Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (39 page)

She shivered again and told herself that was not a fair judgment to make. Hart’s mode of dress, his mansion, his coaches and staff, his art collection, why, all of it was very civilized indeed.

Then she amended her thoughts. A few of his paintings were not civilized, as they were too titillating and sensual to be so.

He returned and handed the glass to her. “Drink that. You are staring.”

She felt herself flush. “You have always struck me as an interesting man.”

He seemed startled, and then his eyes softened. “I have been called a lot of things, but never interesting.”

“I am not trying to be rude.”

“I know, Francesca. I know you far better than you think. Drink.” He nodded at the glass.

“Calder, this is whiskey,” she said.

He finally smiled just a little, mostly with his eyes. “You are the kind of woman who should love a good glass of scotch, Francesca. You may trust me on that.”

She blinked at him, stunned. The idea was vastly appealing, as women did not drink anything other than wine, champagne, punch, or sherry. Julia would faint if she ever knew.

That did please Francesca, and she took a sip of scotch
and almost choked. Hart chuckled and slid his hand over her back, as if to pat her the way one did an infant. Instead, his hand did not move as the scotch burned its way down her throat and right to her belly. But there was something delicious about the fiery flavor on the tip of her tongue, just as there was something very disturbing about his hand on her back. She looked at him and tried another sip. “You might make me a drunkard,” she tried lightly.

He watched her, his eyes hooded, not responding.

His palm burned her back the way the scotch unfurled its warmth deep inside of her. “This is rather good,” she said somewhat huskily.

“It is.” He did not say, “I told you,” although his eyes expressed such a thought. “You are the kind of woman, Francesca, who would even enjoy a Havana cigar,” he said softly.

She had taken a third sip of scotch. She somehow did not choke, vastly enjoying the flavor now, as he removed his hand from her spine. “Are you suggesting that I smoke?” she gasped.

His smile was faint, his gaze steady. “No.”

“But you said,” she began, wide-eyed.

“I have not a single doubt that in time you will enjoy a good cigar,” he finished for her.

She was stunned. There were a few women who smoked cigarettes. But to smoke a cigar? Like a man? She met his eyes, breathless. “Am I mannish to you, Calder?”

He looked at her. “Hardly.” His eyes changed.

She froze. She understood the glint there, for she had seen it last night, but last night she had appeared to be a temptress in a dark red dress, and today she was ill and in pain. Today there was simply no reason for him to look at her in such a speculative and predatory way.

He stood abruptly, and relief flooded her. “Tell me what happened, and do not think to omit any details.”

It was a moment before she could speak, as her mind,
now a bit fuzzy from the scotch, was focused on him and his feral interest. What was this? And why did it bother her so? Other men had been interested in her, and she had not given a hoot or a single thought to them. Besides, Hart was her friend. He had even said he had no intentions toward her. She recalled the very obvious fact that he liked married women, divorcees, and prostitutes like Daisy and Rose, but the knowledge did not bring relief. She simply could not relax around him.

“Well? What happened?” he asked tersely.

His hands were on his narrow hips. He stood a few feet from her, which meant that he towered over her, as she was seated. Francesca gave up. She did not have the strength or the will to stand and confront him, and it was wonderful to have him play the protector, anyway.

“Do not badger me, Hart,” she said lightly. She realized the scotch had done its job, as while her hand throbbed, it no longer was an effort to ignore it. “When I realized that a police officer had brought Bragg news, I left the Channing ball to go with him to search the Stuarts’ house. He arrested Lincoln. We thought the case solved. I came home, only to find Maggie Kennedy being attacked. As there was a knife being held to her throat and as Lydia Stuart, who is really Lizzie O’Brien, had already killed her two other friends, I dared not take any chances. She made me drop my gun. When I realized she was about to kill Maggie, the only thing I could possibly do was seize a log from the fire and try to set her aflame.”

He stared. His jaw was hard and it was a long moment before he spoke. “Francesca, only you would be so incredibly courageous.”

She flushed with pleasure, unable to control it or deny it. “I like it when you compliment me, Calder.”

He shot to his feet. “Don’t flirt with me now!” he cried.

