Chapter 8
Gwen simply stared at her husband as they led him inside her flat.
Francesca had expected a bit more of a reaction. Still, Gwen was pale and wide-eyed. But there were no hysterics and the extent of her surprise—the lack of shock—was more than odd, it was telling.
Hart shoved Hanrahan onto a kitchen chair. Then he loosened his bow tie, flipped a chair backward and sat down himself. He still seemed annoyed. Francesca hoped it was because of Hanrahan and not because of her reckless behavior earlier. Of course, her hopes were foolish, indeed.
“David?” Gwen whispered.
He nodded at her, his expression grim.
“It was you? You were outside?”
He nodded. “I got every right to be here! You’re my wife!” he erupted.
Gwen covered her face with her hands, releasing a sob.
And Bridget suddenly stepped out from behind the drapes in her flannel nightgown. Her eyes were huge with surprise. “Papa?”
Francesca quickly stepped over to her as Gwen whirled with a cry. As she put her arm around the child, Bridget said, “It was really you. I really saw you after school today!” She began to tremble. Clearly the child was stunned to see her father.
And while Francesca realized that Bridget was shocked and upset, she could not be certain that the girl was happy to see her father, either.
“It was me,” David said flatly. “Hello, my little poppet.”
Bridget did not move.
Gwen rushed to stand between them. “You stay away from her!” she cried.
David made a sound of disgust.
Bridget pressed closer to Francesca. She could not decipher the complicated family relationships. “Joel? Take Bridget into the hall for a moment, please.”
Joel flushed as he approached Bridget, but he was kind. “C’mon. They’ll be plenty of time fer you and your papa later, after Miz Cahill an’ Mr. Hart finish their questions.”
Bridget looked worriedly at Gwen. “Mama?”
“Go outside, baby,” Gwen whispered, her mouth barely moving as she somehow formed the words. “We won’t be too long.”
Joel took her hand and the two children left. Francesca stepped forward. “Did you follow your wife this afternoon when she left work?” she asked Hanrahan bluntly.
He scowled. “An’ if I did? It’s my right!”
Hart stood. The action was highly threatening, and not simply because Hart was tall and strong. His intention was undeniable, as was his air of authority and power. He was not to be denied. “Stalking is no man’s right,” he warned softly.
David Hanrahan’s expression became vicious. “She’s my wife and that means she belongs to me. She had no right runnin’ away, no right comin’ to America. She’s got no rights, none!” Then he became meek and added, “Sir.”
Francesca winced. According to the law, most women had no rights and he was, for the most part, correct. In fact, Gwen could be forced to return to him. In this city, no one would bother to interfere. She imagined it might be very different in a small village in Ireland.
“You told me to go!” Gwen dropped her hands. She was shaking. “You told me to get out of your sight, that you never wanted to see me again!”
“I changed my mind,” he spat. Now he was trembling with anger.
“How long have you been following your wife?” Francesca asked flatly.
He shrugged.
“Do you wish to go uptown to police headquarters?” Hart asked coldly.
David blanched. “I didn’t follow her!”
Francesca made a sound of disgust.
“I didn’t! I been outside, on the street, hopin’ to talk to her. But she won’t talk to me! You can surely see that? I want her back an’ she refuses to talk to me!” he cried, looking from Francesca to Hart and back again, as if pleading with them.
Gwen walked over to the sink, standing with her back to everyone. She did not run the water but she toyed with a chipped plate.
How odd this was. “Gwen? You don’t seem very surprised to see your husband. You don’t seem very surprised that he has followed you to America and that he wants a reconciliation,” Francesca said.
She walked over to Gwen. “How long have you known that he was in the country?”
Gwen was stiff. “A few weeks.”
“How did he get out of jail? Was he in jail? For attempted murder?” Francesca asked.
“They couldn’t prove anything!” David cried.
Gwen hesitated. Finally, her voice barely audible, she said, “Yes.”
“He dropped the charges,” David snarled. “His Lordship admitted it was a lie! He admitted I didn’t try to kill him!”
Gwen choked on a sob.
Francesca faced David, doubting the veracity of his statement. He clearly hated Lord Randolph, but did he hate him enough to have attempted murder? Had Randolph dropped the charges? Or had Hanrahan somehow escaped? “How did you know where to find your wife and daughter?”
“She told a neighbor back home, Mrs. Reilly, that she could be reached through Father Culhane. Gwen left the father’s address with her. The good father was only too obliging to tell me where my wife and daughter were.” David stared at Gwen, not looking once at Francesca.
