Chapter 17
Francesca was far too upset to be cold. She leaned on the plastered terrace railing, shaking terribly as she gazed down at Madison Avenue and the coaches and carriages below. She had been standing outside for the longest time, and Hart hadn’t come looking for her.
Did he really want to end their engagement?
Francesca was so upset that she could not think straight. She was certain of one thing. Something was wrong with Hart. He was cold and distant, and it seemed as if he wished to push her away. Was this merely a black mood that would pass? Or had he changed his mind about them?
The thought of losing him now hurt unbearably.
She wiped moisture from her face. This morning he had been himself and everything had been fine. Somehow, within a few hours, everything had changed. What had happened?
She began to think clearly now. Surely something had happened!
One did not walk away happily from one’s fiancée and a few hours later try to break things off.
But did it even matter? Her heart was breaking at the very idea of losing him.
She was such a fool. She should have heeded her father’s advice, Daisy’s warnings, and even Hart’s own claims about himself.
Instead, she had chosen to believe he was someone fine and noble, a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
But it was too late now. She was in love—and she had never been more vulnerable.
But the real problem was that a part of her continued to believe that he was good and noble—not selfish and depraved. A part of her would simply never give up believing in him.
She wiped her eyes roughly. She was going to have to fight, somehow, for his heart. She simply could not cave in and give up. Too much was at stake—she loved him too much.
The thought of chasing Calder Hart was beyond terrifying. So many women had done just that and they had all failed.
“Francesca? Is that you?” a man’s voice said.
She didn’t recognize the intruder, although the voice was familiar. Francesca quickly wiped her eyes again with the back of her hand and turned, smiling widely at the stranger.
A lanky man came forward, smiling. “It’s I, Richard Wiley,” he said. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
“Mr. Wiley, hello,” she said, relieved it was someone she could easily manage. Once, Julia had tried to get her to accept Richard’s courtship. That seemed a lifetime ago. “I am on another investigation, and I am trying to sort out some clues,” she lied.
“You have been so busy since we first met,” he exclaimed, smiling down at her. He had brownish hair and an oval face that was pleasant enough, if unexciting. “I have read so much about you these past few months.”
She smiled in a more genuine manner. “I seem to have found my calling,” she said. “I enjoy investigative work.”
“And you do it so well. May I congratulate you on your recent engagement to Mr. Hart?”
Somehow Francesca continued to smile. “Thank you.” Another guest stepped outside and when she saw that it was the countess Benevente, she was dismayed. She did not want Bartolla to even suspect that anything was amiss with her and Hart.
“Can I escort you inside?” Wiley asked. “You must be cool standing out here in that gown.”
Bartolla was approaching and she clearly wished to speak. Francesca knew the countess would not be dissuaded and in the dark it was less likely that she would surmise anything. The terrace had only two widely spaced gaslights. “I am so enjoying the fine April evening.” Francesca smiled at him.
Wiley left after nodding at Bartolla. Shivering, the countess cried, “Francesca, why are you out here alone? Where is that dastardly man you call a fiancé? You will catch your death!”
Francesca plastered a smile on her face, inhaled hugely and said, “I am on a new case and I am trying to piece together some clues. I am afraid I am not in the mood for a fête.”
Bartolla put her arm around her. “Darling, no matter what your mood, do you think it wise to leave Hart unattended?” And she smiled, laughing.
Francesca briefly closed her eyes. Somehow, she knew this woman was going to take a knife and twist it in her heart. Then she opened them and faced Bartolla. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Bartolla stared at her, her smile slowly fading. Then she touched Francesca’s hand. “You are very upset,” she said.
Francesca tried to appear disdainful. “A very good woman was murdered yesterday, Bartolla. I am preoccupied with her death—and with preventing another murder, if I can.”
Bartolla studied her for an interminable time. “You know, Francesca, you are the bravest woman I have ever met, and probably the most sincere.”
“I doubt that,” Francesca said warily, taken aback.
Bartolla rubbed her arms, a reaction to the cool April breeze. “You have always been honest with me. You have always been kind. You are hiding out here, aren’t you?” she said quietly.
Francesca started. “No, I’m not!” she cried far too quickly.