Had she been flirting? She blinked at him. She supposed that she had.

“I cannot believe that my brother allows you to involve yourself in his dangerous police work,” he said flatly. “I suppose the time has come to beat some sense into him.”

Awkwardly she stood up. His hand shot out, grabbing her elbow to steady her. “I am off balance,” she said. Suddenly she realized that if Julia saw her now, she would never allow Hart close to her again. And Julia’s absurd plans to match them romantically would fail.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked suspiciously.

And then they could return to being normal friends, without her worrying about anything else. “Am I smiling?”

He sighed, not releasing her. “I suppose the pain made the scotch go right to your head.” He eyed her, not pleased.

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“Yes, I suppose it was. But you are grinning at me. Your mother will not be pleased.”

Her smile vanished and she felt it. “You are always so clever.”

“What does that have to do with anything? In any case, I must insist that you give up this ridiculous sleuthing of yours.”

She tried to pull her arm free and failed. All she did was stumble a bit. He righted her instantly. “Hart, you cannot insist upon anything where I am concerned.”

He smiled, and it was dangerous. “Oh, really?”

Alarm bells went off. What would he do? He had no morals, no compunction, none! He might have a tête-á-tête with Bragg. And the two brothers could take sides against her. Worse, Hart might have such a discussion with Julia and/or Andrew. Francesca cringed inwardly at the thought. “I can hardly confront a criminal right now,” she said breathlessly. “And I do resent your interference.”

He was clearly exasperated. “I hardly care what you think of my so-called interference. Someone has to keep you in check. If Rick will not, then I shall do so, Francesca.”

She was incredulous. “But why?’

“Why?” he exploded. “You are determined to put yourself in harm’s way! Time and again! It is insufferable—unbelievable, actually! Why can’t you behave like other innocent young girls?”

“I am not a young girl,” she hissed, somehow pulling free of his hold at last. Her hands found her hips, and then pain shot through her burned palm, horridly, and she cried out, staggering blindly back.

He caught her in his embrace. “Jesus! See? You are suffering terribly!”

She fought the waves of pain, and she fought for control and composure. As the pain subsided, she realized he held her shoulders. She looked up. Tears filled her eyes, but still his face was but inches away and there was no mistaking the concern in his regard. “I am fine,” she gasped. “Release me.”

He hesitated.

“Please, Calder,” she whispered. The urge to cry had changed. It was no longer physical.

He released her.

She inhaled and somehow sat down. She felt as if she had been beaten with a club. “I am very tired,” she said, not looking up now.

“I apologize,” he said instantly. “Please forgive me, Francesca.”

She had to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

He sat down beside her and took her good hand in both of his. Francesca stiffened as a searing recollection struck her—Bragg had held her hand while seated exactly this way yesterday night, but in the other room, on a different sofa. “I will call on you tomorrow,” Hart said quietly. “I did not mean to cause you more pain.”

She tried to smile at him and failed.

“But I shall continue to insist that your sleuthing end, Francesca,” he warned. “As your friend, I must speak out.”

She was too tired to argue with him. She felt resigned. “Insist as you will, Hart.”

He tilted up her chin. “I can be a powerful ally, Francesca,” he said.

She looked into his smoky eyes, simply stunned.

He smiled a little at her and stood. He stared down at her and she could only stare back.

A long and silent moment passed.

After several minutes, Julia walked into the room, and Francesca was instantly suspicious. Her mother had been eavesdropping outside of the door—she felt certain of it. “Mr. Hart, can I offer you any refreshments? A cup of coffee? A brandy?” She beamed at him.

He smiled back politely. “I am on my way out. But thank you, Mrs. Cahill.”

Julia glanced briefly at Francesca and the scotch that sat on the low table by her knees. She smiled again at Hart. “My daughter can be too intelligent, and too headstrong, for her own good,” she remarked, and Francesca knew she had overheard most of their conversation.

Defiantly she lifted the scotch and drank it.

“I am in complete agreement with you,” Hart said easily, but there was laughter in his tone.

Francesca set the glass down loudly and saw them both watching her. “I am hardly in the other room,” she said sourly.