Gwen said, hoarse and low, “I am not going back. Not to Ireland and not to you.”
“You are making a mistake,” David said just as low.
That was a threat if Francesca had ever heard one. “Have the two of you already discussed a reconciliation?”
“I will not go back!” Gwen cried.
Francesca went to her. “Please, I am asking these questions for a reason. I need your honest answers.”
Gwen looked at her, tearful now, and nodded. “Yes. He asked me if I would go back when he first arrived in the city, and I was clear. I said no.”
Francesca felt savage satisfaction then. She looked at Hart who stared back. She assumed he understood her thoughts completely, and then he nodded slightly at her, telling her to go on. She faced David. “Where were you this past Monday between noon and 4:00 p.m., Mr. Hanrahan?” she asked.
And she smiled grimly.
They had their first real suspect.
At this late evening hour, police headquarters was oddly quiet, half of the staff dozing on the job.
Hart slipped his arm around Francesca’s waist as they left the reception area, David Hanrahan having been put in the lockup for the night.
Francesca started in surprise as they paused before going down the building’s front steps.
Hart met her gaze and smiled a little at her. His arm tightened.
Their evening work was done. It was late, but they were entirely alone.
Francesca was frankly exhilarated from finally uncovering a suspect, but Hart’s sudden gesture presented her with an entirely different feeling.
Warmth mingled with the leftover excitement.
“I take it you are no longer quite so angry with me?” She smiled at him.
“I am frankly appalled with you,” he murmured, a soft gleam in his eyes.
“We have a suspect, Hart,” she said with jubilation. And she laughed.
“You have a suspect,” he agreed.
She turned and found herself in his arms. A soft breeze caressed them both. “Aren’t you pleased? Hanrahan has motive and no alibi!”
“If he were the killer, I imagine he could do better than coming up with a statement that he was wandering about the streets, looking for work, on Monday. And he would surely have an alibi for the previous two Mondays, but he does not.”
Some of her elation vanished, as if a balloon had been popped. “But he is not very clever.”
“No, he is not.” He caressed the soft hairs at her nape almost thoughtlessly. “Do not be too disappointed. He does have motive. Perhaps you have your killer after all.”
“The Slasher is clever,” Francesca disagreed. She intuited that with all of her being. She felt certain he was no thug.
“You do not know that.”
“I sense it.”
He cupped her shoulders. The gown had tiny cap sleeves, but in spite of them and the light shawl she wore, the feeling of his palms was thrilling. She tensed and looked into his eyes. “I have never seen more reckless, rash behavior,” he murmured, “than I have this night.”
His thighs were rock hard against her softer ones. “I wanted to help,” she said quietly, gripping his broad shoulders.
“I know—and that is what scares me so,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back.
She allowed herself a soft moan of pleasure. “Don’t stop,” she said.
“I should like to see you in this dress without a corset,” he murmured, bending over her shoulder. He moved the shawl aside and kissed the bare skin near her collarbone.
Sparks seemed to ignite, quickly flaming throughout her body. “Without a corset?” she gasped. How daring that would be! And how she loved the notion!
“Without a corset,” he affirmed, kissing her throat, just once. “No corset, no chemise, no drawers, nothing but your shoes and stockings and this lovely dress.”
She felt faint. Somehow she opened her eyes to find Hart staring intently. His own dark blue gaze had turned to gray smoke. “How shocking,” she managed to say, hoping to sound appropriately scandalized.
He began to smile. “You’re not shocked.” He lowered his head and feathered her lips with a kiss.
She clung. “No…” She opened her mouth, praying he would invade, but he did not. His lips touched the corners, the soft full center, the dimple above. “When, Hart?”
He smiled against her mouth. His weight had shifted as she spoke and she felt the length of his arousal near her hip. The urgency intensified deep in her, making her feel faint and hollow.
“When what, darling?” His every word brought his mouth against hers. Their breath mingled. “When will I kiss you? Or when will I take you soaring to the heavens above?”
She gripped his lapels and pressed against him. His smile vanished as their gazes locked. “When can I wear the dress for you?” she breathed.
He anchored her hips so she could not move. She felt the blood coursing in his body. “Such a game should wait until after we are married, until after we have had some time to explore the more traditional aspects of lovemaking.”
She felt like socking him in the nose. “Then why bring it up!”