Deadly Kisses (5 page)

But Francesca wanted to comfort him, too, and she moved closer to him. Instantly he glanced at her. She sensed he wanted to reassure her, and any grief he might be feeling was masked. Then he looked at Bragg. “I sat with her for a moment,” he said calmly. “I was in shock. I was very much in shock.”

Bragg nodded. “There's blood on your shirt,” he said.

Hart had tossed his charcoal-gray jacket aside. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his dark tie loose and askew. He rarely wore a vest, and dried blood stained the finely woven white cotton material of his shirt. Now he glanced down at his own chest.

“You held her?” Bragg asked.

Francesca tensed.

An interminable moment passed and Francesca thought Hart was recalling the moment he had first seen Daisy dead on the study floor. She touched his arm; he did not notice. “I saw her the moment I reached the study door. It was ajar. There was so much blood. I knew instantly that she had been murdered.” Hart finally looked at his half brother. “But I checked to see if she was breathing. She wasn't. I was on my knees.” He stopped. He had spoken as if reciting notes for a university class. Now he looked down. “Yes, I held her.”

Francesca turned away. Her heart beat so hard it hurt her there, inside of her chest.

“Go on,” Bragg said to Hart, as if he had not just revealed his feelings, when they all knew he had.

Hart shrugged. “I instantly wondered if the killer remained in the house. I was about to begin a search when I saw Rose
coming inside, without any kind of wrap. Clearly she had only just stepped out. I was suspicious and I made certain she did not see me. She went directly to the study. She was not surprised to find Daisy dead there, but she was very distraught.”

“She still did not see you?” Bragg asked.

Hart shook his head. “We all know that Rose was very fond of Daisy. Although her behavior seemed suspicious, I left to search the house, on the chance I might find either the killer or a clue. I had just finished speaking with the butler and a housemaid when I ran into Francesca.”

“And that would have been at midnight,” Bragg confirmed.

“I guess so,” Hart said, suddenly sounding tired. “Are we through?”

Francesca would have been consumed with guilt for her deception, but there was too much worry and hurt. She could not get past the fact that Hart had admitted to holding Daisy in his arms, obviously grieving for her. She reminded herself that he had every right. After all, she still cared for Bragg. She would grieve until the day she died if anything ever happened to him. Why couldn't she accept that Hart had continued to care for Daisy, too?

Because she had always been jealous of the fact that Hart had once wanted Daisy enough to keep her as a mistress.

Francesca did not want to think about how insecure Daisy had always made her feel. She took a breath and plunged into the fray. “Rick, I arrived just a few moments before I bumped into Hart. When I arrived, the front door was ajar. I found Rose with Daisy, in grief. There was no sign of a murder weapon. I covered up the body and I also thought to look for the killer, as I heard a noise in the hall. That is when I ran into Calder on the stairs.”

“And you went to Daisy, for what reason?”

Francesca reached into her beaded velvet evening bag and
handed him the note. He read it and gave it to Newman. “Tag it,” he said. He faced Hart. “And the note Daisy sent you?”

Hart was rubbing his jaw. “It's probably on my desk, where I left it.”

“I'm afraid I will need it, Calder.”

“I'll send it to you,” Hart said. He walked away from Bragg and Francesca, as if deep in thought. Francesca watched him, aware of Bragg watching her. This was one case that she was not going to be enthusiastic about working on. She turned to Bragg. “Rose has admitted to finding Daisy murdered, Rick. I think we need to pursue her as a suspect, as distasteful as that is.”

Bragg spoke, not to Francesca but to Hart. “You have a houseful of witnesses, do you not, who will testify that you were at your home from the time you arrived there, at approximately 8:00 p.m., until you left for Daisy's at half past eleven?”

Hart faced them from a distance. “Alfred let me in when I returned from the depot. I am sure he saw me go out.”

Bragg made a note. “And your driver can certainly testify to taking you to Daisy's at half past eleven, can he not?”

Hart's expression was impassive. “I took a cab.”

Francesca almost groaned. “Rick! Hart was at home for at least three hours! I am sure quite a few staff can testify to that.”

