Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (11 page)

Bragg ignored that. “Let’s get back to the business at hand so I can leave. I would not mind ending my day today at a reasonable hour—in spite of Randall’s death.”

“And to think I thought you could not wait to leave me, as your little crime solver awaits you in the next room.” Hart laughed.

“I suggest you cease with your innuendos about Francesca,” Bragg said harshly.

“What? Will you lock me up or punch me?”

“The latter is becoming a difficult notion to resist, Calder. Francesca Cahill means well. She is also a young lady—meaning she is naive in a way you cannot even imagine. Leave her be, and do not shatter her illusions.”

“So now you are her champion,” Hart chuckled. “This is rich indeed!”

“I am no one’s champion; I merely do what must be done—what is right.” His eyes were almost black now. “Where were you, Calder, last night, between five and nine
P.M
.?” Bragg snapped, clearly in a foul temper now.

Hart laughed. “So I was right after all, knowing you as well as I do. Hart eleven, Bragg five hundred. You have come to see if your monstrously immoral brother has an alibi.”

“Do you?” He smiled too nicely and waited.

“I fear that I do. Thus I now ruin your day. Tsk-tsk.”

Anger flashed in Bragg’s eyes. “Let’s get this over with, why don’t we? As I have more to do than to stand here and spar with you. Just tell me where you were during those hours and whom you were with.”

“Very well.” He drank. “I was at my office until six-ten. My secretary can attest to that. His name is Brad Lewis.”

“And after that?”

“I was in my carriage, with my driver, Raoul. He left me around seven
P.M.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“At apartments on Third Avenue and Forty-eighth Street.” Hart grinned at him.

“Let me guess. Your mistress?”

“Hell, no. I keep
her
uptown, on Fourth Avenue, in a very fine manner. These ladies have an arrangement with their
landlord,
I believe. Their names are Rose and Daisy. Jones, I think, is their last name. They are sisters.” He laughed at that. “Or so they say.”

“You mean they are whores.”

He shrugged. “They are adept, and that is what counts.”

“At what time did you leave the … sisters?”

“A few minutes before nine. I was at White’s little fete, remember? That started at nine; I was actually rather prompt. I stayed until midnight, then went home.”

“When was the last time that you saw Randall?” Bragg asked.

“Tuesday night.” Hart shrugged.

“Really? I didn’t know the two of you had formed a friendship.”

“We hadn’t.” Hart looked at his watch. “I have appointments downtown, Bragg.”

“How timely. I will be but a moment more. Why did you see him, and where did this meeting take place?”

“As I am sure you will learn of it eventually, I will save you the time and the trouble of sleuthing. We met for dinner at the Republican Club, of which he is a member. As to why I saw him, it is none of your business. The meeting was extremely brief, actually.” Hart smiled, as if that memory was amusing.

“Actually, your relationship with him
is
my business, because he has been murdered, and you are at the top of my suspect list.” Bragg smiled—with pleasure.

“How loyal you are.”

“We both know how much you hated him. And I suppose the question is, did you hate him enough to murder him?”

“I have never kept my feelings a secret. I rarely do.” Hart finished his second drink of the morning. “And now I must go. Oh—and the answer is no.”

“Do not even think of leaving town, Hart. You are both an important link in my investigation as well as a suspect, and if you leave the city, I will have to call in the U.S. Marshal. I would also have to place you in custody.”

Hart pretended to shudder. “Oh, dear, and what would I do then?”

“I want your word,” Bragg said, ignoring his remark, “that you will not leave the city until I have given you permission to do so.”

Hart stared. “You have it, then. But I find it hard to believe that you would accept my word on anything.”

“Normally, I would not. But your father has been murdered, Hart, in cold blood. And as much as you claim to despise him, I believe that, if you did not kill him yourself, you do have some small conscience somewhere in that black heart of yours, and you will want to see this matter resolved more than anyone, even the widow.” Bragg nodded and walked out.

Hart stared after him. “You are wrong,” he said. But he spoke only to himself.

Francesca straightened breathlessly and faced her sister, who was wide-eyed. Did Bragg really suspect Hart of murdering his own father? And why did they seem to so dislike each other?

