Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (29 page)

She gasped; his tongue filled her; their lips mated wildly, quickly, urgently. As quickly, he broke the stunning kiss, staring into her eyes. He seemed surprised by what had just happened. “You are the one I want in my bed, Francesca.”

She nodded, not able to speak, not quite yet.

“As for Daisy and Rose, it was simply another game to play for a man as jaded as myself. I won’t deny that I like sex and that I need it.” He lifted her chin. Her gaze was smoke and fire, but hard now, too. “I won’t deny that my current state of self-imposed celibacy isn’t physically annoying, because it is. Actually, at times it is rather painful, but there are ways to circumvent that.” He smiled derisively then.

Francesca straightened, very curious as to what he meant.

He dropped his hand. “But adhering to the vow I made to you isn’t difficult, Francesca, and why should it be? If I didn’t want to marry you and change my life, I wouldn’t. If I wanted to continue on, with whores and divorcees, I would. But I don’t. I was in that club last night to find those missing girls. I have never been in that club before, as it is hardly elegant and I demand elegance in all that I do. If you wish, I will never go there again.” He smiled briefly but stared intently into her eyes.

She shook her head, inhaling, shaking and shaken and urgently yearning for his embrace once more. It was another moment before she could speak. “Didn’t you want to make love to them?” she whispered finally, the real question now.

“No, darling,” he said, suddenly amused. “Oddly, it is you I want, and only you.” He added, “Frankly, Francesca, I
was
bored.”

She bit her lip, her heart continuing to strain against her breast now, her flesh even more alive, painfully so. “You are an enigma, Hart.”

He shrugged. “Darling, voyeurism was never a game of mine. In this case, there was no choice. I stayed for maybe twenty minutes, announced I was bored, and left. As I did so, I gave Madame Marceaux my card, instructing her to find me what I truly desired. I was tested, and I believe my charade worked. Again, it was hard to read what Madame Marceaux was thinking when I left. If she knows where she can procure a child for me, I would be surprised if she does not do so, and shortly.”

Francesca stared at his handsome face, her mind racing, sorting it all out. “I’m glad you did what you did. You are right, this is about the case—not you or I. Calder, what if I spoke with Daisy and asked her to ask Rose to work for us?”

He was intent. “We are thinking along the same lines, Francesca. But I can do that. After all, she is indebted to me.”

Francesca reached for his hand. “She isn’t happy that your arrangement with her is over before it has even begun. I think it might be better if I approached her as a woman and a friend, rather than you ordering her to help us.”

He studied her and nodded. “She does like you. Very well. Do so.”

“I will.” Her smile was brief. “We need a real lead, Calder, and we need it now.”

“Yes, we do, especially if Bonnie is really dead.” He was grim.

She started. “Do you think the grave a ploy of sorts—a diversion?”

“I think we should dig it up,” he said.

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
30, 1902—2:00
P.M
.

F
RANCESCA HAD TOLD THE
would-be informants to return on the morrow at the same time. Then she and Hart had hurried the few blocks uptown to Mulberry Street. But Bragg had not been at police headquarters, where they had hoped to get a police order to dig up Bonnie Cooper’s grave. He wasn’t in a meeting, either; the sergeant at the front desk simply didn’t know where he was. But Francesca hadn’t had time to dwell on how odd that was. She did not want to go to Police Chief Farr, asking for his help on her investigation. Farr would only complicate matters, as he so despised her.

Now Hart’s six-in-hand was parked outside of the cemetery, incredibly incongruous with the old stone church and small, dismal graveyard. Francesca watched him as he dug up Bonnie Cooper’s grave with a shovel purchased from a saloon keeper. Raoul was with them—he and Hart had been taking turns digging, for the ground was hard and rocky.
She was glad it was mid-afternoon—had they been desecrating the grave during a mass, she felt certain they might wind up in the midst of a riot.

And what they were doing was quite illegal. Francesca was keeping one eye on the street, in case a policeman happened to go by.

Hart’s shovel hit something in the ground with a thud. Francesca tensed. “Another rock?” she asked hopefully.

He poked it and glanced back at her. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

He had removed his black suit jacket and tie and had rolled up his sleeves. It was very hard to be indifferent to his body, as the muscles in his broad shoulders, arms, and back rippled firmly beneath his close-fitting custom shirt with every movement. He dug with more urgency now. After several more moments, he stopped.