Bragg looked at her, not responding.

Francesca felt some panic bubble. Rick did not believe all that Hart had said.

“Rick, I want to speak to you alone,” Hart suddenly said.

Francesca was instantly alarmed. “Calder!”

“No.” His eyes had become shards of steel. “I wish to speak with my brother privately.”

Francesca's worry knew no bounds. She hesitated and Rick said, “I want to speak to him alone, as well. Francesca, it is late. I will finish with Hart and he can take you home, as long as you
promise me you will come in first thing in the morning to give an official statement.” He smiled at her.

But she did not smile back. If they wished to speak alone, then they were going to discuss her—or discuss something they did not wish for her to hear. When both men united against her, it was a losing battle. She looked at Rick, who was smiling too benignly at her, then glanced at Hart, who was not smiling at all. He appeared ruthlessly determined, but to do what?

“I'll take you home in a few minutes,” Hart said.

She knew she could not prevent this private discussion. She sighed and faced Rick. “Of course I'll come in tomorrow morning. What about Rose?”

“I'm going to interview her in a moment, if she is up to the task. If not, I will send her home with a police escort and speak with her in the morning, as well.”

Francesca would be shocked if Rose were ever proven to be the killer. She felt very sorry for the woman. “Rick, she is in mourning.”

“I know.” He laid his hand on her back and guided her across the room to the door. “Newman? Why don't you see Miss Cahill downstairs and begin speaking with Rose.”

“Aye, sir,” Newman said.

 

H
ART WATCHED
F
RANCESCA LEAVE.
He was very deter mined, but a part of him almost called her back. Before the door closed she sent him a reassuring look. He knew her so well now, better than he had ever known anyone. Therefore, he had not a single doubt that Francesca genuinely wanted to comfort him, just as he knew she wanted to protect him. It was amazing, and he knew that later he'd be grateful. Tonight, however, he had no use for any emotions whatsoever, not even those engendered by his fiancée. Tonight, he refused to feel anything at all.

Images of Daisy filled his mind, her anger, her tears, and later, her bloody corpse.

Hart turned to Rick and said, “I do not want Francesca involved in this investigation, not in any way. She thinks to protect me but it is hardly necessary.”

Bragg's tawny brows lifted. “I could not agree more. How noble of you.”

Inwardly he seethed. “We both know I am not noble, Rick, so don't even begin. But even I am not rotten enough to put Franesca in the awkward position of defending me in the murder of my ex-mistress.” He did not want his past with Daisy—or any woman—thrown up in Francesca's face, time and again. In fact, he had regretted his hedonistic past ever since meeting Francesca, or shortly there after. Although he could not change the past, he hoped to keep Francesca as far removed from it as he could. Yet to night, the past had somehow caught up with them both.

“I could almost believe you are putting Francesca first,” Rick said, “except we both know you are not.”

Hart despised his brother's self-righteous, judgmental nature. “Let's finish, Rick.” His temper was explosive and
that
felt good.

But Rick was clearly not finished. “You don't want Francesca to know why you went to see your mistress tonight, do you?” Rick was furious. “We both know you did not ride downtown to go over her expenses and accounts.”

Hart saw red. “Fuck you. I did not visit Daisy to sleep with her.”

Rick stared. Finally said, “Then why? Because only some very urgent dispute or crisis would rouse you so late at night.”

He tensed. Daisy's sobs filled his mind, and the image was hateful. “I told you, it was a matter of finances. I'm not even sure what, exactly, the matter involved. She probably wanted more funds. I had asked her to leave the house last month, earlier than we had agreed. She refused and I had decided to let it go. Maybe she was going to ask me for a payoff.” He smiled coldly. “But we will never know now, will we?”

“How interesting this is, your word against the word of a dead woman. Why did you ask Daisy to leave the house earlier than the two of you had agreed she would go?”

Hart had to hand it to his half brother—Rick never missed a trick. Calder had learned long ago to stick as closely to the truth as possible. “She had become difficult, even malicious, toward me—and worse, toward Francesca. I was angry with her and I had had enough.”

Bragg's brows rose. “Were you angry with her to night?”

