Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (25 page)

Francesca smiled politely, but now, she wondered if it was true.

Suddenly Mary walked into the room. She was pale, her expression drawn. Her eyes glittered. “Bill, Hart was blackmailing Papa,” she said, clearly having been outside the door, eavesdropping. “You have been away. You do not know what has been going on around here.” She sent Francesca an angry glance.

Bill walked over to her. “Why don’t you go to your room and lie down? I will handle Miss Cahill. Do you want some laudanum?” he asked, his tone somewhere between kind and firm.

Did he seek to soothe his sister—or send her away from the room? Francesca wondered.

Mary’s face crumpled. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. Please believe me. Hart told Papa he would tell the world that he is his bastard son and, worse, the extent of his debts. I heard them. Papa was crushed, frightened. Hart was amused.” She turned to Francesca. “I hate him. He is the one. There is no doubt!”

“I can understand why you feel as you do,” Francesca said quietly. This was not looking good, she decided. First Hart’s alibi being disproved, if Joel’s friend was right, and now this blackmail scenario. Unfortunately, Francesca could see Hart toying with Randall in just such a manner as Mary described.

Still, she had lied about having witnessed a conversation on the street the morning of the murder. But why?

“Can you?” Mary asked with belligerence. She shook her head, tears suddenly falling, and she wrenched free of her brother. She ran from the room.

Bill began to follow her, calling out. As he hurried past Francesca, she blinked. There was something so familiar about the way he strode toward the door, from this particular angle.

It made her feel as if she were in a situation she had been in once before.

The slim shoulders, the dark hair, the narrow, swift stride.

It was like déjà vu.

He cursed. Softly, and almost inaudibly, beneath his breath.

Francesca stiffened as comprehension struck with the force of a bolt of lightning.

Bill Randall turned. “I am sorry. I do apologize. Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Cahill?”

She could hardly breathe. For she was staring at the man who had been the silent intruder in Georgette de Labouche’s home just hours after the murder had taken place.

S
UNDAY,
F
EBRUARY 2, 1902— 9:00 P.M.

Francesca was in a state. Once out on the street, she paused beneath the glow of a street lamp, hardly able to think clearly. It had begun to snow, and big, fat flakes dusted her shoulders and danced in the light’s halo.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Joel asked, tugging on the sleeve of her fur-lined coat.

She hardly heard him. Bill Randall had walked into Georgette de Labouche’s house around midnight, looked at his father’s body, cursed, and walked out. How incredible; how strange.

He could not be the killer.

But somehow, he had known that the body was there. He had not been surprised to find it, his behavior indicated that he had expected to find it, and the fact that he had not run directly to the police added to the mystery.

Was he protecting someone?

Was he an accomplice?

Instantly both Mary and Henrietta shot to the top of her list of suspects. Still, Mary had
adored
her father. And Henrietta had known about her husband’s mistress for years.

Francesca felt Joel’s hand on her arm. She looked down at him.

“What is it?” he repeated insistently. “If I’m to be your assistant, you have got to tell me.”

She bent close to his ear. “Randall’s the one who came into the house when I was hiding in the kitchen.”

“Hell no!” Joel cried. Then, eyes narrowed, “Now ain’t that odd.”

“Very. Joel, he lied. If I am right, Bill Randall lied, and he was in the city on the night of the murder.” She thought about that. Was there any way a murderer would return to the scene like that? Francesca did not think so. How unusual this case had become.

“Joel, I am sending you home. I shall hire a hansom while my driver takes you back.” Her first instinct was to run to Bragg and tell him all that had transpired in the past few hours. But she hesitated. She had a few questions to ask Hart. It was just past six in the evening. She might be able to catch Hart at home now, but later he would undoubtedly be out. She also did not think she should call on him at a late and unusual hour.

But she could call on Bragg at any time.

“I don’t need to be home yet,” Joel protested.

“It’s Sunday. You should go home and help your mother.” She paused. “I have two classes tomorrow morning,” she said reflectively. “Can you meet me at my house around noon? We shall spend the afternoon investigating. We must find a way to speak with the Randalls again, and we must find Georgette de Labouche,” she added vehemently. “Even I wish to speak with her again.”

