Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (11 page)

He walked away from her, lifted his shades, which had been down, and gazed out at the brown town houses lining Mulberry Street. All were brothels and saloons except for one, which was a run-down brick building that was a tenement. His beautiful Daimler motorcar was parked below, Francesca knew, for she had seen it as she had come in, guarded by two leatherheads.

Suddenly she straightened as something he had said registered in her befuddled brain. “O’Donnell?”

He did not turn. “The first victim. Her name was Kathleen O’Donnell.”

“Oh, God! Bragg!” she cried, dashing to him and whirling him about by his lapels.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know that Mary O’Shaunessy has a brother and his name is Mike O’Donnell?”

As her brougham turned into the very short driveway of her home, which was on the corner of Madison Avenue and 61st Street, and moved through the vaulted archway into an interior courtyard that had been swept free of snow and salted, Connie did not move. Neil’s carriage, slightly smaller and several years older than the one he liked her to use, was parked in front of their home, and a groom was leading two bays around the back to the stable. Panic filled her.

An image of her large, muscular, handsome husband competed with Calder Hart’s darkly disturbing one. In her mind’s eye, Hart was smiling, the look in his eyes so suggestive there could be no mistaking his meaning, while Neil’s turquoise eyes were hard with anger. Her heart lurched with dread, with fear.

What was she doing?

Why had she had lunch with Calder Hart, a notorious seducer of women?

And why, oh why, was she there now, in front of this lovely house
—
which no longer felt like her own?

But it was her home, Connie reminded herself, the panic growing. What Neil had done could never change that.

“Lady Montrose?”

Connie realized that Clark had been standing at the carriage door, which he had opened, for a few minutes. She suddenly saw the look in his eyes and thought it was one of pity. She flushed, realizing he must know about the
discord that was unraveling her family. But wait—there was no discord now! She had passed a most pleasant week. She and Neil had attended a supper and a charity ball; they had chatted most amicably; they had even danced at the ball, as if nothing were wrong, as if nothing had ever happened. And her sources had told her that Eliza Burton, the woman he had taken for a lover, was booked with her boys for a winter passage to France. She was leaving next week. Her home was up for sale.

She surely had no time to dally with another woman’s husband now, and Neil had promised her it would never happen again. The one thing she knew about her husband was that his word of honor was inviolable.

Something wrenched inside of her.

“Lady Montrose?”

Connie started. His voice had sounded far away. “Yes, Clark? I have been daydreaming,” she said too brightly, and she smiled at the coachman she had hired shortly before her wedding, and as she was assisted from the coach, he smiled back.

But the pity remained in his eyes. Now there was no mistaking it.

Connie held her head high and sailed across the short distance between the coach and her front doorstep. She did not worry about the snow or any ice—as a child she had been taught how to walk, as if on water, with grace and poise, no matter what.

Suddenly a memory of Francesca stomping across the ballroom in abject defiance of their instructor made her smile. She, Connie, had mastered the art of a noble walk within a day, while her sister still had a tendency to march about like a man.

As Connie reached the front door, it opened. “Thank you, Marsters,” she began, and she faltered, her air catching in her throat and choking her.

Neil had opened the door for her, instead of the doorman.
His vivid turquoise gaze held hers, steady and unwavering. He did not smile.

He knows,
she thought, panicked.
He knows I have been flirting with Calder Hart!

Then his lips turned into a slight smile. “I have just got in,” he said, taking her arm. “Did you have a pleasant lunch?”

She could not move and she could not smile; for one moment, she could only stare, incapable of speech.

“Connie?” His grip tightened. He was a big man, six-foot-four and well over two hundred pounds, but there was no flab on his large, muscular body. And in spite of his size, there was no mistaking that he was an aristocrat—other men this large would look like dockworkers. Perhaps it was his perfectly chiseled features—the straight nose, the stunning eyes, the wide jaw and high cheekbones that pegged him for a nobleman. Perhaps it was his carriage—he moved with innate pride and grace. Or maybe it was the air of authority he never shed—other men looked to him for answers and leadership.