“No,” Hart said, and that was the truth.

Rick saw it, too, because he nodded. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”

“No.”

Rick nodded again. “Come in tomorrow afternoon. Your statement will be ready and you can sign it.” He hesitated. “It wouldn't hurt, Calder, to bring your lawyer with you.”

Hart stiffened. “I don't need a lawyer, because I did not murder anyone.”

Rick shrugged and started for the door.

Hart seized him from behind. “I meant what I said. I do not want Francesca working this case with you. Turn her away, Rick, when you see her tomorrow. She doesn't need this.”

“I can't dissuade her when she has set her mind to something.”

“You can't, or you won't?”

Rick gave him an enigmatic look and he walked out.

Hart lost it. He kicked the door so hard that it hurt.

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—3:00 a.m.

F
RANCESCA WAITED IN
H
ART'S
carriage, a large, elegant six-in-hand, while Hart and Bragg spoke. Although the station had been unusually quiet, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

The ward was almost deserted. Although numerous prostitutes worked the brownstones just across from headquarters, Francesca saw only one madam, outrageously dressed in a peignoir with a pink feather boa, smoking a cigar and sitting on the stoop of her building. A pair of officers was returning from a foot patrol in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets, billy clubs in hand and wearing their new police-issue Colt revolvers. A horse and rider was approaching, and some raucous conversation was coming from a nearby flat. Otherwise, like the station house, the night was oddly quiet.

Why had Hart sent her out? What did he wish to discuss with Bragg alone? Francesca could not help but be worried. A part of it was simple—leaving both men alone together was like sending them an invitation to do battle.

Their rivalry was ancient, going back to when they were small boys. They shared the same mother, Lily, who had tragically died. Rick had been eleven years old at the time and he had been claimed by his father, Rathe Bragg. Hart had been unwanted, so Rathe had taken him in, too. Francesca knew Hart so well now and she understood. His mother had never had time for him, first
fighting to provide for her children and later, fighting to stay alive, a battle she had lost. Somehow Hart had felt abandoned and unloved, first by Lily, and then, by his biological father. As foolish as it seemed, he had never been able to forgive Rick for being the wanted one, the favored one, the loved one.

And as children so often do, he had searched for Lily's and then Rathe's approval in a backward way, his behavior wild and out of bounds, testing first his mother and then his stepfather. But he hadn't really wanted to push everyone away—he had just wanted to be loved, in spite of who he was.

Francesca knew Hart had not been aware of what he was doing as a small boy or a rowdy adolescent. Yet she had come to realize that his behavior as a mature and powerful man was really no different than that little boy's. He claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, and he was well aware of his black reputation, but Francesca thought he
did
care—and that he refused to admit it, not even to himself. He refused to conform to the rules and mores of proper society; he had flaunted his lovers, many of whom were divorcées, and he displayed the most shocking and controversial art. Behind his back, society gossiped in absolute fascination. Hart laughed about it, but it was as if he had to see just how far he could go before being cast out. There had been difficult times when he had tried to push her away, as well. But Francesca understood that his actions were a test—a test of her loyalty, her friendship and her devotion. She was never going to fail.

There was another aspect to Hart's rivalry with his half brother. The two men were as different as night and day. Rick had given his life to social and political reform, even at the expense of his marriage. His reputation was as stellar as Hart's was not; he would never flaunt an indiscretion or compromise anyone's reputation. Hart was only accepted in good society because of his wealth and power. Rick was accepted not just because he was from that acclaimed family, but because he was a leader of the
reform movement, universally respected and admired for all of his good works. No two men could be more different—on the surface, at least.

It also did not help that, when she had first met Hart, she and Rick had been romantically involved. Hart remained jealous of the fact that she had chosen Rick before him and that she maintained a genuine friendship with him. Rick clearly loved his wife, and Francesca often felt he would not mind her engagement—as long as it was to anyone other than Hart. She sighed. She could not undo the past. She could not stop caring about Rick Bragg and she could not stop loving Hart. Their rivalry had begun decades before either man had ever met her, but she was aware of being added fuel to the fire.

