Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (2 page)

“You are still torn between Bragg and Hart?” Connie wasn’t smiling now. She was concerned.

Francesca nodded, wishing she knew what to do—then slowly pulled a chain out of her bodice. On the end dangled a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, one worth quite the fortune.
Her heart beat harder as she dangled the huge engagement ring.

Connie’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”

“Yes, oh my.”

Connie blinked and met Fran’s gaze. “You are engaged?”

“We were. Briefly. Secretly,” she added. “I have no idea if we still are—and if we aren’t, why, then it is for the best. Marriage is not for me and we both know it.” But her words rang false and hollow.

Connie shot to her feet. “What nonsense is this? You fool! To run away and sabotage the best thing that could happen to you! I pray you are wrong and that you haven’t single-handedly destroyed this opportunity, Fran.”

Francesca swallowed. A part of her desperately wished that she had not run away—and that she had not sabotaged her secret engagement, too. “Can I ride over to the ball with you and Neil? I am really not in the mood for Mama’s lectures tonight.”

Connie nodded. “Of course.” But she was staring intently now. “Still, you have been wearing his ring around your neck. Did you take it off even once?” She did not wait for Francesca to answer. “I daresay you did not. And you are wearing the dress. The dress he likes. I do think I am underestimating you.”

“I am a fool, Connie, to think I am special, because every single woman he has had has thought the exact same thing!” Francesca cried. And it was the truth.

Connie gripped her shoulders. “But you
are
special! Good God, you are the bravest and most clever—and most stubborn—woman I know. You have spent your entire life since you were a child defending the rights of the poor and the helpless and fighting for those rights! You attend college, Fran,
college;
how many women do that? And need I add that you have become the city’s most famous sleuth in the past three months? You have made the
news
, Fran. You have brought terrible criminals to justice.”

Francesca blinked. “Well, when you say it that way, I do seem rather eccentric.”

“No, not eccentric, original and brave and beautiful and
special!
” Connie cried.

Francesca hugged her hard. “You are the best sister a girl could ever have,” she whispered.

“I wish you could see yourself the way that the rest of the world does—the way that I do.”

Francesca smiled. “I’d better dress. I am quite late.”

“Yes, you
are
late.” Connie smiled back as warmly. “Do you need help? Should I call Bette?”

“I’m fine,” Francesca said, turning to gather up the provocative red dress. But it was a lie. She wasn’t fine.

She was terrified.

Francesca handed off her wrap. She was wearing the daring red, with black gloves that ended past her elbows, and she was clutching a ruby red beaded reticule—in which she carried the ring. Her hair had been tonged and swept up, and Connie had insisted she wear a delicate diamond necklace and small pearl-and-diamond earbobs. As Connie handed off her sable stole, Francesca glanced from the front hall into a large reception room with pale marble floors, a huge crystal chandelier, and white plaster walls. As they were very late, a crowd had gathered already, the ladies in glittering jewels and sleeveless silks and taffetas and chiffons, the men in black tuxedos. White-coated waiters were passing trays containing flutes of champagne. A band was playing in the adjoining ballroom. Francesca saw her brother, Evan, standing beside the flamboyantly beautiful countess, Bartolla Benevente, and then saw Rick Bragg.

Her heart skidded to a stop.

But he had already seen her, even from this distance, and he was staring, his eyes wide with surprise. He took a step toward her and Francesca tensed, now seeing the beautiful and petite woman at his side. Leigh Anne was tiny, her skin porcelain, her eyes emerald green, her hair raven
black. She looked like a perfect little doll. Francesca’s heart sank.

Bragg walked toward Francesca, his strides lengthening, leaving his wife standing there with a group of people Francesca did not know.

“You had better come to your senses and soon, Fran,” Connie whispered. “I have seen them out and about constantly since you were gone. She is on his arm every time I see him at a function. She is well liked. She has joined several organizations, including the Ladies Club of Fifty and the Committee of Fifteen,” Connie said, referring to several political organizations dedicated to the good-government reform movement. “And the other day, she invited me to a luncheon.”

