by Brenda Joyce
"I can't even begin to imagine why you are staring at me with such an expression," he murmured, amused. "I feel certain you have gotten yourself into some trouble. Do you have something you wish to tell me?"
She almost jumped off her seat. "No!" she cried.
His eyes widened. "Well, that certainly lays my suspicion to rest," he said drolly. Now his gaze became thoughtful. "Tell me about your day."
"My day?" she breathed, as if she did not understand the meaning of his words.
He was as relaxed as she was tense; he leaned back against the plush carriage seat, perplexed and amused all at once. "I know a look of sheer guilt when I see one," he said. "There is guilt written all over your face."
"You are imagining it. The day has been a trying one," she said tersely, rapidly. She told him then about Thomas Neville appearing at headquarters, and about the murder of poor Miss Holmes.
Hart was no longer amused. "First Grace Conway, and now her neighbor. Once again, you are investigating a series of murders. I do not like this," he said grimly.
"I hardly like it myself," Francesca said, relieved to be on familiar ground. "It gets worse."
"How can it possibly get worse?" he asked, one brow lifting.
"Miss Holmes left a journal. She was madly in love with Evan," Francesca said grimly.
Hart stared for a moment. "Well, this does not look good for Evan, now does it? Does he know the missing Miss Neville?"
"No, thank God," Francesca said earnestly.
"Who are your suspects? You seem quite averse to Thomas Neville."
"He's odd, but as it turns out, Miss Neville was having an affair with the owner of an art gallery," Francesca told him eagerly, glad to share her investigative work with him. "Thomas claims his sister was ending the affair, and as it also turns out, her lover, who denies the breakup, is married, with children."
"Aah," Hart murmured. "And the plot thickens. So the lover has become your prime suspect."
"It is certainly looking that way. If he was jilted on Sunday evening, I would guess that he murdered Grace Conway by accident—she found him destroying Melinda's studio. Miss Holmes was the next target, because she knew about the murder, having seen something from her rocking chair."
"And how does Sarah Channing fit in?" Hart asked.
"I have no idea," Francesca returned glumly. "That is where my theory falls apart."
Hart smiled at her. "I have no doubt you will solve the case. Who is this gallery owner? Perhaps I know him."
"His name is Bertrand Hoeltz. You know, he does seem genuinely distraught over Melinda Neville's disappearance. Do you know him, Calder?"
"Yes, I do. He is a poor connoisseur of art," Hart said. He was reflective now. "I have been to his gallery several times, but I have never liked the work he has, and I ceased going some time ago. I think I know the woman who has disappeared. I saw him with a woman once at another exhibition. They were clearly paramours."
"Were they in love? What was she like?" Francesca said, straightening.
"She was small and dark, very intense, I suspect, and rather exotic in her appearance. She is what the Europeans refer to as jolie laide—'pretty ugly.' That is, in spite of her severity and intensity, there was something interesting and compelling and sexual about her. I think Hoeltz was in love. I think Miss Neville was rather self-contained and self-involved." He added dryly, "Most artists are egocentric, my dear."
Very excited now, Francesca gripped his arm. The moment she did so, images of rock-hard muscles everywhere assailed her mind and she released him. "When was this, Calder?"
"Francesca"—he was gentle, his eyes smiling—"it was many months ago." But again he was studying her, and she saw that he was perplexed by her behavior.
"Oh."
"Have I done something to enervate you?"
She blinked, stiffening. "Of course not!"
"That is good. Because I have the distinct feeling that you might leap from the carriage at the next crossroads."
"We are going to supper," she managed.
"Are you certain there isn't something you wish to tell me?"
Francesca bit her lip, smiled at him, and wished that the thought of confession did not feel so appealing. She wet her lips. "Could Hoeltz be a killer? A strangler, in fact?"
Hart shook his head, amused now. "I would not know how to answer that. I hardly know the man. But given the right motivation, aren't we all capable of murder?"
