Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (30 page)

“Are you accusing me of something?” Lydia finally asked, her expression strained.

“It is not a crime to go to a funeral,” Francesca returned.

“The only funeral I have recently been to was that of my mother-in-law.”

“I am sorry,” Francesca said.

“Yes, so am I. The murder was a senseless one.”

Francesca blinked. “Your mother-in-law was
murdered
?”

Lydia seemed taken aback. “Yes. I thought you knew.”

“I had no idea,” Francesca said. And her calm was only surface deep.

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
11, 1902—
NOON

Francesca could not believe her ears. “How was she killed?” she asked. “And more important, why?”

Lydia glanced toward the room they had just left. “As I said, it was senseless. She was an elderly woman, and a bedchamber sneak was at his work. The police decided she had caught him trying to lift one or two of her jewels. Unfortunately, the crook, who was never caught, stabbed her in the back before fleeing.”

Francesca stared. “How unusual. Most sneaks simply steal. Most are not even armed. Why kill an old lady when you could simply outrun her?”

“I do not know,” Lydia said. “Poor Lincoln. He was so distraught. We never went to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon as we had planned.”

“I am sorry,” Francesca said, her blood thrumming within her. She had to search the house. She did not know what she might be looking for, but all was off-kilter here. “And you must have been distraught as well.”

“I have yet to recover,” Lydia said. “She was such a kind lady. I lost my own mother when I was a child; it was so nice having Dorothea about. Now, is that all? I do believe we need more lemons for our tea.”

Francesca smiled, but it was superficial. Previously, Lydia had not seemed fond of her mother-in-law. “I am
sorry to be so nosey,” she said. And as Lydia turned away, Francesca thought of how eager she was to tell Bragg!

“Well?” Maggie Kennedy asked breathlessly. “What do you think?”

Francesca could only gape at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her dressing room.

“Miss Cahill? You do like it?” Maggie asked with worry.

Francesca stared. “This is not me,” she managed. The woman she regarded was a vision, a bold and daring vision in dark red. She was a temptress, a seductress—there was nothing intellectual about her. The woman she stared at now was not a reformer or a bluestocking. She was a woman who had but one thought: to turn male heads.

“You are so beautiful like this,” Maggie whispered. “But perhaps it is a bit much.”

The gown was bare and fitted. Francesca felt extremely naked, as the bodice was low, the vee very deep, and, more important, both the body and the short sleeves attached to it were a very sheer layer of fabric, the bodice lined with lace. But more significantly, the red silk, which had a snakelike pattern upon it, slithered over her hips and backside and thighs before flaring out gracefully at the hem. Most evening gowns had much fuller skirts. “I look like my sister.”

“Not really.” Maggie met her regard in the mirror. “Connie is so . . . polished . . . and . . . cool. There is nothing cold about this.”

Francesca trembled. “Everyone will stare.”

“Yes, they will.”

Bragg would faint when he saw her, she thought. Then she felt a small thrill begin deep within her. No, he would not faint, but he would never be able to say “no” to her again when she was in his arms.

Hart would be admiring as well.

She tensed. She had not seen him since she had slapped his face. Was he still angry? She had the unfortunate feeling that he was the kind of man to harbor a grudge. She did not look forward to crossing his path that night.

“Can I loosen your hair? It is too tightly pulled back.”

Francesca hesitated, then thought,
Why not?
Unlike most women, she hated having her hair done, and her solution was to pull her long hair into a tight chignon. Fashion dictated a much softer style, with the hair rolled and waved and swept softly back into a chignon or a roll.

“I can curl it,” Maggie said. She came to stand directly behind Francesca. “We have time. It’s five-thirty.”

Francesca was due at the Channings’ at seven; they most certainly did have time. Maggie had wanted her to try on the dress early in case it needed another dart or two. But it fit perfectly. No last-minute alterations were necessary. “All right. I shall go all out for this one single night.”

Maggie smiled at her.

There was a knock on her door and at the very same time Evan poked his head inside. “Fran, have you seen—” He stopped. He straightened, blinking at her.