Francesca froze. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. Leigh Anne was taking up reform? It hardly seemed fair! “You declined.”

Connie was grim. “I accepted. The luncheon is tomorrow. The agenda is public education. I do believe the merits of fund-raising for more schools will be discussed.”

Public education in the city was a disaster. Thousands of children did not attend school because there were simply not enough schools and not enough teachers. The city’s recently elected mayor, Seth Low, had been elected on a very progressive platform, which included good government—government to ultimately benefit the people. And that included education.

As Connie had said, Francesca had been a reformer since she was a child, first selling cookies to raise money for orphans. She belonged to six societies, including the Citizen’s Union Ladies Club, and was active in them all. Education for everyone was at the top of her agenda—and Connie knew that. Now, Francesca was torn between anger and admiration for a woman she so wanted to despise. Leigh Anne was beyond beautiful—but surely she was not a reformer at heart. Surely it was a ploy to capture Rick Bragg’s heart.

“Why don’t you join me?” Connie asked. “She has invited
thirty of the city’s wealthiest women. She probably intends to ask each and every one of us for a handsome donation. These are ladies you should know, Fran.”

Sourly Francesca said, “Private money cannot fix the public education system in this city.” But Connie was right. She should go and meet these women, perhaps enlisting some of them to her causes. She would have to attend Leigh Anne’s luncheon no matter how she dreaded doing so.

“You are a mule, Fran, an utter mule, at times like these.” Connie almost stomped her foot. She watched Bragg approach, as did Francesca.

He was so handsome. He had the tawny complexion and sun-streaked hair that many of the Bragg men were renowned for. His eyes were topaz, his cheekbones very high, and he was broad-shouldered and small of hip. Francesca wished that things could be different somehow. Then she caught herself and closed her eyes.

Wishing for the impossible was frivolous and a waste of time. She had come to grips with the ugly reality of his being unhappily married some time ago.

“Neil and I will mingle. Good luck, Fran,” Connie whispered, then sailed off on her husband’s arm.

Fran’s eyes flew open and she watched Bragg take the last few steps to her side. He seemed incredibly purposeful now. He paused, and she tried to smile and failed.

“Are you all right?”

Her heart tightened. His first concern would always be her welfare. “Yes, I am fine. And you?” Her gaze crept past him and to Leigh Anne, who hadn’t moved and who watched them very carefully now.

He shrugged. Then, “You left town without a word. You’ve been gone for four weeks. I heard something about an ailing friend. Francesca?” His gaze was serious and intent.

She swallowed and began to flush. “I had to get away. There was no ailing friend.”

“I see.” His jaw tightened and his golden eyes darkened. A silence reigned.

Francesca did not know what to say.

“I chased you away,” he said darkly. “I am so sorry, Francesca.”

“Do not blame yourself. I chose to leave,” she said, omitting the real reason she had run away. She glanced again at Leigh Anne. In spite of her neutral expression, she was radiant and aglow. “How is your wife?” And after all of this time, it was still hard to utter those two terrible words that had ruined her life—
your wife
.

He stiffened visibly. “Nothing has changed,” he ground out with a flash of anger. “Our agreement to divorce in six months remains.”

Francesca smiled tightly, felt her heart break a little, and knew it would not be. Leigh Anne had left Bragg four years ago and had spent all of the ensuing time in Europe. Recently she had returned to reclaim her place at his side. Francesca felt certain that Leigh Anne would win her battle over their marriage. Bragg was too angry at his wife every time the subject even came up for him not to harbor intensely passionate feelings about her.

Francesca hadn’t known he was married when they had first met—when she had fallen head over heels in love with him at first sight.

He said suddenly, lowering his voice, “I have missed you.”

Francesca began to smile, because he was her best friend and she had missed him, too—and then she saw Calder Hart.

Her smile vanished; her heart lurched; her gaze slammed to a halt. He stood across the room with a group of five others, and a buxom blonde was hanging on to his arm. His back was toward her.

In fact, he was so engrossed with the blonde and his friends that he hadn’t even noticed her—and did not look her way even once.