Connie whispered, “I feel sorry for Mr. Hart.”

Francesca stiffened. She did not like her sister having sympathetic feelings toward Hart.

And Bragg had seemed to defend her. While Hart kept making odd little remarks about her relationship with Bragg. Did he see or sense something that Francesca had also thought to be happening between them? She smiled a little then, to herself.

Then she realized that Bragg would be looking for her. Her eyes widened. “Come, Con,” she said, grabbing her hand and half-dragging her across the salon as quickly as she could.

But she was a bit late. Bragg stood in the entry, arms folded across his chest, his expression dark. But he wasn’t staring at the doorway they had just run through; he seemed to be staring at the floor. Francesca halted, trying not to sound out of breath.

Bragg was grim as he looked up at her. Francesca flinched but did not look away. Instantly she knew he was preoccupied, the unpleasant exchange with Hart firmly on his mind.

She decided to take advantage of his preoccupation. She touched his sleeve. “I apologize. I had no idea that Hart was Randall’s son.”

He met her gaze. “I know you didn’t, Francesca. You would not hurt a fly, if it could be avoided.”

She smiled a little at him. “Are … are you all right?”

His gaze was direct. “I am fine.”

She knew it was a lie. Briefly, she touched his sleeve.

He seemed surprised. Stirring, he said, “How much did you overhear?”

“Just … a little.” Was he so disturbed now that he did not realize she had been snooping in the other room? Francesca was ashamed of her behavior, but on the other hand, her heart melted for Bragg now. She did not think he hated Hart, but Hart clearly hated—or wanted to hate—him. “Hart is jealous of you, Bragg,” she said softly. “It is obvious.”

His brows lifted. “I doubt it. He has become one of the city’s millionaires. Prior to my appointment here, I worked as a lawyer in D.C., and half of my cases were criminal ones—defending those I believed to be innocent of the charges leveled against them. It was not a lucrative practice, Francesca. Hart has more now, in this brief moment, than I will ever have.”

“I admire you, Bragg,” she said, and then she flushed, as the words had just popped out, but they were so very true. His nobility moved her in so many ways, and perhaps it was one of the reasons she found him so attractive. Of course, he was a strikingly handsome man.

He started and their gazes locked.

Francesca did not move. She forgot that they were not alone. He said, softly, “Do not put me on a pedestal.”

“I won’t,” she returned as softly.

He smiled then; so did she.

Connie coughed, behind them, but Francesca remained motionless. She didn’t really hear Connie. Her heart was racing now. She had the oddest feeling that Bragg was going to reach out for her, perhaps to touch her.

But he did not. Instead, his hands found the pockets of his dark trousers. “The admiration is mutual,” he said finally, as if he had not heard Connie, either. And then it was as if he came to his senses. He frowned. “You have interfered with my investigation, Francesca. I simply cannot allow it.”

She swallowed. “I know. And I am sorry.”

“Really? I do not think you have one sorry bone in your body,” he said, but he was not angry.

She inhaled hard, debating reminding him that she did have a client, and then she decided against it. “Do you really think Calder Hart murdered his own father?”

His expression closed. “It is my moral duty to keep an open mind and consider all the possibilities.”

He was not going to confide his true feelings to her. “Did you find Georgette de Labouche?”

“No.”

“The gun?” She was hopeful now.

He eyed her. “Francesca, what do I have to do to get you to return to your studies at Barnard College and to your life as a reforming woman?”

She froze. “What?”

“I do believe you heard me.”

“How … how did you find out … about my studies?” she gasped.

He smiled and it was affectionate. “Francesca, I am a policeman. Do you really think we would investigate the Burton Abduction together as we did and I would not learn all that is significant about you?”

She could only stare.

Bragg turned to Connie in the interim. “Surely you do not approve of your sister’s new avocation?”

Connie was grim—and vocal. “I most certainly do not.”

“Good. Then I have an ally.” He faced Francesca. “Stay away from Hart. Trust me. He is a dangerous man.” He glanced at Connie. “You should stay away from him as well, Lady Montrose. I highly recommend it.”

Connie flushed. “Why would I do otherwise? I do not know the man. He is hardly a friend of mine or Neil’s.”

