Chapter 9 #2
He looked away, his jaw hard. “That is not a good idea,” he finally said.
She jerked on his sleeve. “Why not?” When he refused to answer, her annoyance escalated. “If you have no feelings for Maggie Kennedy, then you should have behaved far differently with her. She is not like the countess, to be flirted with lightly and then dismissed!”
“I know very well that Maggie is not at all like Bartolla, Fran,” he said quietly. “And if I have flirted with her, I am very sorry. That was never my intention.”
“Then what was your intention?” she asked. “Because frankly, I thought you had genuine feelings for her.”
He was taken aback. “Don’t push me!” he exclaimed. “Has it ever occurred to you that in spite of the facade I keep, my life is far from jolly? I am trapped in a prison of my own making!”
She seized his hand. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugged free. “Everything. Do you think I like scrimping for pennies? Do you think I like making a commitment to a woman I do not care all that much for? Do you know that every single day I imagine returning to the tables, just for one roll of the die? One roll, Fran. I dream of it at night!” he cried.
“And I still owe well over fifty thousand dollars to my creditors, not to mention another fifty thousand to Hart, who so generously helped me pay off LaFarge and saved my life in doing so.”
“Hart doesn’t care when he gets the money back, and once we are married, I am sure he will forgive the debt,” Francesca whispered, aghast. “I thought you had gotten over the urge to gamble.”
“I will never get over the urge,” he said sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me, I really must greet Connie and Neil.”
Francesca could not help herself. “Tell me one thing, Evan. If you do not care about Bartolla, why are you committed to her?”
He was angry. “I know you mean well, but you need to get the notion of a romance between me and Maggie out of your head! It is not happening, not now and not ever!”
She wet her lips. “I never suggested that you should have such a romance. But clearly, you have strong feelings for her.”
He leaned close, his face grim. “You will find out eventually, anyway, so you may as well know. Then you can stop harassing me about Maggie!”
She recoiled, as he never spoke to her in such a harsh, rude and frightening way. It crossed her mind that her sunny-natured brother had changed, before everyone’s eyes. “I will find out what?”
“The countess and I are eloping, sooner rather than later,” he said, anger burning in his eyes, “because I have had the terribly good fortune of getting her with child.”
When Bragg slipped into the small, narrow foyer of his home, an hour later than expected, he was not sure of his reception.
But just as Peter materialized, so did Leigh Anne.
She was in her chair, of course, her nurse pushing her from the parlor, where, apparently, she had been waiting for him. Her green eyes were wide and worried.
“Sir?” Peter asked, as was his habit.
He had no coat to hand off, just a brown felt hat. “I will take supper later, in the study,” he replied, his gaze on his wife.
Peter hesitated.
Leigh Anne’s chair came forward. “I haven’t dined yet,” she said.
He was surprised. They hadn’t shared a meal together in weeks. Even on Sundays, he had always found an excuse involving his work so that he might conveniently vanish.
She managed a slight smile. “But maybe we should have a sherry first.”
He understood. “I’ll take that,” he told Mackenzie, moving behind the chair.
Mackenzie and Peter left, and he pushed his wife’s chair back into the parlor.
The scene with O’Donnell tried to replay in his head, but he refused to allow it to do so.
He had no intention of worrying his wife.
Clearly, she was in a state of extreme anxiety already.
Leigh Anne never asked for anything, but the moment he had closed the doors, she said, her tone terse, “I will take a sherry, Rick, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, pouring her a glass of wine. He handed it to her and their hands brushed, the brief intimacy making him ache for everything he did not have. Shaken by so much need, he walked away from her slowly.
“You aren’t having a drink?” Her tone was sharp. “What has happened?”
He quickly turned. “Everything is fine, Leigh Anne,” he lied.
She searched his eyes. “Did you see O’Donnell and his aunt?”
“Yes.” He did not like lying to her, but he wanted to spare her the worry he was afflicted with. “He seems to be a changed man. Apparently he has given up alcohol and has become very devout. He seems to want to make amends, and visiting the girls is a part of that.”
Her beautiful, perfect features filled with strain. “And that is all?”
He hesitated. “That seems to be all.”
