Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (19 page)

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Neil’s affair and Connie’s dilemma; she did not. What if they wished for the entire incident to be kept private, even from the family? She stiffened. “No, I have not been crying, but I am quite distraught.”

“Surely not because of me,” he said. He was tall, dark-haired, and good-looking. He had the sunniest disposition of anyone Francesca knew; Evan rarely lost his temper, and he was usually smiling.

“I have a lot on my mind, so my dour mood has little to do with you,” she said.

“Whew! That is a relief.” He chucked her under the chin. “C’mon, Fran, it can’t be that bad.”

“I saw you with Grace Conway.”

“What?” He stiffened instantly, his eyes widening.

“On Broadway, in a carriage, downtown,” Francesca said. “Do not deny it.”

He began to flush. “How do you even know Grace … er, Grace Conway?”

“Evan, I am not a fool. I know you have had a string of mistresses, and I saw you with her ages ago. An inquiry or two quickly revealed that she is a rather acclaimed stage actress. And a very beautiful one, too, I might add,” Francesca said.

He was flushing darkly now. “Leave it to you, Fran. Is nothing sacred? Can I not have any secrets? Must you always snoop?”

She crossed her arms. “You are engaged now, Evan. You are engaged to a very fine woman. I only pray that you were with Miss Conway in order to tell her that your affair is over.”

“What I do, and what I do not do, is none of your affair, Fran—not when it comes to my private life,” he said harshly, and he turned on his heel and began striding away from her.

Francesca was shocked. She ran after him, grabbing his arm. “You mean, you will not break it off now that you are about to be married?”

He whirled to face her, shrugging her off. “That is my personal affair, Fran. It is not yours!”

She stared at him, shocked.

“Besides,” he said angrily, “you know I do not love Sarah. You know that Father is
blackmailing
me into this marriage, so how can you take
their
side?”

“I am not on their side,” she managed.
And it was true. Andrew would only pay Evan’s debts upon his marriage to Sarah Channing.
“No one is more against your marriage to Sarah Channing than I. I have never seen two people more mismatched! You know I begged Father to change his mind, and you know it is hopeless. I wish nothing more than for you to marry for love. But you are engaged now, Evan. And right is right and wrong is wrong. Cheating on your fiancée is wrong. You must give Sarah your heart as well as your loyalty.”

He gave her a look of disgust and walked away, leaving her standing there in the now-empty hall.

She had never seen him send anyone such a look before, much less herself.

And from behind all the closed doors, Francesca heard Signora Valciaolo begin to sing.

Francesca slipped into her family’s box as unobtrusively as possible. It was impossible not to notice that Evan’s shoulders were stiffly and angrily set as he sat beside Sarah, between her and her mother. It was also impossible not to notice how empty their box was. Connie and Neil had not yet arrived.

As Francesca slipped into her seat between Sarah and her own mother, she knew in her heart that they would not be coming.

Everyone was raptly involved in the Italian soprano’s performance of a star-crossed lover, except for Francesca. Her misery seemed to have escalated.

There was a stirring in the crowd surrounding her, like a ripple in a heretofore-placid pond. Francesca followed the redirected attention of the opera attendees, and she saw a tall man entering a box at the other end of the mezzanine. She recognized him instantly.

Calder Hart was darkly devastating in his black tuxedo as he bent to kiss the cheek of a woman Francesca recognized but did not recall by name. She was a petite and beautiful brunette, recently widowed, and the heiress to both her husband’s and her deceased father’s fortunes. Her box was full; clearly Calder was but one of her dozen guests.

Francesca trained her opera glasses on the pair. Calder was still standing, and he remained bent over the widow, who was whispering into his ear. Francesca followed her gloved arm to her hand and saw that she had it on his waist. She stiffened. Was this another of his lovers, then? And just how many women could one man dally with?

Calder Hart suddenly straightened and turned to stare in her direction. Francesca quickly lowered her opera glasses—which had been trained quite obviously on him—and she felt herself flush. The distance between them consisted of five boxes, and she could make out his features clearly enough. Their gazes met.

He smiled, somewhat sardonically, and bowed.

