Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (38 page)

“I know Mr. Hart has quite the reputation for being rude, unkind, and self-serving, and of course everyone knows he is a terrible rogue when it comes to the ladies, but truly, Bartolla, he would not steal the love of his brother! He is genuinely fond of Francesca. It is rather obvious.”

“It is rather obvious that he would love to ravish her in his bed,” Bartolla mused.

Sarah appeared shocked. “I think not!”

Bartolla shrugged. How naive Sarah was. She did not add that Hart’s “genuine interest” and his “fondness” would quickly wane once he had satisfied himself with Francesca. “Shall I advise you?” she asked.

Sarah sat down, nodding eagerly.

“Francesca cares for you, and if you press her, she will give in and sit for the portrait. It will give you a name in the art world, or at least give you an entree and the attention of dealers and collectors, and she would never deny you that.”

Sarah hesitated.

“Dear, it is convince Francesca to pose, or lose the commission and the entrée into the art world that it gives you.”

Sarah stood. “I know. I shall convince Francesca to sit for the portrait, but not in the way you suggest. There is no harm in it! She is a beautiful woman, with an unmatched spirit, and the kind of selfless goodness that is
just so rare these days. And clearly Hart sees that. The portrait will be my best work ever. How can she mind? Really? I am going to call on her in a bit, and I thought you might wish to join me.”

As much as Bartolla liked Francesca—and she did—she hadn’t liked her in that dark red dress, looking far too sensual and beautiful, all at once. The countess had had enough of Francesca for the moment and decided to encourage her in her sleuthing and her bluestocking ways—and mode of dress. “I shall lie about my rooms today, as I am very tired from last night.”

Sarah’s face fell, but she then brightened. “I suppose I should speak with her alone.”

“Yes, you should.” Bartolla thought about the triangle developing, and she chuckled and patted Sarah’s hand. “It shall be an interesting winter,” she said with a grin.

“Yes, it shall,” Sarah said, animated once again. She jumped up. “Will you join me for breakfast, then? Oh—I see you are penning a letter.”

“I think I shall take chocolate in my rooms,” Bartolla said.

“Very well.” Sarah kissed her cheek and left the room.

Bartolla reread what she had written thus far:

My dearest Leigh Anne,

I hear you are presently in Boston, as your father is not well. First, may I offer my sincerest prayers on his behalf? I am thinking about you and your family daily.

I am currently in New York and having a lovely time. Last night my cousin held a ball in my honor, and a few of us danced until dawn. I happened across your husband, and I can see, my dear, why you were first compelled by him. In some circles, he is already being highly acclaimed as a noble man of action, one capable of reforming this city’s notoriously corrupt police department. Clearly he is a strong, intelligent, and determined man. But you never mentioned how intriguing his looks were! I hear he is half Indian, or some such thing. He
has been turning quite a few female heads, one in particular.

Francesca Cahill comes from one of the city’s wealthiest families; she is extremely beautiful, young, and unwed, and far more intelligent than you or I. I have seen them together constantly, and I have only been in town a week. At the ball last night I found them in a private conversation, but I am sure they were discussing police affairs. She is an amateur sleuth, and she helped solve the Randall Killing, which I am sure you have read about, as it has made all of the newspapers here.

The city is a whirl of fetes and dinner parties, balls and musicales. The winter is a snowy one. We had four inches last night! But that does not stop these gay New Yorkers, my dear. Once your father recovers, you might consider joining me here. I am sure you would love it, and we would have a wonderful time. I intend to speak to my aunt about your staying with us when you arrive. Do let me know if you can come.

Yours Truly,

Bartolla Benevente

Bartolla smiled, pleased with the letter, but then she had an afterthought.

The post was so slow. She would have her letter hand-delivered that very day.

Francesca knocked gently on Maggie’s door. It was late—noon—and she had only just awoken. Her hand continued to throb, and in general, she felt miserable, as if she were truly ill with the flu. She was also exhausted, but she had managed to dress with Bessie’s help, and she simply had to check on Maggie.

There was a brief moment before Maggie responded to her knock. Francesca stepped inside her room.

Maggie was in bed, and none of her children were present. She looked pale and wan, but she smiled at Francesca. “You saved my life,” she said.

