Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (26 page)

She backed away. But even the distance of several feet and a good-sized chair did not feel like a safe distance or a good barrier. “I am not an adventuress.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “How easily I could disprove that.”

She wet her lips. “Please don’t.”

He met her gaze and a silence fell, hard, between them. “I am sorry,” he said, shocking her. “It is the liquor. I like you, Miss Cahill, and I apologize.”

“No, I understand, and it is not the liquor; it is your pain and grief speaking today, so eloquently.”

He gave her an angry look and walked back to the bar. She saw him lurch slightly as he did so, and she was stunned, realizing he was far more inebriated than she had thought. “Mr. Hart? May I ask you some questions?”

He sighed, taking his drink and flopping in a big red chair. “Only if you must.”

She gingerly took a chair facing him. A small table remained between them. It was foolish to hope that any object might keep him at bay, should he truly decide to act the cad and make improper advances.

He laughed. “I said I would not bite, and I won’t. I can control myself, my dear Francesca. If I choose to.”

She was rigid again. She clutched her palms tightly together. “I trust you,” she lied.

“Bullshit,” he said.

She flushed.

“Surely you have heard worse?”

“Would you speak that way in front of Connie?” Francesca asked tersely.

He eyed her, and it was lazy, sensual, considering. “Yes. I speak as I choose, always. If someone does not like it, they need not share my company again. It is actually quite simple.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t think there is a single simple aspect to you or anything that you do.”

He grinned, pleased. “And you are also astute. I begin to fully understand Bragg’s fatal attraction. So. How is your sister? You know, the two of you could be twins, you so resemble one another. Except that you are an inch or two taller, and you have more golden tones in your hair and your skin, and even in your mouth.” His gaze moved to her lips. It was considering and speculative now.

She sat up straighter.

“I am not being suggestive, although you have a lush and lovely mouth, Francesca. I am an art connoisseur. Art is about color and shape, at first glance. It is about form and arrangement—at second glance. More importantly, it is a story, about life. Ultimately, it is about the artist and, dare I say it, God.” He grinned. Francesca stared at him in shock. “Or the Devil,” he added, his smile widening.

He continued while she remained speechless. “If I cannot comprehend the vague nuances between tones of pink and gold, then I cannot comprehend form, arrangement, the larger story, life, or the pain or passion of the artist—now can I? And if that were the case, I should not be a collector of art.” He smiled at her, now sprawled so indolently in his chair that Francesca wondered if he would drop his drink. “Color is but the mundane and contemporary tip of the prehistoric iceberg,” he said.

“I see.” She realized she was whispering. This man was not at all what the world might think or claim—oh no. “The Randalls hate you,” she abruptly changed the topic.

He grinned, apparently not disturbed. “Not half as much as I hate them.”

She leaned slightly forward. “Did you kill your father, Mr. Hart?”

“Calder. No.” He did not look away.

And as she stared into his eyes, she thought that she believed him, but she was too unsettled by his presence and his behavior to be sure. For how could she analyze anything when her heart was racing and she was so discomfited by his every word and every action? “Were you blackmailing Randall … Calder?”

“Blackmailing him?” Hart erupted into laughter. “Is that a joke?”

“No. It is what Mary claims.”

He laughed again. “That man-hater.” He shook his head. “I first met my father face-to-face when I was sixteen years old. That year—” He stopped.

“What?”

He looked away, his entire face rigid. “That year, I was a fool. I had … expectations. They quickly changed.” He smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. “I have not had anything to do with that family ever since. They are certainly not my family. I despise them all. I would not bother to blackmail Randall. Why give myself such a headache?” he asked.

Francesca bit her lip. “Perhaps it would please you to frighten him.”

He shook his head. “You mean, to torture him? Actually, it would please me, but the flip side of that coin is that any involvement with them would torture me far more than it would torture them.” He stared at her.

She knew he meant every word. His plight moved her, yet she had to remain somewhat objective now. “But you had dinner with Randall at your club last Tuesday.”

He sat up. “Oh ho. So the little sleuth is as clever as she appears. Are you blushing, Francesca? I seem to make you blush.”

