Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce
held up her hand and the huge diamond there caught the room’s lights and flashed. “It feels so right, Papa, being with him. And not because of passion, but because he has become my dearest and best friend. I am begging you to give him another chance. Please. Because you love me, give Calder one more chance to prove himself to you.”
He stared for a long moment. Francesca stood very still, praying he would agree.
“I have treated you as an equal your entire life,” he said slowly. “And even though my heart is telling me not to do so, I surrender. You are a brilliant young woman, and I am hoping that you will come to your senses before it is too late. But until then, I will give Hart another chance—as long as you wait a year before you marry.”
“A year!” Francesca gasped, her pleasure dissolving.
“A year,” Andrew returned calmly. “I know that seems like a long time, Francesca, but it is nothing when you think of a commitment made for the rest of your life. If you still feel this way next June, I will give you my blessing.”
Francesca forced her dismay aside and managed a smile. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you so much.” She hugged him hard.
He tilted up her chin. “I have always been proud of your independent thinking,” he said with a sigh. “I have been wrong to think I could dictate to you after allowing you a lifetime of independence.”
She softened. “I am who I am because of you, Papa. I owe you everything.” She kissed his cheek, suddenly lighthearted. If she could control her lustful nature—or convince Hart to take her to bed before they were married—maybe waiting to marry wasn’t such a bad thing. The year would give Andrew enough time to really get to know and like Hart. “Good night, Papa.” Francesca stepped into the hall.
“Miss?” Her personal maid, Betty, appeared at the far end of the corridor. In her hand was an envelope.
Francesca was surprised to see her. “Betty, why didn’t you go to bed? I told you, I do not mind.” She saw no reason for Betty to wait up for her. Other young ladies might be incapable of getting out of their gowns, but she could manage quite easily and hardly needed a servant to help.
Betty, who was Francesca’s own age, smiled at her. “Oh, miss, it is so hard to get those buttons opened by yourself! And it’s my work to take care of you. Besides, this come for you, and the cabbie who brought it said it was urgent, miss, terribly so.”
As it was almost midnight, Francesca was intrigued. She took the small envelope, noting its premier quality. It was addressed to her at her Fifth Avenue home, but bore no sender’s name. “A cabdriver brought this?”
“Yes, miss.”
Francesca unsealed the envelope and pulled out a small parchment. The note was brief and handwritten.
Francesca, I am in desperate need. Please come to Daisy’s.
Rose
FRANCESCA LEANED FORWARD eagerly in the hansom cab she had hired. Stealing out of the house at the midnight hour had been easily accomplished, with her father still in the library and her mother upstairs and presumably in bed. The doorman, Robert, had pretended not to see her escape—but then, she gave him a weekly gratuity to ensure that he look the other way at such times.
After leaving the house, she had walked to the prestigious Metropolitan Club, but a block south of the Cahill home. There, she had merely waited for a gentleman to arrive at the club. Traffic was light, as it was a Monday night, but this was New York City, and eventually a hansom had paused before the club’s imposing entrance to discharge his fare. Not wanting to be recognized, Francesca had bowed her head as a gentleman walked past her, but she knew he stared, as genuine ladies did not travel about the city at such an hour alone.
Francesca clung to the safety strap, straining to glimpse Daisy Jones’s residence as her cab rumbled toward it. She simply could not imagine what Rose could want.
Daisy Jones was Hart’s ex-mistress, and one of the most beautiful women Francesca had ever seen. When they first met, she had also been one of the city’s most expensive and sought-after prostitutes. Francesca had been on a case at the time, working closely with Calder’s half brother, Rick Bragg, the city’s police commissioner. In fact, at that time she barely knew Hart—and had thought she was in love with Rick.
Francesca had not been surprised when she had learned of the liaison between them. She understood why Hart would want to keep such a woman. In fact, she and Daisy had become rather friendly during that investigation—but any friendship had vanished when Hart had asked Francesca to marry him. Jilted, Daisy had not been pleased.
The large Georgian mansion appeared in her view. Daisy continued to reside in the house Hart had bought for her, as part of a six-month commitment he had promised her and was honoring. Francesca thought, but was not sure, that Rose was now living there, too. Rose was Daisy’s dearest friend—and she had been her lover, before Daisy had left her for Hart.
The hansom had stopped. Francesca reached for her purse, noting that the entire house was dark, except for the outside light and two upstairs windows. Alarm bells went off in her mind. Even at such a late hour, a few lights should remain on inside on the ground floor.
Francesca paid the driver, thanking him, and stepped down to the curb. She paused to stare closely at the square brick house as he pulled away. There was no sign of movement, but then, at this hour that was not unusual. Uncertain of what to expect, she pushed open the iron gate and started up the brick path leading to the house. The gardens in front were lush and well tended and Francesca cautiously scanned them. Her nerves were on end, she realized, and she almost expected someone to jump out at her from behind a shrub or bush.
Just as she was about to silently reassure herself, she noticed that the front door was open.
Francesca halted, fully alert now. Suddenly, she thought about her mad dash from home. She had not bothered to go upstairs to retrieve her gun, a candle or any of the other useful items she habitually kept in her purse. She made a mental note to never leave home without her pistol again.
Francesca glanced inside the house. The front hall was cast in black shadow. She slowly pushed the front door open fully, the hairs on her nape prickling, and stepped in.
She had a very bad feeling, oh yes. Where was Daisy? Where was Rose? Where were the servants? Francesca moved quietly to the wall, groping for the side table she knew was there. Pressing against it, she strained to listen.
Had a mouse crept across the floor, she would have heard it, for the house was so achingly silent. She desperately wanted to turn on a gas lamp, but she restrained herself. Francesca waited another moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and then she crept forward.
A dining room was ahead and to her right. Francesca opened the doors, wincing as the hinges groaned, but the large room was dark and vacant. She did not bother to shut the doors but quickly crossed the hall, glancing nervously at the wide, sweeping staircase as she passed it. The closest door was to the smaller of two adjoining salons. Francesca pushed it open. As she had thought, that room also appeared to be empty.
She paused, swept back to another time when she had stood in that room, her ear pressed to the door that adjoined the larger salon, spying upon Hart and Daisy. She had barely known Calder, but even then his appeal had been powerful and seductive; even then, she had been drawn to him as a moth to a flame. That day, she had been audacious enough to watch Hart make love to his mistress. Such an intrusion on their privacy was shameful, and Francesca knew it. Still, she had been incapable of stopping herself.
She shook the recollection off. That had been months ago, before she had ever been in Hart’s arms, before Hart had cast Daisy aside—before she and Daisy had become enemies and rivals.
None of that mattered. If Daisy or Rose were in trouble, Francesca intended to help. She left the salon the way she had come in. The moment she stepped back into the hall, she heard a deep, choking sound.
She was not alone.
Francesca froze. She