Bartolla studied her in the darkness. A pause ensued, making Francesca uneasy. But when Bartolla spoke, her tone was different, subdued. “Did you really think that being attached to Hart in any way would be easy?”
Francesca bit her lip. She knew she must not discuss her private life with Bartolla, whom she did not trust. But she so desperately needed someone to talk to and Bartolla knew Hart as well as anyone.
“Only a very foolish woman would have ever thought such a thing,” she said with an attempt at a smile.
Bartolla smiled back. “A wiser woman would have told him to go to hell, wouldn’t she?”
Francesca had to agree. Nodding, she said, “He is very difficult to resist. He is persuasive when he chooses to be.”
“And tonight, he is enjoying a flirtation with someone else. Are the two of you arguing?”
Francesca stiffened instantly. So Bartolla had noticed. Had the entire world seen his lack of attention to his future bride and the attention he was directing elsewhere? She said, “I hardly mind his flirting. It does not affect me—or us—at all.”
“I came here tonight feeling rather catty,” Bartolla said thoughtfully now. “I thought to make myself feel better at your expense. I was going to join you on the terrace and pour salt in your wounds. But I do like you, Francesca. And instead, I think I should give you some advice.”
Francesca froze. What ploy was this?
“Go back inside, darling, and fight for what you want,” Bartolla said. “But do not stand out here alone, sulking in childish tears.”
Francesca gaped. But Bartolla was terribly right.
She was hiding and sulking and, in general, feeling sorry for herself.
She wanted to fight for Hart, but she was afraid to compete with Darlene Fischer and her like.
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered. “I am half as beautiful as all the women he has always preferred in his bed.”
Bartolla pulled her close. “Nonsense! You could improve your daytime fashion, of course, and get rid of those ugly blue suits. But you are every bit as alluring as the rest.”
“I don’t know how to do what you are suggesting,” Francesca said, wide-eyed.
“Of course you do. You are wearing that dress, aren’t you?” Bartolla smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “It is all a game, Francesca, even if you dare to really fall in love. It is the right dress, the right sway of the hip, the right glance, the right moment.”
“But I am hardly a seductress,” she whispered.
“Any woman is a seductress. You just must be better at it than the others, and as you are far more clever than us all, it should not really be a problem, now, should it?”
She had been very seductive in that oil painting, she thought. And more times than she could count, Hart had responded to her as if she was a femme fatale. “But something is wrong. Something has set him off.” She hesitated. “And I feel certain it is not desire for Miss Fischer.”
“He’s a man. A very virile one. Men like him wander.
So even if tonight he is preoccupied with some other matter, one day he will genuinely stray.
I know you know that! But you can pull him right back.
” She smiled then. “I’ve seen him watching you.
It’s so much more than lust. If it were mere lust, I’d tell you to break the engagement and have some simple fun.
He admires you immensely and I’ve seen it in his eyes.
There is hope, darling—if you are strong enough to weather the ups and downs of a relationship that will undoubtedly be very stormy. ”
Francesca hated the fact that Bartolla, like Daisy, believed in Hart’s eventual disloyalty.
But she wondered if she had the strength to do as Bartolla had described.
And suddenly, in that moment, she was determined to take up just such a battle.
It felt as if her entire life was at stake, and perhaps it was.
She couldn’t imagine living without Calder present in her every waking moment, her every thought.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “Thank you for being sincere.”
Bartolla winked. “Don’t tell anyone! I shall be ruined.”
Francesca smiled, about to reply, but then she could not speak.
Hart stepped onto the terrace, and even shadowed as he was, she knew his form and felt his presence instantly. He came forward, his strides filled with purpose.
Francesca watched him emerge into the moonlight. His expression was hard and determined. He glanced at Bartolla just once, dismissively. He disliked her and did not offer even a polite greeting.
Bartolla clearly didn’t care. She gave Francesca an encouraging look and hurried inside.
Francesca felt paralyzed.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Will you stand outside all night?” he asked quietly.
“I have been considering doing just that,” she said, impossibly aware of his hands as they slipped off the jacket and her shoulders. She searched his eyes. Had she heard a normal resonance in his tone?