Chapter 13 #3
“No!” Francesca smiled. “Sarah, I have some key suspects I must interview. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have some important leads to follow. Do not change your plans on my account. But I do need a word with the countess—alone.”
“That will be our cue, then,” Rourke said. “Francesca, where can I find you later in the day?”
She knew he intended to tell her about his visit to Hart and she loved him dearly for such loyalty and concern. “I am staying with my sister. But I have no real idea what time I will get home tonight.”
Rourke looked at her in surprise. So did Sarah, who voiced what they were all thinking. “Francesca, you are living with Connie now?”
Francesca was all too aware of Bartolla’s avid interest. “I had been thinking of moving out for some time now. It is hard to roam the city at all hours of the day and night while living under Julia’s roof.
She really does not care for my sleuthing.
So I have moved in with Connie and Neill—but just until I can lease my own flat. ”
Sarah was stunned, and so was Rourke. Unmarried young ladies did not live by themselves. Trying to cover up his shock, he merely said, “Then I will try to reach you at Lord Montrose’s tonight. Good luck, Francesca.” He smiled at Sarah, who squeezed Francesca’s hand, and they left.
Her heart began a more insistent beat. Francesca smiled at Bartolla. The countess smiled back. “What do you wish to discuss, Francesca?” She walked toward a chair, clearly about to sit.
Francesca said, “My brother.”
Instead of sitting, Bartolla slowly turned.
“I saw him at Connie’s last night.”
“Really?” Bartolla’s smile never wavered, but her gaze was searching.
“I have never seen him so moody,” Francesca said, “I believe he is very unhappy.”
Bartolla stiffened. “You are wrong. I know him better than anyone, Francesca. Of course, it has been difficult for him, being disowned by his own family. However, I have assured him that your father will eventually change his mind. If anything is bothering Evan, it is his relationship with Andrew Cahill.”
Bartolla was smooth and clever. “And when do the two of you plan to elope?”
Bartolla looked as if she had been kicked. “He told you?”
“I am a sleuth, remember? I dearly love to unearth secrets—and lies.”
“What does that mean?” Bartolla demanded with hard, cold eyes.
“It means that he also told me why the two of you are running off together in such a rush,” Francesca said as coldly. She was furious.
Bartolla was rigid. “I do not know what you mean.”
Francesca leaned toward her. “Evan told me that you are with child. Is the child even his?”
Bartolla slapped her across the face. “How dare you.”
Francesca jerked, stunned, but even she had to admit that maybe she deserved that. She rubbed her throbbing cheek. “I am suspicious, Bartolla. I am not certain the child is Evan’s. Worse, I am not even convinced you are with child.” And she glanced at Bartolla’s nearly flat abdomen.
“I am no trollop! I love your brother! There has been no one but Evan since I came to town,” Bartolla exclaimed, her cheeks pink. “I thought we were friends!”
“So did I—until you betrayed me by sending Leigh Anne that letter,” Francesca returned.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, come! You were about to have an affair with Rick Bragg, and she is his wife, even if they were separated. Considering you are now head over heels for Hart, you must not bear a grudge. I’d think you might consider some gratitude, really.
” Her eyes turned black. “Hart would never take Bragg’s leftovers. ”
“My personal life is not at issue here. If you are with child, prove it. Because otherwise, I am going to recommend that my brother wait before he does something he may regret for the rest of his life.”
“You plan to interfere in our relationship?” Bartolla asked, with obvious dismay.
“Evan doesn’t want to marry you. I happen to believe he is in love with someone else,” Francesca retorted. “I suggest you schedule an appointment with your doctor, Bartolla, for you and Evan. And do not think about bribing him to corroborate a lie, because I will find out.”
Bartolla began to shake. It was a moment before she spoke. “I am carrying Evan’s child, and it is his duty to marry me. This is not your affair!”
“Yes, it is,” Francesca said.
Bartolla took one step closer, so they were nose to nose. “My dear, if you interfere, I will make certain that your relationship with Hart fails.”
Francesca was taken aback. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I know Hart quite well. I know he is jealous—insanely so. I know that, for the first time in his life, he is in love. I know he is a man who will never forgive betrayal.” She smiled coldly now.
