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CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, March 27, 1902-New York City
"Francesca Cahill! You disappeared for an entire month! And I am dying to know why!" Connie Cahill, otherwise known as Lady Montrose, cried.
Francesca cringed, but only inwardly, as she faced her always fashionably elegant older sister. The entire city thought of her as a hero. But that wasn't true. She was, in fact, a coward, never mind the many crimes she had solved, the many dangerous and murdering hooks and crooks she had single-handedly faced and apprehended. She was a coward, because only cowards ran away from the man they were supposed to marry. Of course, her disappearing act had undoubtedly ended her secret engagement anyway.
Connie faced her after closing the door to Francesca's large and beautifully appointed bedroom—a room she had had no say in decorating, as the decor had been chosen by her mother Julia and her sister. Francesca hadn't cared then, just as she did not care now. Décor—and fashion, shopping and teas—were hardly important to her. She forced a smile and hurried forward clad only in her corset and drawers, and embraced her sister. "It's so nice to see you, too," she whispered, but she meant it. Connie was not just her sister; she was also her very best friend.
"Do not think to dissemble with me," Connie said, her hands on her slim hips. She was clad in a gorgeous dark blue evening gown, with sapphires around her throat and wrists, atop the white sateen gloves that ended at her elbows. "I know why you disappeared!" Her blue eyes flashed.
Francesca tensed. Connie could not know. Before leaving town to visit an old and ailing and very fictitious school chum, she had left a brief note, one that hardly explained anything, but did request that their engagement remain a private affair until she returned to New York City. Francesca hadn't left a forwarding address, so she had no clue as to what her fiance's reaction to her note and her vanishing act had been. "You do?"
Connie sighed then. "There is no Elizabeth Jane Seymour, Fran. I would recall a best friend by that name! You chose to leave the city because you could no longer handle the little predicament you have found yourself to be in." Connie, who was a platinum blond generally considered to be a great beauty, eyed Francesca with some smug satisfaction now.
Francesca sighed in return. She hated deceiving anyone, much less her sister. But leaving the city had been a terrible impulse—she had given into panic and terror. Marriage had never been a part of her agenda. Her agenda had been to become a journalist, one exposing the world's ills to society, so those with the means could engender badly needed reforms and humanitarian aid. That agenda had included a higher education at a renowned women's institution, Barnard College. However, her agenda—and her life—had begun to unravel some time ago—last January, to be exact. She had fallen in love while solving a terrible crime, and nothing had been—or would ever be—the same again.
Perhaps Connie hadn't learned about her engagement—which meant that neither had her mother. And it was Julia Van Wyck Cahill's dearest desire to see Francesca suitably wed—immediately—before she solved another crime and garnered another headline. Julia was a very powerful woman who always got her way. "Yes, I found the heat too much to bear," she said warily.
Connie met her gaze. "The heat? You sound like that little hoodlum you are so fond of. Joel Kennedy."
"I suppose his ways are rubbing off on me," Francesca murmured, as she had come to rely on the eleven year old heavily in her sleuthing. He knew the city's worst wards intimately. He was her guide, and more.
"Oh, Fran. They will both be at the Wainscot ball tonight." Connie's gaze moved to the bed behind Francesca, where a vivid and dark red ball gown lay. "Mama said you would attend. And I see you are wearing the red." A knowing look came to her eyes and she smiled.
"It's not what you think," Francesca cried. Both Rick Bragg, the city's police commissioner, and his notorious and wealthy half-brother, Calder Hart, would be at the Wainscot ball tonight. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought. Oh, God, what should she do? Was she doing the right thing? And how could one marry a man one didn't love—even if that man's mere look could enflame her entire body? And could two half brothers be more unalike—and more bitterly jealous of one another? If only they weren't such avowed rivals.
"Then tell me what to think," Connie said, moving to Francesca and placing her arm around her. Both sisters were considered to be as identical as twins, although Francesca's hair was the color of rich honey, and her skin was tinged with tones of peach and gold. Francesca knew that was not true. Her sister was beautiful, while she, Francesca, was on the ordinary side of pretty. Connie always stood out in a crowd, but she had been a wall flower (and a bookworm) for most of her life.
Until recently.
"I have been so worried about you," Connie said earnestly, sitting down on the bed by the infamous red gown.
Francesca sat down besides her and they clasped hands. "I have been worried about me, too," she said softly.
"Oh, Fran, Didn't a month away clear your head?"
