by Brenda Joyce
“You think the attacker was Judge Gillespie?” Hart asked sharply.
“Someone doesn’t want me investigating the deposits Daisy made in May. So I am sure they are tied into Daisy’s murder,” Francesca said eagerly.
Bragg and Hart exchanged a glance.
“I have saved the real news!” Looking back and forth between both men, she smiled. “The money was a bank check—from First Federal of Albany.”
Bragg’s brows arched upward. “That could mean Gillespie was giving his daughter some additional funds. Now we have proof that he did know all about Honora’s new life. You were right—he lied to you and to the police.”
“Oh, it gets even better! Homer has told me that Gillespie came to see Daisy at her house twice in May.” She grinned, waiting for both men to react. When neither spoke, she said, “Has Gillespie climbed to the top of your list of suspects?”
“Obviously,” Bragg said somberly. “Francesca, he may have lied about knowing Daisy merely to protect his reputation.”
“He may have killed to protect his reputation,” Francesca said to him, desperately wanting Hart off that list.
Hart understood. He stood, releasing her hand. “Francesca, I also have news. The knife the police found in my coach was not the murder weapon.”
Francesca was thrilled.
“But I happen to agree with Rick,” Hart said grimly. “Gillespie would not be the first father to benevolently send his daughter funds. It is a rather common gesture. I was hoping the deposits would lead us to someone Daisy was blackmailing—someone who had motive, someone who wanted Daisy dead. I cannot imagine Gillespie murdering his own child.”
Francesca wanted to take his hand, but he had paced away, his expression strained. She studied him for a moment before looking at Bragg. “Rick, Daisy has had no clients since February, when she became Calder’s mistress. It is unlikely an old client decided to suddenly murder her, and, anyway, we have ruled out the clients who were consistently involved with her. Very little has happened in her life since February. Then, in May, for the first time in eight years—or at least, that is how it appears—her father visits her twice. He gives her a large sum of money, twice. A few weeks later, she is dead.”
He understood. “Do you think she was blackmailing her own father?”
Francesca hesitated. “I can’t help it!” she exclaimed. “She hated home enough to run away and become a prostitute. That is beyond extreme! She wasn’t mildly unhappy—she had to have been miserable. And what mementos did she keep for eight years? Clippings of her father! I think she may have been obsessed with him. I think she may have hated him! What other conclusion is there?”
“We simply don’t know that she hated him, and certainly not enough to blackmail him,” Bragg said.
“We need to speak to Gillespie and trap him in his lies,” Francesca said.
“Daisy may have loved her father,” Hart said bluntly, facing them. “She may have missed him and her family and that is why she kept the clippings.”
“Then why run away in the first place?” Francesca asked. “Something is very wrong in that family. By the way, Lydia also admitted that Daisy left her a letter, telling her she was never returning home. Oddly, she never showed that letter to her parents or the police. I think she knows even more than she has told me.”
Hart resumed his seat beside her, taking her hand again. “You need to rest,” he said quietly. “These are good clues, but I mean it. You must rest, Francesca.”
“I am resting,” she said, feeling hopeful. He had come running to her side, just as she had wanted. “Calder, you were framed. That is very good news, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.”
She longed to move into his arms, overcome with her feelings for him. She glanced at Bragg. “Well, if that isn’t proof of his innocence, what is?”
Bragg eyed her and then turned away, pacing to the marble fireplace.
Francesca pressed further. “It is highly unlikely that he murdered Daisy and some extraneous person decided to frame him, as well!”
“It is highly unlikely,” he agreed, glancing once at his brother. “But stranger events have happened.”
“Rick,” Francesca said. “Do you want to meet me to morrow at the Gillespies’?”
“Why don’t you come to headquarters at noon? I’ll have Newman bring him in for questioning then.”
She nodded. “Meanwhile, tomorrow you need to send a telegram to First Federal in Albany. Direct them to reveal who ordered those two bank checks. We can lock that lead up.”
He walked to her. “I’ll have it done by the time the banks open,” he said. He leaned down, squeezing her hand. “Try to follow Rourke’s advice, Francesca. A concussion is no laughing matter. Get some rest and we’ll work on Gillespie tomorrow.”
She would always be pleased by his concern, she thought. “I have every intention of obeying the doctor’s orders,” she said with a smile. “And Rick? I’d like to see that report on the knife tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He glanced at Hart. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, his demeanor strained.
Hart shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Bragg hesitated. “I am very grateful,” he said. And then he left.
Francesca studied Hart, who turned his dark blue eyes back on her. “What was that about?”
He touched her cheek briefly. “That,” he said, “was about a private matter between Rick and myself.”
“You lent him the money!”
He sat back in his chair, just eyeing her. Finally he said, “Can the matter remain a private one, between me and my brother?”
She nodded, thrilled. “You did the right thing, Calder.”
His face changed. Abruptly, a haunted look appeared in his eyes. “Do not award me another prize for nobility,” he said, and suddenly he rubbed his face with his hands.