“Good.” Bragg looked at Francesca. “I take it you have not heard from Miss de Labouche?”

Francesca shook her head. “No, I have not.”

He studied her, saw the truth, and smiled at her.

It so warmed Francesca, inside and out.

“Well, I must be going,” Bragg said. “Francesca, enjoy your day of
shopping.”
He gave her a stern look as they all started for the door, where a servant waited for them.

“I despise shopping,” Francesca said, her mind racing. She must get rid of Connie if she wished to do any more sleuthing that day.

“Take her shopping,” Bragg said firmly to Connie as the doorman opened the front door for them all. Bragg’s motorcar, a handsome cream-colored Daimler, was parked behind Connie’s coach.

“I will,” Connie promised him. “Good day, Commissioner, and again, I am so sorry for all that we have done.”

Bragg nodded to them both, and it seemed to Francesca that his gaze lingered a bit longer upon her than was necessary. She followed her sister into their coach but craned her neck in order to watch Bragg as he cranked the roadster to a start, climbed in, and shifted into gear. Their coachman let him pull out first.

Francesca sighed. The moment she did so she blushed and glanced quickly at her sister. Connie was smiling. “You are so obvious, Fran.”

“He is merely a friend. Do not think anything else,” Francesca warned.

“Very well,” Connie returned. She leaned forward to give their driver instructions.

“And I refuse to go shopping. Let’s go home,” Francesca said, with ulterior motives. “As I have been pinched this day, so to speak, I may as well use my time to good advantage and get some studying done.”

Connie told their coachman to take them home and she glanced curiously at Francesca. “Pinched?”

Francesca grinned. “That means bagged. You know—caught by the police.”

Connie rolled her eyes. Then, as their carriage moved onto Fifth Avenue, going uptown, as Fifth headed north, she stared pensively out the window, her expression changing. She seemed sad.

Francesca briefly closed her eyes, wishing she could help her sister. But the only person who could help Connie was Neil. “Perhaps Mama can be enticed into going shopping with you,” she suggested.

Connie did not turn from the frozen landscape that was Central Park. Even in the inclement weather, several horseback riders and carriages were enjoying the day on the track. “I do not wish to spend the day with Mama.”

“Well, what time will Neil be home? And Charlotte?”

Connie hesitated.

“Con?”

Now it was her sister’s turn to sigh, but the sound was very different from Francesca’s, belabored, if you will. “I don’t know. He wasn’t certain. He has been so … distracted of late.”

Francesca nodded. “Yes, I think so.” Finally Connie looked at her. “So you have noticed.” Francesca felt some small nagging guilt. “I have.” “I have noticed that the two of you seem to be at odds,” Connie remarked tersely. Francesca blinked. “What?”

“What are you two fighting about? You have always adored Neil.” Connie’s voice quavered. “The other night at Evan’s engagement party, it was as if the two of you could not stand each other.”

Francesca was rigid with tension. “Well, Neil thinks I am having an affair.”

“What?” Connie gasped.

Francesca nodded seriously. “So does Evan, and Bragg did, too, for a time.”

“What?” Connie said again.

“My sleuthing had me out and about at some very unusual hours during the Burton Affair,” Francesca said, her heart pounding. “I could not tell Neil what I was doing, and he leaped to the wrong conclusion. Thus we fought.”

Connie regarded her with amazement. “Neil never said a word.”

“He promised me he would not.” Just as she, Francesca, had failed to promise him that she would keep her own silence as to what he knew—which was the real reason they were at odds now.

“Well …,” Connie trailed off, clearly relieved. “Oddly, I thought there might be another reason for your dissension.”

Francesca stared, realizing now that Connie suspected everything and that she had somehow surmised the real reason for Francesca’s quarrel with Neil. I
should tell her,
Francesca thought in a panic. If ever there was a moment, it was then.
Perhaps she would be better off having her suspicions confirmed. Perhaps knowing the truth, instead of worrying about it, would be a relief, of sorts. For then she could repair her marriage, not just for her own sake, but for that of her two daughters.

But Bragg had once told her that words spoken too lightly could never be taken back. His wisdom held her back now. What should she do?