"Yes...and no," Francesca whispered.
"You are still torn between Bragg and Hart?" Connie wasn't smiling now. She was concerned.
Francesca nodded, wishing she knew what to do—then slowly pulled a chain out of her bodice. On the end dangled a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, one worth quite the fortune.
Connie's eyes widened. "Oh my."
"Yes, oh my."
Connie blinked and met Fran's gaze. "You are engaged?"
"We were. Briefly. Secretly," she added. "I have no idea if we still are—and if we aren't, why, then it is for the best. Marriage is not for me and we both know it."
Connie shot to her feet. "What nonsense is this? You fool! To run away and sabotage the best thing that could happen to you! I pray you are wrong and that you haven't single-handedly destroyed this opportunity, Fran."
Francesca swallowed. A part of her desperately wished that she had not run away—and that she had not sabotaged her secret engagement, too. "Can I ride over to the ball with you and Neil? I am really not in the mood for Mama's lectures tonight."
Connie nodded. "Of course." But she was staring intently now. "Still, you have been wearing his ring around your neck. Did you take it off even once?" She did not wait for Francesca to answer. "I daresay you did not. And you are wearing the dress. The dress he likes. I do think I am underestimating you."
"I am a fool, Connie, to think I am special, because every single woman he has had has thought the exact same thing," Francesca cried. And it was the truth.
Connie gripped her shoulders. "But you are special! Good God, you are the bravest and most clever—and most stubborn—woman I know. You have spent your entire life since you were a child of six defending the rights of the poor and the helpless, and of fighting for those rights! You attend college, Fran, college, how many women do that? And need I add that you have become the city's most famous sleuth in the past three months? You have made the news, Fran. You have brought terrible criminals to justice."
Francesca blinked. "Well, when you say it that way, I do seem rather eccentric."
"No, not eccentric, original and brave and beautiful and special," Connie cried.
Francesca hugged her hard. "You are the best sister a girl could ever have," she whispered.
"I wish you could see yourself the way that the rest of the world does-the way that I do."
Francesca smiled. "I had better dress. I am quite late."
"Yes, you are late." Connie smiled back as warmly. "Do you need help? Should I call Bette?"
"I'm fine," Francesca said, turning to gather up the provocative red dress. But it was a lie. She wasn't fine.
She was terrified.
*****
Francesca handed off her wrap. She was wearing the daring red, with black gloves that ended past her elbows, and she was clutching a ruby red beaded reticule—in which she carried the ring. Her hair had been tonged and swept up, and Connie had insisted she wear a delicate diamond necklace and small pearl and diamond earbobs. As Connie handed off her sable stole, Francesca glanced from the front hall into a large reception room with pale marble floors and white plaster walls. A huge crowd had gathered already, as they were very late, the ladies in glittering jewels and sleeveless silks and taffetas and chiffons, the men in black tuxedos. White-coated waiters were passing trays containing flutes of champagne. A band was playing in the adjoining ballroom. Francesca saw her brother Evan standing besides the flamboyantly beautiful countess, Bartolla Benevente, and then she saw Rick Bragg.
Her heart skidded to a stop.
But he had already seen her, even from this distance, and he was staring, his eyes wide with surprise. He took a step towards her and Francesca tensed, now espying the beautiful and petite woman at his side. Leigh Anne was tiny, her skin porcelain, her eyes emerald green, her hair raven black. She looked like a perfect little doll. Francesca's heart sank.
Bragg walked towards Francesca, his strides lengthening, leaving Leigh Anne standing there with a group of people Francesca did not know.
"You had better come to your senses and soon, Fran," Connie whispered. "I have seen them out and about constantly since you were gone. She is on his arm every time I see him at a function. She is well-liked. She has joined several organizations, including the Ladies Club of Fifty and the Ladies Committee of Fifteen," Connie said, referring to several political organizations dedicated to the good government reform movement. "And the other day, she invited me to a luncheon."
Francesca froze. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. Leigh Anne was taking up reform? It hardly seemed fair! "You declined."
Connie was grim. "I accepted. The luncheon is tomorrow. The agenda is public education. I do believe the merits of fund raising for more schools will be discussed."
Public education in the city was a disaster. Over five thousand children did not attend school because there were simply not enough schools and not enough teachers. The city's recently elected mayor, Seth Low, had been elected on a very progressive platform, which included good government—government to ultimately benefit the people. And that included education.
