Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (18 page)

Why?

Did he not find her attractive?

Or did he think her far too eccentric, and even mannish, for his tastes?

She tried to compose herself. She did have a job to do. She was committed to solving this case, with or without Bragg as a partner.

“Miss Cahill?”

Francesca realized that one of the doormen had seen her carriage and had come out of the house to open the door for her. She tried to smile at Williams and thought she failed. She allowed him to help her down from the coach and to the cobblestones of the courtyard.

The Montrose home was a four-story stone building the color of sand. The short cobbled drive formed a small U around an island that, in the spring and summer, was abloom with flowering shrubs and two stately elm trees. The drive disappeared beneath an archway, ending in a small interior courtyard, which was framed by tall and bare maple trees. The house had been built around the courtyard, and its entrance was at the far side, which was where her carriage had now parked.

Both Connie and Neil were home, Francesca saw, for their two conveyances, a big brougham and a smaller gig, were standing in front of the house. The Montrose coat of arms was sculpted in stone and painted red, blue, and silver above the front door of the house. A lion with his paw upon a globe sat there atop a banner that read, “In honor all things.”

Francesca was ushered inside. The foyer was bright and airy, with gleaming beige marble floors and shockingly white plastered walls. Several Montrose family portraits of centuries-old ancestors hung on the walls. She smiled at the doorman, this time firmly. “Will you tell my sister that I am here? I will wait in the salon,” she said.

The doorman nodded and left.

Francesca wandered into a lush room just off of the foyer, the furnishings mostly yellows and gold. While Connie entered and moved about the Cahill home quite as she pleased, Francesca had decided long ago not to do so in her sister’s home. Even as a naïve and young sister to the bride and inlaw to the groom, she had sensed she might walk in on something she had no wish to interrupt.

Francesca did not sit. Shortly after their engagement, Neil had commissioned a portrait of her sister, and it was almost full-size. It hung on the far wall, dominating it. Connie was so lovely in her lavender ball gown, beaming at the artist. She radiated excitement and happiness; she radiated joy.

“How dare you set foot in this house?”

At the sound of Montrose’s voice, Francesca whirled, her heart dropping precariously, as if to the floor.

He strode to her, absolutely livid. “Did you hear me, Francesca?”

She did cringe. “Neil.”

“I asked you to mind your own affairs. I clearly stipulated that you not interfere in my marriage and my life!” he thundered.

Francesca felt tears well up in her eyes. Montrose was frightening. But what was so much worse was that, just a few weeks ago, she had adored him so—the result of an instant infatuation that had begun the moment she had laid her eyes upon him when she was but fifteen. In the past two weeks, her illusions had been severely shattered. Her heart had also been broken. But had they now come to this? To hostility and shouts, to accusations and strife?

“How dare you shout at me?” Francesca stammered. Being coherent in his presence had always been a problem for her. Even now, feeling about him as she did, he was the most attractive man she had ever seen. He had a huge and magnetic presence. Francesca knew most women found him devastating; it had always been obvious.

“How dare I shout at you? How dare you destroy my marriage—my life!” he roared.

She gasped, taking another step backward—but he only came forward, towering over her. “I have destroyed nothing, Neil! I did not coerce you into having an affair! If something has been tainted—or destroyed—you have only yourself to blame for it!”

“Do you think I do not know that!” he shouted furiously. “Do you think me a fool? I know I have made the worst mistake of my life! But did you have to intervene? I asked you not to say a word. And you promised me you would not. Are you satisfied now? Are you?” It was a demand. His turquoise eyes had become a fascinating shade of green. Somehow, his hands gripped her shoulders and it was not pleasant.

“Please release me,” she managed, shaken and shaking. He did so instantly. She backed away, hugging herself. “How could I be satisfied? How?” she asked in a whisper. “I am not satisfied; I am horrified!” she cried.

“I think you are satisfied,” he said darkly. “I think this is what you have
always
wanted.”

“What?” she gasped. “I do not have a clue as to what you are speaking about!”

