Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (33 page)

Francesca hugged herself. “What do you mean, Bartolla?”

“It means there is still passion there. If she is still angry with him, after all of these years, wouldn’t you agree?”

Francesca heard her and thought about Bragg’s reaction to the small dark-haired woman who had walked down the hall. She felt ill and afraid. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “There is still passion there.” And she could only pray that it was hatred.

Bartolla patted her back. “They haven’t seen each other in four years. I wouldn’t worry about it now.”

Francesca forced a smile. Then, behind Bartolla, she saw Sarah approaching swiftly, a delighted smile on her face—and with her was Calder Hart. Dismay filled her. She was upset—he would see. She had been making love—he would see that, too, in a heartbeat.

“Francesca! Bartolla! Mr. Hart has invited us to see his collection of art. At any time!” Sarah cried, smiling widely.

Francesca could not summon up even the tightest of smiles in return. With dread, she finally looked past Sarah.

Hart’s face was impossible to read. But his eyes moved over her features slowly, and clearly he was taking inventory. Then he looked at her shoulders, her chest, her bosom, her hips. His gaze ended at her toes.

Francesca couldn’t be more dismayed. She said, “Why, that is wonderful, Sarah.” She had to cry. She did not know why. But where could she go to do so?

“Your shoes are black,” Hart said calmly.

Francesca had never had the chance to order shoes to match her dress. Her black slippers were far too heavy for her gown, but she had hoped no one would notice, and she had forgotten about it. She found herself meeting Hart’s eyes. “Yes,” she said, and her tone sounded husky with unshed tears. “Sarah is as passionate about art as you are,” she managed.

His implacable, unreadable expression remained. “So she has told me.”

Bartolla sighed with impatience. “Sarah? Isn’t there something else you wish to say to Mr. Hart?”

Sarah flushed. She gazed up at Hart with admiration. “I actually paint a bit.”

His gaze had remained on Francesca. In fact, their stares were locked. If she cried now, she would surely die. She must not let Hart see that she was upset. But he turned to Sarah and he did smile. “I know.”

Sarah was surprised. “But . . . how do you know?”

His expression finally softened. “An interesting portrait of three children playing beneath the el caught my eye at the Gallery Hague. I inquired about it, and was told that the artist was a Miss Sarah Channing.”

Sarah stared in amazement.

“You have talent, Miss Channing,” Hart said. “In a few years I would expect to see a certain maturity in your work which you cannot possibly now possess, given your age and experience.”

Sarah flushed with pleasure. “I would love to give you the painting, Mr. Hart. That is, if you should decide you would want it.”

“Hague thinks he shall sell it. Although I appreciate the offer and I did like it, I suggest you let him make a first sale for you.”

Sarah nodded, but she seemed a bit dismayed that he did not want the painting.

Francesca wanted to tell Hart to take the painting. But
instead, she kept thinking about Leigh Anne now, who was but a half a day away. If she came to town, no good would come of it—of that she had no doubt. Still, Bragg was in love with
her.
Not his wife.

And to make matters worse, she was acutely conscious of the dark, powerful man standing with her now. She did not have to look at him to feel his presence, his aura.

“Sarah is brilliant, I think,” Bartolla said. “Her portraits are simply marvelous.”

“Yes, they are,” Francesca said, but she had not drawn Hart’s gaze by speaking, she realized, looking his way again. For he continued to stare at her. “Her portrait of Bartolla is more than lovely. She managed to capture her soul, I think, there on canvas.” How tremulous her tone was.

“Really,” Hart said, his gaze unwavering upon her.

“Yes,” Francesca returned unevenly, lifting her chin.

“Portraits of women are my favorite subject,” Sarah said eagerly. “I do not know why, but I am always determined to capture the real essence of the person I am painting, and not just the exterior. It can be quite the challenge.”

Hart turned to her. “Perhaps I shall commission a portrait,” he said thoughtfully.

Sarah froze, her eyes wide and stunned.

“You should do so, Hart,” Bartolla said frankly. “You would not be disappointed.”