As Connie had said, Francesca had been a reformer since she was a child of six, first selling cookies to raise money for orphans. She belonged to six societies, including the Citizens Union Ladies Club, and was active in them all. Education for everyone was at the top of her agenda—and Connie knew that. Now, she was torn between anger and admiration for a woman she so wanted to despise. Leigh Anne was beyond beautiful—but surely she was not a reformer at heart. Surely it was a ploy to capture Rick Bragg's heart.
"Why don't you join me?" Connie asked. "She has invited thirty of the city's wealthiest women. She probably intends to ask each and every one of us for a handsome donation. These are ladies you should know, Fran."
Sourly, Francesca said, "Private money cannot fix the public education system in this city." But Connie was right. She should go and meet these women, perhaps enlisting some of them to her causes. She would have to attend Leigh Anne's luncheon no matter how she dreaded doing so.
"You are a mule, Fran, an utter mule, at times like these." Connie almost stomped her foot. She watched Bragg approach, as did Francesca.
He was so handsome. He had the dark olive complexion and tawny, sun-streaked hair which many of the Bragg men were renowned for. His eyes were topaz, his cheekbones very high, and he was broad shouldered and small of hip. Francesca wished that things could be different somehow. The she caught herself and closed her eyes.
Wishing for the impossible was frivolous and a waste of time. And it was hardly like her, no, not at all.
"Neil and I will mingle. Good luck, Fran." Connie whispered, then sailed off on her husband's arm.
Fran's eyes flew open and she watched him take the last few steps to her side. He seemed incredibly purposeful now. He paused and she tried to smile and failed.
"Are you all right?"
Her heart tightened. His first concern would always be her welfare. "Yes, I am fine. And you?" Her gaze crept past him and to Leigh Anne, who hadn't moved and who watched them very carefully now.
He shrugged. Then, "You left town without a word. You've been gone for four weeks. I heard something about an ailing friend. Francesca?" His gaze was serious and intent.
She swallowed and began to flush. "I had to get away. There was no ailing friend."
"I see." His jaw tightened and his golden eyes darkened. A silence reigned.
Francesca did not know what to say.
"I chased you away," he said darkly. "God, I am so sorry, Francesca."
"Do not blame yourself. I chose to leave," she said, omitting the real reason she had run away. She glanced again at Leigh Anne. In spite of her neutral expression, she was radiant and aglow. "How is your wife?" And after all of this time, it was still hard to utter those two terrible words which had ruined her life—your wife.
He stiffened visibly. "Nothing has changed," he ground out with a flash of anger. "Our agreement to divorce in six months remains."
Francesca smiled tightly, felt her heart break a little, and knew it would not be. Leigh Anne had left Bragg four years ago, and had spent all of the ensuing time in Europe. Recently, she had returned to reclaim her place at his side. Francesca felt certain that she would win this particular battle. Bragg's anger at his wife was made his true feelings about her clear.
She hadn't known he was married when they had first met—when she had fallen head over heels in love with him.
He said suddenly, lowering his voice, "I have missed you."
Francesca began to smile, because he was her best friend and she had missed him, too—when she saw Calder Hart.
Her smile vanished, her heart lurched, her gaze slammed to a halt. He stood across the room with a group of five others, and a buxom blond hanging onto his arm very possessively. And his back was mostly towards her.
In fact, he was so engrossed with the blond and his friends that he hadn't even noticed her—and did not look her way even once.
She began to tremble, unable to control it, as if the temperature in the room had violently dropped. He hadn't looked at her even once—and she was wearing the eye-catching red dress. She was ill, terribly ill. He no longer liked her, he no longer found her at all interesting or alluring, he had a new paramour—he no longer wished to marry her.
"What is it?" Bragg asked sharply, but she could not tear her stare from Hart and the voluptuous blond. Bragg shifted and grimaced. "He has seduced you after all, hasn't he?" he asked bitterly.
For one more moment, Francesca could not speak. "No. Of course not," she said, and it was the truth. No one had been nobler than the city's worst womanizer. In fact, he had made it clear he would not take her to bed until their wedding night, no matter how she wished otherwise.
But that night would never happen now. She was sure of it.
"I meant emotionally," Bragg said tersely. "You are upset. God!"
She faced him, forcing a sickly smile. "I'm not upset," she lied. The ring in her clutch now burned her hand, impossibly, through the velvet and beads. "I'm fine." She swallowed hard and wondered if she could wretch if she went to the ladies room. "Your wife is now standing alone."
