Читать книгу Deadly Kisses - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—3:00 a.m.

FRANCESCA WAITED IN HART’S carriage, a large, elegant six-in-hand, while Hart and Bragg spoke. Although the station had been unusually quiet, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

The ward was almost deserted. Although numerous prostitutes worked the brownstones just across from headquarters, Francesca saw only one madam, outrageously dressed in a peignoir with a pink feather boa, smoking a cigar and sitting on the stoop of her building. A pair of officers was returning from a foot patrol in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets, billy clubs in hand and wearing their new police-issue Colt revolvers. A horse and rider was approaching, and some raucous conversation was coming from a nearby flat. Otherwise, like the station house, the night was oddly quiet.

Why had Hart sent her out? What did he wish to discuss with Bragg alone? Francesca could not help but be worried. A part of it was simple—leaving both men alone together was like sending them an invitation to do battle.

Their rivalry was ancient, going back to when they were small boys. They shared the same mother, Lily, who had tragically died. Rick had been eleven years old at the time and he had been claimed by his father, Rathe Bragg. Hart had been unwanted, so Rathe had taken him in, too. Francesca knew Hart so well now and she understood. His mother had never had time for him, first fighting to provide for her children and later, fighting to stay alive, a battle she had lost. Somehow Hart had felt abandoned and unloved, first by Lily, and then, by his biological father. As foolish as it seemed, he had never been able to forgive Rick for being the wanted one, the favored one, the loved one.

And as children so often do, he had searched for Lily’s and then Rathe’s approval in a backward way, his behavior wild and out of bounds, testing first his mother and then his stepfather. But he hadn’t really wanted to push everyone away—he had just wanted to be loved, in spite of who he was.

Francesca knew Hart had not been aware of what he was doing as a small boy or a rowdy adolescent. Yet she had come to realize that his behavior as a mature and powerful man was really no different than that little boy’s. He claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, and he was well aware of his black reputation, but Francesca thought he did care—and that he refused to admit it, not even to himself. He refused to conform to the rules and mores of proper society; he had flaunted his lovers, many of whom were divorcées, and he displayed the most shocking and controversial art. Behind his back, society gossiped in absolute fascination. Hart laughed about it, but it was as if he had to see just how far he could go before being cast out. There had been difficult times when he had tried to push her away, as well. But Francesca understood that his actions were a test—a test of her loyalty, her friendship and her devotion. She was never going to fail.

There was another aspect to Hart’s rivalry with his half brother. The two men were as different as night and day. Rick had given his life to social and political reform, even at the expense of his marriage. His reputation was as stellar as Hart’s was not; he would never flaunt an indiscretion or compromise anyone’s reputation. Hart was only accepted in good society because of his wealth and power. Rick was accepted not just because he was from that acclaimed family, but because he was a leader of the reform movement, universally respected and admired for all of his good works. No two men could be more different—on the surface, at least.

It also did not help that, when she had first met Hart, she and Rick had been romantically involved. Hart remained jealous of the fact that she had chosen Rick before him and that she maintained a genuine friendship with him. Rick clearly loved his wife, and Francesca often felt he would not mind her engagement—as long as it was to anyone other than Hart. She sighed. She could not undo the past. She could not stop caring about Rick Bragg and she could not stop loving Hart. Their rivalry had begun decades before either man had ever met her, but she was aware of being added fuel to the fire.

Francesca pushed open her window. The night was cool but pleasant; a few stars had come out to join the crescent moon. She felt a soft summer breeze and she let it caress her face. She was so worried about this case and where the investigation would take her.

Suddenly the other passenger door opened and Hart climbed into the backseat beside her, taking her hand. “Are you cold? Why are you waiting here, when you could be inside?”

Francesca met his dark gaze and tried to smile at him. “It can be so noisy in the lobby. I have a head ache,” she said truthfully.

His smile faded as the carriage rumbled away from the curb. He put his arm around her. “It has been a terrible evening,” he said quietly. “I wish you hadn’t been here tonight, Francesca.”

She looked up at his face, at the strong and attractive features she had come to love, acutely aware of his powerful embrace. “I’m glad I was here,” she said passionately. “You are not going through this alone!”

“Francesca, I know you mean well. You always mean well,” he said roughly, and he smiled. “But this affair is already a sordid one. I have never asked you before to cease an investigation, but I am asking you now.”

She pulled away from him, disbelieving. “Hart, don’t ask me to drop this.”

“You are upset with me,” he remarked, his eyes moving over her face.

“I want to help,” Francesca said firmly. “I can help. Daisy was murdered and we both know I can find her killer. Just as we both know that right now, the police think you might be involved.”

His expression hardened and he glanced away.