Julia turned to Hart. “She needs a strong hand.”

“I am hardly a horse,” Francesca muttered, but if they heard her, they did not acknowledge her now.

“Yes, she does,” Hart said calmly.

She scowled at him.

He bowed. “Good evening, Francesca. I will see you tomorrow.”

She had the childish urge not to reply. Instead, she sighed. “Good night, Calder.”

That seemed to please him, because the light flickered, changing, in his eyes.

“Let me walk you out,” Julia said.

He accepted that, and as they turned, Julia said, “So, Mr. Hart, would you care to join us this Sunday for supper? It shall be a simple family affair, with Evan and Miss Channing, Lord and Lady Montrose, Francesca, and my husband and I,” she said.

Francesca got awkwardly to her feet, disbelieving.

Hart halted. “I should be honored, Mrs. Cahill, to attend.”

“Then we have a date,” Julia said, pleased.

“Yes, we do, and I should not miss it for the world.” Hart did not look at Francesca again, and he and Julia exited the room.

She stared after them and felt her mouth hanging open. She closed it. Panic came.

She knew what Julia was up to, but now she had a bad feeling indeed.

She did not like Hart taking sides with her mother, and even though she reassured herself that nothing would come of it, her senses screamed at her otherwise.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY
13,1902—N
OON

Francesca had come downstairs, as was her habit for breakfast. But still weak from the burn, she had lain down in the music room afterward and promptly fallen asleep. She was in the midst of a bizarre dream—in it, a crowd had gathered around her, whispering and speculating, and she could not understand why. Hart was there, too darkly virile for words, her parents were there, conspiring against her now, and Bragg was present, determined to save her from some threat she could not quite comprehend. But there were children, too, whispering, their tones hushed and curious.

“Dot! No!”

Fingers jabbed her cheek and mouth.

“Don’t awaken her,” Bragg said in her dream. “She is sick and she needs her rest.”

“Frack! Frack!
Frack!”
Dot shrieked.

She wasn’t dreaming, Francesca thought, blinking. And the first thing she saw was Dot’s grinning face, an inch from her own.
“Frack!”
Dot screamed happily. “Wake!”

Francesca was fully awake but a bit groggy, and the pain of her burn was tolerable. She vaguely recalled her mother appearing at breakfast to insist that she take a dose of laudanum, and that she had fought over the amount of the medicine. She glanced past Dot and saw Bragg watching her anxiously. Behind him was Peter, holding onto Katie’s shoulders as if she might run away. He had a clump of something green in his short blond hair.

“Francesca? I see you are awake. The commissioner insisted on seeing you, and clearly it is not an official visit,” Julia intoned, not sounding pleased.

Francesca blinked and adjusted her vision and saw her mother on Bragg’s left, almost out of her range of eyesight. She struggled to sit up.

Bragg replaced Dot, sliding his hands behind her. They were warm, strong, and terribly familiar. She met his golden gaze and felt her heart melt like too-warm chocolate. “Thank you,” she whispered. “The children?”

He piled pillows behind her back and his hands seemed to linger. “Dot has been having tantrums, demanding to see Frack. I did not understand, but Peter appears to speak her language,” he told her so softly she doubted anyone else could hear. “It was a good excuse to call on you, Francesca.” His gaze was warm but worried. “How are you? Your mother says that you got up at eight today.”

“Yes, I did, although I have no idea why,” she said, overcome with the oddest relief. There was no one she needed more, she realized. And if only her mother would
leave, she would take his hand and clasp it to her breast. “But the pain is gone. Mama insisted I take laudanum.”

“You should. I hate seeing you in any pain whatsoever,” he said as softly. Then he straightened to his full height. “Katie,” he said sternly, “you may say hello to Francesca.”

Katie glared at him and then smiled angelically at Francesca. There was a huge space where one of her two front teeth had been.

“Bragg! She has lost two teeth!” Francesca cried.

Katie slowly opened her mouth wider for an inspection.

“Yes, you have lost two teeth, and I do hope the good tooth fairy has left a penny beneath your pillow.” Francesca smiled at her.