He turned and saw that Leigh Anne stood apart from the rest of the crowd, the group she had been with having dispersed. She remained small and angelic—the most beautiful woman in the room. Then he faced Francesca again. "I am worried about you. First this disappearance, and now your reaction to Hart."
"You have no cause to worry about me," she said, her gaze having found Hart again of its own volition. He was nodding at something someone had said. The blond, who was perhaps thirty, was laughing prettily—coyly. Hart had not looked her way even once.
He hadn't noticed her.
Because he didn't care. Not at all. It was over, then.
But that was what she wanted—wasn't it?
Bragg gripped her gloved wrist. "I will always worry about you," he said.
She faced him swiftly. "I am fine. Really."
"You are too pale. Except for those crimson patches on your cheeks. Are you feverish?"
She wondered if he was right, if extreme anxiety had caused her to become truly ill. "I think I will not stay long," she whispered, and suddenly she felt close to tears. Because Connie was right.
She had worn the red dress because Calder Hart liked it.
And she hadn't removed his ring from her neck in an entire month, not even once.
"I think that's a good idea,' Brag said. He glanced grimly at Hart, then said, "That is Mrs. Davies, and I have seen them together several times recently."
Now she would truly wretch. He had promised her fidelity. But then, if they were no longer engaged, the promise did not count. "She is quite alluring."
"She's a widow," he said sharply. "She and Hart are of the same nature."
She felt herself bristle. "So you know her?"
"She has a reputation."
She should not defend him. Not now, not ever again. "He may be notorious, Bragg, but he has always been a perfect gentleman with me," she said. And that was the truth—until the moment they had become engaged.
Bragg appeared very exasperated. "You adore defending him!"
"Hardly," she said, feeling waspish as well as ill.
"I have to go," he said abruptly. But he made no move to return to his wife. "When can we speak? Truly? It's been too long, Francesca," he said.
She softened, but kept Hart in the line of vision from the corner of her eye. "Tomorrow?"
"I would like that," he said. He nodded and hesitated, then picked up her gloved hand. "Do not tax yourself tonight—and not over him." He kissed her hand, surprising her, and turned away.
Francesca tore her gaze from Hart, who remained oblivious to her presence in the room, somehow, and watched Bragg join Leigh Anne. The stunning and petite brunette smiled up at him, placing her small hand on his arm, and Francesca could feel how worried she was, even if her expression remained calm and composed. Then she took another glance at Hart—who now had his back completely and fully to her—and she could stand it no more. She fled through the closest door and into the nearest hallway.
There, she collapsed against a plain white wall, refusing to cry, but aware of the extent of how crushed she was. Servants moved past her—the hall led to the kitchens. The clatter of pots and pans loud in the background, Francesca had one desire now, she had o escape the ball—and Hart—she had to go home.
It was really over.
She hugged herself, turning from the wall, knowing that somehow, she must regroup if she were to exit the party in a decorous manner.
"Did you really think to run away from me?"
She froze as his soft drawl washed seductively over the nape of her neck and then her heart thundered with alarm and fear. Slowly, she turned to face him.
She had forgotten how much he overwhelmed her. Francesca inhaled sharply as their gazes clashed and locked. He was darkly, disturbingly handsome, but not in any classical way. His undeniably virile good looks came from how dangerously seductive he was. It had nothing to do with his eyes, navy flecked with brown and gold, or his strong, straight nose, or his dark skin and midnight hair or the muscular body that was hidden by his clothes. It had everything to do with the smoking sensuality his entire being exuded, that, and the aura of power he forever wore.
He had been born a bastard on the lower east side. His mother, once a whore, had died when he was a small child. Now she faced one of the cities wealthiest and most successful businessmen, a world renowned collector of art, a man who had risen from the ashes of nothing to acquire almost everything.
He was smiling at her. But it was a fixed smile that did not reach his eyes.
Francesca inhaled again. He stood mere inches from her and she remembered every moment she had spent in his powerful arms. She had been a fool to run away, she thought uselessly. His presence—as always, powerful and overwhelming—had turned her brain to useless mush and her body to soft putty. But she owed him an explanation and an apology—if he would even listen.
"And when were you going to tell me that you had come back?" He asked as softly.
She opened her mouth to tell him that she had had no choice but to succor an old friend, that she hadn't run away, that she had returned that day—and then she stopped. She had only lied to him once, in that stupid note, and she would never do so again. "Yes. I'm sorry," she added helplessly, her tone sounding tremulous to her own ears.