She seized the large, thin wheels and began to move them. He was shocked, as he had never seen her attempt to maneuver the chair before. Now she came right at him. “My instincts tell me this man is trouble, for us, for the girls!” she cried. “Rick, please don’t coat this with sugar.”
Her eyes filled with tears. He knelt before her and touched her face. Her skin was as smooth and soft as silk. She did not flinch. She looked at him as if begging for his help. A tear fell.
His heart tightened and he almost leaned forward to catch it with his lips. Instead, he said roughly, “I don’t believe he has found God—or that God has found him. He’s just a low-life thug, Leigh Anne. He can’t harm the girls and he certainly can’t harm us.”
She inhaled. “But what does he want? And did you speak with our lawyer? Can he hurt the adoption?”
He stopped the tear in its tracks with his thumb. “He probably hopes to extort a tidy sum from us.”
“I knew it!” She seized his hand, gripping it tightly. “Just give him whatever he wants. I want both of them to go away.”
He wanted to pull her close and comfort her, but he was afraid she would resist. He was acutely aware of her hand, clinging to his, and it was very hard not to raise it to his lips. “We decided to adopt the girls. I will make sure it happens. They need us—and we need them.”
“I love them,” she whispered, more tears falling. “Oh, Rick, I am so afraid. And Katie is afraid of that man—I saw it with my own eyes.”
“He bullied her mother,” Bragg said. “I don’t want you to worry. I am going to take care of this. And I left a message for Feingold, so I will undoubtedly hear from him tomorrow, too.”
Leigh Anne nodded, finally releasing his hand. She looked uncertain.
“Leigh Anne,” he said softly. “I am the commissioner of police. O’Donnell is a lout, but he’s not a complete fool. He knows better than to antagonize me.”
“Have you told me everything?” she whispered.
He hesitated. “Yes,” he lied.
She looked away, then back. “Rick? What if he is not lying? What if he has found God? What if…?” She stopped, unable to continue.
“What are you asking?” he said, his heart sinking. His wife was very clever, and clearly, she knew or at least suspected the truth.
“What if he wants the girls?” she cried. “He is their uncle. A judge would certainly decide that blood is thicker than water!”
He had to take away her fear and pain. He took her face in his hands. “He hasn’t found God and he does not want the girls. I want you to trust me,” he said.
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened them, she said, “I do.”
He still held her face in his hands, and now his heart changed its beat. She knew, because he felt her tense.
He almost kissed her, anyway. Instead, he let her go and stood. “Let’s have that drink,” he said.
“Francesca!” Connie exclaimed, her face filled with worry as she rushed into the front hall.
Francesca had not moved after Evan crossed the hall and disappeared into the salon. She remained stunned, simply stunned, by his pronouncement. Now, of course, she understood. However, knowing Bartolla Benevente, she felt certain that nothing had been accidental.
She turned to her approaching sister. Connie was clad in a silk evening gown the color of moonlight with a triple-tiered diamond necklace around her slim throat and matching chandelier earrings.
Connie was one of the most elegant women Francesca knew.
She was also lovely. People often remarked that the sisters could have been twins, except for the fact that Connie was fairer in complexion and hair color than Francesca.
If Connie favored ivory hues, Francesca chose golden ones. “Am I interrupting?” Francesca asked.
Connie grasped Francesca’s hands. “We have several guests, but I don’t care!” Her blue eyes were wide with concern. “Mama told me about Daisy Jones. Are you all right?”
Connie was Francesca’s best friend, even though no two sisters could be more different.
Connie had been a debutante while Francesca had been a student at Barnard College.
Currently, she was a socialite, a society hostess, a mother and wife.
Francesca was considered eccentric by most of society and she was now a renowned sleuth, which only heightened her reputation of strangeness.
Yet somehow, they had always been confidantes.
There had never been a time when Francesca had not been able to turn to her sister when in need, and that had always worked both ways.
“I think I am beginning to recover from what has been a terrible day.”
Holding her hand, Connie tugged and the two sisters ran down the hall, past the salon, where Francesca glimpsed a very important leader of the Progressive movement, and into the library. Connie closed the door and Francesca just stood there, preparing for a confession.
Connie took one look at her and pulled her into her arms. “You are putting up a brave front, Fran, but I can feel how worried you are.”
Francesca hugged her back. “I am worried, but I am feeling much better than I was an hour or so ago.”