and speak with her in the morning, as well.”
Francesca would be shocked if Rose were ever proven to be the killer. She felt very sorry for the woman. “Rick, she is in mourning.”
“I know.” He laid his hand on her back and guided her across the room to the door. “Newman? Why don’t you see Miss Cahill downstairs and begin speaking with Rose.”
“Aye, sir,” Newman said.
HART WATCHED FRANCESCA LEAVE. He was very deter mined, but a part of him almost called her back. Before the door closed she sent him a reassuring look. He knew her so well now, better than he had ever known anyone. Therefore, he had not a single doubt that Francesca genuinely wanted to comfort him, just as he knew she wanted to protect him. It was amazing, and he knew that later he’d be grateful. Tonight, however, he had no use for any emotions whatsoever, not even those engendered by his fiancée. Tonight, he refused to feel anything at all.
Images of Daisy filled his mind, her anger, her tears, and later, her bloody corpse.
Hart turned to Rick and said, “I do not want Francesca involved in this investigation, not in any way. She thinks to protect me but it is hardly necessary.”
Bragg’s tawny brows lifted. “I could not agree more. How noble of you.”
Inwardly he seethed. “We both know I am not noble, Rick, so don’t even begin. But even I am not rotten enough to put Franesca in the awkward position of defending me in the murder of my ex-mistress.” He did not want his past with Daisy—or any woman—thrown up in Francesca’s face, time and again. In fact, he had regretted his hedonistic past ever since meeting Francesca, or shortly there after. Although he could not change the past, he hoped to keep Francesca as far removed from it as he could. Yet to night, the past had somehow caught up with them both.
“I could almost believe you are putting Francesca first,” Rick said, “except we both know you are not.”
Hart despised his brother’s self-righteous, judgmental nature. “Let’s finish, Rick.” His temper was explosive and that felt good.
But Rick was clearly not finished. “You don’t want Francesca to know why you went to see your mistress tonight, do you?” Rick was furious. “We both know you did not ride downtown to go over her expenses and accounts.”
Hart saw red. “Fuck you. I did not visit Daisy to sleep with her.”
Rick stared. Finally said, “Then why? Because only some very urgent dispute or crisis would rouse you so late at night.”
He tensed. Daisy’s sobs filled his mind, and the image was hateful. “I told you, it was a matter of finances. I’m not even sure what, exactly, the matter involved. She probably wanted more funds. I had asked her to leave the house last month, earlier than we had agreed. She refused and I had decided to let it go. Maybe she was going to ask me for a payoff.” He smiled coldly. “But we will never know now, will we?”
“How interesting this is, your word against the word of a dead woman. Why did you ask Daisy to leave the house earlier than the two of you had agreed she would go?”
Hart had to hand it to his half brother—Rick never missed a trick. Calder had learned long ago to stick as closely to the truth as possible. “She had become difficult, even malicious, toward me—and worse, toward Francesca. I was angry with her and I had had enough.”
Bragg’s brows rose. “Were you angry with her to night?”
“No,” Hart said, and that was the truth.
Rick saw it, too, because he nodded. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”
“No.”
Rick nodded again. “Come in tomorrow afternoon. Your statement will be ready and you can sign it.” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t hurt, Calder, to bring your lawyer with you.”
Hart stiffened. “I don’t need a lawyer, because I did not murder anyone.”
Rick shrugged and started for the door.
Hart seized him from behind. “I meant what I said. I do not want Francesca working this case with you. Turn her away, Rick, when you see her tomorrow. She doesn’t need this.”
“I can’t dissuade her when she has set her mind to something.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
Rick gave him an enigmatic look and he walked out.
Hart lost it. He kicked the door so hard that it hurt.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—3:00 a.m.
FRANCESCA WAITED IN HART’S carriage, a large, elegant six-in-hand, while Hart and Bragg spoke. Although the station had been unusually quiet, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
The ward was almost deserted. Although numerous prostitutes worked the brownstones just across from headquarters, Francesca saw only one madam, outrageously dressed in a peignoir with a pink feather boa, smoking a cigar and sitting on the stoop of her building. A pair of officers was returning from a foot patrol in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets, billy clubs in hand and wearing their new police-issue Colt revolvers. A horse and rider was approaching, and some raucous conversation was coming from a nearby flat. Otherwise, like the station house, the night was oddly quiet.
Why had Hart sent her out? What did he wish to discuss with Bragg alone? Francesca could not help but be worried. A part of it was simple—leaving both men alone together was like sending them an invitation to do battle.
Their rivalry was ancient, going back to when they were small boys. They shared the same mother, Lily, who had tragically died. Rick had been eleven years old at the time and he had been claimed by his father, Rathe Bragg. Hart had been unwanted, so Rathe had taken him in, too. Francesca knew Hart so well now and she understood. His mother had never had time for him, first fighting to provide for her children and later, fighting to stay alive, a battle she had lost. Somehow Hart had felt abandoned and unloved, first by Lily, and then, by his biological father. As foolish as it seemed, he had never been able to forgive Rick for being the wanted one, the favored one, the loved one.
And as children so often do, he had searched for Lily’s and then Rathe’s approval in a backward way, his behavior wild and out of bounds, testing first his mother and then his stepfather. But he hadn’t really wanted to push everyone away—he had just wanted to be loved, in spite of who he was.
Francesca knew Hart had not been aware of what he was doing as a small boy or a rowdy adolescent. Yet she had come to realize that his behavior as a mature and powerful man was really no different than that little boy’s. He claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, and he was well aware of his black reputation, but Francesca thought he did care—and that he refused to admit it, not even to himself. He refused to conform to the rules and mores of proper society; he had flaunted his lovers, many of whom were divorcées, and he displayed the most shocking and controversial art. Behind his back, society gossiped in absolute fascination. Hart laughed about it, but it was as if he had to see just how far he could go before being cast out. There had been difficult times when he had tried to push her away, as well. But Francesca understood that his actions were a test—a test of her