If only she could breathe. If only she could think. If only she could recall why she had decided to flee the city for her heart, her soul, her life.
Their gazes held. He said finally, "You provoke me as no woman ever has."
Foolishly, she whispered, "I don't mean to."
For one more moment they stared. And then he seized her wrist and held up her left hand. They both stared at her fourth finger now, Francesca helplessly. No ring adorned it, neither on top of the glove nor beneath it.
Francesca wanted to tug her gloved hand free, but her muscles had lost their ability to function. She knew that she had to explain the fact that she did not wear his ring and the reason she had really left town. Now was the perfect and appropriate time. But the blood was rushing in her veins, pounding in her ears, causing her to become exceedingly dim of wit.
"Damn you, Francesca Cahill," he said suddenly.
Francesca gasped in real surprise, but too late, for he crushed her against his chest. For one instant she stiffened, meeting his heated angry gaze, and then he softened and his lips touched hers.
Francesca hadn't known what to expect upon first seeing him again, but this was not it.
And it did not matter.
His mouth upon hers was what mattered.
But Hart didn't kiss her. His mouth against hers, both hands splayed precariously low on her hips, he murmured, "Tell me you have dreamed of this while you were running away from me."
She clung to his broad shoulders, fully aware of the strength coursing through his hard body. "Yes, I did," she whispered. "I dreamed of you."
Their gazes met. She felt a tremor course through him and his grip tightened. "You can't run from me, darling, you can't run and you can't hide."
"I needed some time; I needed to think," she replied, no easy task, not when she was anchored against his aroused body.
His finger tilted up her chin. "Friends do not treat one another in such a manner."
"I know," she cried. "Calder...." For being held this way was simply unbearable.
Their gazes collided. For an interminable moment, he did not move, while Francesca fought to breathe. "What am I going to do with you, Francesca?" He asked.
"Kiss me?" She whispered, brows lifting in question.
His jaw flexed. She had the odd notion that he was debating the merits of kissing her—and he had only kissed her once, when she had accepted his proposal, the night before she had run off to Boston. Suddenly his eyes changed, darkening, as if he had reached a conclusion. His hands slid over her buttocks. "Whatever you wish," he said simply.
Francesca gasped, closing her eyes, turning up her face.
A moment passed.
She opened her eyes and found Hart staring so intently at her that she was briefly frightened.
"I mean it," he said, more harshly. "What shall I do with you?"
"I am sorry," she tried.
"Do not bother." Abruptly Hart claimed her mouth. Francesca was taken by surprise, still, as he covered her mouth and then opened it, she moved more deeply into his arms—if that were even possible. She met every thrust of his tongue with her own. She ran her fingers through the short hair at his nape, over his strong neck, down his shoulder blades, his back. She whimpered, trying to pull him even closer, into her, as their tongues sparred and their bodies rocked. Her back became wedged between him and the wall.
Suddenly he broke the kiss, turning his cheek to the wall. Francesca cried out in protest. Hart caught her face in his palm, preventing her from kissing him. He stared intently into her eyes.
Francesca saw the keen intelligence there, the dark, deep reflection and some of her desire began to recede. He was still angry—he was angry with her—and he was thinking far too keenly for her comfort. And then there was that horrid Mrs. Davies. She stared back.
He tilted her face upwards so that their eyes met. "I have had enough, Francesca," he said softly, warningly.
Sanity was rapidly returning. Pots and pans continued to clang in the background, servants were actually passing them by, and their conversation in the kitchens, punctuated with song, could be clearly heard. They had just made a terrible public display and servants loved to gossip. But more importantly, what, exactly, did Hart mean?
"Hart," she began anxiously.
"It's Calder." He released her.
Francesca didn't move away, but she breathed. "God." She wet her lips. "We have to speak."
"Do we?" His dark slashing brows lifted. There was a mocking quality to his words.
She was unnerved. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she began worriedly.
"Hurt me?" His dark brows slashed upwards again. "You hardly hurt me, Francesca. Do you really think my feelings so fragile?"
Of course she hadn't hurt him. The man was an island unto himself—he needed no one. She stiffened. "I am sorry I inconvenienced you, then."
His eyes darkened. "You did not inconvenience me, either," he said grimly. "You are your own woman, and if you wish to travel, it is your right." Suddenly he gripped her left wrist and held her gloved hand between them. "When were you going to tell me?" He demanded.
She did not understand. "What?"
