Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (40 page)

Bragg sighed. “I forgot.”

“Bragg,” she scolded, “how could you?’

He smiled at her. “Easily.”

She forced her dazed mind to assimilate the innuendos there. “Has Lizzie confessed?”

His brows shot up. “You wish to discuss police affairs now? Francesca, all is under control. She shall be tried and found guilty; have no doubt about that.”

Francesca relaxed against the pillows. She looked past Bragg at Peter. “Hello, Peter. How are you?”

He nodded. “Fine.”

“He stopped asking me for a nanny, once he heard what happened to you,” Bragg said.

She gripped his hand. “You aren’t throwing the girls out, are you?” Dear God, she hadn’t thought twice about a nanny or a foster home. She glanced from Dot to Katie. Katie was listening acutely to their every word. Francesca saw fear and anger in her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, not even once,” Bragg said softly. “I am not throwing them out. They can stay a few more days. I have told Peter he can do the hiring himself.”

“I can do it tomorrow,” Francesca told him, hoping she would be up to the task.

“No, you cannot,” Bragg said, “as you are confined to bed. I spoke with Finney myself, Francesca,” he warned.

“The commissioner is right,” Julia said firmly. “However, Rick, if you wish, I shall find you a nanny this afternoon.”

Francesca gaped at her mother.

Bragg faced her. “That is very kind of you, Julia. I do not have the time to do so myself and—”

“Of course you do not. You are an extremely busy man.” Julia smiled briskly at him, not fawning over him as she did over Hart. “Shall I give the girls some supper?” she asked.

“I do not want to impose upon you,” Bragg said.

“Mama! That would be wonderful!” Francesca cried, truly grateful. “For it is certainly their supper time.”

Julia smiled a bit at her. “I am hardly coldhearted, Francesca,” she said softly.

“Katie doesn’t eat,” Francesca warned.

“Really?” Julia’s brows lifted and she turned a firm stare on Katie. “Well, we shall have to change that, as she is thin as a rail. Peter, bring the girls and follow me.” She marched out.

Peter came forward to scoop up Dot and he said, “I hope you feel better, Miss Cahill.” He left with Katie following reluctantly—and casting backward glances at Francesca that were clearly anxious.

They were actually alone.

Francesca’s pulse skipped a bit and she looked into Bragg’s eyes and found him regarding her intently. “You do not have to worry so much,” she said softly.

“It is impossible where you are concerned,” he returned. He pulled up an ottoman and sat beside her. He moved a tendril of hair from her face. “I am having trouble concentrating,
Francesca; I am so distraught with what has happened to you.”

“Really?” She smiled, pleased. It was interesting, how naked one’s emotions were when under the influence of a drug.

“Really, and do not be so pleased,” he said flatly. “You are staring,” he added somewhat darkly.

She sighed. “It is hard not to stare, and I do think you know why.”

His eyes widened. He leaned forward. “I hardly know why, but keep in mind that we are in your mother’s house and she isn’t very fond of me right now.”

“She likes you. But you are not available, so she wishes to keep an eye on us,” Francesca said, rather amazed at her own bluntness.

He stared. “As well she should,” he finally said.

“Are you now on her side?”

He hesitated, and nodded.

“What does that mean?” she cried, alarmed.

“It means that I have been sick with worry ever since I found you with your hand in a pail of snow,” he said tersely. “It means I have genuinely realized the extent of my feelings for you—and it is frightening. I must be blunt. No good can come of this.”

She did not move. She could hardly breathe. “I cannot believe you are speaking this way.”

“Nor can I,” he admitted then. “Because I cannot even begin to imagine life without you in it.” He paused yet again. “Which is certainly the most sensible option that we have.”

Dread filled her. She felt the intensity in him. “You do not mean that.”

“I do, but I have come to a different decision entirely,” he said.

She froze, almost paralyzed with fear. “What?”

“I am going to ask Leigh Anne for a divorce.”

She reeled, speechless. It was a long moment before she could speak.
“What?”

“You have heard me.” He was terribly grim—and determination was carved all over his face.

