as long as the house you provide for me and my child is in my name. I will also need a vastly increased allowance. And finally, I should
prefer a gift of shares in your insurance and railroad companies as well as Treasury bonds.
I would also like the Titian painting you once showed me.
As soon as my needs have been met, I will gladly remove myself to my new home in the city of your choice and you will never have to lay eyes on me again—or on your son or daughter. And of course, Francesca will never have to suffer the humiliation of chancing upon me and our bastard on a public street.
Daisy
THE LETTER WAS DATED May 30. Daisy had written him after he had stormed out of her house, furious by the news that she was pregnant.
There was so much anguish that he simply could not stand it. Faced with Daisy’s death he could not careless that she had dared to blackmail him, much less demand one of his favorite oil paintings.
“Sir? Commissioner Bragg is here and he wishes to see you. Should I tell him you are unavailable?” Alfred asked, his tone edged with worry.
Hart closed his eyes, fighting for composure, but the grief that had been welling up in him, the grief he had so resolutely shoved aside, felt like hot lava in a volcano, about to erupt.
Hart won the battle. As he stood, he wondered how many more battles he could actually win with himself. Placing the letter in the interior breast pocket of his jacket, he faced his butler. “Send him in,” he said. Maybe Bragg had good news—he could certainly use a single lucky break.
Bragg appeared on the library’s threshold a moment later. Hart took one look at his tight expression and ravaged eyes and knew there was no good news. Trying not to succumb to dread, he nodded in greeting. “Scotch?”
“Thank you,” his half brother said.
Hart walked across the room to the gilded bar cart, where he poured two doubles. Then he handed his brother a glass with what he hoped was at least the shadow of a smile. The police would have a field day with that letter, he thought grimly. It was as if fate were determined to punish him for the sins of his entire life with a crime he hadn’t committed.
Bragg drank. “Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.
Hart managed a smile this time. “I have never been better.” The smile died. “I was actually hoping you had brought me some good news.”
“I have,” Bragg said. “The knife we found in your coach is not the murder weapon.”
Satisfaction slowly began. “You would think that whoever was framing me would have the good sense to do so with the murder weapon.”
“Yes, you would.” Bragg finished the drink. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself,” Hart said. He watched as his brother replenished his drink and it occurred to him that the usual animosity they shared seemed strangely absent in that moment.
“The knife is too small to have been the murder weapon,” Bragg said. “Not only that, Heinreich feels certain the blood isn’t even human.”
“It’s animal blood?”
“He thinks so. I can’t see the difference on the slides, but apparently he can.”
“What are you thinking?” Hart asked, settling down in a chair.
Bragg also sat. “You were deliberately framed, Calder. That much is clear. Perhaps the murderer got rid of the weapon and only decided to frame you well after the murder, when he or she learned you had been present at Daisy’s that night.”
“That is a theory I could agree with,” Hart said thoughtfully. “But that means that framing me was incidental to the murder.”
“Yes, it does. There is another possibility.”
“Which is?”
“Maybe the murderer didn’t frame you, and someone else did.”
Hart absorbed that. “I like your first theory better. But I have plenty of enemies and any one of them could have taken that opportunity once the news of the murder broke the following morning.”
“I also prefer my initial theory,” Bragg said. “In any case, you have been moved down the list of suspects.”
Hart drank and then eyed him. “Is it not a very short list?”
“It is,” Bragg admitted. “I cannot rule out Rose. And while I do not agree with Francesca, I do admire her instincts, and she is convinced that Judge Gillespie lied about knowing that Honora was Daisy—although we have no proof.”
Hart grimaced. “You do not seem to be making any headway, as far as I can see.”
“It has only been a few days.” Bragg stood and he hesitated.
Hart slowly rose, aware that Bragg had something else to say. “What is it?”
“It’s not about the case,” Bragg said, and he flushed.
Instantly, Hart knew. Bragg had come to ask him for money. The devil in him told him to wait and enjoy this single moment when his brother was reduced to asking him for help. But some other more sensible and reasonable part of him stepped forward. “I already told you that I would give you the funds you need. I am happy to do so.”
Bragg’s jaw was set. “I need fifteen thousand dollars.”
Hart didn’t blink. He walked across the room and paused before a large landscape painting. “Help me with this,” he said.
Bragg joined him. “I will repay every penny.”
“So you will not arrest O’Donnell?”
“Leigh Anne is in terror. She is nervous to the point of exhaustion. I have decided to get this thug out of our lives once and for all.”