She stared and he did not look away. Only a week ago, Hart had been prepared to murder the man blackmailing his foster sister, Lucy Savage. Of course, it had not come to that, thank God, and Francesca remained angry every time she thought of Lucy begging him for his help, begging him, and not another one of her brothers, to do her dirty work. "I don't know."
He smiled warmly at her. "You are so distracted tonight! I would give a small fortune to know what is really on your mind. Perhaps after supper you will relent and tell me?"
"There is nothing to tell," she said, recalling Daisy on her knees, her tongue all over his manhood. Her heart lurched, and the sensation went right through her.
"You are the worst liar," he said, but his humor remained high, happy. Then, sobering, "I took care of LeFarge today, Francesca. He has the fifty thousand dollars, and he knows beyond any doubt that if he ever assaults your brother again, he has myself to contend with." Hart's eyes were dark. "He knows I am not averse to striking back beyond the bounds set by the law."
Francesca shivered. "Thank you, Calder," she said.
Rourke had apparently picked Sarah up earlier, and when Francesca and Calder walked into the gallery, they were already there. Perhaps fifty people were present, and the mix was obvious—half of those attending were in evening gowns and tuxedos; the other half were clearly struggling artists in simple sack jackets and ill-fitting trousers, in dark and ready-made suits.
Francesca saw Sarah instantly. She and Rourke had their backs to the door and were clearly studying a huge landscape painting. Sarah was so very visible because of her fuchsia satin gown. As Francesca espied her, she saw Rourke gaze down at her, apparently listening to her every word.
"There they are," Hart said. "Let's find our host and join them."
Francesca did not move. Even from a distance, Rourke so looked like Bragg. A small amount of guilt stirred within her, as if it were disloyal and wrong to be enjoying Calder Hart's company. Then she sighed. But her and Bragg's lives had now taken separate paths, diverging for the most part. Still, there were moments, like now, when the pain of failed hopes and dreams and the sense of loss so suddenly and acutely returned.
Francesca wondered what was captivating Rourke so completely. Was it whatever Sarah was saying? Or was it Sarah herself? Francesca instantly recalled how solicitous Rourke had been when Sarah had fainted last Saturday evening at the Plaza. But he was a medical student. There hadn't been any other doctor in the house.
And Sarah was engaged to her brother. Still, it was the worst possible match, and everyone but her father seemed to know it. Evan had been packing his bags and moving out of the house the day he had been beaten to a pulp by LeFarge. He had been about to break off his engagement as well.
Francesca couldn't decide if Rourke's interest was purely compassionate and doctorly or something else. He was very attractive, and she knew for a fact that he was a ladies' man. Still, Sarah hardly fit the bill for a womanizing man.
"I can read your thoughts," Hart murmured, low, looping her arm firmly against his and pressing it to his side.
Francesca leaped. His body was hard and male. There was nothing soft or compromising about it. Their gazes locked.
It was a moment before he spoke. "Francesca, I know you are a woman of extreme passion, but you must set your thoughts aside—at least for the rest of the evening."
To her horror, she said, "I can't."
He hesitated, then slipped his arm around the small of her back, and with his other hand he cupped her cheek. Francesca felt a sho
ckingly urgent tremor ripple through her body. She had known this evening would be an impossible one. "I fear I must distract you," he murmured in such a low and heated tone that she had images of his bed, with him looming over her in it, dancing through her mind.
She slipped into his arms by taking a single step closer to him, surprising them both. "Take me outside," she said, and she was shocked at how husky and urgent her own tone was.
He didn't move. Then, "No." He stepped away from her. "Hoeltz is here. I just saw him. Perhaps we can unearth a clue or two tonight?" He didn't smile.
Francesca turned away from him, trying to recover her composure. What was wrong with her? First her uncontrollable curiosity this afternoon, and now her uncontrollable desire to leap into Hart's arms and have him do everything to her that he had done to Daisy just a few hours ago.
"Francesca!" Sarah cried, from behind and approaching. "This is the most clever exhibition! Have you seen some of the portraits here? Hello, Mr. Hart. I cannot thank you enough for suggesting I be included in your party tonight." She was beaming.