Francesca smiled back at her and came to sit down beside her hip. “We saved each other,” she said, not wanting to recall the events of the prior evening. They were simply
too frightening and too gruesome, and the image of Lizzie O’Brien on fire and leaping out of the window was an image she hoped to forget—and knew she never would.

“How can I ever thank you for all that you have done?” Maggie asked, her eyes welling with moisture.

“You need not thank me any more than you have already done. Where are the children?”

Maggie glanced away. “Your brother has taken them on some sort of a drive. He is being terribly kind.”

Francesca said truthfully, “He
is
terribly kind. It is his nature. How are you feeling?”

“My side hurts. But that is nothing compared to the sickness inside of my heart,” she said.

Francesca reached for Maggie’s hand with her left one. Her right one was heavily bandaged and impossible to use. Besides, even lifting it caused the pain to escalate. “I am so sorry. I am sorry you have lost two dear friends, and I am sorry Lizzie turned out to be what she had become.”

Maggie nodded, apparently speechless. Then, “Will she live?”

“Oh, yes. But it may be some months before she has recovered sufficiently to stand trial,” Francesca said.

Maggie sighed harshly. “We never knew. I mean, she was always rougher than the rest of us. Rougher, tougher, more frank. But we loved her, Miss Cahill. I was thirteen when I met her, twelve when I met Kathleen and Mary.”

Francesca did not know what to say. “Perhaps she was always insane?”

“I just do not know. She was always wild, and careless of who knew. She would go with boys and flaunt it. She would laugh at the priests who tried to reason with her. She refused to go to confession. Sometimes she scoffed at us for being meek—for being devout. For Kathleen and Mary were very pious, and so am I. We were all a bit frightened for her,” Maggie admitted. “Now I can see the signs so clearly. I knew she had chased after Mike
O’Donnell, even after he married Kathleen. But I didn’t want to know, so I pretended not to. And I knew she flaunted herself in front of my Joseph. I trusted him, though, and I somehow pretended to myself that she did not really mean to entice him. Of course, she did.”

“I am beginning to think she was so jealous of the three of you, for all of these years, and the envy ate at her, until she became so terribly twisted. Or maybe her charade as the genteel Mrs. Lincoln Stuart gave her an excuse to exercise her anger—and even her hatred. Do you think she secretly hated all of you for all of these years?”

“I am beginning to think so,” Maggie whispered. “Maybe her attempts to seduce Joseph, maybe her love affair with Mike, were all about jealousy and hate.” Maggie seemed paler now.

“We are being too morbid,” Francesca whispered, patting her friend’s hand. “I think this shall all come out in the trial. Lizzie is quite vocal.”

Maggie nodded. “Do you know what is really frightening?”

“No.”

“When we were young, I think, in a way, we admired her spirit. None of us would ever dare miss confession. None of us would ever swear, smoke, or drink. We were chaste until our wedding nights. She did all of those things, all that we were afraid to do. We knew we did not have her courage, so secretly, we were envious of her.” Maggie was upset.

“Do not blame yourself now for trusting a lifelong friend!” Francesca cried. “Do not blame yourself for failing to realize how twisted her mind was—and is! And you have her courage a hundred times over, Maggie,” she said flatly. “The way you have chosen to live, with virtue and pride, is no easy thing, and you do it with so much grace.”

Maggie smiled a little. “You are being terribly nice to me, Miss Cahill.”

“I am being truthful,” Francesca said. “It is the only way I know how to be.”

“I am coming to realize that.”

“And will you ever call me Francesca?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

They smiled at each other.

“Francesca? You have a caller. It’s Hart.”

Francesca was reclining in front of the fire in her room, trying to study but with little success, as her hand hurt and it had given her a headache. Outside, it was snowing again, this time heavily. She had remained in bed for half of the day and had lounged in her rooms all afternoon. Now, she was cross and irritable with the pain of her burn and debating taking a small dose of laudanum. It was perhaps five in the afternoon.

Francesca realized she had no choice. If he knew about her hand—and if he didn’t already, he soon would—he would lecture her no end, and she was not up to self-defense. Or had he come to force her into submission on the subject of her posing for a portrait? Sarah had already convinced her that she must comply—as this was Sarah’s chance to make a name for herself.

