Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (17 page)

Bragg had chosen the Fifth Avenue Hotel for their lunch. Hart strode down a dark, rather dreary corridor, the wall paneled in wood and covered with the portraits of some of the city’s most famous and infamous men from the century before. Dark, unwavering eyes stared down at him as he passed. His curiosity was piqued. He hardly had a social relationship with his half brother, so why the invitation to dine?

It quickly crossed his mind that, other than the Bragg family, the only thing they had in common was Francesca. Clearly she would be the subject of their luncheon. Did Rick wish to warn him away from her yet again? He could not help but be amused. He was not the kind of man who took orders from anyone. And he could not help imagining his half brother’s reaction should he tell him of his intention to marry the lady in question.

The dining room was extremely crowded, as the hotel did a busy luncheon; table after table was occupied by gentlemen. The room was a sea of dark suits and sideburns. Hart paused on the threshold, instantly espying his half brother seated at the room’s most coveted table, facing out upon everyone. His mouth quirked. Was Rick enjoying his newfound power? Somehow, Hart knew the answer was no, and it was a shame. But then, Rick was just too noble to enjoy the perks of his position.

“Mr. Hart, sir!” The maître d’ rushed over to him, fawning and obsequious. “It’s so wonderful to see you, sir. It has been at least six months!”

“Good afternoon, Henry. I see my party has arrived. I can find my way, thank you.”

But Henry rushed forward, leading him through the linen-clad tables, saying, “The commissioner just arrived. Perhaps not a minute before yourself, sir.”

Hart wasn’t really listening. He was nodding at the various gentlemen he passed, all of whom he knew, for one reason or another. A few men he purposefully made eye
contact with. He had slept with their wives at one time or another and would not evince the least bit of guilt or regret. After all, he hadn’t been the first lover in their beds, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Which was why he had always preferred married women. Those who were already unfaithful, that is. They understood the game and would make no demands. But now his life was going to change.

He knew he would never be bored with Francesca, and he also knew that if she ever married someone else, he would lose her friendship. No husband would tolerate her being his friend, and with just cause. And it was this last certainty that compelled him to proceed. Her friendship had become as vital to his being as the very air he breathed. And it did not matter that she did not “love” him.

He refused to contemplate the fact that she thought that she “loved” Rick.

Bragg stood when Hart reached the table. He was not in a good mood, as he was scowling, an unusual expression for him. Hart instantly wondered what Francesca had done to cause his irritation. He smiled then, to himself. She had the worst penchant for putting herself in danger, all in the good cause of helping some needy soul. But the trials and tribulations of a relationship with Francesca Cahill were surely worth it. In any case, as he had put his neck on the chopping block, he would soon find out. He sat down. “My, we are dour today.”

“Good day, Calder,” Rick said with a terse nod.

Hart decided this would be an amusing luncheon after all, and he lolled a bit in his chair. A bottle of red wine was being placed on the table. “Château Lafite? At a luncheon? Are we celebrating?” He knew that was not the case.

“I am sure you are pleased that I am out of sorts today, but no, we are not celebrating. I have a migraine,” he said, nodding at the waiter to open the wine.

“Is she giving you a run for your money? She can be a bit of trouble, I suppose. What has she done now that I don’t know?”

“She is hardly giving me a run for my money.” Rick grimaced. “But she has given me this migraine. She dared to come down to the office this morning,” he added.

Hart was confused. After all, Francesca was frequently at headquarters. “Odd, I thought you enjoyed having her downtown.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rick said savagely. “The last thing I need is Leigh Anne appearing at my place of business.”

Hart’s eyes widened when he realized that they were not discussing the same woman. “I was referring to Francesca,” he said mildly, enjoying himself now more than ever. Oh, ho! So his brother was out of sorts because of his gorgeous little wife. He should have known. Nothing had changed, now had it?

Bragg was tasting the wine, and he choked. “Francesca?” he asked. Then, setting the glass down, “Why are you staring at me as if I have grown two heads?”

“Apparently she is not the woman on your mind,” Hart said, flashing his teeth in a bare imitation of a smile. “Don’t you think you have hurt her enough?”

