upon his privacy.”
Francesca almost moaned. Her heart raced. “You are telling me that no one in this house saw him after he arrived at eight?”
“I am the only one who saw him come in, Miss Cahill, and yes, he secluded himself in the library for the evening. Frankly, I had no idea that he even went out.”
Francesca felt despair.
“Miss Cahill?” Alfred was clearly bewildered and worried now.
She stared at him, wondering if she dared ask him to lie for Hart. “Alfred, the police may wish to speak with you. They may ask you the same questions I have.”
His gaze widened. It was a moment before he spoke. “I see. And what should I say to them?”
Was she really going to do this? She believed in the truth and the law! But Hart was innocent, and until the real killer was found, he was in jeopardy. “Perhaps you might suggest that you waited on Hart that evening,” she heard herself say. “Once or twice. He did go out that evening—he went out at half past eleven.”
“Very well,” Alfred said with resolve.
“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.
Almost unable to believe what she was doing to protect her fiancé, Francesca went down the hall. She had to find the real killer immediately, so these lies could stop. Hart’s library was a huge, dark but pleasant room. Books lined three of the walls, but a number of windows and glass doors opened out onto the back gardens, showing a view of the tennis courts. His desk was at the far end. Francesca turned on a lamp and went to it.
The jacket he had worn the night before was on the back of his chair. Francesca hesitated, her gaze drawn to the stain on the right side of it. It was obviously dried blood.
Last night, he had gone into this room before going upstairs to bed. Francesca could imagine him removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and pouring himself a Scotch, the drink he preferred. Her eyes now found an empty crystal glass. Had he sat there, hunched over his drink, brooding about Daisy’s death?
She shook her head. Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy’s murder?
Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.
“Francesca?”
She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg’s warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.
He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, coming into the room. He was Hart’s stepbrother but Rick Bragg’s half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.
Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I’m sorry! You didn’t frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”
“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.
Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven’t heard.”
Warily, he said, “I haven’t heard what?”
“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”
He was clearly shocked.
“You haven’t seen Hart?”
“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”
She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”
Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don’t tell me. He is the prime suspect?”
“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”
Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”
“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”
Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated, glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy’s at that hour?”
Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart’s desk and sat down in his chair.
Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don’t happen to know what that reason is.”
“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke’s grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn’t helping his case.”
Rourke paled. “No, I don’t think he went to Daisy’s for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart’s desk. “Calder won’t explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”
Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”
Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart’s innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn’t been at Daisy’s last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”
He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy’s last night.”
Francesca was startled. Rourke’s words made sense. Hart had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.
