Chapter 8
How could this be happening? Francesca wondered, vaguely aware of everyone leaving the room.
She gripped the table, feeling dizzy and faint.
Daisy had been pregnant with Hart’s child and he hadn’t told her.
She reminded herself that he had only just found out, the day before he had left on his business trip—if he had actually gone on a business trip!
Was that why he had gone to see Daisy last night? To discuss the child?
If Daisy had not been murdered, Hart would have had a child with another woman.
“Take this. It might help,” Bragg said quietly, from beside her.
She realized he was holding a glass. She took it, her hand shaking. She had not heard him return to the room.
“It is bourbon. I plead guilty—I keep a bottle in my office for the nights I remain here working past any decent hour.” He smiled at her but his gaze was terribly concerned.
She didn’t even try to sip the bourbon. She didn’t look at Bragg—she couldn’t. Another woman had been carrying Calder’s child, and the fact that she had conceived before Francesca had become involved with Hart didn’t dull the sick sense of betrayal.
“Francesca, let me help,” Bragg said softly.
How could he help? she wondered. If only she could think, then surely she would not feel so ill.
Francesca tried to organize her thoughts.
Daisy was dead, the illegitimate child she had shared with Hart was dead, and he had more motive than ever.
He was in trouble. She looked at Rick Bragg.
If she focused on the case, she could manage this crisis and recover her composure.
“You know Hart would never murder a woman who was pregnant with his child.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. Very carefully, he said, “I know you are upset. This is a terrible shock—a terrible situation. I don’t want to talk about the case. I want to talk about how you are feeling.”
She inhaled, forced a smile and said too brightly, “I am fine. I mean, this was an accident.”
“Clearly,” Bragg said with care, studying her.
Francesca realized she was hugging herself defensively. “Daisy conceived before I became engaged, Rick.”
“Probably so. Francesca, do you really want to defend him now?”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled. “What am I going to do?” she heard herself whisper.
He put his arm around her. “Don’t make any decisions just now, Francesca. Maybe you should attempt to discuss this with him.”
“I know I should not feel betrayed, but I do.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her there. Francesca finally allowed the tears to freely fall.
Stroking her hair, Bragg said, “Hart is not the first man to be confronted with an unwanted child.”
She pulled away so their eyes could meet.
“I know that. I can’t seem to think clearly.
” She wiped her eyes. “He has always claimed his past was sordid and ugly, but I never cared. I genuinely didn’t care about his previous lovers.
Except for Daisy. She managed to bother me—I felt threatened!
And now we find out that she was pregnant.
Today, his past feels like the present. And I wish it weren’t here! ”
“He has a past, and the reputation to prove it,” Rick said quietly. “You knew it from the start. But it’s very different to be told about something than to have it strike you in the face. I am sorry, Francesca, truly sorry.”
The implications of Daisy’s pregnancy hit her then.
If her parents ever found out, they would never support her marriage to Hart.
This was another huge scandal in the making.
Any other well-bred lady would disengage herself from her fiancé in such a situation.
She was stunned, but she could never leave Hart—not even because of this.
She could not imagine her life without him at its center.
Francesca stood, shaken. She must focus on the current investigation.
There was no point in dwelling on her scrambled and uncomfortable feelings.
“I am overreacting,” she said flatly. “I am acting like a witless ninny—like a spoiled, selfish debutante. This happened in February, or even earlier than that. I hardly knew Hart last February!”
Bragg was silent.
She slowly looked at him. “Please don’t look at me that way, as if you know what I should do—as if you believe I should leave him!”
“That is your decision to make.”
“There is no decision to make.”
Bragg looked away from her, clearly in disagreement.
And suddenly a bell went off in her mind. Francesca straightened, her thoughts racing. Hart’s child was dead. And Francesca saw him as he had been last night, the shadow of grief in his eyes. In that lightning moment, she understood, and her own feelings did not matter. “Hart is mourning.”
Bragg started and rose. “Francesca,” he protested. “You had better look carefully before you leap. Hart didn’t want the child and two witnesses heard him say so.”
“No,” she cried breathlessly. If there was one thing she did know, it was that he had not meant those terrible words of rejection.
“He is grieving—I saw it last night, in his eyes, but I thought it was because he still cared about Daisy.” She became grim.
