Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (25 page)

“And after lunch?” Bragg continued, as if not hearing him.

“I had no appointments, so I began an inventory of some new work I have recently acquired. Then I went out to buy some bread and cheese for a light supper. I was expecting Melinda, but she never came,” he ended hoarsely, wide-eyed with apprehension now.

Francesca looked at Bragg. For most of Monday, with the exception of his lunch at Joe’s, Bertrand Hoeltz had no alibi. And his mistress had ended their affair the night before her disappearance—the night before Grace Conway’s murder. “How well did you know Thomas Neville?” she asked.

“I hardly knew him at all!” He was distressed.

“Why not?” Bragg asked. “After all, he was your mistress’s brother.”

He flushed. “Why not? That is the exact reason why not, Commissioner. He disapproved of our affair. He disapproved of me. In fact, he was such an opinionated and difficult man that Mellie avoided him to the best of her ability. That is why she spent a year in Paris—to avoid her own brother. When she came back, we both agreed to keep him at a distance.”

“But Thomas Neville visited his sister almost every day at her own flat,” Francesca pointed out. That hardly seemed compatible with Melinda’s wishing to avoid him.

Hoeltz was grim. “He was hard to avoid.”

“I have one more question,” she said. “If you loved her so much, why didn’t you marry her?”

He turned red.

“Mr. Hoeltz?” Bragg prodded.

He stood. He was excessively grim. “I wanted to, of course. Desperately, in fact. But I could not.”

Francesca waited.

He sighed. “I am already married, Miss Cahill. My wife lives with our children in a small town north of Paris.”

F
RIDAY
, F
EBRUARY 21, 1902—3:00 P.M.

H
ART HAD BOUGHT HIS
mistress a house on Fifth Avenue. Francesca walked slowly through a wrought-iron gate toward the stately brick mansion. She continued to worry about Catherine Holmes’s infatuation with her brother and Brendan Farr’s sudden involvement in the case. But as Francesca approached Daisy’s front door, she was well aware that her nervousness had nothing to do with the current investigation and everything to do with the visit she was about to make. It was odd, because she was genuinely fond of Daisy, who she suspected came from a background very much like her own. But now, with Hart’s intentions firmly declared toward her and the kiss they had so recently shared, she felt wary, as if calling upon the other woman was somehow an act that involved the enemy.

She also knew that Hart must never find out about this social call. For she simply had to pry—she had to know about his relationship with Daisy.

The front door was answered promptly by a servant.
Francesca was ushered into a spacious entry hall with highly polished wood floors and a wide, sweeping staircase at its end. Several paintings hung on the walls, two landscapes, a still life, and a wonderful depiction of a mother and her daughter. Francesca handed over her calling card, briefly admiring the portrait of mother and child and hoping to distract herself from her anxiety. It had been painted by someone named Mary Cassatt.

“Francesca!” Daisy cried in genuine pleasure, hurrying down the stairs.

Francesca smiled warmly in return, for one moment forgetting the man who was the common bond between them. Daisy remained the most ethereal woman Francesca had ever seen, more angelic than womanly, a vision of moonlit tones and hues. Her hair was platinum, her skin a similar shade of ivory. She was slender and delicate. Her features were flawless—huge blue eyes, startling with such a fair complexion, high cheekbones, a slim nose. If her jaw was a bit strong, one hardly noticed, as her lips were unusually full.

She was the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen, bar none, even Leigh Anne. Francesca had not been surprised when Hart had made Daisy his mistress. They were perfectly suited to each other physically, as he was the shadowy night, she the moonlight.

“How are you, Daisy?” Francesca said. In a way, she felt like a traitor to her new friend. She knew that Daisy was very happy with Hart and their arrangement.

“Wonderful.” Daisy smiled. And to Francesca’s surprise, it did not reach her eyes. Her startling blue eyes were worried. What could be amiss?

Daisy took her hand. “Come. Come into the salon. I am so pleased you have called,” she said in her soft, breathy voice. The tone suited her fragile appearance.

A bit uncomfortable, Francesca followed her into an elegant salon, the walls a soft creamy gold, the furniture muted in tones of green, blue, and gold. Beautiful Persian rugs were underfoot, and three crystal chandeliers hung from
the high ceiling. The room, like the house, was understated elegance. Both women settled into adjacent chairs.

