Chapter 22 #3
Daisy had left and Francesca stood alone on the church steps, shaken to the core. She finally gave up and sat down, as her knees and legs seemed useless.
Daisy was dangerous, oh yes. That morning at the Lord and Taylor store, she had made Francesca doubt her own value and her relationship with Hart.
Today, it was even worse. No matter how she might try to convince herself otherwise, Francesca knew that Daisy was right and that Hart was going to quickly tire of her.
And in the future, either near or far, that night would come—a night of lies she would choose to believe, a night spent in the arms of another woman.
She closed her eyes, desperately wishing she could find some faith in her fiancé. And a part of her stubbornly refused to cave in. A part of her shouted back that Hart was fine and good and misunderstood, and he was as noble as any other gentleman.
She inhaled hard, opening her eyes and seeing a cheerful blue sky with cotton-candy clouds.
And she began to think and analyze, which was what she did best. Hart had been fine on Friday morning.
He had not been fine that evening, at her sister’s charity affair.
They had been at odds ever since. And he had seen Daisy on Friday afternoon in his offices.
Clearly he had refused to be seduced. But had he been tempted? Francesca did not know what to think. But somehow Daisy had upset him, too. He had been having grave doubts about their future ever since that time, but was this all Daisy’s doing? Just what, exactly, was he thinking—and why?
Behind her, the church doors suddenly opened and a dozen people began coming out.
Francesca quickly stepped to the side to let them pass.
Randolph was one of the first gentlemen to leave the church and he paused on the sidewalk, hands in his trouser pockets, watching the funeral guests as they left.
Francesca assumed he was waiting for Gwen.
Hart walked out. He came directly to her, his regard searching. “What happened?”
She forced a smile. “I needed some air.”
“You were with Daisy,” he exclaimed. “I am hardly a fool. What happened?”
She opened her mouth but no words came out, as she had not a clue what to do or say.
He took her arm. “You are very distressed,” he said harshly. “Francesca, that woman is not to be believed or trusted.”
“I know,” she whispered, and impulsively she hugged him, burying her face against the rock-solid wall of his chest.
He held her loosely, one large hand cradling the back of her head beneath her hat. “I am going to take care of Daisy,” he said.
She looked up and smiled at him. He wiped what must have been a stray tear from her cheek and they stepped apart.
As she turned, she saw Bridget and Gwen walking past them, David Hanrahan directly behind them.
If Gwen knew her husband was there, she gave no sign.
She had eyes only for Randolph. She smiled at him, her pace increasing as she went down the steps.
Randolph stared at her.
Someone shouted—it was David Hanrahan. He rushed past Gwen and seized Randolph, throwing him backward against a parked carriage. “Fucking bastard!” he cried, his hands on Randolph’s throat.
Randolph tried to break his grip.
“David!” Gwen screamed. “Stop! Stop, please, stop!”
Hart rushed down the steps, Francesca reacting a moment afterward and following him. As Hart reached Hanrahan, Bragg raced past her, and together they pulled him off Randolph. Hart stepped back as Bragg threw Hanrahan down on the street.
Two officers in uniform appeared, standing ominously over him. Hanrahan sat up, panting. “You stay away from her!” he shouted past Bragg and the policemen at Randolph.
Randolph gave him a disdainful look and turned to Gwen. “I’m all right,” he said very quietly.
Gwen’s face was a mask of anguish, her feelings terribly clear. She was obviously in love.
Francesca had reached Hart’s side, but she strained to hear. Randolph said, low, “Can I give you a lift home?”
Gwen nodded, smiling, the stars shining in her eyes.
Francesca was very dismayed for Gwen. Now she prayed Randolph was not their man. “Are you all right?” she asked Hart.
“I’m fine,” he said, also glancing at the unlikely couple. Randolph was greeting Bridget with a smile. The girl did not seem to know what to do. Her gaze kept wavering between the handsome Irish nobleman and her father, who was now standing and in handcuffs.
Francesca hurried over to Bragg. “Take him downtown,” he said in disgust to the officer holding Hanrahan.
“I done nothing wrong!” Hanrahan was incredulous. “That fancy bastard is after my wife and daughter.”
Bragg ignored him, facing Francesca. “I’m going to lock him up for the night and let him ponder his poor temper,” he said.
She nodded. It seemed like a good idea, especially considering Gwen might very well be in Randolph’s bed before the hour was out. “Where is Randolph’s tail?”
“He’s here, but in civvies. Francesca, don’t worry,” he said quietly. “We won’t lose him.”
She nodded, but all she could do was fret. It was hard to gauge if she was worried about Gwen or herself.
You must now hold on to Hart with your fingertips as he slips slowly but surely away.
Francesca inhaled harshly, hating the echo of Daisy’s words, so cruel and loud and clear in her mind.
“Miss Cahill?” a woman whispered from behind.
Francesca turned in surprise and met Francis O’Leary’s wide brown eyes. “Hello,” she said with a smile.
Francis did not smile back. She glanced over her shoulder and Francesca followed her gaze somewhat curiously.
She quickly realized that she was looking at Sam Wilson, who was chatting on the church steps with Father Culhane.
“What is it?” she asked, realizing that Francis wished to speak with her alone.
Francis looked ready to cry. “I lied,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry! I lied—Sam did not spend the night at my flat like I said he did on Thursday night.”
Francesca stared in surprise and then her eyes veered to Wilson, who was now leaving the steps. Sam Wilson had no alibi for the night of Kate’s murder.
And then she tensed. A gentleman had just emerged from the church, and while she felt certain she did not know him, he was vaguely familiar.
Bragg had come to stand beside her. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, staring at the young man. And then comprehension came in a blaze of light, shocking her with its utter clarity.
The photograph in Farr’s hands…at John Sullivan’s flat…the photograph of Kate Sullivan and a young man!
“Who is that?” she cried, but she was already racing toward him as he came down the gray stone steps. Bragg followed. She paid no mind. “Excuse me, sir!” she called.
He paused before her, an elegant eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon?” He had the cultivated tone of one who had attended the finest Eastern schools.
It was him, the gentleman from the photograph. “Sir, I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth. I am investigating Kate Sullivan’s death, among others,” she said. “How did you know the deceased?”
He tugged on his kidskin gloves until they were without a single wrinkle and only then did he look up. His eyes were bright blue. “Once, a long time ago, she was my sister,” he said.