Francesca faced Sarah and found her radiant with happiness. In fact, despite her awful gown, she was beautiful. Francesca had never seen her so happy or in such a glowing state—she could only stare.
"It was Rourke's idea," Hart said.
Rourke sent Hart a distinctly annoyed glance. "Who better to bring to an art exhibition than an artist?" he asked.
"There is an amazing portrait of two children by Walter Frederick Osborne!" Sarah cried excitedly. "Have you ever seen his work before?"
"Yes, but I find it too sweet for my taste," Hart said with a fond smile. "I see you have fully recovered from your illness. I am glad, Miss Channing."
"So am I!" Sarah cried, animated. "Coming out tonight was the perfect antidote for my melancholy. I am so excited by these artists—did you see the Degas? I adore his ballerinas, but this one is of Spanish dancers, and it is quite modern! Mr. Hart, with Francesca's permission, I intend to get to work upon the portrait you have commissioned immediately."
"I eagerly await the moment it is finished," Hart said.
Francesca looked from Hart to Sarah and back again. Hart had commissioned her portrait when he had seen her return from a tête-à-tête with Bragg at the Channing ball, in a disheveled state that clearly indicated what they had been up to behind closed doors. Hart had not only commissioned the portrait but had specified she should be wearing the exact same red ball gown.
Francesca had been furious, but then, so had he.
She had no time now to sit for her portrait, but she was determined to aid Sarah in her endeavor to gain recognition in the art world—something this commission would do. In fact, she had been moodily resigned to the fact that Hart intended to hang her portrait upon his wall.
Now, she found herself staring at him—and he was staring back. She was no longer dismayed by the notion. But everything had changed. Bragg's wife had come to town and Calder Hart wished to marry her.
As if reading her thoughts, Hart said to Sarah, not looking away from Francesca, "But you shall make one change. I prefer the dress Francesca is now wearing. As long as her hair is down."
Francesca could not look away from him, and her body stirred while her heart raced. The red dress held a reminder of that night for both of them, a reminder, she realized, that neither of them wanted. "My hair should be up, Hart."
Ladies posed in their ball gowns and jewels all the time for portraits, with their hair waved and tonged and swept up.
"No," he said, his smile small and answering her own. "I want it down."
Warmth filled her loins. "You won't be able to hang it publicly. It will be too suggestive."
"I intend to hang it in my bedroom," he said.
Francesca didn't know what to say. She was thrilled— and also breathless.
Rourke coughed. "I am glad we have settled upon the color of Francesca's dress and the style of her hair." There was laughter in his tone. "Shall we view the exhibition together?"
"That is a very good idea," Hart said, taking Francesca's arm and looping it firmly against his side once again. The gesture was extremely possessive, but in that moment Francesca did not mind.
She rather liked it.
"Can we start tomorrow?" Sarah asked, at Francesca's side. Rourke was beside her, a careful distance between them.
"I would love to, but I have an eight a.m. class and I am so involved in the current investigation," Francesca said. "Can't it wait for a few days?"
Sarah hesitated. "Francesca, you are always busy. There will always be an excuse. Can't you come by after your class? Give me one hour—for some preliminary sketches. But bring the dress." She beamed. "It is lovely. Not as daring as the red, but I think it suits you even more."
They paused before a landscape done by a Russian artist. The palette was very cool, the scene of a cabin in the moonlight, but it was grim and desolate. Hart released Francesca.
She glanced at him and looked again. He was riveted by the painting.
She studied him then. Not because she had the chance to enjoy his handsome profile, but because he was so engrossed in a work of art that she did not care for, finding it disturbing. In fact, she knew he had, for that moment, forgotten she was at his side. She didn't mind.
"Isaak Levitan," he murmured, his gaze moving back and forth across the dark, desolate landscape. "The artist is spectacular." Suddenly he turned to Francesca and the intensity was gone. "I saw this artist's work at the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1900. Do you like it?"