“But . . .” She could not think straight, especially now, dosed on laudanum. They had met January 18, not even a month ago. And in so short a time he would change his life, discard his wife? And what about his future, his hopes, his dreams? “But . . . you aspire to the national Congress. It is your duty, your destiny!” she cried, remaining stunned.

“I begin to wonder if you are not my duty . . . and my destiny,” he said.

It struck her then what this meant, what he intended. To give up everything, his wife, his responsibilities, his respectability, and his dreams of a future in the Senate, in order that they might be together. “Oh, my God,” she heard herself say slowly. How could she let him do this?

Of course she could! This was
her
dream. Her most secret, private dream!

But his work as a public servant was so much more important than their own personal happiness.

He suddenly cupped her cheek with his calloused palm. She stared, meeting his gaze, wondering if he saw the fear in her soul that was surely reflected in her eyes.

“I should not have been so blunt. I haven’t slept in days, thinking about this, arriving at my decision. Of course, your mother will fight tooth and nail against a divorced man—and a divorce might take years to attain. I would never ask you to wait, Francesca.”

She was crying now. “I will wait. I will wait forever,” she whispered, but in her heart she was now terrified, and it wasn’t because Julia would never allow her to marry a divorced man. She was not his destiny. His destiny was
the city and the state and the United States of America.

Oh, God.
What should she do?

What
could
she do?

He hesitated, and she understood. The hesitation was not about the decision he had made; he was a man to hold to his course. So she reached up and held his nape, guiding him toward her. Their lips brushed, once, twice, three times.

It was bittersweet.

Tears whispered on the tips of her eyelashes.

Her mind shouted at her, again and again,
Do not let him do this!

Suddenly he pulled her into his arms, but gently, clearly not wanting to hurt her. He looked past her eyes and, as if he understood her conflict, he stiffened.

“Don’t worry,” she said. She pressed her mouth to his.

He recovered, claiming her mouth with a stunning urgency, with panic, with desperation and his love. When the kiss finally ended, Francesca was not simply breathless; she was shaken to her core.

She loved him so much it was almost an impossible exaggeration of her emotions. She admired him more greatly—and believed in his statesmanship and the good he could do even more than that.

And in the same instant that she wrestled with the vast array of her feelings she realized that they were being watched, and so did he.

Bragg pulled away, whirling. Francesca looked past him at the doorway.

Dot stood there, beaming, oddly proud.

“We have a chaperone,” he murmured, with relief that it was only the toddler.

“Yes, we do,” Francesca returned as he turned back to her and their eyes met. They had to smile—Dot’s interruption was timely.

“We should not set such a rude example,” he began with a shake of his head.

“No, we should not,” she agreed, still unsteady from their passion and still stunned by this latest turn of events.

Dot clapped her hands, shouting, “Kiss; kiss, Frack; kiss!”

Francesca winced, wondering at which moment Julia would rush into the room, comprehending everything.

“I think I am beginning to like her,” Bragg murmured.

“I knew you would,” she said, glancing at Dot. Dot grinned at her.

Francesca saw the puddle on the floor and realized why Dot was so proud. A hastily torn off diaper was beside it. “Uh-oh,” she said, grabbing Bragg’s hand and tugging on it, hoping to divert him.

But it was too late. He had seen the damage done. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed, standing. “She tore off her diaper! The . . . brat!”

He moved away from her, calling sternly for Dot. She beamed happily at him but made no move to obey.

Francesca sighed; so much for their truce.

And when Dot finally edged forward, clearly aware that he was not in a pleasant mood, and as Bragg tried to grab her, unsuccessfully, as she dodged him, Francesca realized just how unpredictable life was.

She would not worry now about tomorrow, she decided firmly. She would not worry about Bragg giving up his future in order to divorce his wife, nor would she worry about the portrait Hart had commissioned or Julia’s absurd plans. No, tomorrow was another day, and there was just no predicting what might happen—given the recent course of events. What she would do was rest and heal her hand, just in case another crime fell into her lap. She did smile at that thought.

At least her life was not dull, drab, or routine.