She moved into his arms, turning his face toward her. Hart could be terribly insecure and vulnerable at times, as if still that small, unloved, unwanted boy. “I am not upset with you. You did not murder Daisy, Hart,” Francesca said. “We simply need to bring her killer to justice.”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his chest. Against her skin, Francesca felt the stiff material of his shirt, and she realized he had pressed her hand against Daisy’s dried blood. “Why are you calling me Hart? You only call me Hart when distressed.” His gaze was searching in the flickering lights of the carriage.

She wet her lips. “I am distressed. You are, as well. How can we not be distressed after what has happened?”

He studied her and said, “And that is why I don’t want you on this case. It will only get worse.”

She trembled. “And how will it get worse?”

He was incredulous. “I care enough about you not to want you reminded every hour of every day that I was in Daisy’s bed a few months ago!”

Her mind became blurred. A little voice inside of her head said, “Don’t.” She ignored it. “Why did you call on Daisy tonight?”

His grip on her hand tightened as their gazes locked. “There was a matter she wished to discuss.”

Francesca continued to tremble and she knew Hart could feel it. She recalled Newman’s expression of pity, and Bragg’s. Both men thought Hart had gone to see Daisy to take her to bed. “What matter?”

He rubbed his face and Francesca realized how tired he was. “Can we let this go, at least for tonight?”

She knew he had not gone to Daisy for carnal reasons. While it was her worst fear that one day he would stray, they had only recently become engaged and the passion they shared remained vast. “What was so important and so urgent that you had to see Daisy tonight—the night of her murder?” She could not help herself. “Calder, we agreed to always be honest with each other. We both know that you didn’t go to Daisy’s to discuss financial matters.”

“We had a private matter to discuss.” He was terse and there was a warning in his tone.

Francesca became alarmed. “A matter you wish to keep private from me?”

“Yes.” He turned away, resolute, his expression hard and tense. “Please. Just leave it for now.”

She could not believe he would not tell her what he and Daisy had intended to discuss. But it was not his nature to ask for anything, and he was asking her now to let the subject alone. She didn’t know if she could. Her mind was spinning. She simply could not imagine what had brought him to Daisy’s in the middle of the night. “Your motive in calling on her is crucial to your defense.”

He became rigid. “So now I am accused of her murder?”

“Hart, I am not accusing you of anything! I know you are innocent. But the police will want to know.”

He was angry. “No, you want to know! You want to pry! Damn it! I just asked you to drop it! But when you get an idea, a clue, a lead, you might as well be a terrier with some damned bone. Usually your tenacity is endearing—it is not endearing now. Please, leave it, Francesca.”

She recoiled. And against her will, an image arose of him with Daisy in an intimate embrace.

As always, he knew. He tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. His eyes were wide. “You cannot think I went there to sleep with her?”

Francesca felt her cheeks heating. She really did not doubt Hart, but she did doubt Daisy. Had the other woman somehow lured him to her home to seduce him, in the hopes of rekindling their affair?

And because she hesitated, he grew incredulous. “Don’t tell me you have doubts about my loyalty,” he began in warning.

She could not breathe. She shook her head. “I don’t. Not really. It’s just—” she managed to say.

“Not really!” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “It’s just what?” he demanded.

Francesca saw from his shocked and angry expression that she had been wrong to even begin to doubt him. “You know I am insecure at times like these,” she said. “I did not trust Daisy—and neither did you! If only I were half as beautiful as she was.”

He leaned close, exploding. “I asked you to marry me because I had no wish to continue my philandering ways! I asked you to marry me because I was sick to death of all of those desperate women, and more important, of myself! I asked you to marry me because I wish to commit myself to you, Francesca. I knew, shortly after meeting you, that you were the one woman I wished to share the rest of my entire life with. I told you, in a true confession of my feelings, that I could no longer enjoy being with those faceless women, whose names I could never even recall! I asked you to marry me because you are the only genuine friend I have ever had, and because I have come to care deeply for you—because you have changed my life! Now, you believe I was sleeping with Daisy? I have never been faithful before, Francesca, but I have been faithful to you! And you are ten times more beautiful than Daisy!”

He was so angry. Francesca huddled against the velvet seat, shocked by his passionate outburst—and thrilled, too. “Calder, I was merely being honest. I don’t really believe you went to Daisy to sleep with her, of course I don’t. But Daisy always worried me. She was so beautiful. I am such a bluestocking, and I am so different from women like her. I admit it—when it comes to such women, I am a jealous, witless fool!”

