Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (40 page)

“You convince the police commissioner, being as he is your
friend
and all,” Anthony said softly.

Francesca looked at him. Their eyes locked. “What did that innuendo mean?” she asked stiffly.

He smiled at her. And he shrugged.

“Bragg happens to be married. Did you know that?” she flashed. She felt dangerous now.

He stared, his smile disappearing. “No, I did not. That’s news. What’s the deal? His wife a crazy woman, locked up in an attic somewhere?”

“That’s not amusing. She lives in Europe,” Francesca said tersely.

“He’s still your friend. It’s the word on the street. You can walk into his office anytime, they say. So convince him Georgette is innocent.”

Francesca was so angry—and she did not know where the anger had come from. She marched over to Anthony and faced him down. In her one-inch heels, they were exactly the same height, meaning they stood eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose now. Of course, her bonnet actually gave her an inch or two in the end result. “Look, Mr. Anthony, or Sean, or whatever your name is. Just what is it to you? Why are you so bent on protecting Miss de Labouche? Who is she, to you? Are you her
friend!”
she demanded furiously.

“Well, well, the little Fifth Avenue lady has claws.” Anthony grinned at her, as if amused. “Georgette and I are old
friends,
if you know what I mean.”

“You were lovers,” Francesca said.

“My, someone is awfully curious,” Anthony said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

Georgette stepped between them. “We haven’t been lovers in years, but we have remained good friends, that is all,” Georgette said.

Francesca regarded her. “Your neighbors think he is your brother.”

She shrugged. “You know how people talk. It’s easier to say he’s my brother. That way he can call and tongues don’t wag.”

Francesca believed her. She turned back to Anthony. “Did you know Randall? Had you ever met him?”

“Nope, but I knew of him, and I’d seen him around. We didn’t run in the same circles,” he said wryly. “Did he treat Georgette well?”

Anthony stared. “If you’re asking me if I liked him, the answer is …” He shrugged emphatically. “Georgette’s a grown woman. She got a good deal. He paid the rent, the staff, bought her a few trinkets, some clothes. I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse. He didn’t beat her, or hurt her in any way. I’d never heard her say he was mean or jealous. It was OK. It was good for Georgette.”

Francesca didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She looked at Georgette, who was an attractive, lush woman—the kind of woman whose attentions many men would enjoy and covet. Did Anthony still like her in that way? Had he been jealous—and enough so to kill Randall?

He smirked at her. “Don’t look at me. I had no damn reason to kill him. The one thing I’m not is a killer.”

Francesca thought she just might believe him. But she saw Anthony’s eyes go past her, to where Georgette stood, and there was a warning in them. Francesca turned.

Georgette looked about to cry. She began wringing her hands convulsively. “Sean—”

“Shut up,” he said harshly.

Tears filled her eyes.

“What is it?” Francesca asked quickly. “What are the two of you hiding?”

Georgette began to cry.

“Shit,” Anthony said. “Look at what you’ve done.” He was angry, and Francesca stepped away from him—but he was moving to Georgette. He put his arm around her and she wept on his shoulder.

They were still intimate, Francesca realized with a start. She felt certain.

He murmured, “Miss Cahill is going to go. I’ll drop her at the police station. She’ll convince the commissioner you’re innocent and in no time you can go home. Don’t cry.”

“My life is over. I’m going to jail,” she wept.

A frisson swept over Francesca.

“Sean …” It was a plea.

“No!”

Georgette pulled away. “Someone’s going to find out! That little busybody overheard you and Paul on the street! She’s bound to have told the police already. I know Mary from years of being with Paul; trust me!”

Conversations flashed through Francesca’s mind. Mary, tight-lipped and filled with anger, saying,
Hart was blackmailing my father…. I overheard them on the day of the murder.

She had been speaking about Calder Hart. But Hart had been in Baltimore, or en route from Baltimore, at the time.

Anthony’s jaw was clenched. “Not another word,” he warned.