He had been married once before. His wife had died in the first year of their marriage in a carriage accident.

To this day, Connie did not know whether he had loved his first wife or not. She had never asked. The question would not have been seemly; it would have been intrusive, an invasion of his privacy. But she wondered, often, if he had loved his first wife.

“Are you ill?” he asked. “You are so pale.”

She brightened and somehow slipped free. For his touch did contradictory things to her—his touch thrilled her and frightened her both.

“I am fine. How was your day?” She moved past him, handing off her coat and hat, her back to him now.
Did he know?

“My day has been a good one. Our Midland Rails stocks continue to climb, as they have just incorporated an
important way station, Basalt. And Fontana Ironworks is going right through the roof. Today I added to the children’s trusts.”

Connie did not turn back to him. “I am glad,” she said breathlessly. Then she glanced across the entry hall. A large and formal salon, both double mahogany doors wide open, was on her right. The room was mostly shades of gold, with emerald accents. On one ebonized table was a bronze clock—it was almost five. “I must dress for the Waldorf affair. I do believe we are to arrive at seven.”

Neil did not speak. Connie wanted to peek at him in order to judge his mood—and if he knew about her luncheon with Hart—but somehow, she did not dare. She had told Francesca that the past was finished and that only the present and the future mattered now. But it was hard not to recall the past—she did so every time Neil came near.

He had promised that he would never stray again. He had only done so because he had needs, and he claimed she did not enjoy that part of their relationship. He had gone to another woman because Connie had failed him and their marriage. She hadn’t meant to, but she hadn’t kept count of the times they shared a bed the way that, apparently, he had.

She moved too quickly across the hall. Then she heard him falling into step behind her and she started, turning to look back at him in surprise.

His smile was soft, but it did not reach his eyes. “You have two hours . . . more. I know it does not take you that long. Let’s sit in the parlor and take a glass of sherry.” His gaze was searching.

She wet her lips. It was on the tip of her tongue to accept, but of course, one never imbibed before an evening affair—otherwise one might become inebriated before the evening was done. “I have a migraine. I was thinking to lie down for a half hour, and I do want to check on the girls.”

“The girls are fine. Charlotte is in the kitchen, making a mess of her dinner; there are peas and jelly all over the table. Lucy is sound asleep.” His gaze did not waver.

“I . . . ” she started and faltered.

“Let’s have a glass of sherry,” he said, more firmly—and she knew it was a husbandly command.

Connie had never refused him before. An image of him with another woman came to mind, and with it the knowledge that it was all her fault. A good wife saw to her husband’s needs, all of them, circumventing any chance of betrayal, disappointment, and grief.

“I have a migraine,” she whispered—a blatant lie. And she did not even know herself anymore, for she did not mean to lie and she did not mean to avoid him.

Disappointment flooded his face. “I am sorry,” he said, too politely. “Is there anything I can do?”

She smiled as politely—it felt brittle, like plaster. “A nap should be enough, but thank you.”

He stepped back and bowed.

Relieved—horrified—she hurried up a wide oak staircase with an Oriental runner and a bronze railing. Tears seemed to fill her eyes. What was she doing? Why was she behaving this way? She glanced down from the first landing and saw him in the foyer, staring up at her, looking grim. Her heart quickened with more worry and more fear. She meant to smile down at him; instead, she looked away.

“Connie?” he called up to her.

She faltered between steps and glanced down. He was so handsome and she loved him so much that her heart hurt her with a sudden and unbearable pang. “Yes?”

“So whom did you have lunch with?” he asked.

He had canceled his plans for the evening. Suddenly his interest in an affair to support the new public library on 40th Street seemed boring as all hell, when he was an active supporter of a few select charities, mostly those connected
with the arts. He had also sent word to Alfred that he wished all of the servants dismissed; Cook was to leave him his supper cooked and warmed in the kitchen, and Alfred was to open the 1882 Château Figeac and decant it.