"Of your decision." He threw her hand away. His eyes were hard—even ruthless.
She stared and began to understand—he thought that she had broken off their engagement because she wasn't wearing his ring! "Hart, this isn't what you think!"
"Really? I thought we had more than what just transpired, Francesca, no, I know we have more than that. We are friends, or have you forgotten? Has lust so addled your brain that you have forgotten why we are so fond of one another in the first place? That we began as friends and that, no matter what does happen, we shall end as friends?"
And she felt despair. "We are friends," she whispered, meaning it. "I could not bear to ever lose your friendship, Calder. Do not talk of endings!"
He started, his expression changing, almost appearing taken aback.
She swallowed and tried to find the right words. "I had to think. It's been so hard. I—" She faltered.
"You what?" he asked, not letting her off the hook.
"Marriage is forever. I do not want to make a terrible mistake."
"And marrying me is a terrible mistake?" He asked softly.
"I did not say that!" She cried.
"Then what are you saying, my dear? And do not become an incoherent lackwit now!" His gaze hardened.
But she was. Her mind spun. She simply could not give up this man, and she knew instinctively that if she backed off on the engagement, she would. If she rejected him, how could they remain friends—even if she wanted to? She met his dark, smoldering gaze and smiled a little, a smile he did not return. He was frighteningly intense now.
She wrung her hands. "I wish we had already made love, for it would surely change everything," she said impulsively. She meant her every word, but wished she hadn't spoken so boldly.
"Poor Francesca," he was only half mocking. "Torn between tawdry lust and true love."
She trembled. "That isn't fair," she tried.
"No? But it is Rick you love. I am the man you merely wish to bed."
He was wrong—in a way. Rick Bragg was no longer attainable, and yes, she had fallen in love with him, but so much had happened since then. And while she could not admit how much she wanted to share Calder Hart's bed, they're being friends made it so much more than lust. "It might solve all of our problems," she said firmly.
He made a sound, one of denial, perhaps, and suddenly stroked her cheek. "The only way you will ever get me in bed is on our wedding night. How many times do I have to make myself clear? You I will not ruin."
"For a notorious womanizer, one the world thinks to have not one shred of morality, you do know how to frustratingly play the saint."
"I would never even try to play the saint, my dear."
She shuddered. "Everyone claims I am stubborn. But you are truly the stubborn one. And if you want the truth, I still cannot comprehend why you really want to marry...me."
"Why are we rehashing that subject? You know you are my one and only friend, and that seems to me the perfect basis for our marriage. And darling, I am hardly the stubborn one in this pair. You have decided that you will love my esteemed half-brother until the end of time, never mind that his little vixen of a wife is in his home and in his bed. And because of that damnable fantasy—a script you have written for an audience of one—you would ruin what could truly be a very enjoyable union. We suit, Francesca, very well, and neither one of us would ever become old, bored or staid in the other's company." He was grim. He unhooked her left hand from his neck and held it up between them. "You may keep the ring. Cash it in. Donate the money to your charities. Call it a farewell from me."
Tears came, making it hard to see. He was the most generous man she had ever met. "No."
"What?" He started.
She could barely believe what she was about to do, but she simply refused to lose this man. "I'll do it."
He faced her warily. "You'll do what?"
"I'll wear the ring," she breathed.
He stared.
She swallowed hard. "In fact, the ring is in my purse, and I wore it on a chain against my bosom the entire time I have been away." She stared back. Her mind began to race and run. Was she insane? Witless? A fool? What about Bragg? Still, marriage to Calder Hart would never be boring, and she would have a lifetime in his bed.
He began to smile.
She grew alarmed, nervous as she already was.
"Come with me, Francesca," he said.
"What?"
He gave her a long, dark look as he took her hand. "I have had enough of our silly game. Haven't you?"
She did not understand. She was afraid to understand. But he was already guiding her down the hall and towards the door that led into the front hall, his hold uncompromising, his strides hard and long.
It crossed her dazed mind that she must be extremely disheveled. Had her hair come down? She touched it, and was relieved to find her coiffure in place. As she ran after him, she glanced down, but her dress seemed to be, miraculously, in order and where it belonged. "Calder, perhaps I should repair to the ladies room."
He gripped her hand more tightly, quite dragging her through the fatal doorway. "It is time to end this nonsense, Francesca."