“Please, if you say anything at all, be kind!” Francesca cried, facing him. “I feel a bit like a little girl dressed up to play grown-up!”

Evan’s eyes remained wide, but admiration filled them. He whistled. “I never imagined that you could look like this. You will break a hundred hearts tonight.”

She had to smile. “Do you think so?” There was only one heart she was interested in, and breaking it was not on her agenda.

“I know so,” he said. He smiled at Maggie. “This is your handiwork?”

Maggie nodded, flushed with pleasure. “Yes, sir, it is.”

“Will you please call me Evan?” he cried with exasperation and a smile. “Mrs. Kennedy?”

She smiled a little but ducked her head. “I shall try,” she said.

“Mrs. Kennedy, I was actually wondering if I might take the boys for a sleigh ride again tomorrow. They did enjoy themselves today.” He smiled at her.

“You are very kind to them. I have no objections,” she said.

“Perhaps you might wish to join us? Say, around noon?”

“Oh!” Maggie looked at him, startled. “I simply cannot. I have Miss Cahill’s wardrobe to finish and—”

If Francesca did not know better, she would think an odd romantic chemistry existed between her brother and Maggie. But Francesca knew it did not, as he was a man who enjoyed the attention of the most beautiful and elegant women—women like Bartolla Benevente and his mistress, the actress Grace Conway. Maggie was pretty, but she was a seamstress, and Evan would never look twice at such a woman romantically.

Francesca interrupted them. “Maggie, I should love it if you went sledding with my brother and your children. It would be a perfect escape from all that has happened. In fact, it would be so much fun that if I were invited, I should also join you.”

Evan grinned at her, promptly embracing her in a huge bear hug, one that crushed her ribs and swept her off her feet.

“Evan!” she protested. “My dress!”

“Oh ho!” He laughed at her. “So now it is your dress?” He winked at Maggie. “Well done, we shall reform
her
yet. At noon, then.” Smiling, he strode out, forgetting to close the door behind him.

Francesca had to laugh, but nervously. However, Evan would never lie to her, and if he approved of her gown, why, then so be it.

“Your hair,” Maggie said, sounding breathless.

Francesca whirled and stared, but Maggie was looking away.

Francesca entered the ballroom on Evan’s arm, behind her parents. He was grinning proudly as he led her in, and Francesca had never felt quite so good, especially not at a fete like this one. Julia was also extremely pleased; at the sight of Francesca in her Chinese red ball gown, a slender chain with a pearl-and-diamond pendant about her neck, and her hair done so correctly and sweetly, she had stared as if gazing upon a stranger. She had even whispered, in stunned surprise, “Francesca? Is that
you
?”

For once, Francesca had been happy to have her mother’s approval. It was an odd feeling to have.

They were a few minutes late, and as they greeted Sarah, her mother, and Bartolla, the guest of honor, Francesca saw that the ballroom was quickly filling up. Not far from where they stood, she saw Connie and Montrose. They were not alone; Connie was smiling and chatting with several of their friends, but Neil seemed stiff and unhappy.

Guilt assailed Francesca. She had forgotten all about calling on him. Clearly all of their troubles were not solved, and a sudden determination to help them through this patch filled her.

“My, Francesca. That is a stunning gown.”

Francesca met Bartolla’s gaze. She was looking her over from head to foot, and she wasn’t smiling. Francesca was jolted, for she had an odd feeling that her new friend did not like seeing her in such a dress. “Thank you.”

“I must have the name of your seamstress,” Bartolla said, and then she smiled in her usual infectious manner. She was wearing a daring gold gown, a combination of satin and lace, with more diamonds than even Julia had on. The gold was not the most flattering color for her, but
she remained a beautiful woman, and men were glancing their way.

Suddenly Francesca caught a gentleman staring—and it almost seemed as if he was staring at
her.

But Francesca knew that was not the case and that she was mistaken.

“Is that my sister-in-law?” Montrose asked in her ear.

Francesca jumped, not having been aware of his approach. She noticed that Connie remained across the room with their group of friends, although she met Francesca’s eye, and she waved. Her expression was also incredulous. “Hello, Neil.” She took his hands impulsively and kissed his cheek firmly.

