A Francesca Cahill Novel

Leigh Anne had said she did not hold him responsible for the accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs, but he blamed himself—and knew that, deep down, she blamed him, too.

Once, he had thought their marriage over. Years before the accident, soon after they were first married. She had left him to travel in Europe and he had hated her passionately. Now, too late, he had faced the extent of his passion. He still loved her and he always had. But it had become painfully obvious that she no longer cared in return. He knew what he should do. He should give her the freedom she clearly wanted, but how could he? Who would take care of her if he did so? And what about the girls? If he left Leigh Anne, it would mean the loss of his family.

His heart seemed to crack apart at the thought.

He stared at the dark, empty fireplace. The past flashed before his eyes—the moment he had first laid eyes on Leigh Anne, which was when he had fallen in love. Their wedding, and her happiness then. His sudden, unexpected decision to leave his profitable career to perform legal services for the poor and inopportune. Her unhappiness had followed, for he had turned his back on a sizable income and worked eighty-hour weeks instead. Finally, there was her betrayal. She had simply left him, walking out on their marriage. Too late, he wished he had never taken that damn employment, or that he had begged her to return.

But he hadn’t. And four years of separation had limped by, until the night Francesca Cahill had come into his life.

He smiled, but his sadness increased. He wondered what would have happened if Leigh Anne had never returned to him. He still cared deeply for Francesca and he always would. Once, they had been on the verge of falling in love, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he was committed to his wife and children—and Francesca was committed to his half brother. His smile vanished. Hart would break her heart. He knew it the way he knew that Leigh Anne wanted him to leave. He had not a single doubt, and the day Hart hurt her, he would break him.

A sharp knocking sounded on the front door.

Bragg was relieved, as he hated thinking about Francesca with Hart. It was terribly late, so the call could only be police business—an emergency. Bragg grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and hurried down the narrow hall of the modest Victorian brownstone he leased.

A roundsman stood there with a lantern, his expression alert. Bragg was already shrugging on his jacket. “What is it?” He did not know the young officer who faced him.

“Sir, there has been a murder. Inspector Newman thinks you might want to meet him at HQ, immediately.”

He was tense, and glad of the distraction. This could only be dire, indeed. “Who is the victim?” He stepped outside, closing the front door behind him. The early June night was cool, but not unpleasant.

“A woman. Her name is Miss Daisy Jones, sir.”

An instant passed as he assimilated this stunning fact—Hart’s mistress had been murdered. “Newman is at headquarters? He is not at the murder scene?”

“No, sir. There are some officers at the scene, but he has several witnesses to speak with, sir. He asked me to tell you that he is interviewing Calder Hart and Miss Cahill as we speak.”

Bragg tripped. For one moment, he was in disbelief. Hart was at HQ—with Francesca. And he simply knew that no good could come of this case.

FRANCESCA SAT BESIDE HART at the long, scarred wood table in the conference room of police headquarters. The room was on the second floor, just a door down from Bragg’s office. Inspector Newman, a rotund and pleasant man with graying hair with whom Francesca had worked many times, sat facing them, holding a notepad, and wearing his most professional demeanor. Francesca knew that was on her account, as he was very aware of her close relationship with Bragg.

Francesca had already heard Hart’s story on the short ride from Daisy’s to Mulberry Street, when they had had a chance to speak. Now she watched him closely, carefully listening to his every word. She could not help herself, for she had learned on her numerous past investigations to check and recheck every detail. Witnesses often confused facts and events; perpetrators often deliberately misled the police. Of course, she was not suspicious of Hart and she expected him to keep his facts straight, and although his expression was deadpan, his tone calm, she was certain now that he was very distressed by the evening’s events.

“I left the train depot a few minutes before 7:00 p.m. As I was not expected, I took a cab home. Traffic was heavy and it was a good hour before I reached the house. An hour later I found a note from Daisy on my desk.”

Which meant he had found her note at 9:00 p.m., approximately, Francesca thought.

“And what did her note say?” Newman asked.

“She wished to speak with me the moment I returned home and said it was very urgent.” Hart’s impassive expression never changed, but sitting beside him, Francesca could feel the tension coiled up in him. She could not help herself, and she reached out to cover his hand with her own. He glanced at her with a slight smile that failed to reach his gold-flecked eyes.

“And do you have any clue as to what could be so urgent?” Newman asked.

Hart did not hesitate. “I felt certain the matter was a financial one.”

Newman glanced at Francesca, his cheeks becoming a bit pink.

Francesca was willing to let him off the hook. “I am well aware of the fact, Inspector, that Daisy was Calder’s mistress.”

He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, to bring up such a delicate subject. You spoke as if the affair had ended?”

“It ended the day Francesca agreed to become my wife,” Hart said flatly. “The morning of February 24.”

Francesca looked at him in real surprise. He recalled the exact date she had accepted his proposal? He turned to smile at her, when Rick Bragg walked purposefully into the room.

Francesca leapt to her feet, very relieved to see him. Calder’s half brother was a very handsome man, but the two men shared little resemblance. Bragg had tawny hair and a golden complexion, as did most of the Bragg men, while Hart was as dark as midnight. He glanced between Francesca and Hart as he approached them, his expression grim. Hart’s face settled into an unreadable, emotionless mask.