Daisy was wearing a sky blue dress several shades lighter than her eyes. She held Francesca’s hand warmly. “Are you on another case?” she asked eagerly. “I read all about the Cross Killer two weeks ago. My, Francesca! You have become indispensable to Rick Bragg.” She was admiring.

“Yes, actually, we are working on another case, one that is rather complicated.” But Francesca hadn’t come to discuss the investigation. She wanted to get far more personal. “How is Rose?”

Daisy started. Rose was her best friend and her lover. Upon first realizing this, Francesca had been shocked. But in time, she had come to accept the fact that the two women loved each other. Francesca also liked Rose, who was tempestuous, dark, and sultry. “I haven’t seen her in a week. You know Hart is very difficult when it comes to Rose.”

Francesca could not help it. Hart was the topic she wished to broach. “He knows how strongly you feel about Rose. I am sure he is jealous.”

“Jealous? Hart?” Daisy was surprised, and then she smiled in amusement. “Francesca, Hart doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He is possessive, maddeningly so, but never jealous.”

Francesca nodded, feeling grim. Here was news indeed, and it did not surprise her. He wasn’t jealous, because he refused to allow himself to love, but he was possessive, which was far worse. Clearly he considered Daisy very much in the way he considered the other items he collected, a possession, personal property.

“Do not misunderstand,” Daisy said quickly. “I adore Calder. I have never met a more thoughtful or generous man. I am happy with our arrangement. But he and Rose are at such odds, and it puts me in the middle, between them. They cannot stand one another. I just do not know what to do.”

Francesca could not help herself. Some time ago, when she had been working on the Randall Murder, Hart had been
a suspect. His alibi had been that he had been in bed with both Rose and Daisy at the time of Randall’s murder. Francesca knew that he had enjoyed the favors of both women simultaneously more than once, before he had made Daisy his mistress. “He used to be fond of Rose,” she commented.

Daisy said gently, “In those days, he did not know either one of us. It was strictly passion, Francesca.”

She flushed.
Who would be foolish enough to marry a man who had slept with two women at the same time
?

“Are you all right?” Daisy asked, startling her. She peered closely at Francesca. “You seem . . . distracted. No, disturbed.”

“I am a bit overwhelmed right now,” Francesca said. She hesitated. “Bragg’s wife returned to town and they have reconciled, while my brother was terribly beaten up in a bar.”

Daisy gasped. “I am so sorry about your brother! And as for the commissioner, I had no idea he even had a wife! I know how you feel about him.”

Francesca managed a smile. “We remain friends,” she said firmly. And after all of the investigative work that they had shared that day, it now seemed possible to turn their relationship into a genuine friendship. That gladdened Francesca.

“He should have told you,” Daisy flared. “And that is why I love Rose and in general do not like most men.” She softened. “Calder is an extreme exception.”

Francesca had to defend Bragg. “His wife abandoned him four years ago, Daisy. She took off to Europe, where she had many lovers. They hadn’t even spoken in four years, much less seen one another. Her return was a surprise to us all.”

“You still love him,” Daisy said.

“I care deeply and I always will,” Francesca agreed. She realized that her anger of the previous evening had dissipated. She simply could not remain angry with Bragg. And the sorrow—and sense of loss—had also lessened.

Suddenly Daisy glanced past Francesca. “Calder is here!” she cried in surprise and delight.

Francesca whirled in her chair to look out the window. There was no mistaking the huge gleaming barouche now parked in the street. She leaped to her feet. “He mustn’t see me! He mustn’t know I was here!”

Daisy gaped at her. “But . . . why?”

“I don’t know how to tell you—and there is no time!” Francesca felt panicked.

Daisy stood, walking past Francesca and opening the door to a smaller salon. “I will bring your coat. Stay in here. When he comes into the salon, you can go out that door over there and through the front hall. There is a door on the far end which opens onto the gardens in the back.”

“Thank you!” Francesca cried, rushing into the adjacent room and firmly closing the door. Her heart was thundering in her chest. She felt as if she were a crook caught with his hand in the safe. Hart would know she had been prying into his life if he caught her now. He would be very amused—and he would never let her forget it.

