Chapter 13 #2
Francesca smiled sweetly. “I have the oddest feeling Bartolla is playing games with our brother, Con, and I am going to put an end to them, once and for all.” She paused. “Want to join me?”
“I am afraid I can’t, not this morning.” Connie worried her hands as they walked to the door. “You’re going to threaten Rose, aren’t you? You are going to threaten her with that empty gun!”
Francesca was resigned. “You know me better than anyone. Don’t worry, the gun is unloaded, and I will only resort to threats if there is no other choice.”
Connie did not look reassured.
Francesca was shown into the salon by a servant, who left to inform Bartolla of her arrival.
The countess was a cousin of Sarah Channing’s and was living with the Channings in their West Side home.
Francesca had been to the Channings many times and no longer saw the exotic furnishings and trophy heads and hides as she paced.
Once, she had genuinely liked the flamboyantly beautiful countess.
Recently, she had realized she was not to be trusted and that she might not really be a friend.
Francesca turned when she heard rapid footsteps.
As Bartolla would never hurry, she knew it was either Sarah or her mother approaching.
Indeed, Sarah hurried into the salon. She was clearly on her way out of the house, as she was dressed in an unusually simple but attractive light blue suit.
“Francesca!” Sarah beamed, obviously pleased to see her.
She rushed forward and the two women embraced.
“You are here to see Bartolla? I heard Harold upstairs, advising her that you have called.”
“Yes, I have a matter I wish to discuss with her,” Francesca said, truly surprised at how well Sarah was looking.
Usually she wore overly bright and excessively adorned clothes that dwarfed her petite stature and washed out her complexion.
But the light blue was lovely on her. Other than a flounce at the hem of the skirt and ruffled sleeves on the jacket, the suit was unadorned, in marked contrast to most of the clothes Sarah wore, and it displayed her slender figure to a great advantage.
“How are you, Sarah? And I like your suit. Is it new?” Francesca guessed that Sarah had managed to go shopping without her mother.
Mrs. Channing was renowned for her excessive and bad taste.
Sarah nodded. “Do you think it suits me? Bartolla took me shopping—we ordered three new evening gowns and as many ensembles for day. It is so plain! And I have never worn this color before. Bartolla insisted that I stay away from those dark reds and golds I used to wear. What do you think?” she asked anxiously.
Francesca knew that Sarah did not care one whit for fashion.
But Rourke was in town. Two plus two equaled four.
She grinned. “Light blue is a lovely color on you—it makes your eyes even darker, it puts a blush in your cheeks and your hair has such a rich hue now! Bartolla is right, the color and style suit you very much. So…where are you off to?”
Sarah glanced away, but her cheeks had become pink. “I am having lunch.”
Francesca poked her. “With whom?”
“Just…a friend,” Sarah said.
“Sarah!”
“Very well, I will tell you. But do not make anything of it!” Sarah cried, flushing.
“You are meeting Rourke for lunch,” Francesca returned in absolute delight.
Sarah nodded. “But we are just friends, Francesca. I am not interested in romance—I am too busy with my art.”
Francesca met her gaze, understanding perfectly. “It is not your fault that my portrait was stolen.”
“I cannot believe that, with all those private investigators, Hart has not located it!” Sarah cried in distress.
“Perhaps it will simply remain missing,” Francesca said, not believing it for a moment.
Her portrait had no value. An art thief would steal a masterpiece.
Someone had stolen her portrait for personal reasons, she was certain.
She knew, with real dread, that one day that portrait was going to surface.
Sarah reached for her hand. “Oh, Francesca, here you are comforting me, when Hart is in so much trouble.”
“You saw the papers?”
“Yes. But I know he is innocent, just as I know you will find Daisy’s real killer,” Sarah said earnestly. “Because you will never give up.”
“No, I won’t,” Francesca said. “Sarah, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your loyalty to Hart.”
“You love him, you are my friend and he has been a great patron,” Sarah said simply.
“This is so touching,” Bartolla said, walking toward them.
She was smiling, apparently having been eavesdropping for some time.
Gorgeously dressed in a royal-blue ensemble that was low-cut for daytime and revealed a great deal of her stunning figure, she was dripping diamonds.
“Francesca, darling!” She kissed Francesca on both cheeks.
“How are you managing? What a terrible scandal! Hart accused of murdering his own mistress! You must be sick with worry!”