She simply knew, and she gave up her post as watchman and stepped over to the edge of the hole he had dug. The top of what was obviously a plain and simple coffin faced them both. She glanced at Hart.

“We need to bring it up and open it.”

“If she’s in there, we are disturbing the dead,” Francesca said, suddenly terribly dismayed and uneasy.

He gave her an odd look. “Don’t become cowardly now.”

She stiffened. “I am not afraid and I do not believe in ghosts. It’s just . . . ” She stopped.

“What?” He stared, leaning on the shovel, his face shiny with perspiration.

She tried to ignore the swath of broad, hard chest revealed by his open shirt, which was also damp and clinging to his every muscle and tendon. “I have a bad feeling,” she said lamely.

“So do I.” He began digging again.

Twenty minutes later, Raoul now with the shovel, Hart said, “That’s enough. Let’s bring the coffin up.”

Hart and Raoul got into the huge hole, each man taking an end of the coffin. Hart said, “It’s not empty.”

Francesca felt ill, enough so to retch. “We had better make sure it’s Bonnie. But on the other hand, how will we know?”

“Bonnie was twelve, blond, pretty. We need to see who is inside. Raoul, you get up top, I’ll try to push it over the edge,” Hart instructed.

“I should help,” Francesca said, realizing that lowering a coffin was one thing and raising it by hand quite another.

“No.”

The two men quickly lifted the coffin out of the tight hole and heaved it onto the level ground at Francesca’s feet. Hart climbed out of the ground, covered with mud and dirt. “That was oddly heavy,” he said, giving Francesca a sidelong look.

Francesca was on her knees, attempting the latch. It unclasped. And she hesitated.

Then she felt Hart cover her shoulder with her hand. He didn’t speak.

She smiled slightly to herself, remaining incredibly grim. She opened the coffin and cried out.

It was filled with rocks.

The house Hart had bought for Daisy was on Fifth Avenue but downtown. The elegant Georgian mansion had a brick facade and was surrounded by lawns and gardens that would undoubtedly be striking in the summertime. Francesca was shown into the foyer by a butler, and there she paused, having been told to wait.

Being there again, in that house, under the current circumstances—as Hart’s fiancee—felt surreal, like an odd dream. How many months ago had she been happy for Daisy upon visiting her here and learning of her new status as Hart’s mistress? It felt like a lifetime ago, but it had only been in February.

“Hello, Francesca.” Daisy approached. She was the most ethereal woman Francesca had ever met, her skin and hair strikingly pale, her eyes a clear blue. She had a slender,
willowy figure and a small, breathless voice. She was beautiful in an unearthly way, and she always made Francesca feel tall, gauche, and even fat. “This is an unexpected surprise,” Daisy said softly, but she wasn’t smiling.

Francesca met her steady gaze and was taken aback. They had not spoken since Hart had told her he was ending the liaison. And had Daisy heard that their engagement was an official one? One thing was clear—Daisy wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t pleased to see Francesca, and their relationship had undeniably changed.

“I hope I am not intruding,” Francesca began, about to say that Hart had said she could call. She swallowed those words. “How are you? You look lovely, Daisy, as always.”

Daisy attempted a smile; it seemed more like a grimace of disbelief. “You are the one who is radiant, Francesca. But why should I be surprised? Apparently being engaged to Calder suits you. And to think I thought it was Rick Bragg you were after.”

Instantly Francesca became tense. “I know things are awkward, now, between us, but is there any way we can remain friends? I like you very much, Daisy.”

“Of course we remain friends,” Daisy said. “Why wouldn’t we? After all, I am no longer Hart’s mistress, not in bed, at least, and as you do not seem to mind his keeping me here, with the appearance that he still sleeps here, there is no conflict of interest.” Finally, Daisy smiled. It was razor sharp. Worse, her eyes were clearly unhappy.

But Francesca had a terrible thought—Hart was being true to his word to Daisy in supporting her until their six-month agreement expired. But what if Francesca’s father learned that Daisy remained under Hart’s roof? He would not listen to an explanation—he would never believe that Hart no longer visited Daisy—he would end their engagement faster than Francesca could take a single breath.