Francesca pushed open her window. The night was cool but pleasant; a few stars had come out to join the crescent moon. She felt a soft summer breeze and she let it caress her face. She was so worried about this case and where the investigation would take her.

Suddenly the other passenger door opened and Hart climbed into the backseat beside her, taking her hand. “Are you cold? Why are you waiting here, when you could be inside?”

Francesca met his dark gaze and tried to smile at him. “It can be so noisy in the lobby. I have a head ache,” she said truthfully.

His smile faded as the carriage rumbled away from the curb. He put his arm around her. “It has been a terrible evening,” he said quietly. “I wish you hadn't been here tonight, Francesca.”

She looked up at his face, at the strong and attractive features she had come to love, acutely aware of his powerful embrace. “I'm glad I was here,” she said passionately. “You are not going through this alone!”

“Francesca, I know you mean well. You always mean well,” he said roughly, and he smiled. “But this affair is already a sordid
one. I have never asked you before to cease an investigation, but I am asking you now.”

She pulled away from him, disbelieving. “Hart, don't ask me to drop this.”

“You are upset with me,” he remarked, his eyes moving over her face.

“I want to help,” Francesca said firmly. “I can help. Daisy was murdered and we both know I can find her killer. Just as we both know that right now, the police think you might be involved.”

His expression hardened and he glanced away.

She moved into his arms, turning his face toward her. Hart could be terribly insecure and vulnerable at times, as if still that small, unloved, unwanted boy. “I am not upset with you. You did not murder Daisy, Hart,” Francesca said. “We simply need to bring her killer to justice.”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his chest. Against her skin, Francesca felt the stiff material of his shirt, and she realized he had pressed her hand against Daisy's dried blood. “Why are you calling me Hart? You only call me Hart when distressed.” His gaze was searching in the flickering lights of the carriage.

She wet her lips. “I am distressed. You are, as well. How can we not be distressed after what has happened?”

He studied her and said, “And that is why I don't want you on this case. It will only get worse.”

She trembled. “And how will it get worse?”

He was incredulous. “I care enough about you not to want you reminded every hour of every day that I was in Daisy's bed a few months ago!”

Her mind became blurred. A little voice inside of her head said,
“Don't.”
She ignored it. “Why did you call on Daisy tonight?”

His grip on her hand tightened as their gazes locked. “There was a matter she wished to discuss.”

Francesca continued to tremble and she knew Hart could
feel it. She recalled Newman's expression of pity, and Bragg's. Both men thought Hart had gone to see Daisy to take her to bed. “What matter?”

He rubbed his face and Francesca realized how tired he was. “Can we let this go, at least for tonight?”

She knew he had not gone to Daisy for carnal reasons. While it was her worst fear that one day he would stray, they had only recently become engaged and the passion they shared remained vast. “What was so important and so urgent that you had to see Daisy tonight—the night of her murder?” She could not help herself. “Calder, we agreed to always be honest with each other. We both know that you didn't go to Daisy's to discuss financial matters.”

“We had a private matter to discuss.” He was terse and there was a warning in his tone.

Francesca became alarmed. “A matter you wish to keep private from me?”

“Yes.” He turned away, resolute, his expression hard and tense. “Please. Just leave it for now.”

She could not believe he would not tell her what he and Daisy had intended to discuss. But it was not his nature to ask for anything, and he was asking her now to let the subject alone. She didn't know if she could. Her mind was spinning. She simply could not imagine what had brought him to Daisy's in the middle of the night. “Your motive in calling on her is crucial to your defense.”

He became rigid. “So now I am accused of her murder?”

“Hart, I am not accusing you of anything! I know you are innocent. But the police will want to know.”

He was angry. “No, you want to know! You want to pry! Damn it! I just asked you to drop it! But when you get an idea, a clue, a lead, you might as well be a terrier with some damned bone. Usually your tenacity is endearing—it is not endearing now. Please,
leave it,
Francesca.”

She recoiled. And against her will, an image arose of him with Daisy in an intimate embrace.

As always, he knew. He tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. His eyes were wide. “You cannot think I went there to sleep with her?”