Hart knew they thought him eccentric; he knew that, behind his back, they gossiped about his habits, his wardrobe, his women, his wealth, and his art. The housemaids tiptoed around him wide-eyed, clearly expecting him to ravish them in their tracks. (He had never and would never seduce a woman in his employ. And housemaids did not run to his taste, anyway.) Once, he had returned unexpectedly and had found several servants in the master suite, ogling the nude there, shocked and scandalized, as the oil was quite graphic. Upon realizing he was present, they had fled as if he were a cyclone and they were afraid for their lives.

He had had the most pleasant luncheon with Lady Montrose, so there was only one explanation for his humor having become foul—and that was her sharp-tongued bluestocking sister. He refused to think about Francesca Cahill now, as doing so annoyed him—he could not think of her without also thinking of his oh, so noble half brother, the epitome of virtue, Rick Bragg. How they truly deserved each other, but unfortunately, Rick was shackled by his bitch-wife, Leigh Anne.

Hart realized that his coach had stopped in front of the fifteen-room house he had just purchased. It had been built thirty years ago in the Georgian style, and it took up the corner of Fifth Avenue and 18th Street. He began to relax as he let Raoul open the door for him. He nodded at his driver, who merely grunted in reply. As Raoul slammed the carriage door shut, Hart said, “I will be several hours.” He glanced at his pocket watch. It was solid gold, and diamonds glittered around the bezel. “Be back at ten
P.M.,”
he instructed.

Raoul’s answer was another grunt, but his eyes gleamed. He knew what his employer was about.

Hart’s pace increased and he began to smile. He was genuinely fond of Daisy, and she was, on the surface, the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. She was also one of the most talented in bed, and her responses were genuine. He was very pleased to have reached an arrangement with her—she would be his mistress exclusively for a six-month period, after which she would be rewarded so handsomely she could leave her life of whoring behind. Of course, they had the option of renewing their agreement in six months, but Hart knew she would be eager to remain with him. He had the tendency to tire of women within several months, and he doubted he would wish for their arrangement to continue.

He walked up the pretty stone path leading to the front steps of the red brick mansion, noting that it was icy and had yet to be salted. Daisy had only moved in yesterday; still, even though she never discussed her past, he knew she had come from a good family and there was no reason for her not to have ordered a servant to sweep and salt the path. He knocked on the door.

It was opened after several minutes. “Yes?” a butler whom he did not recognize intoned.

Hart walked in and gave the man a cold stare. “I own this house and everything in it,” he said softly. “Make sure there is a doorman at this door the next time I arrive.”

The butler blanched. “I am sorry, sir,” he said. “Mr. Hart.” He bowed.

Hart did not even ask his name. “Where is Miss Jones?”

“In the salon, sir. She is—” He stopped as Hart shrugged off his coat, which the butler promptly took. Hart handed him his gold-tipped cane, which was for show only, and strode across the unpolished beige marble floors. He knocked once, something softening just a bit inside of
him, and then he stepped inside, not waiting for Daisy’s response.

His response to her was almost immediate. She was standing in the middle of the half-furnished salon, clad in a stunning dress that was the palest, softest shade of pink imaginable—it matched her lips, which she never rouged, as their natural tone was perfect. Daisy was ethereal. She was slender, her skin the palest ivory, her hair the color of moonlight. She appeared fragile and delicate, but so breathtaking in beauty that sometimes it hurt to look at her face. For ultimately, it was her face that was magnificent: it was triangular, her lips lush and full and dominant, her nose small and perfect, her eyes wide and childlike. Her cheekbones were very high, hinting at some Slavic ancestry. He had never seen a man glance at her and look away—it was simply impossible.

She was also good-hearted.

Now, he studied her, noting in a glance that her dress was perfectly respectable—and that pleased him no end. He hated mistresses who flaunted their station in life. In fact, Daisy had a natural elegance—even starkly naked, her mouth on him, there was something regal and graceful about her.

She turned as he entered. Her blue eyes widened and she cried in her soft, breathy voice, a voice that was childish and belied her extreme intelligence, “Calder!”