She flushed again and trained her glasses quickly on the virtuoso star of the evening’s performance.

Julia turned to gaze at her.

Francesca ignored her mother now. What did that bow signify?

Still holding her glasses, she peeked out of the corner of her eye, first to the right and then to the left. Good God. People were looking at her, and not just ladies but also gentlemen.

Francesca tried to focus on the drama unfolding on the stage below. It was an impossible feat. She decided that Calder was as reprehensible as Bragg claimed. For some odd reason, he was toying with her, for that was what his mild yet somehow sinister flirtation seemed to be.

Finally Francesca gave up. She tweaked the direction of her glasses and directed them upon the widow’s box—upon him.

He was watching the performance intently, she saw, clearly rapt, but his widowed lady friend was sitting so close to him that their bodies had to be touching. If they were not already lovers, they would become so, soon.

Francesca jerked her glasses back to Signora Valciaolo. Several interminable minutes passed, during which she felt several stares, not the least of which was Julia’s. And that was so odd. Francesca’s mother truly adored the opera; in fact, she was a devout fan of all the arts. Never did her attention waver from an opera, a ballet, or a musical. At least, not until this night.

“Francesca?” Sarah whispered in her ear.

Francesca lowered her glasses and turned toward Sarah. “Yes?”

“Who is that man?”

Francesca hoped she did not blush. She followed Sarah’s gaze. Hart remained as he had been before, thoroughly immersed in what was clearly a spectacular opera, although Francesca could not enjoy it. She turned back to Sarah. “His name is Calder Hart. Why?”

“I think he is taken with you. He keeps looking over here,” Sarah said in a low tone that could not be overheard.

Francesca blinked at her. Then, “If he is taken with anyone, it is …” She stopped. She realized Julia was attempting to eavesdrop, and she had been about to insist that Hart’s interest currently lay, inappropriately, with her sister. She leaned closer. “You are wrong. And in any case, Hart is the kind of cad who plays the field. He is never set upon one single woman.”

Sarah’s eyes widened and then she shook her head. “That is too bad. I felt certain he is rather preoccupied with you. Is he the same Calder Hart who is a renowned art collector? The one who spent a fortune last month in London on Ingres’s
Grande Odalisque?”

Francesca blinked at her. “He is an art collector. But I have no idea whether he purchased this painting you are speaking about.”

Sarah was flushed with excitement. “If you know him, Francesca, perhaps, if it is no bother, at some time, in the future, you might persuade him to show us his collection? I have heard it is one of the finest in the world.”

Francesca was about to agree when Julia took her hand, in warning. She nodded at Sarah, meaning that, in the future, she would try, and she gave her mother an apologetic glance for being so rude during the opera.

It was midnight when they entered the house, without Evan. After supper, he had dutifully escorted his fiancée and her mother across the park and home. Francesca did not think that he would be returning to the house; she suspected he would sojourn to one of his clubs, a cabaret, or a popular downtown restaurant, as he usually did. Perhaps he would even go to his mistress. That last thought remained dismaying.

“Good night, my dear,” Andrew said, kissing her cheek. “I shall see you in the morning.” He smiled and trudged up the wide white alabaster staircase, leaving Francesca standing in the foyer with her mother.

She was desperate. She wished to immediately learn if Connie had called or dropped off a note. She smiled at Julia. “Good night, Mama.”

“Francesca, whatever is wrong with you, dear?”

She had been about to dash for the stairs and her room, where any notes or messages would have been left on her desk. “I am just a bit under the weather,” she replied, trying to smile. “I suppose I have another touch of the flu.”

“The last time you said that was only a few days ago,” Julia remarked. “And you were up to your ears in that terrible Burton Affair.” She was handing off her magnificent sable coat to a servant. Her long black gloves followed, but she did not take her eyes off of Francesca.

Francesca’s coat was peach-colored silk brocade with a mink lining. It matched her evening gown precisely. She removed it, handing it to a waiting servant avoiding her mother’s probing eyes. “Well,” she said slowly, “a little boy’s life was at stake, and I could not sit idly by and do nothing when I knew I could be of help.”