But Hart wouldn’t have condescended to blackmail his father anyway—no matter what. Francesca looked at the two of them, seized with total comprehension. “You were blackmailing him, weren’t you? The two of you? Or was it only Anthony? Mary overheard a conversation on the morning of the murder, and she thought it was between Randall and Hart, but Hart wasn’t in the city at the time. It was you,” she said, looking at Anthony. “Randall was arguing with
you.”

Anthony’s jaw tensed. Georgette cried, “I didn’t know about the blackmail, I swear, not until it was too late, and even then, I had nothing to do with it!”

Francesca felt the horror begin.

Anthony’s eyes locked with hers.

His eyes were so cold now. They were cold enough to be the eyes of a killer.

Francesca tried to discern just how far behind her the door was. Because she had to make a run for it, now.

“Christ,” Anthony said in real disgust. Then, “Not another word, Georgette. And as for you, Miss Cahill, you have just ruined my evening.”

M
ONDAY,
F
EBRUARY 3, 1902— 8:00 P.M.

Francesca stood unmoving by the door, her pulse pounding so rapidly now, she felt as if she had the strength of several men. She
had
to make a run for it. Georgette was grabbing Anthony’s arm. “This isn’t her fault. She is trying to help us!”

“Like hell she is. Did you have to tell her about the damned stupid blackmail scheme?” Anthony asked grimly.

“It was stupid! And Paul did not deserve it!” Georgette cried.

Francesca moved the tiniest step backward. Her hands were now at her sides.

“Forget Paul, because he’s dead. Now what? She knows about the blackmail, and this makes me—and you, Georgette—look damn bad. And by ‘bad’ I do mean guilty.” Anthony rolled his eyes.

“They already think I’m guilty.”

“That’s right, they do, so you have just nailed down your own coffin. What the hell are we going to do with her?”

Georgette stopped crying. “We’re going to send her home.”

“She won’t go home. She’ll go right to Bragg with a mouthful of stories. Damn it.” Anthony glared at Francesca.

She had managed to move another inch backward, and she felt certain that she could touch the doorknob if she tried. If her memory served her correctly, it had not been chained or locked when she and Anthony had entered the room.

Anthony sighed. “I need to think.” He looked down grimly at his scuffed brown shoes.

Francesca turned, and she had been right: she could reach the knob—she wrenched open the door.

“Damn!” Anthony shouted, reaching for her.

Francesca felt his hand grazing her sleeve, but she was moving so quickly that he did not catch hold of her. She fled down the narrow hall, with Anthony just steps behind.

But the stairwell was blocked. Someone was coming up. “Move!” Francesca shouted frantically, barging into the man. Anthony would catch her now!

They collided and the man gripped her shoulders.

“Let me go!” Francesca screamed, aware of Anthony behind her on the second-floor landing, just inches away and poised to seize her as well. And then she met the man’s dark, familiar eyes.

“Francesca, it’s me!” Calder Hart was shouting.

She was stunned.

“Police!” someone shouted from below as a horde of racing footsteps sounded. A whistle blew. “Shit!” Anthony cried, whirling.

Hart shoved Francesca to the wall as Anthony fled, a half a dozen policemen racing up the stairs. Bragg was at their head.

As he raced past Francesca he glanced at her but did not stop.

At the end of the hall was a window. Anthony wrestled it open, clearly intending to jump to the ground two floors below, even at the risk of breaking his legs—or his neck. Bragg collared him.

Instantly Anthony straightened, lifting both hands into the air. “I give up,” he said.

“That’s good,” Bragg returned, pushing him face-first into the wall. “Search him,” he said to his men. “Then cuff him and throw him in the wagon and book him on suspicion of murder.”

Francesca suddenly sank against the wall. It was only then that she realized Calder Hart had his arm securely around her waist and was holding her upright. She tore her gaze from Bragg, Anthony, and the policemen to Hart. His eyes were already on her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. And she felt her knees give way.

Instantly his grip tightened. He lifted her, holding her upright against his side.

“How …?” she began, trailing off.

“I followed you.” He smiled briefly at her. “When I left your house, I was highly suspicious. As well as curious. When I saw you leave with this man, I grew even more, well, let’s leave it at curious. When you entered the hotel with him, I learned his name from the clerk.” He shook his head. “Francesca, Randall told me that he was a blackmail victim the night we met at the Republican Club, and when he did, of course I forced Anthony’s name out of him. The moment I realized who you were with, I went round the corner to the local police precinct and had Bragg telegraphed.” He smiled now. It reached his eyes. “The timing was rather fortunate, was it not?”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she said. And then she stiffened.