“You may mind your own affairs where Francesca and I are concerned,” Bragg said flatly. He turned to the waiter. “The wine is very good.”

Their glasses were filled. Hart made no move to pick up his menu. “I really meant it. Your friendship with Francesca is putting her in a terrible position and you know it.”

“Don’t you ever think to be her defender,” Bragg snapped. “That role hardly suits your black heart. We are both struggling to do what is right. Neither one of us expected Leigh Anne to appear in our lives.”

“So what did you intend? To take a young, untried, and innocent woman as your mistress?”

“No,” he said slowly, “that is not what I intended and you know it. Nor did I intend to fall in love with her. But it happened, and now we are both suffering for it.”

In a way, Hart felt sorry for his brother, too, but as Rick had always gotten the respect and accolades, he refused to
entertain such compassion now. Let Rick sleep in his own untidy bed. “How long will Leigh Anne be staying?” He couldn’t wait to hear the answer.

Bragg looked at him, positively suffused with anger. “Six months.”

His curiosity escalated wildly. “How odd that you do not send her away.”

Bragg set his wineglass down. “You know, I did not come here to discuss my wife—or Francesca. I came here to discuss a case.”

Hart hardly wanted to talk police business, although he did wish to know what Francesca and Rick were working on. “Well, that is a new twist.” He did not touch his wine. “What dastardly crime has been committed now?”

Bragg drummed his long fingers on the table. “Grace Conway, the actress, was found strangled in an artist’s studio. The studio was vandalized exactly as was Sarah Channing’s,” he said.

Hart was at attention now. “You do not pull any punches,” he said, stunned. “But Grace was Evan’s mistress!” And his mind raced. First an assault upon Sarah’s studio and now this, the murder of Grace Conway. And Evan Cahill was the single man involved with them both.

“You knew Miss Conway?” Bragg asked sharply.

“Yes, I do—I did. In fact, two years ago we had an affair. She was a wonderful woman,” Hart said grimly, the fact of her death just sinking in. But he was also thinking about Francesca. How could he help her brother now? For surely he was, somehow, involved. “I don’t like this,” he said abruptly. “How is Evan Cahill involved?”

“We don’t know. Do you know of an artist named Melinda Neville? A Miss Melinda Neville?”

“No, I have never heard the name.”

“Miss Conway was in her studio when she was murdered. The two women were neighbors,” Bragg said. “And now, Miss Neville seems to have disappeared.”

“I can find out if anyone is handling her work,” Hart said. “Shall I ask around the various galleries which I frequent?”

“I would appreciate it. We are concerned that Miss Neville may have been the killer’s target.”

“How is Francesca taking this?”

Bragg looked him in the eye. “She is managing very well. We both wish to keep the fact that Miss Conway was Evan’s mistress out of the news journals.”

“A good idea,” Hart said.

The waiter approached. “Would you gentlemen like to order?”

“A moment, please,” Bragg said. The waiter left. “Any idea why someone would start violating various art studios? Ones belonging to young women?”

“No. But I shall certainly think about it.”

“Any odd characters in the art world these days?”

Hart grinned. “Most of its denizens are odd, Rick.”

Rick accepted that, and he began to spin his menu around with his fingertips. Hart felt the moment that his brother’s thoughts veered from the criminal investigation. A set expression closed his face. It was an expression Hart had seen many times, four years ago, when Leigh Anne had run off to Europe.

He finally sighed. As much as he disliked his brother, they did share a drop or two of blood. “Care for some advice?”

“From you? If this is about my personal life, I don’t think so.”

He leaned forward. “Get her out of your system once and for all. Fuck her brains out. And send her away. If you wish, I shall give you a tidy sum with which to pay her off. A single large one-time payment and the two of you are done.” He was disappointed with himself for being so benevolent with his impossibly virtuous brother. He would much prefer to gloat over the impasse Rick now found himself in. Nor did he really wish for Bragg to be running about the city with no wife in sight. Still, should that day come, it did not change the fact of his marriage. Leigh Anne would never give him a divorce and Francesca was too hot-blooded to
wait for years and years for her supposed knight in shining armor.