She began to understand as he pulled her swiftly though the crowd, and her heart leapt with excitement, overcoming any lingering fear, any remnants of dread. He was right. This was nonsense. She must make up her mind and go through with the marriage, and if it did not work out, well, so be it! She was hardly a romantic fool, or, she had never been one until recently. She was strong—she had already proven that. If she married him and she could remain aloof, guarding her heart with care, then he would not be able to ever hurt her and they would do very well, indeed.
Ladies and gentlemen were stepping back to let them pass. Hart seemed to have become a man with a mission, and no one dared stand in his way. Francesca saw her brother and the countess as she passed, but they were a blur. She saw Mrs. Davies, who appeared annoyed and far less of a blur. She reminded herself to ask him about that. Then she saw her parents.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was a stunning blond who had clearly passed her striking looks on to her daughters—or at least to Connie. She did a double take when she espied Francesca with Hart, and then she began to smile. Julia adored Hart, and had been scheming for some time to match him up with her younger daughter.
Andrew Cahill had made his fortune in Chicago in meatpacking. He was short and stout with a characteristic look of benevolence upon his whiskered cheeks. He also took a second look upon seeing Francesca towed along by Calder Hart, but then began to turn darkly red. Unlike his wife, he was not impressed by Hart's accomplishments and knew of his reputation as a ruthless womanizer.
Hart paused, whipping an empty flute from a passing tray. He tapped his nail upon it. "Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please."
The conversation dimmed and died in the hall. Everyone turned their way.
Francesca now stood by his side, feeling faint, thinking, this it is, oh dear God, but given the fatal attraction she felt for this man, that and his charisma, there was simply no other choice.
"Miss Cahill has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife," he announced loudly to the crowd gathered around them. "But in fact, the honor is all mine."
There was one brief moment of surprised silence, and then the applause began—followed by some male shouts of congratulations and a few hurrahs.
Francesca trembled. She blinked and saw Julia beaming in delight, then glimpsed Mrs. Davies, looking shocked. She glanced around and saw that every single lady in the room wished to throw a dagger in her heart.
Hart chuckled, murmuring, "Yes, if looks could kill you would be dead now, my darling," and he took Francesca's purse from her, extracting the ring. Francesca forgot all about the crowd. Everyone in the room seemed to vanish into thin air, every voice disappeared, and she was alone with Calder Hart. Their eyes met. His dark gaze was beyond tender. So much so that it was a blow to her heart. Francesca could not look away. What did that oddly gentle look mean? That, coupled with his soft smile, was enough to win any woman's heart, much less hers.
"Tonight calls for champagne," he said softly. "A celebration, the two of us, alone."
She inhaled, knowing what being alone with him would mean. He smiled and slid the eight-carat diamond onto her gloved finger. Francesca stared down at it, feeling blinded, but whether by the dazzling diamond or the magical moment, she did not know. Her heart was trying to tell her something, and she felt a tear leaking down her cheek.
"I won't hurt you," he said softly in her ear, and he kissed her cheek.
Francesca was somewhat blinded now as she looked up and met his gaze. "Is that a promise?"
"It is far more. It is a vow," he said. Then he turned her around and held up her hand.
The ladies exclaimed loudly. There were gasps of awe and admiration, male cheers, more hurrahs. Someone exclaimed at Hart that he had finally gone and done it. Hart agreed, and the men laughed. Francesca felt even more faint, as the feeling in her breast intensified. It was as if a huge balloon was inflating inside of her chest. And she knew she could not manage it. Her knees began to give way.
He knew and put his arm around her, holding her up. "Do you need a glass of water?" he asked with concern.
She decided she would not faint, as she had never done so before, and certainly not upon the announcement of her engagement. And as she murmured, "No, I am fine," she saw her parents approaching.
Julia was clapping her hands in excitement and delight. Her father, however, was clearly furious.
"Are you certain you are fine?" Hart asked, a whisper in her ear, solicitous and concerned.
Francesca was about to affirm that she was, when she saw Rick Bragg.
He was as pale as a ghost. He stared, disbelieving and incredulous.
She started forward instantly, forgetting about Hart. She had to explain.
Hart gripped her hand, yanking her back. "I'll be damned if I let you chase after him now! When we have just announced our engagement!" he said low and darkly.
He was right—he was also wrong. Francesca became miserable as she watched Bragg mutter something to his wife, turn on heel and stride with stiff, set shoulders from the reception room. He was clearly leaving the ball. And she desperately needed to speak with him now. He must not accuse her of treachery, after all, his wife had returned to his life, and as Hart had said, even to his bed.