“You are changing the topic.”

His grin flashed. “Yes, I did try. Randall approached me. He seemed desperate. I agreed to meet him for supper. I haven’t seen him socially in years, Francesca. And I do mean years.”

“What did he want?”

“Money. Isn’t that what we all want?” He smiled at her.

“No, Calder. Some of us want love, liberty, and happiness.”

“Money buys it all, except for love, which is an illusion.”

She stared and thought,
Dear God, he truly believes it.
“I shall debate you on that point some other time, Calder.”

He grinned. “And I shall look forward to the debate.”

Only he could make it sound so sexual, as if a debate were the prelude to far more intimate activities. She ignored the remark. “I understand he was deeply in debt.”

“Deeply.” Hart seemed pleased.

“And? Did you loan him the money?”

Hart stared at her, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?” He chuckled. “No, I did not. Not a single penny.”

Francesca was appalled. “You would not lend your own father a dime?”

“Paul Randall was not my father. He gave up that claim many years ago.” Hart was cool.

“But … how could you refuse Randall? You have so much.”

“Easily, my dear. I do have so much. I have enough money to buy this city and everyone in it two times over.” He stared, his eyes dark and hard. “And I have earned every cent that I possess—the hard way. It is my wealth—to do with as I choose.” He seemed angry.

She didn’t want him angry. “Would you care to join the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements? There is a place on the board,” she said. Actually, she was the society’s only member thus far.

He stared—and he laughed.

She smiled. “We could use a sponsor, Hart.”

“Thank you, Francesca. Thank you for that.”

She blinked. He wasn’t laughing now. Instead, he seemed very serious—and very intent. It was a moment before she could look away, and when she had, she was shaken.

Then he yawned. She hid a smile.

“Good God, I apologize,” he said, standing. Clearly he wished to end the interview, and as he stood, he staggered.

“Oh, dear,” Francesca whispered. “Calder, how much have you had to drink?”

He looked at her, his eyes half-hooded now, but with sleepiness. “Don’t know. Why? Do you care?” His tone had turned into a purr.

She fought to ignore the suggestive sound. “Before I go, may I ask a few more questions?”

He waved at her, an affirmative, while moving to the sofa. He was lurching on his feet now, and he half-sat and half-collapsed onto the plush cushions. Before her very eyes, he lay down on his back.

“You didn’t mean it, did you, when you called Mary a man-hater? She certainly loved her father,” Francesca said.

“She is a man-hater, Francesca.” His eyes closed. “And I imagine that sometime soon she will realize her inclinations lie elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” It was so odd, talking to a man who had lain down in front of you as if this were an everyday occurrence.

“I promise you that it is only a matter of time before she takes a lover—who is female,” he murmured. He sighed then, flinging one arm over his face.

Francesca gaped. Did Mary prefer women to men? Could Hart be right? Her thoughts instantly veered to Daisy and Rose. “Calder, someone claims you were not with Daisy and Rose on Friday night.”

He lifted his arm and blinked at her. “So my sweet Daisy broke?”

She flushed at his use of language. “No. She did not. It was an outsider who overheard them.” She was anxious now. “Is it true?”

He nodded and sighed, stretching out more fully on his back now, his eyes once again closed.

Francesca stared down at him. This was too intimate, she had to leave, but she had to know. “Then
where
were you, Calder? On the night of the murder, at seven
P.M.,
where were you?”

His arm remained high above his head, but he turned his face toward her and opened his eyes and their gazes locked. His eyes were hazel, she realized suddenly, not brown as she had thought. She saw shades of green and gold and brown in them, as well as orange. Worse, they slid over her slowly, with enjoyment, even, from her face to her toes—before lifting to her face once more. “I was here,” he said.

“Here?” Relief filled her. “Why didn’t you just say so? You have a houseful of servants—”

He cut her off, his eyes drifting closed. “No. Here, alone. I dismissed everyone.”

She stared, and as comprehension hit her, she was horrified.

His arm shifted, falling over his chest. His breathing had become deep and even.