“She is running away from me!” Bragg exclaimed. “That child has more nerve than two full-grown hooks and crooks combined!”

She smiled serenely at him. “Dot! Do come here, please, and show Bragg what a good girl you are.”

Dot hesitated.

Bragg grabbed her hand. “There, I have caught you,” he said sternly, but the little girl only laughed. He then smiled at Francesca. “I shall return her to Peter’s care, as I am off for a one o’clock appointment with the mayor.”

Francesca could not help having her curiosity piqued; she wondered what issues they were addressing. “Good luck,” she said.

He smiled at her and walked out with Dot in tow. Francesca watched them until they had disappeared from sight, and the moment they had, a new tension filled her. It was impossible not to remain stunned over Bragg’s assertion that he would divorce his wife.

She heard the Daimler’s engine roaring to life.

Francesca stood somewhat shakily and walked over to a window, where she parted the draperies. The handsome motorcar was already rolling down the drive, heading for Fifth Avenue. She sighed.

“Miss Cahill?”

Francesca turned at the sound of a servant’s voice. Bette stood in the doorway, holding a small silver tray. Usually a caller would place his or her card there, but now an envelope lay upon it.

“This just came by hand, Miss Cahill,” Bette said.

Francesca accepted the envelope. “Thank you, Bette.” Her name was written in a beautiful script upon the front, and there was no name or return address on the back. This
was
odd, she thought.

Francesca slit the envelope open with a letter opener. The note was also beautifully scripted, in the same hand. It was dated February 12. It read:

My dear Miss Cahill,

I should be in New York City soon, and I wish to meet you at your convenience. I shall be staying at the Waldorf Astoria when I arrive. I look forward to making your acquaintance.

Yours Truly,

Mrs. Rick Bragg

[To Be Continued]

D
ON
’
T MISS THESE OTHER
F
RANCESCA
C
AHILL NOVELS
! T
URN THE
PAGE TO READ EXCERPTS FROM:

Available now from St. Martin’s Paperbacks!
and

On sale May 2002

The moment she used the knocker, footsteps could be heard at a rapid pace in the hall beyond the door, hurrying to them. The door was thrust open immediately.

Francesca was greeted with the sight of a buxom woman in her early thirties, her dyed and curled red hair pinned up, clad in a well-made suit, although the jacket had been designed to show off an undue amount of cleavage. The woman was wearing large aquamarine drop earrings, a huge aquamarine-and-diamond pin in the shape of a butterfly, and three rings, all gems. Her face was pretty and quite made up. Instantly, Francesca knew she was not greeting a gentlewoman.

Francesca peered past the woman almost immediately and saw a wood-floored hall beyond the small entry, stairs that led upstairs just behind the woman. The door directly at the end of the hall was closed, but light spilled out beneath it. The hall itself was dimly lit.

“You came! Thank God, Miss Cahill—who’s that?” Her tone changed, becoming one of abject suspicion as she stared down at Joel.

“I’m her assistant,” Joel announced, slipping beneath the woman’s arm as she held open the door and ducking into the entry.

Francesca made another mental note—Joel should know to let her do all the speaking. “Miss de Labouche?”

“Yes, yes, do come in!” the woman cried, indicating that she had indeed been the one to hand Francesca the
note, but she faced Joel. “Stop right there, young man,” she said sternly.

Joel slid his rag-clad hands into the pockets of his big wool coat and he shrugged. Georgette de Labouche shut the door behind Francesca. “Thank God you have come, but you should have come alone!”

The woman was in a panic. There was no mistaking the signs—panic was in her eyes and in her tone and written all over her face as well.

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning,” Francesca said kindly.

“There is no time!”

Francesca began unbuttoning her fur-lined cloak. “Very well. Shall we sit down somewhere and begin?”

Georgette hesitated, glancing at Joel. Then, “We can go in there.” She pointed at the closed door at the end of the hall, where light glared out from beneath it. Clearly the room beyond was brilliantly lit. “But the boy stays right here.” She glared at Joel. “You don’t move, buster. You got that?”