Julia tilted up her chin. “What are you up to, Francesca? Tell me the truth. For I can see so much worry in your eyes, and it is quite unsettling.”

Francesca stared at her, and as her mother was the exact same height as she was—which was five feet, five inches tall—they stood eye-to-eye. “Nothing,” she finally whispered. Deception now felt impossible. Francesca detested having to lie to anyone, much less to a member of her own family.

Julia released her. “You would lie to my face, Francesca?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, Mama. No, I am sorry. I would not.” Francesca wrung her hands. She was trapped. She was worried about her sister, but she dared not breathe a word of that to her mother—even though sooner, rather than later, Julia would find out everything; of that Francesca had no doubt. It was better to try to fob her off with half of the truth, as she seemed to already have surmised it, anyway. She sighed. “Perhaps I have been helping Bragg, just a bit, on another case.”

Julia seemed genuinely stunned. “What?!”

Francesca looked at her. “But—you did not know?”

“I pride myself on knowing just about everything that happens under this roof, but no, Francesca, I did not know. It has only been a week since that Burton Abduction!” she cried, clearly surprised, and not pleasantly.

“I know we only closed the case a few days ago. I am sorry. But Mama, I know I can help—”

“I will not have it!” Julia cried firmly. “I will not. You placed your life in danger. Francesca, this will not do. You are a genteel young lady. Instead, you consort with the police and hoodlums and even that child pickpocket. Who absconded with my silver, I might add.” Her hands found her hips.

The misunderstanding regarding Joel had to be cleared up right away, especially as he would be about the house now, in his new position as her assistant. “Mama, Joel Kennedy did not take your silver. I am certain of it.”

“Mrs. Ryan feels differently, Francesca, and I do not wish to discuss the stolen silver now.”

“But I do! He has become a friend, and his family is so poor. I hope to employ him as an errand boy,” she said, a tiny white lie.

“What? You will do no such thing! I do not want to see hide nor hair of that little thief in this house. I mean it, Francesca.”

“We have a crook in our midst, Mother, in our
employ.
But have no fear. I shall uncover the culprit and clear Joel’s name.” Francesca meant it, even though she did not have a clue as to how she would find the time to do so. Not when Connie needed her so, with her marriage in the dire straits it now was in, and not with the commitments she had made to find Georgette de Labouche and, more importantly, to find Paul Randall’s killer and clear her name. Even the mere thought of all that filled her plate was enough to make her mind spin crazily. Francesca felt dizzy. Could she possibly be in over her head?

She had a bad feeling. Now, after the Burton Abduction, it was one she recognized, too well. She shook it off.

Julia was pacing across the spacious room with its inlaid plaster panels. Then, turning, she said, “I thought this was about your sister.”

Francesca felt the blood draining from her face. “What?” She prayed she had misheard; she knew she had not.

“I thought this was about your sister,” Julia repeated, staring.

Francesca wondered if her mother had gypsy blood, enabling her to read minds—yet Julia Van Wyck Cahill prided herself on her aristocratic background, as her ancestry could be traced back to her Dutch forefathers in New Amsterdam and her noble French forefathers in the years before the French Revolution. “Why would you think it is about Connie?” Francesca asked cautiously.

“Because I am her mother and it is obvious that she is distressed, and has been so for some time. I know how close you two are, and I know she confides in you—if she chooses to confide in anyone at all. Is something wrong, Francesca?” Julia approached. Her own blue eyes, so much like her daughter’s, reflected genuine worry now. “Should I be concerned?” She stared.

Francesca inhaled, not looking away. “Mama, I cannot say. I wish I could, but I cannot.”

Julia finally nodded. “If you tell me that there is no illness involved, that Connie, Montrose, and the girls are all in good health, then I shall wait until Connie chooses to tell me herself what the matter might be.”

“There is no illness,” Francesca whispered, thinking of how much like a sickness a broken heart was.

Julia seemed to accept that. “If one has one’s health, Francesca, one can succeed, and thwart all obstacles, in the end.”

Francesca nodded. “I suppose so.”

Julia cupped her shoulder. “I do not like seeing you this distressed, either.”

Francesca shrugged. “It will pass.”