Bragg leaned back in his chair, his amber gaze unwavering. “I seem to recall that you do not give a damn about my life, so why the sudden advice to sleep with my wife, and why the hell the offer to loan me enough money to pay her off?”

Hart hesitated. “Even you do not deserve the pain of such a viper.”

“Really? I think there is more to your offer than meets the eye, Calder; I am just not sure what is really on your mind.” He leaned forward, tension knotting his neck and shoulders. “Let me guess why you are so generous with your advice. If I follow it, you shall be free to pursue and seduce Francesca yourself and then, should I send Leigh Anne away, I will be deeply, impossibly in your debt!” He stared, grimacing. “You are the last person I wish to owe my life to. I would never be able to pay you back; therefore, my answer is no, thank you.”

“I shall do as I choose with Francesca whether you are screwing Leigh Anne or not. And you are a fool,” Hart said coldly. “Why this city thinks so highly of you I shall never know. But know this—I am not making such an offer again.”

“That is fine with me. As I have no intention of ever being a puppet on your strings,” Bragg said calmly.

Hart was furious with himself now. And he felt like a small boy who had offered a cookie to his dog, only to have his hand bitten. “How melodramatic. Here’s a thought—by refusing my offer you will become reconciled with Leigh Anne and led around by your nose hairs for the rest of your life. You shall be a puppet on her strings!”

“Funny how you did not deny your intent to seduce Francesca,” Bragg returned coldly.

“If I denied it, would you believe me?” He decided he had had enough. Besides, he wasn’t hungry, anyway.

“No.”

They stared at each other. “I will kill you if you hurt
her,” Bragg said. “She is not for you. Stick to Daisy and the likes of her, Hart,” he warned.

Hart grinned. “I was thinking the same thing. I will kill you if you hurt her. Oh, wait! It’s too late. You have already hurt her, haven’t you?”

Bragg started. “This simply amazes me, that you think you could ever be her hero!” Bragg leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It is me whom she loves. Not you. She could never love a blackguard. You may wish to protect her from me, but she needs protecting from you. I am getting a divorce, Hart. And while I would never ask Francesca to wait for me, if she is free when I become free, I am marrying her,” he said flatly.

Hart stared. The room had become still and silent around him. His heart felt as if it had stopped. And was that icy fear he had just felt coiling around his guts? “No,” he said slowly, harshly. “You are not.”

“I doubt you can predict the future, or have you become psychic?” Bragg mocked.

“But I
can
predict the future,” Hart said, standing and tossing his linen napkin down. “You see, by the time you obtain your divorce, Francesca will no longer be free.”

Bragg also stood. “What does that mean?”

“It means she will be married to me,” he said.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY 20, 1902—3:00 P.M.

F
RANCESCA AND
J
OEL SMILED
at the officer standing outside Melinda Neville’s apartment. He instantly moved to bar their way. “Miss Neville?” he asked quickly.

Francesca continued to smile at him, handing him her calling card. “No, I am afraid I am not Miss Neville,” she said with false cheer. She felt terrible for Bertrand Hoeltz, who had not seen Melinda since Monday morning when they had taken a
petit déjeuner
together. Apparently Melinda had met Hoeltz in Paris, about a year ago, where their affair had begun. He was a frequent traveler to Europe, as it turned out. He had begged her to return to New York, and eventually, the long-distance nature of their affair too taxing, she had agreed.

Melinda Neville kept her own flat at Number 202 10th Street but spent a good deal of her time with Hoeltz, who had his own apartment behind the art gallery he owned. They had spent Sunday evening together, dined lightly the following morning, with Melinda departing to go to her studio
and work. He had not seen her since. He was frantic.

The roses that had been lying upon the floor not far from Miss Conway’s body had been haunting Francesca since she had first seen the murder victim Tuesday. They had not been given to Melinda Neville by her lover. “I feel certain they were a gift meant for Miss Conway,” he had said tearfully. “This is not like Melinda. She would never disappear for three days without telling me where she was going and why. I fear something terrible has happened to her,” he said, trembling.

Francesca had laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Do you know another artist, Sarah Channing?” she had asked.