Francesca was aware of the new currents of tension swirling in the room as she clasped both of Rick’s hands. “I am so glad you are here! Calder was just giving his statement, Rick. Of course, you know that Daisy is dead.”

“So I have been told,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. But Rose is devastated.” She hesitated, then dared to add, “Calder is upset, too.”

Rick clearly did not believe that. “What are you doing here, Francesca? You are a witness to the murder?”

“Not really,” Francesca said quickly. She realized Bragg had not released her hands and that Hart watched them like a hawk. She gently disengaged herself. “Rose found the body and sent a note, asking me for help. It appears that Rose discovered Daisy first, and that Calder found her while Rose was sending me the note. When I got to the house, Rose was with Daisy and Calder was looking for the killer. He had just spoken with some of the staff.”

Bragg turned to Hart. “Don’t let me interrupt your statement.”

Hart shrugged as if he had not a care in the world.

Bragg leaned over Newman’s shoulder and scanned his notes. As he did so, Newman said, “He received a note from Daisy requesting a meeting, sir. That would have been about nine o’clock.”

Bragg nodded, straightening. His aloof gaze met Hart’s. “So you rushed off to meet your mistress?”

Hart sent him a cold, unpleasant smile. “You know damn well I broke off the affair when I became engaged to Francesca.”

Newman looked startled. He said, “Sir, she was living in Mr. Hart’s house.”

“I am aware of that. So, you rushed off to meet Daisy as she requested?” Bragg asked again.

Francesca walked over to stand beside Hart, dismayed that Bragg had instantly gone on an attack. Hart, who remained sitting rather indolently, did not give any sign of being shaken. “No, I did not rush off anywhere. It had been a long day and I had a drink, perhaps two. It was some time later when I decided to call on Daisy and conclude whatever affairs were bothering her.”

Bragg made a mocking sound. “And those affairs were?”

“I assumed they were financial matters,” Hart said, slowly rising to his feet, “as the only connection left between me and Daisy was financial. I continued to support her—we had a verbal contract, and it did not expire until mid-July. But you know all of that, don’t you, Rick?”

Bragg stared and Hart stared back. Then Bragg glanced at Francesca. “I find it highly unlikely that you just returned to town and went to see Daisy to discuss a few bills.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Hart said, finally appearing annoyed. “I never have and I never will.”

Bragg looked ready to explode—or arrest him. Smiling tightly, he said, “Considering your mistress has been murdered, I think you had better start to care what I think.”

Hart smiled as tightly, and for one moment, Francesca thought he was about to smash his fist in Bragg’s face.

Francesca hated the hostility between the two brothers. She gripped Hart’s arm. “A terrible murder has been committed,” she said tersely. “There is no point in the both of you going at each other’s throats. We need to find Daisy’s killer. We owe her that.”

Bragg gave her an undecipherable look and walked away, running his hand through his hair. Hart faced her, his rigid expression softening. “You don’t need to be here right now,” he said.

Francesca gaped. “Of course I do!” she cried. She could not tell him, not in front of Newman and Bragg, how worried she was about his apparent involvement. “When we go home, we will go home together,” she whispered.

Before Hart could object, Bragg returned to them, apparently having recovered his composure. “Let’s leave the subject of why you went to see Daisy aside for the moment. Walk me through what happened when you arrived.”

Some of Hart’s tension eased. “I left the house around half past eleven, I think. When I arrived at her home, I saw that there were no lights on downstairs. No one answered the knocker, and that was odd. I did not have a good feeling at this point. So I tried the door, found it unlocked and walked in.”

Francesca could not breathe and her heart raced. The mental note she had made earlier was glaring at her now. Hart had said he had left home at eleven, not half past. Was he deliberately misleading Bragg and the police, or had he, like most witnesses, made an innocent factual error? And she wondered again, if he had really left home at 11:00 p.m., what had he been doing for nearly an entire hour in that house? Was that why he was misleading the police?

Almost as if he were a mind reader, he turned to Francesca. “What time did you get there?”

She hesitated, her instincts rising up now. She did not want to lie, but she desperately wanted to protect Hart.

“Francesca?”

She wet her lips. “Before midnight,” she lied. “I imagine it was just a few minutes after Hart.” She could barely believe that she was lying to a man she had once loved and still cared so deeply for.

Bragg rubbed his jaw. “Calder?”

“I found Daisy shortly after I first walked in,” he said, not looking at Francesca now. “It appeared as if she had been stabbed in the chest, many times. No one could survive such an attack, but I did check for her pulse.” He spoke very calmly, as if they were discussing the next day’s weather, but he was gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in and his knuckles were white.

Francesca could not see his expression, because he had looked down, but she gave up all pretense now. Hart was distraught and anguished. He certainly still cared for Daisy, and Francesca was hurt and jealous, dear God.

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.

HART WATCHED FRANCESCA 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.

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—3:00 a.m.

FRANCESCA WAITED IN HART’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.