Francesca drew back, her heart pounding. “I am completely focused on the investigation. We have several very interesting leads. I expect to find the real killer any day. Hart is innocent, so I am not worried at all.”
Bartolla smiled knowingly at her, clearly not believing a single word she had just said. “I agree with Sarah,” she declared. “Hart would never murder his mistress. Besides, if he did, he is too clever to be accused of it.”
It was hard to keep calm and even harder to smile back. “Daisy was his ex-mistress,” she said, knowing full well that Bartolla already knew that, “and Hart is innocent.”
“Of course he is,” Bartolla soothed. “But it is awful, isn’t it, that he was arrested last night?”
Francesca froze.
Bewildered, Sarah looked from her cousin to Francesca. “Hart was arrested?”
Francesca managed to breathe. “He was detained for further questioning. That is all.”
“I must have misunderstood that article in The World. Hart is in jail, is he not?”
“Yes.” Francesca turned away so Bartolla would not see how upset she was. Of course, last night’s news would have broken later that day, but someone had worked very hard to get it in this morning’s paper. Well, this time she could not blame that low-life snoop, Arthur Kurland.
“Oh, Francesca,” Sarah gasped, grasping her hand. “This is awful news! And you have been so brave and so confident! How can I help?”
Francesca faced her, unable to smile now. “Your loyalty and faith is all the help we need,” she said softly.
“There must be something else I can do,” Sarah whispered.
Bartolla patted Sarah on the back. “Come, dear, you heard Francesca. Although we could have the cook bake a pie, and we could bring it to the jail where Hart is locked up.” She seemed to think the idea very amusing.
Francesca itched to claw the other woman now. She said, dangerously, “That’s a lovely idea, Bartolla. It is so thoughtful of you!”
Bartolla laughed. “Francesca, you are so nervous! I really am trying to help.”
Francesca gave her a murderous look.
“Won’t Hart get out on bail?” Sarah asked.
“He hasn’t been arrested, Sarah,” Francesca returned. She decided she despised the widowed countess.
“Thank God!” Bartolla cried. “You are very brave, Francesca, to stand by your man in such a time. Most women would turn tail and run the other way as fast as they could.”
Before Francesca could answer, Harold announced the arrival of Rourke Bragg. He had not been home last night when Hart had been taken downtown, but of course, he would know about it now—the entire house would know. Francesca was relieved to see him stride into the room.
His amber gaze took in all three women. His expression grim, he paused by Sarah, kissing her cheek. He nodded politely at Bartolla and went right to Francesca, taking her arm and moving her aside. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“Of course,” she lied, meeting his intently searching gaze.
“How is Hart?”
Francesca pulled him across the room and out of earshot. “He refused to allow me to go downtown with him last night,” she whispered. The anguish cracked open, and she looked at Rourke as if he might be the one to talk some sense into Hart.
He put his arm around her. “He wants to spare you exactly what you are going through.”
“I need to see him,” she said urgently. “Rourke, I will confess that I am afraid!”
“You don’t think he did it?” Rourke was aghast.
“No. But he has decided we are through. I am afraid he will never change his mind. Maybe this is the excuse he needs!”
“If he doesn’t, I will change it for him,” Rourke said grimly. “Maybe this is an excuse—he has been a bachelor his entire life—but I don’t think he has suddenly got cold feet. I think he cares very much for you and wants to spare you any more grief. How can I help, Francesca? Just say the word.”
“He needs all of us now. He should not turn anyone away. But if he won’t let me comfort him, then maybe you can do so.”
“I am going to try to talk some sense into him,” Rourke said grimly. “Of course I will visit him today. And by the way, Francesca, the family has already hired the best criminal attorney in the city, Charles Gray.”
Francesca was relieved on that count. “Good. And I think you should visit—everyone should,” Francesca said.
Rourke lightened. “Francesca, you do not know the Braggs if you think anything or anyone could keep them away.”
She finally smiled. Then, slyly, “You are having lunch with Sarah?”
He flushed, glancing across the room at Sarah. “Yes, and do not play matchmaker,” he growled.
“I would never sink so low,” she said with a smile.
He rolled his eyes at her and they walked back across the room. Bartolla was wide-eyed, glancing back and forth between them both. She was obviously dying to learn what had just transpired.
“Rourke?” Sarah said. “Maybe we should invite Francesca to join us. I think she might like company today.”