“What are you saying? That you will somehow turn Hart against me?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.” Bartolla laughed.
“I will make certain he comes to despise you, Francesca. And don’t think I can’t do it.
You are so naive! You cannot go up against me, my dear.
I am a woman of the world. I know what makes a man like Hart breathe.
I know what would make a man like Hart hate. ”
Francesca was actually shaken. Bartolla seemed inherently dangerous, far more vicious and malicious than she had ever dreamed.
But she would not back down; she loved her brother too much to do so.
She stared at the countess. It was a long moment before she spoke.
“Sarah has no idea you are so ruthless, does she?”
“You started this war, my dear. You can end it easily enough by minding your own business.”
Francesca knew when she should retreat. She simply turned and walked out. Bartolla could not turn Hart against her, could she? She had no clue as to how the other woman might accomplish such a feat.
One thing had become clear. They were not friends, oh, no. They were bitterly opposed, they were enemies.
Francesca arrived at police headquarters on pins and needles at the prospect of seeing Hart.
She was worried about what her reception might be, but hoped he would be pleased to see her, and not cold and distant in the hopes of continuing to push her away.
Francesca hurried toward the front door of the station.
“Miss Cahill! Miss Cahill! Please, we’d like a comment from you!” several newsmen cried, leaping out from behind the two gaslights as she went up the building’s front steps.
Francesca faltered. Three reporters had surrounded her and one of them was Arthur Kurland. She was very dismayed, but she managed a smile, facing them. “I will be happy to give you a comment,” she said, drawing in an extra breath. She was going to profess Hart’s innocence.
Kurland came closer. “How do you feel about the end of your engagement, Miss Cahill? And would you care to give me a quote for tomorrow’s paper?”
Francesca froze, for she had not expected that question, although she should have anticipated it. Somehow she said, “I am afraid I cannot discuss any personal matters.”
“Really?” Kurland laughed. “Can you make a comment about Hart’s incarceration last night, then? Or is that personal, too?”
“Mr. Hart is innocent. He has been cleverly framed,” Francesca said, flushing in anger.
Gasps greeted her declaration and lead pencils flew.
“Miss Cahill! Will you continue to investigate this case? Are you working for Hart, in spite of the end of your engagement?” This was from Walter Isaacson of the Tribune, a newsman Francesca thought fair and honest.
Francesca turned away from Kurland in relief.
“I have been hired by Rose Cooper to find Miss Jones’s killer,” Francesca said.
She held up her hand before anyone could speak.
“There has been a major break in the case and I am pleased to share it with you.” She paused for effect, having everyone’s complete attention now.
“Daisy Jones’s real name was Honora Gillespie.
She is the daughter of Judge Gillespie of Albany, New York. ”
“What are you saying?” Kurland cried. The other reporters were as surprised. Pencils raced, scratching over notepads.
“I think you heard me. Now, if you will excuse me?” She smiled pleasantly and left the stunned newsmen.
No one made any effort to follow her, as they were so engrossed in making their notes.
Inside, she sighed in relief. She had just deflected the entire story away from Hart.
She had no doubt that tomorrow’s headlines would be quite lurid.
She was sorry for the Gillespies, but that news would have broken in another day or so, anyway. It was Hart she had to think of.
Francesca paused for a moment, seeking to recover her composure.
The lobby was in chaos, with a number of gentlemen arguing at the front desk with a pair of bored officers.
Telephones were ringing off the hook, telegraphs were busily pinging, and a drunk was singing.
Francesca glanced across the crowded room toward the holding cells.
They were all occupied—and Hart was not present.
Had he been released? Her heart skipped at the thought.
“Miss Cahill!” An officer she did not know but recognized came up to her.
“The c’mish wants you upstairs. He sent me to find you,” he said breathlessly, and he glanced at his notes.
“I called the Cahill house and then the Montrose residence and I was going to go uptown to the Dakotas, where they said you were. He’s real eager to see you, miss. ”
“What has happened?” she asked quickly.
“He’s got the Gillespie family upstairs—they just came in.”
Francesca ran for the stairs, forgetting to thank him and hiking up her skirts as she went up. The Gillespies must have taken a sleeper train last night, she thought in real excitement.