Chapter 5 #3
Rose’s expression changed. “How can you be so calm about all of this? We are talking about the woman I love and the man you claim to love. Doesn’t it hurt you that he once slept here? That he bought Daisy so he could use her as he willed?”
“Yes, it does hurt me, it actually hurts me very much,” Francesca said sharply, finally admitting to her feelings. “But I wasn’t with Calder when he and Daisy were having their affair, and I continue to remind myself of that. And no one forced Daisy to be Hart’s mistress. She wanted to be here.”
“Oh, that’s right—at that time, you were in love with his brother, Rick Bragg!”
“That was a lifetime ago,” Francesca said far more calmly than she felt.
She understood Rose’s pain, and that she was lashing out wherever and however she could.
“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, astonished with the twists and turns my life has taken, but there is no going back. I love Calder, Rose. And I know how much you loved Daisy. I know you are grieving, and that you are angry. But the more you tell me, the faster I can get to the bottom of this case.”
“How can you be so blind?” Rose accused.
“Daisy wasn’t murdered because of her past. You heard the maid!
Hart was furious with her, so furious he broke down a door!
He was furious because she had been trying to get him back.
He was furious with her for trying to hurt you, for trying to interfere in your engagement, for refusing to leave this house.
No one wanted her out of the way more than he did. ”
Everything Rose had said was the truth, but it was also crystal clear that Rose was enraged with Hart. Francesca wondered how angry she had been with Daisy. “Is this what you told the police?”
Rose lifted her chin. “Of course. I told them everything.”
Francesca’s heart lurched with dread. “What does that mean?”
Rose smiled and it was vicious. “I was at Kate Sullivan’s funeral. I heard him, Francesca, as clear as day—I was standing behind you both.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Francesca lied.
Rose stood. “He told you he would take care of Daisy, and his meaning was clear. He would do anything, anything, to stop her. And last night, that is exactly what he did.”
Rourke loitered in the large front hall of the Channing home, the large trophy head of a white wolf snarling down at him.
A servant had gone to inform both Sarah and her mother of his call and he was oddly anxious, as if he were a suitor.
He reminded himself that he was merely a friend of Sarah’s, although they had certainly been through quite a bit together.
Francesca had provided the close connection.
Once, Sarah had been engaged to Evan Cahill in a terrible mismatch that had made them both miserable.
Rourke had never understood how either family had thought to match such a reckless rogue with someone as sincere and privately ambitious as Sarah Channing.
The world thought her to be as eccentric as her father had been, and labeled her a recluse, but it was clear to Rourke that the world was wrong—she was a committed and brilliant artist. Her art was her passion and he understood completely, as he was privately driven, too.
His intention was to heal the world’s least fortunate, if he could.
They had both become involved in several of Francesca’s cases, which was how their friendship had formed.
Sarah had even been attacked in the course of one investigation, an incident Rourke did not like recalling, as he had been there and Sarah had been hurt.
But that had been last February, and it had been well over two months since he had paid the Channings a visit.
But his behavior was excusable enough—after all, he was attending medical school in Philadelphia, and like all med students, his schedule was hectic, allowing almost no personal time.
Still, given the time that had lapsed since he last called, he wasn’t really sure of his reception.
Rourke decided that was the cause of his anxiety.
He paced, ignoring the other trophies alternately staring, grinning or growling down at him from the salon.
Sarah’s late father, Richard Wyeth Channing, had been an avid big-game hunter, and he had spent most of his life in the wilds across the world.
Rourke wondered whether his widow would ever redecorate their huge West Side home.
He tried not to be judgmental, but all of society seemed to delight in Mrs. Channing’s extreme lack of good taste—behind her back, of course.
He heard a rustle of movement and felt his heart skip. Slowly, smiling pleasantly, he turned.
Sarah had just entered the hall from its far end, and her brown eyes were huge in her small oval face.
She came forward, clad in a simple skirt and shirtwaist, her curly brown hair swept up very haphazardly.
He noticed a smudge of paint on her white blouse and his smile became genuine.
He crossed the hall to meet her. “Good day, Sarah. I hope I am not interrupting, but I have the feeling that I am.”
She did not smile back, her eyes searching his. “This is quite a surprise, Rourke,” she said as if filled with tension.
His pleasure began to fade. “Am I interrupting?” he asked somberly.
She sighed. “I was in my studio, but I am afraid I have been blocked for some time. And how could you interrupt? You saved my life.”
He hesitated, trying to read her, but all he could discern was that she seemed troubled—and that she did not seem eager to see him. Oddly, he was somewhat hurt. “That was a long time ago, and you hardly owe me.”
She gave him a look, then smiled slightly. “I certainly owe you, Rourke. Come into the salon and sit down.” She led the way. “I am afraid Mother is already out for the day. How have you been?”
He waited until they had entered the other room. “I have been very busy. I applied for a transfer to Bellevue Medical College, and I feel certain I will receive it. I expect to be moving any day now.”
She turned away before he could see what she was thinking. “I had heard,” she finally said, glancing up at him.
He heard himself say, “I had hoped to be the one to tell you.”
She just stared, and he wondered if he saw hurt in her eyes. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “Sarah, I sense something is wrong. Have I offended you in any way?”
She seemed surprised. “Rourke, how could you have possibly offended me?”
Without thinking twice, he reached for her hand. She stiffened, but he clasped it, anyway. “I hope that is never the case!” he exclaimed. “I treasure our friendship, Sarah.”
She blushed and tugged her hand away, avoiding his eyes. “When will you know if you have been accepted at Bellevue?”
“Any day now,” he said, studying her profile.
She was a petite woman, and while he clinically recognized the fact that she was somewhat plain in appearance, from the first time they had met he had been drawn to her in an unfathomable way.
He had heard other young ladies calling her mousy behind her back, but she wasn’t, really.
She had a small, upturned nose, a sweet rosebud mouth, and those huge dark eyes, which could undo any man.
And he had seen her hair down once. Sarah had the hair of a Greek goddess, waist-length, wild and curly.
She finally smiled fully at him. “And shall I be the first or last to know?”
He grinned back. “If I tell you first, will I be redeemed in your eyes?”
“Rourke, I meant what I said before. You saved my life—I will always owe you. There is no need for redemption.”
He became aware of his heart pounding, slow and strong but almost aching, the hunger deep and quiet. “Do you want to tell me what is wrong? I should like to know. If I can, I should like to help.”
She met his gaze, hers filled with worry. “No one has told you?”
“No one has told me what?”
She wet her lips. “You remember, don’t you, that Hart commissioned a portrait of Francesca from me?”
He could not imagine where she was leading. “Of course I do. You were so wildly excited to do it.”
Sarah bit her lip. “I finished it, Rourke, in April. Hart was pleased.”
He did not understand. If Hart, a world-renowned art collector, had been pleased with the portrait, why was Sarah so upset? “I’m glad. Do I get to glimpse the work of art, as well?”
Sarah wrung her hands. “It’s gone.”
“It’s gone?” he echoed foolishly.
“It disappeared shortly after I unveiled it for Hart. It was stolen, Rourke, right here from my studio, from this house.”
He was surprised, but instantly, he took her hands in his, hoping to reassure her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry it was stolen, and I hope the authorities can locate it, but Sarah, if they can’t, you can paint another portrait.”
She was ashen. “You don’t understand. The portrait was of Francesca entirely unclothed. Somewhere in the city is my nude portrait of Francesca, and if it ever surfaces, she will never be accepted in polite society again.”
For once, Rourke was so stunned that he was speechless.