"No," she said truthfully. "But I know why you do." Now he grinned. "And why is that, my darling?" She smiled back. "Because it is so evocative of the bleakness of the Russian winter. One is swept to another place and another time merely by looking at that frozen landscape and that solitary house."
He smiled. "I shall make an art critic out of you one day, Francesca."
"I doubt that," she said, flushing because of his praise. His gaze became speculative. "Shall I buy the painting?" She started. "That is hardly for me to decide."
"Actually, I will not buy it if you do not approve," he said.
She stared. "Calder, buy it if you must."
"Shall I buy it?" he asked again, patiently. She knew he yearned to have it. She glanced at the frozen landscape again. In a way, as grim as the scene was, it was powerful and provocative. And shouldn't art cause one to stand and stare and think? "Yes," she decided.
He laughed and slid his arm around her and pulled her close. She tensed, all of that afternoon's images flicking rapidly through her mind, as his smile faded. His arm moved up; his hand covered her bare nape. She shivered. They were in public, and when he kissed her now, tongues would surely wag, but Francesca did not care. It felt as if she had been waiting aeons for his kiss.
He smiled at her and slipped away. "There is Hoeltz, Francesca."
Her libido hardly decreasing, disappointed that he hadn't kissed her, Francesca quickly turned and followed his gaze. Hoeltz was wandering through the crowd alone, a glass of red wine in his hand. He seemed grim and preoccupied— disturbed.
Her gaze narrowed. She hadn't realized it before because his presence was so unassuming, but while he was slender, he was actually tall. He stood almost a hand or so above most of the crowd. Francesca suspected he was six foot or so. And while slender, he was hardly as gaunt and thin as Thomas Neville.
Sarah said, "Hoeltz? Do you mean Mr. Hoeltz from the same gallery?" Then, "Oh, yes, that is him! I should say hello!"
Francesca whirled, grabbing her wrist. "You know him?"
"Yes, I do. Fran, what is wrong?"
She stared, her pulse pounding, her mind racing. "How well do you know him, Sarah?"
She shrugged, appearing worried. "I took an art class. He came to lecture once. And then recently, I brought him several portraits, to see if he would try to sell them for me. He wasn't interested, although he was very kind and quite encouraging."
Francesca co
uld hardly breathe.
Hart took her arm. "What is it?" he asked sharply.
"We asked Hoeltz if he knew Sarah Channing, and he said no. He lied."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Friday, February 21, 1902—7:00 p.m.
Neil Montrose could not help himself. He paced the salon that was adjacent to the front hall and every few moments would go to a window to peer outside. His wife had not been home all day. According to Mrs. Partridge, she had left the house just after noon with the girls, which was seven hours ago. Where could she possibly be? Were the girls all right? What had happened? Connie always had the children home by five for an early supper. He was frantic.
He did not know what he would do if anything happened to his wife or children. Had something happened? Had there been a carriage accident? The streets were icy in places. But wouldn't he have been notified?
And now, with the night dark and wintry outside, with his wife late, his children missing—or so it seemed—he wished, desperately, that he and Connie were not at odds. But he had tried everything. She was determined to punish him, and he didn't think she would ever forgive him for what he had so stupidly done. But he wasn't ever going to forgive himself, either, and it wasn't forgiveness that he wanted. He wanted her—and him—to somehow forget the past and have a real and happy future together.
If she ever gave him a second chance, he would do his best to make everything up to her. But he was losing hope. Clearly she would not accept his apologies, which were more than genuine, they were frantic, and she did not believe his vows—he would never stray again.
Suddenly he sat down, cradling his face in his hands, swamped with grief. He loved her so. He hadn't meant to fall in love with her when he met her—he had only wanted a proper and attractive wife, one whom he might become fond of, one who would bear his children and manage his home. He had sought Connie out because of her family's money, just as her mother had directed him toward her older daughter for his title. But when he had first looked at her, he had been more than surprised; he had been stunned, because she was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever met.