Francesca forgot about herself. Sarah was immobilized with shock, hope, and excitement. Francesca realized what it would mean to her career if Hart did commission a portrait. He was a premier collector in the world. His single stamp of approval might well escalate her overnight into stardom and success.

“Would you do a portrait for me?” Hart asked, his gaze only on Sarah now.

“Of course!” she gasped.

“We could discuss the price at another time.”

“I would do it for nothing!” Sarah cried, and she was trembling visibly.

His smile was shockingly gentle. “Miss Channing, I shall purchase the portrait.”

Sarah simply could not speak.

Francesca was happy for her. She hugged her. “This is wonderful.” She looked at Hart. “You are kind after all.”

His gaze was cool. “No, I’m not.”

Francesca did not like his words, his tone, or his expression. An instinct warned her that a deadly blow was coming.

Bartolla laughed. “Oh ho. I sense an explosion.” She was gleeful. “So who is the subject of the portrait, Hart?”

Hart smiled tightly at her, and then he directed his black stare at Francesca. “Miss Cahill.”

Francesca froze.

“Like that. In that red dress, with her hair hastily put up, with her bodice askew. Exactly like that.”

Francesca was so stunned that she could only stare.

Hart stalked away.

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
11, 1902—9:00
P.M.

Francesca was seated at a table with Bartolla, Sarah, and her brother. A young, recently affianced couple was at the table, John and Lisa Blackwell. It was a bit distracting, as they seemed terribly in love. Two gentlemen rounded out the seating arrangements, and one of them was Hart. Francesca knew that her mother was behind this.

They had been ushered in to sit about a half an hour ago, and a first course of caviar and blinis had been served with more crisp and icy champagne. Hart hadn’t looked at her or spoken to her once, and he and John Blackwell were discussing various dangerous political situations in the regions where their companies shipped and had offices.

Francesca had a splitting headache. Still, it was interesting to learn Hart frequented places like Hong Kong and Constantinople. If she were not so aggravated, she would ask about the current ruling kingdom in Arabia, as his caravans passed through that desert land as well. But she was not about to participate in their conversation, oh no. She knew Hart had no intention of commissioning her portrait. That had been his ugly way of telling her that he knew what had happened to her gown and hair and that he disapproved. As if she cared what he thought of her behavior! But it was extremely cold of him—for poor Sarah remained flushed with her expectation now. Francesca imagined that Sarah was already planning how to pose Francesca for the portrait. Not that she would sit for
a portrait for him anyway—not under any circumstances.

Bartolla caught her eye and smiled at her; Francesca could not manage to smile back.

She wondered if she should make an excuse and simply go home for the rest of the evening. What had happened between her and Bragg had shaken her to the core—a part of her was clinging to the memory of being in his arms as if it were the most important event of her life, which was odd. And she also remained shaken by his reaction to the woman who resembled his wife. Francesca wished that had not happened tonight of all nights.

“Fran, you are very quiet tonight,” Evan remarked when John Blackwell and Hart fell silent, each taking a sip of his respective flute of champagne. They had been discussing the possibility of several tribes going to war in Arabia and how it would affect their business there.

“I have had a long day,” Francesca said. “It is catching up with me.”

Hart finally looked at her.

Francesca looked back, keeping her expression as impassive as his—or so she hoped.

It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but the tension between them was unbearable, truly. It was like having a mass of highly powered black energy on her right side. She was afraid to move for fear of touching him. And with Sarah on his other side, there was simply no way for her to take him to task for his behavior or to ask him why they were still at odds.

They should not be at odds. They had settled the issue of her having struck him yesterday.

Bartolla said, “So when shall you sit for Hart’s portrait, Francesca?”

Hart seemed to smile at her. He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

Francesca felt like throttling the other woman. “I have no idea.”

“We could begin tomorrow,” Sarah said eagerly.

“You are an artist?” Lisa Blackwell asked with wide brown eyes. She was a pretty woman with honey-colored hair, and Francesca had never seen two people more in love than Lisa and John. More important, there was something frank about her, for she had no pretensions, as most women did. Every few seconds Blackwell would smile softly at her and she would smile back.

Sarah said softly, “Yes.”