“It will be quicker,” Hart agreed, surprised that his brother would succumb to buying off a thug, but he understood. If such a blot were on his and Francesca’s life, he, too, would remove it in the timeliest manner possible. “You do not have to repay me,” Hart said as the two men removed the large painting from the wall. “I don’t need the money and I don’t want it back.”
Hart opened the safe that was now revealed and removed several stacks of bills. “I am repaying you,” Bragg said.
Hart shrugged and they replaced the painting. “I have an extra case that you can use to carry the funds.”
“Thank you,” Bragg said tersely.
Hart saw that he was perspiring, his jaw remaining tight. “Why is this so hard for you? I seem to recall a childhood in which you were always watching out for me. Why can’t I repay you this one time?”
Bragg started. “It is a matter of pride,” he said after a pause. “And I am your older brother. It was always my place to take care of you.”
“Actually, Lily was supposed to do that,” Hart said, an ancient ache piercing through him.
“She worked long hours and then she was ill,” Bragg flashed. “She did the best that she could.”
The money in hand, Hart moved to the desk. His brain told him that Rick was right, but he still couldn’t accept it or understand it.
“What are you two doing?” Rourke asked.
He was in the doorway. Now he strode in, his gaze going back and forth between the two brothers and to the money on the desk. Hart did not flinch, laying the six stacks on the desk. “You need to rediscover the socially acceptable behavior of knocking,” Hart said.
Rourke was mildly taken aback. “The door was ajar. That’s a lot of cash.”
Hart ignored the comment, retrieving an attaché case and laying it flat on the desk. He opened it and placed the money inside.
“This is not your concern and I expect your discretion,” Bragg said.
Rourke faced his brother, appearing uncertain. “This feels like foul play.”
“This is not your concern,” Hart repeated Rick’s words firmly, buckling the case closed.
“Fine!” Rourke threw up his hands in annoyance. “I need to speak with you, Calder.”
“Can it wait?” Hart asked mildly, and then he did a double take. Rourke’s expression was grim. He recognized that the little brother was gone, replaced by the doctor. His heart leapt in alarm. “Is this about Francesca?”
Rourke nodded. “She is resting now, but you both should know that she was attacked this afternoon.”
CONNIE HAD INSISTED THAT they play cards. Francesca had never liked card games and thus far, her sis
ter had won every hand while she brooded about the nature of her attack and the identity of her attacker, the money from Albany, and Gillespie’s lie that he did not know about Daisy. She had removed her shoes and stockings and she remained seated on the sofa, her legs folded up beneath her skirts. Her head barely throbbed now. One conclusion was inescapable. The money was tied to Daisy’s murder. Otherwise, why would anyone try to stop her from uncovering the source of the funds? And had the assault been a warning—or an attack with lethal intent?
Connie sighed as someone pounded on the front door. “Gin. That must be Hart.” She laid her hand down on the ottoman that was between them.
Francesca thought so, too. Then she heard voices in the hall. Bragg was asking for her and she was disappointed. Still, they had to discuss the case, and the sooner the better.
Connie gave her a look. “It’s the police commissioner,” she said softly. She stood and went to the door way. Bragg and Hart appeared there. She greeted them and slipped out.
Hart’s gaze instantly connected with Francesca. He was clearly distressed. Before he could say a word, she smiled at him. “I am fine.”
He strode past Bragg. “You are not fine!” he exclaimed. “Rourke told me you have been hit on the head. He thinks it possible that you have a concussion! What happened?” He sat in the chair her sister had vacated, taking her hand, his gaze on her face.
She felt certain he did not know that he had reached for her hand. “I was leaving the bank where Daisy had her account,” she said. “Someone hit me on the back of the head with a sterling cup. I was hailing Raoul. Apparently, he saw the entire incident and he carried me to the coach.”
“I may dismiss him for this,” Hart said with tightly controlled fury. “He is supposed to protect you!”
“How could he stop the assault?” Francesca cried. “He was waiting in the street and I was on the sidewalk. This isn’t his fault.”
“Did you see the assailant?” Bragg asked quietly.
She met his gaze. “No. I saw his or her gloved hand—and we found a man’s dented shaving cup on the street. Raoul glimpsed the attacker from a distance and thinks it might have been a woman, or a slender, short man. Rick, Gillespie is on the short side and he is of medium build. The assailant wore an overcoat and fedora.”