He swept her into his arms. “Yes, you are jealous, witless and foolish at times like these,” he muttered, and he covered her mouth with his. He moved so quickly that Francesca was stunned, and then his tongue thrust hard and deep. Before she could react, the kiss softened, becoming thorough, and more thorough still. Francesca forgot the conversation, holding on to his hard, powerful body, her blood surging with heat. When he finally pulled away, she was dazed and throbbing with a terrible need and urgency. His sexual tension emanated from him in waves, but he gently brushed some strands of blond hair from her cheek. “You are as different from Daisy and her kind as can be—and I am so grateful for it! You tempt me, Francesca, as no one else ever has,” he whispered roughly.

It was always this way, she thought, recovering some of her sensibilities. When she became terribly insecure, he would make love to her and she would realize she had been a fool. When she was in his arms, all doubt died. She smiled at him and clasped his cheek briefly.

He smiled back and, his eyes closing, he kissed her hand.

The electricity that existed between them sparked. She covered his hand, pulling it against her face. Her heart pumped, each beat solid and pregnant with desire, in the hollow of her chest. She had missed him terribly while he was out of town and it would be a few more minutes before they reached her home.

He sensed the direction of her thoughts and looked directly at her. His gaze was brilliant as it met hers. Very softly, he said, “This is a dangerous night. I don’t feel in control, Francesca. I am not certain this is a good idea.”

She slipped her hand under his shirt, against the warm skin of his hard chest, but his shirt remained stiff with dried blood. She looked at it; so did he.

Daisy was dead and Hart was in trouble, she some how thought.

He kissed her cheek lightly and took her hand. Francesca fought the raging of her body until it softened. “I am sorry,” she said when she could speak. “I am sorry for being so foolish and for having even the tiniest doubt. But I am afraid I will always be jealous when it comes to other women.”

“You don’t ever have to be jealous of another woman, Francesca,” he said so seriously that her insides melted.

“I will try to prevent such a lapse in the future, I swear it, Calder.” She actually managed to smile at him.

He glanced at her. “Maybe I should be more understanding,” he said, surprising her. “Recently Daisy did her best to interfere in our relationship. Maybe your response to her was reasonable. But, Francesca, I have to remind you of one basic fact. Daisy had the airs of a well-bred lady, and I am rather certain she came from a genteel background, but she sold her body, Francesca. I paid for her attentions—they were never freely given.” He held her gaze. “Darling, she was a whore.”

“Calder!” She was shocked that he would speak so ill of the dead. But her mind quickly grasped the fact he had just tossed her way. Francesca sat up straighter. “Did she ever tell you anything of her background?” she asked. She had also realized upon first meeting Daisy that she was from society, although Daisy had never once referred to her background.

“It never came up. Frankly, I wasn’t curious, not at all.”

Francesca began to plan her next day. “This was a crime of passion, Calder, not some random killing. The killer knew Daisy and I think he knew her well. I must find out who she really was—where she came from, and why she left that life to become a prostitute.”

He sighed. “I can see how determined you are. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth about her life, I am sure that person is you.”

She barely heard him. She had so much work to do—and the sooner, the better, so she and Calder could get past this terrible tragedy and get on with their lives.

He tilted up her chin and their eyes met. “You lied for me tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I was at that house by half past eleven, an hour or so before you ever got there. You did not arrive until half past twelve.”

She tensed. “I know what I did, Calder.”

“You lied to Rick.”

She bit her lip. “And I hated doing it. But you were at Daisy’s for perhaps an hour after discovering her dead. And the police will think that terribly bizarre.”

He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

“I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

“You lied to Rick for me.”

“I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

She was afraid.

FRANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy’s gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose’s behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police’s list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

“Should I send him away, ma’am?”

Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy’s murder. Half of the city’s newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart’s ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart’s. “No. Where is my father?”

“He is in the breakfast room.”

Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy’s murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I’ll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

She must not let Kurland suspect that anything was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall’s other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You’re not going to give me the boot?”

“If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

“I don’t know if murder should be described as interesting, except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

“Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé’s mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

Francesca’s smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

“Indeed, I’ll bet a month’s wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”

“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”

Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

“I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.

“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.

“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”

“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”

“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow’s headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.

“Francesca!”

Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.

“Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.

Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart’s mistress is dead? Murdered?”

Francesca’s mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart’s relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart’s biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn’t known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”

Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”

“Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy’s friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don’t even have an autopsy report.”

But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”

“I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”

Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don’t worry. I am going to find Daisy’s killer.”

“Don’t worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”

“Mama! Hart is innocent!”

Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won’t even matter.”

FRANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn’t been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.

He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D’Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia University, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.

Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.

Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer’s fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”

“Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart’s art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”

“I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D’Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.

Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.

“Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”

“Alfred, that’s quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland’s visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”

Alfred seemed surprised. “Of course, Miss Cahill.”