Francesca sighed. She walked into the bathroom and winced when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked horrible—ghostly. Her injury had turned her golden skin starkly pale, she had large circles under her eyes from the stress of pain, and her hair, which had been pulled loosely back so as to not aggravate her headache, was a mess. Francesca sighed again, more heavily, biting back a few tears of anguish. It was only a burn, she reminded herself. Dr. Finney had changed the dressing that afternoon, and there was no sign of infection. In a few days the pain would subside, or she could take the laudanum he had recommended.

But at least, when Hart saw her like this, he would no
longer think of annoying her with his proposition for a portrait. Surely he would cancel the commission.

In fact, he would hardly recognize her at all. She was not the seductive woman in the dark red dress from the evening before, oh no. She wasn’t even her ordinary self. He would not look twice at her this way, and by damn, she was pleased.

He was pacing the smallest of the three salons with savage strides, as always, in a black suit. He whirled the moment she paused on the threshold, clearly vastly impatient. And he froze.

Unfortunately, her heart lurched wildly as she glimpsed him. Unease filled her. She could not look away.

He did not move. He stood so still he might have been a statue. His expression, which had appeared distinctly distressed for one bare instant, was now absolutely closed and impossible to read. Had she imagined his worry?

“Francesca. Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, and then, to her horror, a tear slipped from one eye. “I am fine.” Even her tone was hoarse from the ceaseless pain.

“I can see that you are in pain,” he said, as quietly. He finally came forward, his gaze never leaving her face. “How badly is your hand burned?”

“Not that badly. I shall be rid of these bandages in a week or so, and in a few weeks I will have full use of my hand,” she said, unable to tear her gaze free of his. It was extraordinarily intense, unwavering. Her unease increased, or was it her pulse rate? He had halted so close to her that their knees could almost touch. “Who told you? Bragg?”

Finally, she had a genuine expression from him, as real annoyance crossed his features. “Don’t mention my brother now,” he warned. He stalked past her and closed the door, which was absolutely inappropriate, but oddly, she did not object. She shivered, even though the room
was very warm, with all the windows closed and the fire roaring in the hearth.

He turned, studying her closely. “Sarah told me. We had a meeting an hour ago. You were all she could talk about.”

“I see,” she said. Francesca had agreed not to mention the evening’s work to anyone, but as Sarah was such a close friend and her brother’s fiancée, she hadn’t been able to lie to her when she had asked about the reason for the bandages on her hand.

“I am very concerned about you.”

She softened, rather involuntarily, and she smiled at him. “That’s nice of you, Hart. I take it you are no longer angry with me?” It was good to be friends again. How much it meant to her jolted her to her bones.

“I am very angry with you,” he exploded, “and I am not being nice! Jesus Christ! You are practically in tears from the pain of that burn. How
could
you?” he demanded.

She could only stare, disbelieving. On the one hand, she did not like being shouted at or ordered about. But . . . did he really care so much? “Calder, Maggie’s life was in jeopardy. I could think of nothing else to do.”

“I want to hear what happened from beginning to end,” he said darkly, “from your mouth, not Sarah’s version of the events.” He approached and took her arm, looping it so securely against his side that she tensed instinctively. What was he doing? What was he up to? she wondered, stealing a glance at his set profile.

He guided her to a small plush sofa. “But first, didn’t the doctor give you laudanum for the pain?” His black eyes held hers again.

“Yes, but it makes me sleepy, and I cannot think,” she said, aware of his having slid his entire arm around her, when she did not need his support. He was a very muscular man. He was taller than one thought, broader, more solid.
She suspected he had two inches on his brother and fifteen or twenty solid pounds.

“Sit down,” he said.

She did not mind, in fact, she was relieved, because once he somewhat pushed her down onto the sofa, she was no longer so aware of his physicality. She watched him stride over to the bar cart and pour a glassful of scotch. The thought crossed her mind as she studied him that he was, in some ways, a frankly male animal. It was there in the way he moved, talked, gestured. Everything about him was aggressive, even uncivilized.