When he had first come into the room, he had been distressed because of her condition. But Francesca knew him very well now. She saw that he remained upset, but the matter was a different one entirely. “Has something happened that I should know about?” she asked very quietly, reaching for his hand.
He leapt to his feet and away from her. “Nothing has happened. I have to go. It is late.” He forced a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “You need to rest, and I am keeping you.”
She did not want him to leave and not like this. “I am supposed to rest but I am not allowed to fall asleep,” she said softly. “Can’t you keep me company for a while? Although, Connie and Neil are going to take shifts to make certain I don’t sleep at all tonight.”
His eyes widened. “Rourke is that worried?” Instantly he sat back down. “Of course I’ll stay. Damn it, Francesca,” he began.
She knew he was going to complain about the attack and the nature of her work. She touched his lips with her finger. “It was a tap. Rourke is being overly protective. I am fine.”
Agony shimmered in his eyes. “I cannot lose you, too. Maybe I have been wrong, to be so supportive of your independence and sleuthing.”
She was startled. “You are not going to lose me.” And she thought then about the child he had just lost.
But he was staring at his knees, rubbing his jaw. “I am sorry. I have to go.” And he stood, unexpectedly starting across the room, his strides long and hard.
Francesca leapt up, racing after him in her bare feet. “Calder, wait!”
He turned as she rushed into his arms. “You need to be resting!” he cried. “You were hurt today, damn it. Why can’t you ever listen to anyone?”
She flinched, but his face had cracked into a dozen lines. She could feel how distressed he was. “What is it? This isn’t about me.”
“Of course it is,” he said harshly, looking away and releasing her.
She clasped his cheek. “When are you going to grieve?”
His gaze shot to hers. “Don’t,” he warned.
Tears filled her eyes. “Don’t grieve for your child? I
’m sorry, Calder, but even with the trouble she caused, I wish Daisy were alive and I wish we had that little boy or girl to raise!”
Abruptly, his eyes swam with tears. He turned, reaching for the door.
She clasped his shoulder and felt him trembling. “Please don’t go.”
He shook his head, and when he spoke, his words were hoarse. “You don’t want to see me this way.”
“What way?” She tugged on him but he refused to budge. “Your child deserves your tears.”
He leaned his head against the door.
Francesca suddenly realized he was crying. She did not know what to do. She hesitated, but no rational thought came. There was only her own answering grief and all the compassion she felt for him. So she put her arms around him.
A long moment passed, shudders racking his body. And then the silent sobs were gone. “I am fine.”
She decided not to refute him. “Just come here,” she whispered to his back.
He turned and Francesca took his face in her hands. “It’s all right, Calder, to mourn the death of your child.”
He fought the grief and she saw it. “I lied. I would have taken care of that child. I would have never let him or her grow up abandoned, unloved and alone.”
“I know.”
“Would you have really helped me? You wouldn’t have left me?”
“Of course I would have helped you,” she said, smiling just a little. “I don’t care who the mother was, I would love any child of yours,” she said truthfully.
“What have I done to deserve you?” He tilted up her chin. “Francesca, last Thursday I did shout at Daisy. I was furious. I really don’t remember what I said, but when she first told me the truth, I did not want the child. And now I am paying for it.”
“You are not paying for anything.” She hesitated, then decided to be honest. “I told you once that when I give my heart away it is forever.”
He started, his eyes widening. “You said that when you were in love with Rick!”
“But I wasn’t in love with him. I think I had confused my admiration and my respect for love. And I will always care about him. But you are the one I have given my heart to. And with my heart comes faith and trust. Forever.”
He stared. Then he reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I have just read this,” he said seriously.
Francesca had a bad feeling then. “What is it?”
“A letter from Daisy. I only received it today. She wrote it Thursday after our argument. It must have arrived at the house when I was away. It is fortunate Rick has proved I have been framed, but this letter is damning.”
Francesca trembled. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.
“Please.” He handed it to her.
Francesca quickly read the letter, an image of Daisy sitting at the small desk in the study where she had been murdered filling her mind. Every word Daisy had written added to Hart’s motive for murder. She finished reading and slowly met his gaze. “The police do not need to see this.”
“You are going to withhold evidence?”
Francesca realized that was exactly what she was doing. “We both know you are innocent. And you are no longer at the top of the suspect list. I’ll hold on to this.” While she knew she should destroy the letter, she could not go that far.
Hart was grim. “You don’t need to protect me this way, by compromising your honesty and morals yet again.”
“I am not compromising anything,” she retorted. “I am fighting for the man I love!”
A heartbeat passed, and Hart pulled her close. In spite of the slight throbbing in her head, her body responded as he plied her mouth very thoroughly with his. Then he pulled away, keeping one large hand be hind her nape. The matter of the letter must have been settled, because he said, “I need you to understand why I have left you, Francesca.” He was dead serious now.
She tensed. “I do understand.”