He drew back, surprised. But then, why should he not be? For years she had stammered and stuttered in his presence, and it was only a few weeks ago that she had walked in on him and his lover, catching them in the most intimate and unforgettable of acts. “What is this?” he asked. “Is this my little sister?”

“I have not changed. Do not let a dress fool you. How are you?”

His brief moment of amusement faded. “Why, I am fine,” he said.

She took his arm and they started to stroll around the room. White-coated waiters were serving flutes of champagne and glasses of punch; other white-jacketed waiters were passing hors d’oeuvres. Dinner would be served at eight—in the adjacent room, fifty tables were set with white linens, flowers, silver, and crystal. Several guests called out to Neil as they passed, and Francesca became aware of stares being directed at her. “You don’t look fine,” Francesca said frankly. “Neil, am I being stared at?”

They paused. His smile was brief and tired. “Of course you are being stared at. Tonight you are the most beautiful woman in this room. Bar none.”

Francesca met his warm turquoise gaze and realized
how much she had changed. Once, and it felt so long ago, she had been infatuated with this man. In her own way, as the younger sister, she had fallen hopelessly in love with him the moment she had met him, which was within minutes of his introduction to Connie. For years, Francesca had adored him. Until last month, in fact, when she had discovered his dastardly and unconscionable secret.

“You know, a month or so ago, I would have died to hear such genuine admiration from you.”

“You have changed,” he agreed. “The little girl has become a mature—and confident—woman.”

She did blush. “Thank you, Neil. But it is you I wish to discuss.”

His eyes darkened. “And you have
not
changed. Francesca, I do not wish to discuss myself—or my personal affairs—with you. Please, this once, do not meddle.”

“I want to help, Neil.”

He just looked at her. He could have said, “You have done enough,” but he did not. After all, she had been the one to tell Connie about his affair, but of course Connie had suspected, and she had demanded that Francesca reveal what she knew.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said, looking grim. And suddenly he stiffened.

Francesca turned so she might see why he had become so tense, and she saw Hart pausing before Connie and her group. Her heart jumped.

And that did annoy her.

Connie was allowing him to kiss her hand. Hart did so, and whatever it was that he said, Connie smiled. Instantly Neil started forward.

Francesca grabbed his arm, halting him. “Neil, you do not have to worry about Hart.”

“Oh, no? Tonight we shall have this out; I am certain of it.”

“Neil! Listen to me,” Francesca pleaded, low. “I spoke to Hart. He will not pursue Connie. I am certain of it.”

Neil actually looked at her, when he had been staring at his wife and Hart. “What?”

Francesca repeated what she had said.

“And you believe him? The man has not one moral bone in his body. He is a liar through and through. He senses Connie is vulnerable now to his efforts, and he is ruthlessly pursuing her.” His smile was dangerous.

She still held his arm. Francesca felt a tremor go through him. “You really love her, don’t you?”

He met her gaze. “Yes, I do. And God help me, because I have lost her.”

His words, and worse, his tone, thoroughly alarmed her. “She loves you, Neil. But she needs some time to find her feelings again. She has been hurt.”

“Do you think I do not know that? God! I wish I could undo what I did; I do!” he cried.

Francesca could not help herself as she studied his anguished face. “Why? Why did you go to another woman?”

The anguish disappeared; his face closed. “That is not your affair,” he said, and he pulled free of her grasp and stalked away—toward his wife, Hart, and the others in their midst.

Francesca hesitated when she realized that Hart was staring at her. The moment their gazes met, he turned his back to her. Her pulse rioted.

She tried to compose herself. He was the last person she wished to see. Truly. But she would have to get her apology over with and, more important, forestall any battle between him and Montrose. Francesca hurried after her brother-in-law, feeling a bit as if she were approaching an executioner.

As she approached Connie and Hart’s group, she felt every eye turn to her, except of course for those of Hart, who kept his back to her. She watched Montrose walk over
to Connie, and he put his arm around her, a bit roughly, because Connie gasped. “Hart,” he said coldly.

Hart sighed—as if resigned and bored. “Montrose.” His back was partly to Francesca.