“I can spend the mornin’ while you’re in school askin’ around. She had to have friends. Someone has to know where she is,” Joel said.

Francesca beamed at him and patted his back. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Or perhaps you can locate her brother.”

After he had climbed into the carriage, she closed the coach door and told Jennings to meet her at Hart’s after dropping Joel at his Avenue A flat. The coach rolled off; Francesca stepped into the street to look for a cab. And it was just her luck, a hansom was approaching and it was empty. Her hand shot up and she flagged it down.

Francesca was suddenly nervous as she was greeted at Hart’s front door by the white-haired butler whom she recognized from the other day. She managed a tight smile. “Is Mr. Hart at home?”

“Mr. Hart is not receiving callers.”

She flushed but did not move. Perhaps he was entertaining a lady “friend.” She hesitated, then said quickly, “It is urgent. Terribly so. Are you certain that he will not see me?” She held her muff with one hand, and with her other one she opened her purse to retrieve a calling card.

“Miss Cahill,” the Englishman said, clearly recognizing her as well, “Mr. Hart
is
indisposed.”

She did not like the sound of that, and somehow her gaze met that of the butler. “I hope he is not unwell,” she breathed.

The man hesitated, obviously conflicted about breaching his sense of professional propriety. “He is indisposed, madam,” he repeated firmly, clearly wishing to close the door but not about to do so unless she had turned to leave first.

“He is ill?” Francesca boldly stepped past the butler, into the huge hall with its nude sculptures and its shockingly irreligious painting by the artist Caravaggio.

“Madam, he has been most precise; he will not receive anyone.”

“Like hell I won’t.”

Francesca muffled a gasp and saw Hart at the far end of the hall, standing there in trousers and a loosely belted smoking jacket. His grin was lopsided and somehow dangerous; Francesca tensed instantly.

“Do come in, Miss Cahill. Oh, Alfred. Did I mention that the Cahill sisters are always an exception to my rules?”

Alfred bowed. “You did not, sir.”

“Next time, then, you shall know to
always
admit either one of them.” Hart grinned at her again.

Francesca stared. He was unshaven and holding a thick cigar. Beneath the velvet and paisley jacket, his shirt was badly rumpled. His thick, dark hair was waving over his forehead. Even his trousers were terribly wrinkled, yet he was disturbingly attractive. But that was not the problem; her every instinct told her that something was wrong.

Her instincts also told her to proceed with the utmost caution indeed.

“Do come in, Miss Cahill.” He smiled and it was as if he had dishonorable intentions. He seemed to be laughing at her. “Thank you,” Francesca managed rigidly. She handed her coat, muff, gloves, and hat to Alfred, then began crossing the large room. Hart didn’t move. He leaned now against the brass railing of the wide, sweeping staircase at the hall’s other end, watching her as she approached. She felt flustered and did not like it, not at all.

Why did she feel as if she were entering the wolf’s den? And that he was regarding her as if she might become a tasty meal?

He grinned again. He had one dimple to Bragg’s two, but it was identical. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The moment she had reached his side she could smell the whiskey and she was dismayed. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course.” He looped her arm in his. “I am celebrating, or have you forgotten?”

Francesca was practically enfolded against his side. He was a muscular man, a bit larger of frame than Bragg was, although the brothers were nearly the same in size and height. She tried to put an inch between them, but he held her so tightly, walking her back into the house, that she gave up. “You are inebriated,” she said unsteadily, and it flashed through her mind that the brothers had more in common than they would ever admit. The last time she had been around a foxed man, it had been Bragg—and look at what had happened. They had shared the most reckless and devastating kiss.

“I am drunk,” he said cheerfully. “And feeling no pain.” He smiled warmly at her.

Her heart fluttered in response. And in that moment as he smiled into her eyes, she understood. She understood why he could have any woman that he wished; his charm was magnetic, mesmerizing, and fatal to its recipient. She wondered if he even knew that he was turning the full force of his charisma upon her now. She did not think so. She had the feeling it was habit. “I do not think you should drink any more,” she whispered. “And would you please release my arm?”