“You must be in heaven, I suspect. Can I offer you some tea, some pastries?” Daisy asked, leading Francesca into an elegant salon with several works of art upon the wall, all
of which, Francesca knew, Hart had chosen for Daisy’s home.

“Tea is fine,” Francesca said absent-mindedly. She must speak to Hart, immediately. But how to do so without appearing as jealous as she had been earlier, as jealous as a shrew?

“Your ring is lovely,” Daisy remarked after asking her butler for refreshments.

“Thank you. It is too lavish for my taste.”

“Really? The saying is a diamond can never be big enough.”

“Daisy, I can see you are upset. I am sorry!” Francesca finally cried. “I never meant to interfere with you and Hart. Everything just happened, somehow. I can’t even begin to think of how we got to this place in time!”

Daisy folded her arms across her small breasts. “Hart decided to marry, and there you were—his brother’s love interest.”

How cruel Daisy was. “Hart and I became friends, and he realized he wished to marry me,” she returned sharply.

“Yes, he suddenly came to his senses after all those years of avowing he would never wed. It must have been a
coup de foudre
—and to think you are the lucky one.”

Francesca was ramrod-stiff. “As you must know, there is no predicting Hart.”

“No, there is not. And he is noble after all; how odd. But can he really remain faithful to you, I wonder?” And she finally smiled.

Francesca stared. It was as if they were enemies now. She finally said, “I am choosing to take him at his word.”

“One month is easy,” Daisy remarked. “A lifetime of fidelity is quite another chore.”

Francesca sat down, grimacing. If Daisy was trying to upset her, she was succeeding. “Hart is vastly misunderstood. I have seen his best side. There is good in him, as I am sure you have also learned.”

“Francesca, there is something I must tell you,” Daisy suddenly said, sitting down in a moss-green damask chair
beside her. She gripped her arm. “Hart was at a club called the Jewel last night. It is a decadent place where men go to satisfy their most eccentric sexual appetites. He was there, I know, because Rose works there and she was with him.”

Francesca stiffened, holding her tongue, not about to tell Daisy that she knew. Her heart beat hard. What was Daisy about to tell her? “Really?”

“I’m sorry,” Daisy said, very solemnly, “but I cannot let you go on believing how noble Hart is. He was with Rose and another woman. The three of them, Francesca. It was a threesome, a menage a trois.” She sat back now, hands clasped in her lap, watching Francesca carefully.

Francesca stood, refusing to doubt Hart. She would not become a victim of Daisy’s barbs. “Clearly, our friendship is at an end,” she said coldly. But she was trembling, for Daisy’s words contained a poison that she wasn’t completely immune to.

“I am only the messenger,” Daisy said, also standing. “I like you, Francesca, and I see you are about to be hurt.”

“Hart was at the Jewel because I sent him there,” she said stiffly.

Daisy’s eyes widened.

“We are working on a case, together, Daisy. In fact, the reason I am here is to ask you and Rose to help us.”

Daisy’s surprise vanished. Her face became expressionless. “How bohemian, how liberal, you are. I would have never guessed. So you do not care what Hart does when he is not with you. Still, the tower of his fidelity came down quickly enough. But I am not surprised. Hart is not the kind of man to deny himself his pleasure.”

Francesca’s face felt as brittle as a ceramic mask.
Hart had told her he had done nothing, and she believed him
. She knew what Daisy was doing. She wanted to create suspicion, doubt, mistrust. “I care. I care very much. And we both know Hart did nothing with Rose and that other woman except watch.”

Daisy smiled tightly. “Is that what he said? How clever he is.”

And Francesca collapsed. Doubt reared its monstrous head. It was an ugly blow, but the moment she became breathless with suspicion, wondering if Hart had lied to her, she also recalled his disbelief and how aghast he had been with just such accusations. She reminded herself that they really were friends. He had yet to lie to her, and as he had said, the only reason he had gone to that club was to help her in her investigation—to help find the missing girls. Besides, the ultimate platform of his logic was irrefutable—why marry if he wished to carry on as he had his entire adult life?

“I trust Calder,” Francesca said, and she meant it. But getting the words out and meaning them were very hard. How vulnerable she was to the kind of attack Daisy had just inflicted.