“Do you?” His smile seemed fragile and it was brief. “You have become everything to me. No one and nothing is more important. Can you understand that?”
A thrill began coursing through her. “Really?”
“Why else would I have asked you to marry me?” he asked.
“You told me then that you were tired of your philandering ways and that we suited nicely. You were very casual about it.”
His eyes warmed. “You are so naive! I wasn’t about to reveal my hand, Francesca.” He became intent. “But I must reveal it now.”
She nodded, not daring to swallow or breathe.
“I can’t hurt you. I won’t. And if we went on, you would be hurt by your association with me. Can’t you see that?”
She had thought his confession would lead to reconciliation, not a deeper and more entrenched split. “What are you saying?”
“I could not live with myself if we remained together. I am ruined, Francesca. It will be a long, long time before society forgets that I was a suspect in the murder of my ex-mistress and child. I can survive—I have survived all the whispers behind my back thus far. I am, frankly, used to it. Truthfully, I have been indifferent to what others thought since I was a small child. But you are thin-skinned, and do not tell me otherwise! I know you would pretend to manage, that you would pretend indifference, and I also know you would cry in your bed every night, behind my back. I am not going to be the cause of such misery and distress.”
“This isn’t fair,” she somehow said, backing away from him. “You love me and I love you! It is my choice to make, not yours!”
“I will always be here to protect you, Francesca—always. And you will always be the most important thing in my life. I am never going to let anyone harm you. I will always help you if you ask for my help. But I will not be the cause of your ruin and disgrace and, worse, real heartbreak.”
She could not speak. If she could, she would tell him that he was the entire cause of her broken heart, and the pain was far greater than any hurt society might ever inflict.
“Darling, tell me you understand. I could not look at myself in the mirror if I did not protect you now. If I went merrily along with our engagement, I would be the selfish cad society accuses me of being.”
Francesca stared at him, her vision blurring. “I do understand,” she managed to say. “You really think that what you are doing is best for me.”
He nodded, and he pulled her stiff body close. “I know that what I am doing is right. I have respected all of your choices. Can you not respect mine?” He had respected her from the first moment they had met. What he was now asking was very reasonable, in fact. But how could she agree? “I want you. Apparently I am the selfish one in this relationship.”
He smiled. “But you have me. You always will.”
His words, uttered in prison, echoed. It will never be over. And Francesca suddenly realized that their engagement might be off, but their relationship hadn’t ended, not at all. Hart had made his feelings for her terribly clear. Their relationship hadn’t ended—it would never end. It had changed. In fact, if anything, their love suddenly seemed stronger than ever, although the circumstances were far more complex. “I don’t want to agree to your choice,” she finally said, stunned by her own revelations.
His smile faded. “I am asking you to respect my decision, not to agree with it. I have to do this, Francesca.”
“I do respect your decision, Calder. But where does that leave us, precisely?”
“It leaves us in a very strange place,” he admitted softly. “I will not return to our engagement, but I am selfish enough to need you in my life.” He spoke slowly now. “I suppose that leaves us as friends, as genuine friends.” There was a question in his eyes.
Francesca knew she was never going to stop loving Hart. And while he could not say the words, it had never been more evident that he felt the same way. He was not going to revive their engagement but he wasn’t really walking away from her, either. Still, could they go back to be
ing friends, when they had been lovers in almost every way?
If the alternative was losing him, she knew that her answer was yes.
Besides, she intended to persuade him to change his mind, even if it took years. “So we will be loyal friends—and nothing more,” she said softly. “Will there be other women now?” And she felt a terrible pang of jealousy.
“I don’t want anyone else!” he exclaimed.
“So you will become a monk?” If marriage was not a possibility, why couldn’t they become lovers? She had never been like the other young ladies in town. She hardly needed a traditional relationship.
His jaw tightened. “It appears that way. I know what you are thinking, Francesca, but having a love affair with a supposed murderer would be far more scandalous than marrying one.” He flushed. “Remember, I wish to protect your reputation, not ruin it even further.”
“But you just kissed me,” she pointed out.
His color deepened. “As you know by now, I am hardly perfect. But I intend to control my passion for you, if that is what I must do.”
“You are so stubborn,” she whispered. But she cupped his cheek, and unthinkingly, he turned his lips to the inside of her hand.
“I have never cared about you more than I do now.”
Her heart lurched with such intensity it was frightening. She would never stop loving or wanting this man. The territory that lay ahead now was scarily unknown, but when had Hart ever been predictable? When had the map of their future ever been clearly charted? “You do realize that, right now, I desperately want to be in your arms,” she said.
“Yes, I do realize that, but I am trying to keep myself in check.”
Something hot, white and electric leapt between them— Francesca actually thought she saw the sparks. This would be a huge challenge, she thought.
At that moment, to her relief, Joel burst into the room. “Miz Cahill!”
Francesca faced Joel, and saw that he was hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. “Joel! What is it?” She hurried toward him.