Bragg had come to stand behind her. Slowly Francesca turned.

His amber eyes were searching. His gaze seemed to penetrate not just her own eyes, but to the depths of her heart and soul. Her heart lurched in response and began anew a frantic beating. Francesca knew she would never hate this man.

Staring back at him, into his golden eyes, at his unique and stunning features, she knew she would be connected to him for all time.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, and she knew he referred not just to her physical state of being but to her emotional well-being as well. After all, they had not spoken since he had made his devastating declaration of the truth. She couldn’t nod.

“I am trying It is hard.”

He reached out, as if to take her hand, in a gesture she had come to know. But instead, he hesitated, and their gazes met and held again. And she saw his strength and will power then. She saw his resignation. He dropped his hand without touching her. “I’m going to have to speak with you, Francesca. Professionally, of course.”

Francesca nodded. Her heart was breaking all over again. How could it still hurt like this? Would the anguish ever end? She did not think so.

She thought, perhaps, it would dull, but she would carry the ache around with her for the rest of her life. She loved him that much.

“She’s tired. She’s been through hell. Let her go home and get some rest,” Hart said grimly. “And then I would suggest that you stay as far away from her as possible.”

Francesca realized his arm was still around her in a very intimate way. She slipped free. He was also angry. How odd. “That’s all right. I can come downtown now. I prefer to help.”

Bragg’s jaw flexed. “No. My brother is correct. Hart, take her home, please, if you don’t mind?”

Hart smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”

Francesca stared at Bragg. She did not want to go. She wanted to stay there, on that small stairwell, with him. And if Hart hadn’t been present, she did not think she could have stopped herself from reaching out and touching Bragg’s cheek, his jaw. He seemed so distressed, too.

He stared back, a painful light in his eyes. “Can I stop by early in the morning?”

She nodded. “Of course, Bragg. You need not even ask.”

“Is nine all right?” His gaze slipped over her features again, this time lingering on her mouth.

She nodded again. He was thinking about the kisses they had shared and she knew it. And now he looked so grim and unhappy.

Hart made a sound. It was one of disgust. “I shall be downstairs. I cannot watch this,” he said.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She was feeling so drained that it was almost like being lifeless.

The police were hustling Anthony toward them. He looked unhappy and grim. Francesca got off the stairwell to let them pass. He looked right at her. “I didn’t do it,” he said.

Francesca looked away, ignoring him.

Georgette was next. One officer escorted her downstairs.

She looked at Francesca, tears in her eyes. “You have to help us,” she said. “We are innocent.”

Francesca closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, her gaze met Bragg’s.

“You have done good work today,” he said softly. “You are a fine sleuth, Francesca.”

Her heart soared to impossible heights. “Thank you,” she whispered, desperately wanting to reach for his hand.

He seemed to want to say more. He hesitated. Then, “I shall see you tomorrow then. At nine.”

“Tomorrow,” she echoed. And Francesca felt a tear sliding down her cheek. She was aghast. She tried to turn away.

He caught her by her arms. “Please don’t cry. Your sorrow is killing me,” he whispered.

“I am not crying,” she lied. She smiled as bravely as possible up at him.

He hesitated and she thought, stunned, that he was about to kiss her.

Then footsteps sounded once, twice below them on the stairs. Hart said loudly, “I cannot leave the two of you for a second. I am putting Francesca in my coach. I am going downtown with you, Rick.”

Bragg stepped away from her. “That is a good idea,” he said.

Hart’s elegant brougham was even more luxurious inside than out. Francesca sank in the corner of a plush red leather seat, found a fur throw, and wrapped herself in it, as if the sable might become a safe cocoon in which to hide. She should be pleased, she knew, for they had found Randall’s killer; instead, she kept recalling the look in Bragg’s eyes when she had turned away and gone downstairs. He was as anguished as she was, Francesca thought glumly.