Francesca felt her cheeks heating. She really did not doubt Hart, but she did doubt Daisy. Had the other woman somehow lured him to her home to seduce him, in the hopes of rekindling their affair?

And because she hesitated, he grew incredulous. “Don't tell me you have doubts about my loyalty,” he began in warning.

She could not breathe. She shook her head. “I don't. Not really. It's just—” she managed to say.

“Not really!” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “It's just what?” he demanded.

Francesca saw from his shocked and angry expression that she had been wrong to even begin to doubt him. “You know I am insecure at times like these,” she said. “I did not trust Daisy—and neither did you! If only I were half as beautiful as she was.”

He leaned close, exploding. “I asked you to marry me because I had no wish to continue my philandering ways! I asked you to marry me because I was sick to death of all of those desperate women, and more important, of myself! I asked you to marry me because I wish to commit myself to
you,
Francesca. I
knew,
shortly after meeting you, that you were the one woman I wished to share the rest of my entire life with. I told you, in a true confession of my feelings, that I could no longer enjoy being with those faceless women, whose names I could never even recall! I asked you to marry me because you are the only genuine friend I have ever had, and because I have come to care deeply for you—because you have changed my life! Now, you believe I was sleeping with Daisy? I have never been faithful before, Francesca, but I have been faithful to you! And you are ten times more beautiful than Daisy!”

He was so angry. Francesca huddled against the velvet seat, shocked by his passionate outburst—and thrilled, too. “Calder, I was merely being honest. I don't really believe you went to Daisy to sleep with her, of course I don't. But Daisy always worried me. She was so beautiful. I am such a bluestocking, and I am so different from women like her. I admit it—when it comes to such women, I am a jealous, witless fool!”

He swept her into his arms. “Yes, you are jealous, witless and foolish at times like these,” he muttered, and he covered her mouth with his. He moved so quickly that Francesca was stunned, and then his tongue thrust hard and deep. Before she could react, the kiss softened, becoming thorough, and more thorough still. Francesca forgot the conversation, holding on to his hard, powerful body, her blood surging with heat. When he finally pulled away, she was dazed and throbbing with a terrible need and urgency. His sexual tension emanated from him in waves, but he gently brushed some strands of blond hair from her cheek. “You are as different from Daisy and her kind as can be—and I am so grateful for it! You tempt me, Francesca, as no one else ever has,” he whispered roughly.

It was always this way, she thought, recovering some of her sensibilities. When she became terribly insecure, he would make love to her and she would realize she had been a fool. When she was in his arms, all doubt died. She smiled at him and clasped his cheek briefly.

He smiled back and, his eyes closing, he kissed her hand.

The electricity that existed between them sparked. She covered his hand, pulling it against her face. Her heart pumped, each beat solid and pregnant with desire, in the hollow of her chest. She had missed him terribly while he was out of town and it would be a few more minutes before they reached her home.

He sensed the direction of her thoughts and looked directly at her. His gaze was brilliant as it met hers. Very softly, he said,
“This is a dangerous night. I don't feel in control, Francesca. I am not certain this is a good idea.”

She slipped her hand under his shirt, against the warm skin of his hard chest, but his shirt remained stiff with dried blood. She looked at it; so did he.

Daisy was dead and Hart was in trouble, she some how thought.

He kissed her cheek lightly and took her hand. Francesca fought the raging of her body until it softened. “I am sorry,” she said when she could speak. “I am sorry for being so foolish and for having even the tiniest doubt. But I am afraid I will always be jealous when it comes to other women.”

“You don't ever have to be jealous of another woman, Francesca,” he said so seriously that her insides melted.

“I will try to prevent such a lapse in the future, I swear it, Calder.” She actually managed to smile at him.

He glanced at her. “Maybe I should be more understanding,” he said, surprising her. “Recently Daisy did her best to interfere in our relationship. Maybe your response to her was reasonable. But, Francesca, I have to remind you of one basic fact. Daisy had the airs of a well-bred lady, and I am rather certain she came from a genteel background, but she sold her body, Francesca. I
paid
for her attentions—they were never freely given.” He held her gaze. “Darling, she was a whore.”