Chapter 21
Francesca stood in the doorway, staring after Hart as he strode away. She was in shock.
She continued to tremble and felt as if she had to sit down. She could no longer breathe and a huge knot had formed in her heart, causing so much pain. She turned and went back into the library, sitting on the closest suitable piece of furniture, an ottoman. She tried not to cry.
We will never be over, he had said.
She wiped her eyes. He had been in a jealous rage—he had gone to her father to fight for their engagement. He had used that very word. That had only been earlier today. Surely, in a few more hours, he would be filled with regret.
How could she live this way?
Francesca was so afraid of the question that she refused to entertain it.
“Are you all right?” Rourke asked.
She looked up, knowing she must appear as ill as she felt. Rourke stood in the doorway, compassion written all over his face. Francesca tried to force a smile and gave up. She stood. “No.”
He hesitated. “If it is any consolation, he looks even worse than you do. Perhaps tomorrow the two of you will manage to sort things out.”
She stared, wishing that were true and thinking of a lifetime spent with a man prone to such jealous rage. “He is furious because I spent the afternoon with Rick, not investigating, but having a picnic in the park.”
Rourke was mildly surprised. “Francesca, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you need to be less of a friend to Rick if you are to succeed with Calder? I might even be jealous if I were in Calder’s shoes.”
Rourke was so levelheaded and so objective that she highly doubted that. “Rick will always be a dear friend, and he needs all of his friends and family now,” she said emphatically.
“Yes, he does. But you may have to make a clear choice between them. Calder and Rick have been at odds as long as I can remember. I don’t think the rivalry they share is ever going to change.” He then smiled kindly at her. “I am going out to supper. Would you like to join me?”
“No, thank you,” she said, knowing she could never make such a terrible choice, especially not now, when Rick needed her so desperately as a friend.
He waited for her and she left the library with him.
As she was approaching the front hall, she tried not to wonder where Calder was, but she was painfully aware that he was somewhere in the house—unless, of course, he had gone out.
Why couldn’t he trust her? she wondered miserably.
But the answer was obvious. He had been her friend, holding her hand, when she had first fallen in love with Rick Bragg.
Apparently he was never going to recover from that bygone era; apparently he was never going to believe that he had somehow secured her heart.
He had accused her of such disloyalty, she thought in anguish. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t been disloyal to him, not once since she had realized that he was the one she truly loved.
Suddenly she faltered. Rourke reached out to steady her but she wasn’t even aware of him. What had Calder said? That he had been loyal to her even when Daisy had come to his office?
When had Daisy gone to his office? No mistress, or ex-mistress, would ever dare to go to her lover’s place of business! What did this mean?
“Francesca, you look as if you have just seen a ghost.”
She blinked and saw Rourke gazing at her with concern. Behind him, she saw Maggie and Joel, both as riveted by her demeanor.
Her mind raced. She must speak with Daisy and find out why she had called on Hart at his office.
However, while she and Hart were most definitely in a crisis, a killer was on the loose.
Her personal life must not interfere with her investigation.
And apparently she no longer had plans for the evening. “Maggie!” She smiled firmly now.
Maggie came forward hesitantly. “Hello, Francesca.” Her gaze was searching. “How are you? Are you all right?”
She shoved all thoughts of Hart far aside. “I am fine. I am so glad to run into you this way. Maggie, I need your help, and I think there is no time like the present, as it is rather early yet.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Of course I will help. But what can I do?”
“Can Joel stay here with the children? You and I must go downtown. It is time we paid a friendly call on Lord Randolph, my dear,” she said, and she smiled broadly.
Maggie was bewildered. “Lord Randolph? I am afraid I don’t know any gentleman of that name.”
“Ah, but you may have met him once—on the street, outside of Kate Sullivan’s building the evening of her murder, within an hour of her demise.”
Maggie was wide-eyed.
Francesca felt much better. There was nothing like sinking her teeth into an investigation to get her mind off the terrible ache in her heart. She turned to Rourke with a smile. “Would you like to join us for an evening of investigative work?” she asked. “If you are not too hungry, that is.”