“Why?” he asked, leading her into a large and spectacular library. Most studies were sanctuaries for their owners, but not this one. Books and artwork, both canvases and sculptures, filled the room. But so did a half a dozen seating arrangements. One massive desk was at its farthest corner, clearly where Hart worked.

The art consisted of landscapes, portraits, nudes, and depictions from mythology and religion. No style dominated; one landscape was impressionistic, another realistic.

“Because you are embracing me,” she said tartly.

He laughed and turned her so she was in his arms. “And that is a terrible crime?” he asked, gazing into her eyes.

She ducked free and was almost swamped by a tide of relief. “We are strangers!”

“Really? But you are in love with my brother. That hardly makes us strangers, my sweet Francesca.” His eyes were laughing now.

She swallowed. “Think what you like. I—”

“I always do.” He walked away from her, and there was more relief.

Francesca reached for the collar of her shirtwaist. She lifted it away from her throat, where her pulse hummed. She felt certain he enjoyed toying with her.

He turned from a beautiful bar, all marble and mirrors, now holding a glass. “Hot?” His eyes gleamed.

“Yes. No. Mr. Hart, I wish a word with you.”

He laughed and drank.

“Is that funny?”

“Life is funny, is it not?” Briefly the smile disappeared and he stared at the glass he held. “Funny, unpredictable … insane.”

She sensed his pain. She knew it ran deep. “You do not have to drink like a fish, Mr. Hart. Perhaps you should throw in the towel and weep?”

He stared at her. No charm emanated from him now. His gaze was frigidly cold. “Weep for what? Are you suggesting—dare you to suggest—I weep for Randall?”

She nodded, clasping her hands tightly.

“Like hell,” he said. “Like goddamn hell.” He lifted the glass and hurled it across the room with all of his might.

Francesca cried out as it exploded at the far end, against a stunning canvas, a floral arrangement done in oils.

“Shit. Get out of here,” he said, not looking at her. “Run away; cower and tremble; hide!” He turned back to the bar. He was the one who was trembling now.

Francesca fought for courage and found it. “I don’t think you should be alone right now, Mr. Hart.”

He was pouring another drink. He turned, leaning one narrow hip on the marble countertop. He had not recovered all of his composure, she thought, for he seemed to be a bit breathless.

“Oh, so now you wish to comfort me?” He was mocking.

“Yes, but not in the way your tone suggests.” Francesca remained unmoving. If she moved, she did fear she might flee.

“Why not? You are a rather unusual woman. Odd, eccentric even. I daresay you have no use for rules and social dictums.” He stared, his gaze intent, brilliant.

She inhaled. “Yes, I am rather eccentric, I agree. And many rules are to be bent or broken—but not all.”

He put the glass down and slowly moved toward her. Francesca became so stiff she could not move, even had she wanted to, and she was also breathless. He took her by her shoulders. “We are alike, you and I,” he breathed.

“No, we are not,” she tried.

He grinned. “Both odd, eccentric—and misunderstood. They talk about us behind our back.” He shrugged. “But we do not care. We live as we please.”

Her heart was racing with alarming speed. “Please release me,” she whispered, and her mind raced as well. There was some truth to what he said. Dear God, no one understood her—except for her father and except, she thought, for Bragg. But he was also very, very wrong. “I care what people say, what they think, and I think you do, too.”

He released her and laughed. “No, Francesca, in that you are so wrong. I do not give a damn what the world says about me. I did, once, a long time ago. But I have since outgrown my folly and seen the error of such thinking.”

“I don’t believe that,” she whispered, unable to look away.

He tilted up her chin. “How can you and your sister be so different? She is so proper, so legitimate, and you are a woman of passionate inclinations. How?”

“I am a reformer,” Francesca said, wondering if he was going to kiss her and terrified that he would. Her entire body was shaking, but she was not quite immune to his charm and his masculine appeal. How could she be? “Please, remove your hand from my face.”

“Why? Because you are saving yourself for your husband? Or my brother?” But he dropped his hand, and the glance he gave her was piercing.