“No? I think you do.” He stared. His face was ruddy. Montrose had nearly black hair and turquoise eyes; his skin was pale, even in the summer. But his light complexion was hardly effeminate, as he was such a big, virile man. Francesca had never seen him flushed like this before. “I think you know
exactly
what I am speaking about.”

She shivered. “I don’t. I have to go.” She started past him.

He gripped her shoulder, whirling her about, and he did not unhand her this time. “You have always wanted to be in your sister’s shoes, and do not think I have not always known it.”

Francesca gasped. She could not speak—she could only stare.

Because he was right, in a way. She had always wondered what it would have been like if she had been the older sister—the one to wed Neil. Until the past two weeks, she had always thought, secretly, deep in her heart, that should she have been the older one, she would have been the happiest woman on earth.

“If you are asking me if I have always admired you, then the answer is yes,” she said. “I was turning fifteen when we met, Neil. My admiration for you was quite natural.”

“I would call it infatuation,” he snapped.

Francesca felt herself turn red. “No.” But it
had
been an infatuation, albeit a harmless and innocent one. “I have adored you and the girls, I love my sister, so do not ever again suggest I have told Connie about your affairs with some kind of horrid intent!”

Francesca tried to move past him, but he barred her way. “Let me go!” she cried, near tears.

“I wish to throttle you, Francesca,” he stated coldly. “I do not know if I am more angry with you—or myself.”

She blinked up at him through sudden tears.

Suddenly he released her with a harsh sound, one very much like a groan.

“I have always admired you, Neil,” she cried softly, through tears. “But my admiration for you took a turn for the worse when I saw you with Eliza! It was truly like being woken up with ice-cold water on your face! How could you even suggest that I have been secretly in love with you—and that I would do anything, anything, to hurt your marriage, my sister, and my nieces? Dear God, that makes you a reprehensible man!”

“But I am already reprehensible, am I not?” he mocked, his hands at last curled up into fists on his narrow hips. “So what difference does it make what I now do? The saint has become a sinner, and that will never change.”

She stared. “Balderdash. In time, this will pass. And you know it as well as I do. I can only pray that somehow you and my sister will find a way to truly forgive and forget, and forge an even greater bond.” Neil made another harsh sound. “But I do wish you had never broken my sister’s heart!”

Suddenly he demanded, “Has it ever occurred to you that my heart is the broken one?”

She had been frightened, but now she was stunned. “What?” she whispered. “No, it most certainly has not!”

“You are a busybody, but you hardly know everything.” He turned away. “Enough, Francesca. I don’t know why you are here—and I do not care.”

His words somehow hurt her. “Neil—”

“Get out of this house,” he said flatly, walking away now.

“Neil!” Francesca cried, stunned.

He did not turn as he paused on the threshold of the room. His broad back remained rigidly facing her. He ground out, “Get out of this house, Francesca, before I bodily remove you from it.”

She backed away.

Not turning, he said, “You are not welcome here.
Not ever again.
Have I made myself clear?”

Francesca was disbelieving and speechless.

“Get out!” he roared, whirling.

Francesca ran.

S
ATURDAY,
F
EBRUARY 1, 1902—7:45 P.M.

The last place Francesca wished to be was at the opera house.

But Signora Valciaolo was renowned throughout Europe, and she was making her American debut at the Metropolitan Opera House that night. The Cahills kept a box at the Metropolitan, having given up their membership at the Academy of Music several years earlier, and plans for this particular evening had been made months ago. A grand—and late—supper would follow at Delmonico’s.

Francesca sat beside her father, who was actually reading a newspaper, as the opera house filled up. Julia was in the huge lobby downstairs, circulating among the opera aficionados, most of whom were her friends. Francesca was seriously ill.

It was an illness of the heart, but it was making her physically sick as well. She hadn’t been able to eat a thing before leaving the house, causing her mother to raise both brows at her, and she wondered if she would make it through the evening without disgracing herself.

Neil could not have meant it.
He had spoken in anger. They had been friends for years. In fact, he had stated unequivocally that he considered her his little sister. And technically, she had become his sister, once he had wed Connie.