Francesca and Maggie climbed into the back of Hart’s handsome black coach and Francesca rapped smartly on the ceiling, indicating that Raoul could drive off.
Rourke had declined her invitation, so when her door suddenly opened and he stepped up into the cab, she was very surprised.
A moment later, as he took a seat facing them, the light of the interior lantern fell across him and she stiffened in shock. It was not Rourke, but Hart.
He settled himself on the rearward-facing seat, dominating the interior of the coach and making it seem far too small and airless. “Raoul, proceed,” he said, knocking once on the roof. And the six-in-hand rolled off.
“What are you doing?” Francesca managed to say.
“I am joining you,” he said, unsmiling.
She stared at him and he stared back. From his terse expression, she could surmise that little had changed in the past quarter hour. “Why?”
“I suspect the evening will become a very late one. My feelings have not changed. I do not like you traipsing about the city in the midnight hours of the night, chasing the worst sort of criminals.”
Her heart raced with some trepidation and some small elation.
How easy it would be to refute him. It was only seven o’clock and Lord Randolph was hardly a thug—although he might turn out to be the Slasher.
And Raoul was her bodyguard. There was no reason for Hart to be present, other than the reason that he still cared, rather excessively, for her.
She dared to smile just a little at him.
He said, unsmiling, “I believe you are on a fool’s errand.” He turned and faced out the window, not saying another word.
And from the hard-set look on his features, she thought that any attempt to draw him into a civil conversation would certainly fail.
Nonetheless, her heart pounding now, she said, “We have a very tenuous list of suspects. David Hanrahan, Lord Randolph, Sam Wilson and John Sullivan. Hanrahan has no alibis, Randolph we have yet to question, Wilson has an alibi for last Thursday, but I am not quite sure whether to believe Francis or not, and Sullivan apparently went out drinking every night—including the night of his wife’s murder.
We still do not know if he committed suicide.
If he did, he could very well be the Slasher.
” She forced another smile, but Hart continued to stare out of his window and did not see. She tried, “So what do you think?”
He gave her a brief, dark look. “I have yet to leap to any conclusions, solid or otherwise,” he said flatly, and he faced his window again.
Francesca felt crushed; she gave up. She turned to look out of Maggie’s window, as she did not want to be confronted with Hart.
How perilously fragile her emotions were.
Maggie gently patted her hand. Francesca smiled a little at her and no one said another word for the next half hour as Raoul proceeded downtown.
The tension in the coach was thick enough to cut with a knife.
The Holland House Hotel came into sight.
It took up half of the block between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth Streets and was on the west side of Fifth Avenue.
It was a handsome, square building of granite built several decades ago.
Francesca forgot about Hart, staring at the canopied entrance where two liveried doormen stood.
Their carriage slowed and her mind raced.
She turned to Hart. “There is no need for subterfuge, I think. You can enquire after Randolph at the front desk. We will go inside with you, claiming to be a dinner party. If he is somewhere in the hotel, we can have you send a note to him to meet you in the lobby.” She looked at him. “Would you mind, Calder?”
His gaze flickered over her face rather studiously, and slowly he nodded. “Of course I do not mind.”
Raoul had alighted from the top seat where he drove and he opened the door for them. Francesca followed Maggie out onto the sidewalk, excitement rising within her, Hart behind her. He said in her ear, “And if he is out for the evening?”
“So much the better,” she said cheerfully. “There is only one public entrance to the hotel and we will sit in the lobby until he returns. He is not sociable,” she reminded him, “so I doubt he will be out until the wee hours.”
Hart’s expression appeared to be in danger of thawing. He shook his head, and took her arm. “As I said, the evening threatens to be a late one.” He smiled at Maggie. “Shall we?”
As they entered the hotel it was briefly as if nothing was wrong. Francesca remained beside Hart, on his arm. They approached the front desk, a long gleaming teakwood counter where two clerks in dark suits stood, and Francesca eagerly scanned the lobby.
The room was large but not half as spacious as that of the city’s higher-end hotels. There were only three seating areas, all occupied by gentlemen and ladies. Francesca instantly surmised that Randolph was not present. She did not recognize anyone, in fact.
“How may I help you, sir?” a young clerk was asking.