Deadly Love (Francesca Cahill Romance Novels)

320 Pages·2001·1.17 MB·English

by  Brenda Joyce

DEADLY LOVE
B.D. Joyce
St. Martin’s Paperbacks

To all of my Bragg fans,
with the utmost thanks and appreciation.
Chapter 1

Saturday, January 18, 1902—8 P.M.
There was a soft rapping upon her door. Francesca Cahill recognized the
knock and she froze, hunched over her desk, a Waterman fountain pen in
hand. Electric lighting, installed when the house was first built eight years
earlier, spilled over the vellum she was writing upon. She felt like a crook
caught with his hand in the bank safe.
Her sister did not wait for her to answer, and she entered Francesca’s
large, beautifully appointed bedroom. Outside, it was snowing heavily;
inside, a fire roared in the dark green marble hearth. “You’re not even
dressed!” Connie cried, eyes widening so vastly that the effect was
almost comical.
Francesca forced herself to smile as she jumped to her feet,
effectively blocking Connie’s view of the desk. She stole a guilty glance at
the grandfather clock standing in the corner of her room. Eight o’clock
already? Guests would be arriving at any moment, if they hadn’t begun to
arrive already. “I’m sorry,” Francesca said, unable to breathe properly.
Darnation! She had an examination in biology on Monday morning, and
she had yet to even begin studying for it. She had been too busy
organizing this latest endeavor of hers, and now time had run out.
But then, there was never enough time in the day for her to do all that
she had to do. It was so frustrating.
Her sister faced her with exasperation, clad in a pale pink evening
gown, her throat encircled with diamonds, her pale blond hair pulled
loosely back and piled on top of her head. Diamonds fell from her ears
and a diamond and ruby necklace decorated the expanse of bare skin
between her shoulders and her bosom. She was a very beautiful woman.
“Fran, how could you do this?” Connie implored. “You know what Mama
has in mind for you tonight. She begged you not to be late and you
promised. I know. I was there.” Connie shook her head.
Francesca did feel a bit guilty, because she most certainly had
promised their mother, Julia, that she would not be late, that she would
be well dressed and on her best behavior. Francesca remained standing
in front of her desk. On occasion, Connie was the biggest snoop.
Francesca did not want to get into an argument now, even if her older
sister did mean well. She smiled, far too brightly. “I was writing letters, the
time escaped me,” she said, crossing the fingers of her right hand behind
her back and silently apologizing for the very small white lie.
“I don’t believe you,” Connie said, and she marched right past
Francesca and lifted the sheet of parchment that Francesca had been
working on, ignoring Francesca’s exclamation of protest. “What is this?”
she cried. And while she read, Francesca silently recited the words she
had written, over a hundred painstaking times.
Next Meeting of the Ladies Society for
the Eradication of Tenements
Time: Saturday, January 25 at 3 o ‘clock p.m.
Place: The Library at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
For further information, please contact
Miss Francesca Cahill at No. 810 Fifth Avenue