Francesca finally clasped her cheeks, which were warm and damp. She brushed off the perspiration, and as she stared down at him, some of the tension generated from their duel dissipated. But hardly enough.

He had been in this monstrous house, alone, on the night of the murder?

Abruptly Francesca turned, weaving through chairs and tables, settees and ottomans, and finally arriving at the door. Alfred materialized a moment later, at the end of the hall. “Alfred, how much has Mr. Hart drunk?”

“He has been drinking ever since you called yesterday afternoon,” the Englishman said, revealing a glimmer of anxiety as he spoke.

Francesca gasped. “Oh, dear! Alfred, please bring a tray of sandwiches into Hart’s study. He is asleep now, but leave them beside him, within reach.”

Alfred nodded, about to leave. But Francesca plucked his sleeve. “And take away those whiskey bottles from the bar. Hide them—lock them up.”

Alfred paled. “Miss Cahill?”

She folded her arms. “He should grieve for his father properly, Alfred. Do you not agree?”

The butler hesitated. “Indeed I do. But he will dismiss me from my post.”

“Blame me.”

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly—and then he smiled. “Indeed I shall.” He started to go.

“There is one more thing. Did Hart dismiss the staff on Friday night?” It was too incredible to be believed, she thought. And if it were true—and it could not be—no one would believe it. No one. Not the police—and not a jury.

Alfred nodded. “Yes, he did.”

Francesca knew she gaped. “But … why?”

Alfred hesitated.

“My dear good man,” she said, “I only wish to help your employer. You do not betray any confidences by speaking with me.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “He dismisses the staff from time to time, perhaps two or three times a month.”

Francesca stared. “But this house is huge. It is a mausoleum. He dismissed
everyone!”

“Everyone,” Alfred said with emphasis.

“But … why?”

“I do not know.”

Francesca could not imagine anyone being alone in a house of this size. “Does … he entertain on those nights?” It was the only possible explanation. Perhaps he gave parties like Stanford White.

“We wondered about that, madam. But one of the maids did snoop. No. He does not entertain. He wanders about, alone.” He paused, as if he might say more but was thinking the better of it.

“And?”

“He drinks and wanders about from room to room, apparently viewing his paintings and sculptures.”

Francesca was shaken. “And on Friday night? When did he get home? At what time did he dismiss the staff?”

“He returned home a bit after six, I believe, looking some what dour, and instantly ordered everyone out.”

Francesca’s heart lurched. Calder had no alibi between six and nine on the night of the murder. Dear God, it did not look good. “Thank you, Alfred.”

He nodded, then said, “No, thank
you,
Miss Cahill.” He left.

She hesitated, remaining stunned. Why come home, dismiss everyone, and then go to White’s party a few hours later? Terribly disturbed, she returned to Hart’s library. He was so still it was almost as if he were not breathing. Alarmed, she went to his side, then was pleased to see the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the velvet smoking jacket.

She felt sorry for him. He was a complicated man, and she suspected his wounds ran deep.

And now, should anyone ever learn the truth of his whereabouts on Friday night, he was in deep trouble indeed.

Francesca looked around. The draperies had been left open. It was snowing steadily now outside. From this window, she had a view of the empty lot to the north of his property. In this distance, she saw a four-in-hand on the avenue, shrouded in the falling snow and the yellow glow of the streetlights.

She walked over to each of the three large windows and closed the curtains. Then she took a cashmere throw from a chair before the fireplace, and she returned to Hart’s side. She laid it over him, carefully so she would not awaken him. As carefully, she removed each of his slippers. Then she smiled a little, satisfied.

“Perhaps you wish to tuck me into bed?” he murmured, making her start with surprise.

She stiffened. “I did not mean to awaken you,” she managed.

“Any time.” His eyes did not even open.

She stared. “Hart?” she whispered.

His breathing seemed deep and even. He seemed to be sleeping once again. There was no answer.

Francesca turned slowly and again she made her way through the elegant but overfurnished room and to the door. She paused, and an odd urge made her look back. He was asleep, or very close to it. He hadn’t moved since first lying down on the couch.