Daisy returned from the front hall, handing Francesca her coat and gloves. She smiled. “Do come again,” she whispered.

Francesca nodded as Daisy backed out, quietly closing the door behind her. And before she could take a deep, reassuring breath, she heard Daisy cry out in the front hall, “Calder! It is so good to see you!”

Francesca straightened. It almost sounded as if Daisy were anxious and as if she hadn’t seen her lover in some time.

But that couldn’t be right. Francesca knew of Hart’s sexual appetite. He would visit his mistress frequently. He would visit Daisy every night.

He replied, his drawl too low for her to make out the words. Francesca became more rigid. His tone was not the oh-so-sexy murmur that he so often used with her. It was rather barren of sensuality, in fact. How odd.

“Would you care for a scotch? Are you hungry? Or how about a hot bath?” Daisy’s voice was very distinct now, and clearly she and Hart had walked into the salon Francesca had just vacated. This was her opportunity to leave.

Francesca did not move. Her heart beat hard.

“I am fine,” Hart said matter-of-factly, his tone amazingly straightforward and not at all seductive, not in the least.

“Is everything all right?” Daisy asked with obvious worry.

Francesca knew she must not snoop. She walked over to the door that led to the salon and pressed her ear against it. She simply had to know more about his relationship with this woman. She could not help herself.

Hart sighed. “We must talk.”

There was silence. Francesca could feel Daisy’s alarm. She herself was more than surprised herself. What was going on?

“Have I done something to offend you?” Daisy then asked. “Or have you tired of me already? I haven’t seen you in days, Calder.” She did not whine. Her tone was soft, uncertain, but not shrewlike.

“My sweet Daisy,” Hart said, but quietly. “You haven’t offended me, but I have been rather preoccupied these past few days. There is something I do need to discuss with you.”

“Are you ending our relationship?” she asked, her tone tremulous. “I shan’t cry. I am very fond of you, but if that is what—”

“No. I am hardly ending our relationship,” Hart said flatly.

Francesca could not deny the extent of her disappointment. But then, Hart was showing his true colors. He was pursuing her but keeping Daisy, and it was no surprise.

“Shall we sit down?” he now asked gently.

“I am afraid to sit down,” Daisy said. And then, “Calder, I have missed you!”

“Please, let us sit.” After a pause, during which Francesca imagined them sitting down together on the couch, he said, “I have decided to marry.”

Daisy gasped. So did Francesca.

“What was that?” Hart asked sharply.

Francesca covered her mouth with her hand.

“I . . . I . . . Calder! This is simply stunning!” Daisy cried.

Francesca realized she had forgotten to breathe. Hart had come to discuss his marriage with her? With Daisy, his mistress? She was stunned.

“I know.” His laughter was self-deprecating. “I am extremely fond of Miss Cahill, and she is the one I eventually hope to wed.”

There was a stunned silence from Daisy now.

And not just from Daisy, but from Francesca as well. Calder had come to apprise his mistress of his intentions toward Francesca. In a way, it was so noble. But it did not make any sense, oh no.

“It may be some time before I gain a commitment from Miss Cahill, but when that time comes, I am afraid I will be ending our affair.”

Francesca choked off another gasp and reeled as Daisy said, shocked, “I see.”

Francesca leaned helplessly upon the door. Calder would jettison his mistress when they were wed? Did that mean he intended to be faithful? Was it even remotely possible?

“When she accepts your suit, you will become faithful,” Daisy said rather dully.

“I see no point in marrying should I wish to carry on with other women,” Hart said. “However, it may be some time before we are affianced.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I rather think she might be more amenable to your suit than you think,” Daisy said, sounding tearful.

“Please, do not cry. I am not good with tears. I dislike women who weep and carry on.” He was firm.

Francesca realized her own eyes were flooding now.
Hart intended to be faithful to her
. It was simply too stunning to comprehend.

“Daisy,” he said sharply, a command.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Excuse me for one moment.”

Francesca heard her walk out of the salon. She was trembling now. If she accepted Hart’s suit, he would leave his mistress and give up his penchant for other women.
Oh, my God
.