Francesca folded her arms. “Connie, you know as well as I that the
tenements are a disgrace to this city—a disgrace to you and me,”
Francesca said fervently.
Connie’s brows arched impossibly—and it did not detract from her
stunning beauty. “What I know is that you are an eccentric, Francesca
Cahill. And what I also know is that you are late and that no matter how
you think to try, eventually, Mama will have her way.” She gripped
Francesca by the arm and dragged her to the window. “Look!” she cried.
Through the velvet draperies, which were open, snow could be seen
dancing through the night in tiny swirling points of brilliant white light.
Francesca’s bedroom was on the second story of the family’s five-floor,
Fifth Avenue mansion. The snow had already blanketed the front lawns
and the poplar trees, as well as what could be seen of the sidewalk and
street, which lay just beyond the wrought-iron front gates.
Francesca looked down on the circular front driveway, the lawns, and
Fifth Avenue. Had the evening been clear, she would have been able to
make out the tall iron street lamps with their double-headed white bulbs
and the even taller trees of Central Park. Already two four-in-hands, a
hansom, and a very dashing motorcar were coming up the driveway, the
effect almost magical, the vehicles spookily emerging from the mist-like
clouds of snow and electric lights. Beyond the drive, the lamplit street
was eerily deserted. Because the Metropolitan Club was two blocks
down, there was usually a high degree of traffic on the avenue. Tonight
the weather was causing most of the city to stay home.
“Francesca, don’t you belong to enough societies?” Connie’s hands
found her slim hips.
“Are you interested in coming to a meeting on Saturday?” Francesca
returned, as quickly as a shot. She saw that Connie was about to make
an excuse in order to refuse. “Please, Connie, please, please come. And
bring a dozen of your friends. You know the cause is a good one!”
“I will come if I can,” Connie said reluctantly, with resignation. “I must
check with Neil to make sure we do not have plans for the day.”
Lord Neil Montrose was Connie’s husband; they had married four
years ago. Although he had a home in Devon, they spent most of the
year in the States, preferring to summer in Great Britain. Francesca knew
she would have to press her sister to join her next Saturday even if she
was free. Not that Connie was opposed to charity and good works; like
their mother, she was quite active in such affairs. But her idea of active
and Francesca’s varied dramatically. Connie preferred lavish balls, the
tickets to which cost hundreds of dollars.
“Please try to come. If I give you a dozen flyers, could you hand them
out this week at Montrose’s dinner party for Livingston?” She was
prepared to beg if need be. “Please? I am desperate for attendees.” She
smiled hopefully at her sister.
Connie merely gripped her arm again. “Can’t we discuss this another
time? I will help you dress. Good God, look at this mess!”
Francesca glanced at the big four-poster bed in the middle of her
room. Half a dozen evening gowns were strewn there amongst all the
green, blue, and gold pillows and shams, along with the appropriate
undergarments and accessories. “How about the black?” she suggested
dryly.
Connie scowled. “Amusing. How about the pink?”
Francesca shrugged. “Why does she insist on tormenting me so?” she
asked as she stepped out of her white shirtwaist and fitted dove-gray
skirt.
“I doubt Mama thinks she is tormenting you,” Connie returned, while
Francesca lifted a corset. “She has your welfare at heart. We all do,
Fran.”
“If she truly had my happiness at heart, she would allow me to do as I
please and I would not have to suffer through this kind of evening,”
Francesca said grumpily. “I am not ready for a suitor.”
“I said ‘welfare,’ not ‘happiness.’ ” Connie began pulling on the ties.
“And I do believe Mama has given up on the idea of a suitor. You are
twenty years old, my dear. She is going directly for the husband.”
Connie’s smile was serene.
Francesca scowled. “I am not getting married. Not at any time in the
near future.”
Connie had to smile again. “You are so funny, Fran. Look at the bright
side. Maybe your future husband will be a radical reformer with a capital
R, like you yourself!” Connie started to giggle.
Francesca saw nothing amusing about the fact that her mother was
determined to marry her off, sooner rather than later. “How can you make
fun of reform? When there is so much poverty and injustice in our midst?”
Connie ceased pulling on the corset. She turned Francesca around. “I
am not making fun of reform, Fran. I would never be so callous. But you
are so serious! Study, reform, study, reform, study, reform. It is funny. You
are funny!”
“I am thrilled to be such a source of entertainment,” Francesca
grumbled.
“You do know that Mama suspects something?” Connie dropped the
pink gown over Francesca’s head.
Francesca stiffened. And because she and her sister were so close,
she knew exactly what it was that her sister was speaking about. “But