He appeared to detest her now. But surely, in time, he would forgive her for telling Connie what was only the truth.

Too late, she realized she could not manage such hostility and rejection from her brother-in-law. Too late, she realized that five years of affection did not die in one fell swoop. She could not hate him, not even knowing what a cad he was, and his words had cut her heart in two.

She only wanted Neil and Connie to repair their marriage; she only wanted for their life to go back to where it had so recently been. And what had his comment about
his
having a broken heart meant?

Neil and Connie were supposed to join them at the opera. Francesca was terrified of facing him now; she could not imagine how she could act as if nothing were amiss between them. The only advantage to Neil and Connie’s joining them was that Francesca would finally see her sister and, she hoped, find a private moment with her to discover how she was handling the burden of the truth.

Francesca had tried to call Connie on the telephone just before leaving for the opera, but a servant had said that Lady Montrose was not taking any calls.

That worried Francesca. Connie would always take a telephone call from her sister.

“Hello, Andrew. Hello, Francesca.”

Francesca turned and saw Sarah Channing and her mother. It was the rather distracted but very amiable Mrs. Channing who had spoken.

Andrew got to his feet to kiss Mrs. Channing’s hand and Sarah’s cheek. “Hello, Lillibet. Sarah. My dear, you are lovely tonight,” Andrew said with a fond smile at his future daughter-in-law.

Sarah smiled back but said nothing. She was a rather plain and nondescript young woman, petite, with dark hair and eyes. As usual, she wore her red evening gown carelessly—it was outdated, far too flamboyant for her nature, and the color overwhelmed her. Francesca knew Sarah enough to know that she was not even aware of what she wore or how it looked, and Francesca also guessed Sarah’s mother was the one who had asked her to wear the ugly dress.

“Hello,” Francesca managed to them both. She now had a splitting headache, as Sarah’s presence was a potent reminder to her of the words she must have with Evan about his mistress.

“Francesca, how lovely you also look,” Mrs. Channing said, allowing Sarah to slip into the seat beside Francesca. “Peach is such a perfect color for you. And where is Julia?” she asked Andrew.

Francesca glanced again at Sarah, trying to smile.

Sarah did not smile back. “Francesca?”

“I am fine,” Francesca said quickly, realizing that Sarah had quickly ascertained that something was wrong without even speaking with her. Sarah was the classic case of appearances being absolutely deceiving. She appeared very meek and shy, and indeed, she was a very quiet young lady. But she was a passionate and brilliant artist, and her work expressed her feelings and views more than a million words ever could.

Evan had never even seen her art.

Sarah merely smiled, with encouragement, it seemed, and she patted Francesca’s hand comfortingly.

Francesca shot to her feet, anxiety overcoming her. “I must take some air; I will be right back,” she said as Julia entered their box.

“Do hurry, Francesca,” Julia said, resplendent in a dark red chiffon gown and numerous rubies to match. “You know the curtain rises precisely at eight.”

Francesca nodded and hurried through the heavy velvet draperies and into the hall behind the opera. Escaping the Cahill box was a vast relief. She paused and quite collapsed against the wall.

She could not bear it if Neil now despised her, but it was a little late to realize that. Had she done the wrong thing in telling Connie about his affair with Eliza? Connie had already suspected an affair, Francesca felt certain. That afternoon, Connie had
wanted
to hear the truth. Hadn’t she? Should she have lied to her sister?

“Fran? Curtain’s up in five minutes,” Evan said, sauntering down the hall with two young ladies whom Francesca vaguely recognized. They were casting longing glances at her brother, who seemed oblivious to their adoration. He was grinning at Francesca.

“I’d like a word with you,” she said tersely.

His eyes widened. “Whoa! Have I done something to upset you?”

Francesca swallowed hard. She must not take out her distress on her brother, as he was hardly to blame for Neil’s wrath. She nodded to the two young ladies. “Privately.”

Both women turned to Evan, who bowed slightly at them. Francesca watched them hurry away, the brunette casting a long and hopeful glance over her shoulder at Evan. He did not notice; he was studying Francesca. “What is it, Fran? Have you been crying?”