She began to tremble, unable to control it, as if the temperature in the room had violently dropped.
He hadn’t looked at her even once—and she was wearing the eyecatching
red dress
. She was ill. He no longer liked her; he no longer found her at all interesting or alluring; he had a new paramour—he no longer wished to marry her.

“What is it?” Bragg asked sharply, but she could not tear her stare from Hart and the voluptuous blonde. Bragg shifted and grimaced. “He has seduced you after all, hasn’t he?” he asked bitterly.

For one more moment, Francesca could not speak. “No. Of course not,” she said, and it was the truth. No one had been nobler than the city’s worst womanizer. In fact, he had made it clear he would not take her to bed until their wedding night, no matter how she wished otherwise.

But that night would never happen now. She was certain of it.

“I meant emotionally,” Bragg said tersely. “You are upset. God!”

She faced him, forcing a sickly smile. “I’m not upset,” she lied. The ring in her clutch now burned her hand, impossibly, through the velvet and beads. “I’m fine.” She swallowed hard and wondered if she could retch if she went to the ladies’ room. “Your wife is now standing alone.”

He turned and saw that Leigh Anne stood apart from the rest of the crowd, the group she had been with having dispersed. She remained small and angelic—the most beautiful woman in the room. Then he faced Francesca again. “I am worried about you. First this disappearance, and now your reaction to Hart.”

“You have no cause to worry about me,” she said, her gaze having found Hart again of its own volition. He was nodding at something someone had said. The blonde, who was perhaps thirty, was laughing prettily—coyly. Hart had not looked Francesca’s way even once.

He hadn’t noticed her.

Because he didn’t care. Not at all. It was over, then.

But that was what she wanted—wasn’t it?

Bragg gripped her gloved wrist. “I will always worry about you,” he said.

She faced him swiftly. “I am fine. Really.”

“You are too pale. Except for those crimson patches on your cheeks. Are you feverish?”

She wondered if he was right, if extreme anxiety had caused her to become truly ill. “I think I will not stay long,” she whispered, and suddenly she felt close to tears. Because Connie was right.

She had worn the red dress because Calder Hart liked it.

And she hadn’t removed his ring from the chain around her neck in an entire month, not even once.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Bragg said. He glanced grimly at Hart, then said, “That is Mrs. Davies, and I have seen them together several times recently.”

Now she would truly retch. He had promised her fidelity. But then, if they were no longer engaged, the promise did not count. “She is quite alluring.”

“She’s a widow,” Bragg said sharply. “She and Hart are of the same nature.”

Francesca felt herself bristle. “So you know her?”

“She has a reputation.”

She should not defend him. Not now, not ever again. “He may be notorious, Bragg, but he has always been a perfect gentleman with me,” she said. And that was the truth—until the moment they had become engaged.

Bragg was exasperated. “You adore defending him!”

“Hardly,” she said, feeling waspish as well as ill.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly. But he made no move to return to his wife. “When can we speak? Truly? It’s been too long, Francesca,” he said.

She softened but kept Hart in the line of vision from the corner of her eye. “Tomorrow?”

“I would like that,” he said. He nodded and hesitated, then picked up her gloved hand. “Do not tax yourself tonight—and not over him.” He kissed her hand, surprising her, and turned away.

Francesca tore her gaze from Hart, who remained oblivious to her presence in the room, somehow, and watched Bragg join Leigh Anne. The stunning, petite brunette
smiled up at him, placing her small hand on his arm, and Francesca could feel how worried she was, even if her expression remained calm and composed. Then Francesca took another glance at Hart—who now had his back completely to her—and she could stand it no more. She fled through the closest door and into the nearest hallway.

There she collapsed against a plain white wall, refusing to cry but aware of the extent of how crushed she was. Servants moved past her—the hall led to the kitchens. The clatter of pots and pans loud in the background, Francesca had one desire now; she had to escape the ball—and Hart. She had to go home.

It was really over
.

She hugged herself, turning from the wall, knowing that somehow she must regroup if she was to exit the party in a decorous manner.

“Did you really think to run away from me?”