Deadly Kisses (7 page)

“Mama! Hart is innocent!”

Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won't even matter.”

 

F
RANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY
to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn't been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.

He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D'Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia University, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.

Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.

Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer's fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”

“Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart's art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”

“I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D'Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.

Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.

“Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”

“Alfred, that's quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland's visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”

Alfred seemed surprised. “Of course, Miss Cahill.”

“You were here, were you not, when Mr. Hart arrived home last night?”

“I most certainly was. I let him in.”

That was a relief, Francesca thought. “Do you recall the hour?”

“It was a minute or two after the hour of eight o'clock—I happened to glance at the clock in his study, which is where he went directly upon arriving.”

“And then what, Alfred? Did you bring him supper? Did you help him hail a cab when he left?”

“He told me he did not wish to be disturbed.”

Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what time he left the house last night?”

Alfred shook his head. “I did not see Mr. Hart again until this morning, Miss Cahill. When he gives an order to be left alone, it is my responsibility to ensure that no one—not even family—intrudes upon his privacy.”

Francesca almost moaned. Her heart raced. “You are telling me that no one in this house saw him after he arrived at eight?”

“I am the only one who saw him come in, Miss Cahill, and yes, he secluded himself in the library for the evening. Frankly, I had no idea that he even went out.”

Francesca felt despair.

“Miss Cahill?” Alfred was clearly bewildered and worried now.

She stared at him, wondering if she dared ask him to lie for Hart. “Alfred, the police may wish to speak with you. They may ask you the same questions I have.”

His gaze widened. It was a moment before he spoke. “I see. And what should I say to them?”

Was she really going to do this? She believed in the truth and the law! But Hart was innocent, and until the real killer was found, he was in jeopardy. “Perhaps you might suggest that you waited on Hart that evening,” she heard herself say. “Once
or twice. He did go out that evening—he went out at half past eleven.”

“Very well,” Alfred said with resolve.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.

Almost unable to believe what she was doing to protect her fiancé, Francesca went down the hall. She had to find the real killer immediately, so these lies could stop. Hart's library was a huge, dark but pleasant room. Books lined three of the walls, but a number of windows and glass doors opened out onto the back gardens, showing a view of the tennis courts. His desk was at the far end. Francesca turned on a lamp and went to it.

The jacket he had worn the night before was on the back of his chair. Francesca hesitated, her gaze drawn to the stain on the right side of it. It was obviously dried blood.

Last night, he had gone into this room before going upstairs to bed. Francesca could imagine him removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and pouring himself a Scotch, the drink he preferred. Her eyes now found an empty crystal glass. Had he sat there, hunched over his drink, brooding about Daisy's death?

She shook her head. Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy's murder?

Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.

“Francesca?”

She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg's warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.

He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn't mean to frighten you,”
he said, coming into the room. He was Hart's stepbrother but Rick Bragg's half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.

Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I'm sorry! You didn't frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”

“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.

Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven't heard.”

Warily, he said, “I haven't heard what?”

“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”

He was clearly shocked.

“You haven't seen Hart?”

“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”

She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”

Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don't tell me. He is the prime suspect?”

“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”

Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”

“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”

Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated,
glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy's at that hour?”

Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart's desk and sat down in his chair.

Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don't happen to know what that reason is.”

“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke's grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn't helping his case.”

Rourke paled. “No, I don't think he went to Daisy's for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart's desk. “Calder won't explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”

Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”

Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart's innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn't been at Daisy's last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”

He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy's last night.”

Francesca was startled. Rourke's words made sense. Hart
had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn't know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn't accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.

“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”

“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”

“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can't imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.

Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”

Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”

Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”

She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”

He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it's my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”

Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was
blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”

“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.

Francesca's brows rose. Most of the city's residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”

He glanced away. “I haven't seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”

Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”

Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”

Francesca handed him the note, which she had folded in half. “Oh, I will. How about Saturday evening at seven, say at the Sherry Netherland?”

“You can be so transparent, Francesca!”