“Are you going to arrest him because Mrs. Greene and Annie both heard him say he did not want the child?”
“The evidence against him is mounting.”
“It is circumstantial,” she flashed, suddenly afraid for Hart in spite of her own confusion.
“Many murderers are convicted on circumstantial evidence,” he pointed out.
She backed away. “Don’t do this!”
He reached for her, but she dodged him. “Francesca! I am not going to arrest him without more proof.”
She nodded. “Good. I have to go.”
He grabbed her arm. “You are going to comfort him?” He was incredulous.
“Yes.” More tears came, and she swatted at them. “I am going to get past this. He never meant to hurt me this way. Hart needs me now, more than ever.”
Bragg was rigid. “Of course he didn’t mean to hurt you—he will never mean to hurt you!”
Francesca saw his contempt and anger. She could not care, not now. She ran out.
Rourke followed a clerk down the hall of Hart’s office building, one of several from which Calder conducted his various business affairs.
Hart’s office door was open, revealing a large, spacious room with views of the New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty.
Hart was engrossed in the papers on his desk, but as Rourke and the clerk paused, he looked up.
“Mr. Bragg, sir,” the young clerk said.
Hart smiled but it did not reach his eyes. Rourke hadn’t expected to find him in the best of spirits, but instantly he saw the shadow of grief on his face. Uncertain now, he entered the room as Hart stood and walked out from behind his desk.
“Rourke! I am pleased you are back in the city,” Hart said, clearly meaning that. He embraced him briefly, surprising Rourke, as Hart was not prone to displays of affection. A greeting from Hart was usually no more than a firm handshake. “Does this mean you have attained your transfer?”
“I’m not certain,” Rourke said with a smile. “I’ll know in a day or two.”
“Are you certain you don’t want me to pull a few strings?”
Rourke shook his head. Hart had offered to speak with one or two directors of the Bellevue Medical Hospital in order to make certain Rourke was transferred to the college.
Rourke had refused, surprised to learn Hart would have leverage even at Bellevue.
“Why don’t we wait to learn my educational fate? ”
“If you insist,” Hart said, turning away, his smile vanishing. He seemed terribly preoccupied.
Rourke laid a hand on his shoulder. “I heard about Miss Jones.”
Hart tensed and pulled away. He slowly turned. “And did you hear that I found her, Rourke? Stabbed viciously to death?”
Hart was distraught, Rourke saw—almost anguished. “I hadn’t realized you still harbored feelings of affection for Miss Jones,” he said cautiously, an image of Francesca coming to mind.
Hart gave him a hard look and wandered to the window. “I don’t. But no one should have had to suffer such a brutal and untimely death.”
Rourke didn’t know what to believe. Hart was clearly in grief. “Are you somehow blaming yourself?”
Hart made a disparaging sound. “I am not so noble or so misguided.”
“That is a relief,” Rourke said before thinking about it. “Francesca asked me if I would mind coming downtown.”
“So she is the one who told you about Daisy,” he said, and it was not a question.
“She is very worried about you, Calder,” Rourke said. He reached for Francesca’s note. “She asked me to give you this.”
Hart glanced at it and laid it on his desk. “She hardly need worry, because I did not kill anyone. The police will find the real killer, sooner or later.” Rourke hesitated, and Hart narrowed his eyes at him. “What is it?”
Rourke knew he was intruding. “She loves you, Calder, very much, probably more than you deserve. But she is concerned, and after speaking with her, I cannot say I blame her.”
Hart placed both hands on his hips, his stance braced for serious battle. “I see. She sent you here to plead her case. Or you have decided to become her defender?”
“She will be my sister-in-law,” Rourke exclaimed. “I have become very fond of Francesca, not to mention that I truly admire her! Why won’t you tell her why you were visiting Daisy last night, at such a socially unacceptable hour?”
“So you also think I have been unfaithful?” Hart was incredulous.
“No, actually, that is not what I think, not at all. I think you are head over heels for the first time in your life, and it frightens you so much you will not admit it, not even to yourself.”
Hart softened briefly. “She is the blinding light of my dark and sordid life,” he admitted.
Rourke went up to him. “She is doing what most women in her place would not do—she has chosen to trust you! But she needs an explanation, Hart. In fact, I need one, too.”