“She is brilliant,” Bartolla said firmly. “And Mr. Hart has commissioned a portrait of Francesca.”

“How wonderful,” Lisa said, looking from Hart to Francesca with suddenly wide eyes. And Francesca could almost hear the wedding bells ringing in her head.

“Well, well,” John Blackwell said. He was a bigger man than Hart, with dark black hair, although his skin was medium in coloring and his eyes were green. “Are we finally seeing the city’s most eligible bachelor take a fall?” He chuckled.

“You may call it what you will. I have merely had a sudden yearning for a portrait of Miss Cahill,” Hart said easily, his shoulder to Francesca, which was the same thing as giving her his back.

Francesca gave him a look that said,
Not in a million years.

Hart met her gaze and did not look away. While she was flustered and angry, he seemed cool and in control. She felt like kicking him until something bothered him, even if it were only her foot.

“I am so excited that I cannot breathe properly,” Sarah said. “Mr. Hart wishes to own a work of
mine.”

Evan was staring at her. “I guess that is amazing good luck.”

She turned to him, her eyes shining. “Oh, it is! And you have no idea just what it means to me.”

He stared and then smiled a little. “I am happy for you, Sarah.”

She did not look away. “Thank you, Evan.”

Suddenly Francesca saw Bragg making his way through the tables and toward one of the doorways leading out of the room. She stiffened; he had been seated some distance from her, at a table with the city’s most powerful leaders. Then her eyes widened when she saw Inspector Newman standing at the door, waiting for Bragg, his expression one of urgency.

He was back from Philadelphia.

Francesca jumped to her feet. “Excuse me. I shall be right back.” She smiled but at no one in particular, and trying not to run, she hurried after the two men, who had disappeared from view.

Bragg was listening with a grim expression and Newman was speaking urgently. Francesca reached Bragg’s side. “What is it?”

Bragg looked at her. “Well,” he said, his expression odd.

“Well what?” Francesca cried with real impatience. “Did you find Lizzie O’Brien?”

Bragg patted Newman’s shoulder and said to Francesca, “The address Lizzie gave Mary in order that they might correspond is a vacant home. A very well-to-do vacant home that is up for sale. It is up for sale because its owner recently married and moved to New York.”

It took Francesca a moment to comprehend him. “You mean that the house is owned by Lincoln Stuart?”

Bragg smiled. “Yes.”

Francesca was on pins and needles as she waited with Newman for Bragg to return to the library—with Lincoln and Lydia. An endless moment passed, and finally he entered with the couple. Lydia Stuart seemed wide-eyed and
anxious in her pale peach satin evening gown. Lincoln was demanding to know what this was about.

“Please, do sit down,” Bragg said quietly, gesturing at the couch.

“I have no desire to sit,” Lincoln said stiffly. “I wish to know why my wife and I have been hauled away from our table!”

“You have been asked to meet with me in order that I may ask you some questions, Mr. Stuart,” Bragg said calmly. “I am working round-the-clock on a police investigation, one on which you or your wife may shed some light.”

Lincoln glared. “I know nothing about any investigation,” he said.

“Nor do I,” Lydia whispered, now ashen.

Bragg said, “Mr. Stuart, do you have a house up for sale at Number Two-thirty-six Harold Square in Philadelphia?”

Lincoln blinked. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Please, answer the question.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You are the owner of that house?”

“Yes. Haven’t I just said so?”

“How long did you live there, Mr. Stuart?” Bragg ignored his rather nasty tone.

“Two years. What is this about?”

“Did you have a woman named Lizzie O’Brien in your employ?”

“No,” he snapped.

Bragg waited a beat, then said softly, “Are you quite certain?”

“Very. We keep a staff of three. Our driver, Tom, our cook, Giselle, and one housemaid. Her name is not Lizzie. It is Jane.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Bragg looked at Lydia. “Mrs. Stuart? There has never
been, not even temporarily, a woman named Lizzie O’Brien in your employ?”

Lydia shook her head. “I must sit down,” she said, looking faint. She sank onto the gold sofa. “Have we done something wrong?” she whispered.

“No.” Bragg smiled reassuringly at her.