A Francesca Cahill Novel

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.”

“Calder!” She was shocked that he would speak so ill of the dead. But her mind quickly grasped the fact he had just tossed her way. Francesca sat up straighter. “Did she ever tell you anything of her background?” she asked. She had also realized upon first meeting Daisy that she was from society, although Daisy had never once referred to her background.

“It never came up. Frankly, I wasn’t curious, not at all.”

Francesca began to plan her next day. “This was a crime of passion, Calder, not some random killing. The killer knew Daisy and I think he knew her well. I must find out who she really was—where she came from, and why she left that life to become a prostitute.”

He sighed. “I can see how determined you are. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth about her life, I am sure that person is you.”

She barely heard him. She had so much work to do—and the sooner, the better, so she and Calder could get past this terrible tragedy and get on with their lives.

He tilted up her chin and their eyes met. “You lied for me tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I was at that house by half past eleven, an hour or so before you ever got there. You did not arrive until half past twelve.”

She tensed. “I know what I did, Calder.”

“You lied to Rick.”

She bit her lip. “And I hated doing it. But you were at Daisy’s for perhaps an hour after discovering her dead. And the police will think that terribly bizarre.”

He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

“I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

“You lied to Rick for me.”

“I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

She was afraid.

FRANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy’s gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose’s behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police’s list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

“Should I send him away, ma’am?”

Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy’s murder. Half of the city’s newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart’s ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart’s. “No. Where is my father?”

“He is in the breakfast room.”

Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy’s murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I’ll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

She must not let Kurland suspect that anything was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall’s other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You’re not going to give me the boot?”

“If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

“I don’t know if murder should be described as interesting, except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

“Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé’s mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

Francesca’s smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

“Indeed, I’ll bet a month’s wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”

“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”

Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

“I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.

“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.

“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”

“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”

“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow’s headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.