Francesca closed her eyes, anguished. Then she opened them and saw Leigh Anne staring at them—at her. Their gazes met. She seemed as surprised as everyone, but if she were pleased, she hid it well. Francesca could not decide how she really felt, but it was obvious that this news would please her to no end. Then Leigh Anne hurried after Bragg, who was waiting for her at the front door.
"Mr. Cahill, sir," Hart was saying.
Francesca was pulled into her mother's embrace. "My darling girl, this is a dream come true," Julia cried. "I am so happy for you!"
"Thank you, Mama," Francesca managed, glancing at Hart and her father. They were having a terse exchange, and she gathered Hart was to present himself the next day to discuss the matter of an engagement. Then she caught her sister's eye.
Connie grinned at her widely, like a happy and well-fed Cheshire cat.
Francesca gave in and smiled back. She was engaged to the city's most eligible bachelor, but the magic of the moment had vanished, leaving something sordid and worrisome in its place. Then she saw young Joel Kennedy stepping past the departing Braggs into the front hall.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Joel was far more than a downtown street urchin—he was a cutpurse and a thief—or rather, he had resorted to such desperate measures to aid in the support of his fatherless family. He was a small boy with jet black hair in an ill fitting and shabby wool coat, a felt cap atop his head. Patches were on the knees of his corduroy pants. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He looked terribly uncomfortable and put of place. And when their gazes met, he signaled at her urgently, mouthing something at her. She thought it might be 'trouble' and her body stiffened with alarm and keen interest.
She had recently hired him as an assistant, and now, she wondered if he had a new case.
"Kennedy?" Hart intoned with mild surprise. Then he said, wryly, "Well, I suppose I should have anticipated this moment, although hardly so soon."
"I'll be right back," Francesca said, not hearing him at all. Only something dire would bring Joel into a society function. And whatever that something was, it clearly involved her—or needed her attention. Francesca hurried across the room. "Joel! It's so good to see you!" She cried, embracing him.
"Miz Cahill! Thank the lord you are back!" He said in return, appearing stricken.
She clasped his shoulder warmly. "What has happened? I can see that something terrible has befallen someone!"
"Me mom's friend's daughter been missing fer three whole days," he said urgently. "Poor Missus O'Hare been over every day, cryin' like a storm. We all been prayin' you would come home!"
Francesca stared, every single concern, worry and aspect of her personal life vanishing from her mind. This was frightful news, indeed. "A child is missing? She has been missing for three entire days?" She asked briskly, her mind racing.
Joel nodded grimly. "Little Emily O'Hare. I known her me entire life," he added.
This was dire, oh yes. She did not have a good feeling about the child's fate, not if she had been missing for three entire days. "We must interview the child's parents immediately," she decided. "It's still early. I doubt it is past nine o' clock. We can do so right now," she added impulsively.
"I'll go flag down a cab," Joel cried, rushing away.
"So you are on another case?" Hart breathed from behind her.
She whirled, barely meeting his inquiring gaze, as she needed her coat. Then, to a passing servant, "My red cloak, please." And to Hart, "I am afraid so. A young girl has been missing for three days. Time is of the essence, Hart, so do not argue with me. The night is young—I wish to interview the child's family tonight." Impatience ruled—she had to get downtown immediately.
Hart sighed, shook his head, and said to another valet, "Sir. My coat and gloves, please."
Francesca started. "What are you doing?"
"Do you really think I would allow you to sleuth about the city tonight, in that dress, undoubtedly in some very unsavory wards, with only Kennedy for protection?"
She felt herself blink and it took her a moment to understand. "You don't mean—what are you saying?"
"I am coming with you, my dear." He smiled at her.
She was amazed. "You are accompanying me on my investigation?"
"Indeed, it appears that I am."
She was thrilled. There was simply no denying it. Hart would sleuth with her tonight. He would accompany her on a new adventure. But very nonchalantly, she shrugged. "Very well, if you really think it is necessary. I do think I have proven that I can take care of myself." She accepted her red cloak from the valet.
"I do think it is necessary, so humor me, my dear." He also accepted and shrugged on his black coat.
"There is one thing," Francesca said as they went to the door.
"Pray tell."
"You are an amateur when it comes to criminal investigative work, and you must keep out of my way." She knew she was being very tart, but there was a line in the sand, and he must keep to his side of it.
"Whatever you say, darling," he said contritely.
He was far too meek, but she would worry about it later.
They followed Kennedy outside, into the chill and moonless night.
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