“You were here, were you not, when Mr. Hart arrived home last night?”

“I most certainly was. I let him in.”

That was a relief, Francesca thought. “Do you recall the hour?”

“It was a minute or two after the hour of eight o’clock—I happened to glance at the clock in his study, which is where he went directly upon arriving.”

“And then what, Alfred? Did you bring him supper? Did you help him hail a cab when he left?”

“He told me he did not wish to be disturbed.”

Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what time he left the house last night?”

Alfred shook his head. “I did not see Mr. Hart again until this morning, Miss Cahill. When he gives an order to be left alone, it is my responsibility to ensure that no one—not even family—intrudes upon his privacy.”

Francesca almost moaned. Her heart raced. “You are telling me that no one in this house saw him after he arrived at eight?”

“I am the only one who saw him come in, Miss Cahill, and yes, he secluded himself in the library for the evening. Frankly, I had no idea that he even went out.”

Francesca felt despair.

“Miss Cahill?” Alfred was clearly bewildered and worried now.

She stared at him, wondering if she dared ask him to lie for Hart. “Alfred, the police may wish to speak with you. They may ask you the same questions I have.”

His gaze widened. It was a moment before he spoke. “I see. And what should I say to them?”

Was she really going to do this? She believed in the truth and the law! But Hart was innocent, and until the real killer was found, he was in jeopardy. “Perhaps you might suggest that you waited on Hart that evening,” she heard herself say. “Once or twice. He did go out that evening—he went out at half past eleven.”

“Very well,” Alfred said with resolve.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.

Almost unable to believe what she was doing to protect her fiancé, Francesca went down the hall. She had to find the real killer immediately, so these lies could stop. Hart’s library was a huge, dark but pleasant room. Books lined three of the walls, but a number of windows and glass doors opened out onto the back gardens, showing a view of the tennis courts. His desk was at the far end. Francesca turned on a lamp and went to it.

The jacket he had worn the night before was on the back of his chair. Francesca hesitated, her gaze drawn to the stain on the right side of it. It was obviously dried blood.

Last night, he had gone into this room before going upstairs to bed. Francesca could imagine him removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and pouring himself a Scotch, the drink he preferred. Her eyes now found an empty crystal glass. Had he sat there, hunched over his drink, brooding about Daisy’s death?

She shook her head. Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy’s murder?

Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.

“Francesca?”

She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg’s warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.

He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, coming into the room. He was Hart’s stepbrother but Rick Bragg’s half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.

Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I’m sorry! You didn’t frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”

“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.

Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven’t heard.”

Warily, he said, “I haven’t heard what?”

“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”

He was clearly shocked.

“You haven’t seen Hart?”

“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”

She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”

Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don’t tell me. He is the prime suspect?”

“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”

Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”

“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”

Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated, glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy’s at that hour?”

Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart’s desk and sat down in his chair.

Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don’t happen to know what that reason is.”

“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke’s grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn’t helping his case.”

Rourke paled. “No, I don’t think he went to Daisy’s for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart’s desk. “Calder won’t explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”

Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”

Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart’s innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn’t been at Daisy’s last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”

He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy’s last night.”

Francesca was startled. Rourke’s words made sense. Hart had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.

“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”

“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”

“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can’t imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.

Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”

Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”

Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”

She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”

He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it’s my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”

Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”

“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.

Francesca’s brows rose. Most of the city’s residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”

He glanced away. “I haven’t seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”

Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”

Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”

Francesca handed him the note, which she had folded in half. “Oh, I will. How about Saturday evening at seven, say at the Sherry Netherland?”

“You can be so transparent, Francesca!”

She batted wide, innocent eyes at him. “Transparent about what? I haven’t seen you in weeks and we haven’t had a social moment since well before my last case, in fact. And I haven’t seen Sarah—I am killing two birds with one stone.”

He smiled and shook his head.

Francesca was about to walk out with Rourke. Then she remembered to take Hart’s stained jacket and she lifted it off the chair. On her way out, she would give it to Alfred for a cleaning.

A white stub fell from one of the pockets.

Francesca retrieved it, realizing it was the stub from a train ticket. She was about to put the stub on his desk when she saw the name of the city next to the punched hole: Philadelphia.

Her good humor vanished. She quickly told herself that the stub was an old one. Hart had not been to Philly since they had become engaged at the end of February. Becoming ill, she glanced at the date on the top of the stub.

June 1.

She inhaled, blinded by the date.

“Francesca?” Rourke asked in concern.

She hardly heard him. Hart had told her that he had gone to Boston. But yesterday he had returned from Philadelphia. She had the proof, right there in her hand.

Hart had lied to her.