how could she? I am so careful.”
“It is the hours you are keeping. Why don’t you just tell her the truth?
That you are a bluestocking and that you have enrolled at Barnard
College? It will make your life so much easier.”
“She will insist that I withdraw,” Francesca said, as her sister was
buttoning up the back of the brilliantly pink dress. “I am not going to
withdraw. I am going to attain my AB degree. I am determined.”
Connie finished and she smiled. “And God strike down whoever might
dare stand in your way—unless it is Mama.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Fran said sarcastically. But Connie was making a valid
point. Julia Van Wyck Cahill was as determined as Francesca was—if not
more so. It was a rare day indeed that Julia did not get her way.
“This color suits you, Fran, you will be ravishing tonight,” Connie said
with admiration in her blue eyes. “Mr. Wiley will be smitten,” she added
slyly.
Francesca groaned. “Onward, then, to my sordid fate.”
“Oh, no! You have no shoes, no rouge, and no jewelry.”
“Good! For then he will deem me madder than a hare.” Francesca
grinned.
“No such luck,” Connie said cheerfully, producing a pair of beaded
silver slippers.
“I have so much to do, and instead of being occupied in a useful
endeavor, instead of being intelligent and using that intelligence, I must
spend the evening being paraded in front of society’s most eligible and
dull bachelors,” Francesca complained, meaning her every word.
“I just do not understand you,” Connie said flatly, moving into the
bathroom. Reluctantly, Francesca followed.
“I mean, there are no female journalists. Which you well know. Ah.
Rouge. So you do have a vain streak,” Connie said triumphantly.
“Mama bought that,” Francesca returned calmly, taking the small pot
of rouge and dropping it into the wastebasket. “And there have been no
female journalists up until now, therefore I shall be the first when I
graduate, unless another woman blazes the way for me.”
Connie gave her a look. It was somewhat patronizing. But then, her
entire family refused to believe that she truly meant what she said and
what she intended.
Francesca loved to write. But it was more than that. For she was a
passionate reformer, just as her father was; she had joined the ladies’
auxiliary of the Citizen’s Union Party when she was seventeen. What
better way to bring about reform than to write scathing articles about
poverty and corruption? The reporter Jacob Riis was her idol. She had
read his book, How the Other Half Lives, five years ago, twice. Like most
of those who had read that shocking account of life in the slums of New
York City, Francesca had been appalled and shaken. That book had
changed her life.
For she herself had so much. It was almost shameful. She had to do
something to help those less fortunate than herself.
Connie retrieved the pot of rouge, placing it safely on the sink. After
Connie had helped her put up her hair and don a small pearl cameo and
matching ear bobs, Francesca allowed her sister to pose her before the
mirror. Their eyes, both the exact same shade of blue, met in the looking
glass.
Francesca had to admit that the gown with its fitted waist and flowing
skirt was beautiful. The sleeves were two small caps just covering the
points of her shoulders. “Have I ever worn this before?” she asked,
puzzled. The gown seemed vaguely familiar.
“You wore this to my birthday,” Connie said with exasperation as she
rumbled through Francesca’s toiletries. “Just before Christmas,
remember?”
Francesca made a face at the mirror. “My memory is returning.” She
made another face, a pouty scowl. That might put off Mr. Wiley, she
thought.
Connie chuckled. “I know what you are thinking, Fran. Forget it. You
are beautiful and you cannot change the fact, no matter how you might,
ridiculously, wish to try.” The two sisters strongly resembled one another.
Connie was fairer; Francesca’s skin and hair were tinged with rich hues
of peach and gold.
“Beauty fades. Character lasts forever.” Francesca was firm.
Connie rolled her eyes heavenward and she guided Francesca out of
the bathroom, through the bedroom, and out of the door, keeping a grip
on her all the while.
The ballroom was on the mansion’s third floor. But guests would be
arriving in the hall on the ground floor first. The sisters descended the
wide white alabaster staircase, which led to a huge marble-floored hall
with Corinthian pillars set at intervals, marble panels on the wall, and a
high ceiling sporting a magnificent mural depicting a pastoral scene. The
Cahill home had been dubbed “the Marble Palace” from the moment its
construction had been completed.
At least two dozen guests had already arrived, with several groups
arriving through the front door, handing their cloaks, hats, and umbrellas
to the doormen. The sisters paused on the last landing. Julia stood
poised between the hall and the reception room, greeting guests as they
entered. She was resplendent in dark red silk and black lace and more
diamonds than anyone had the right to wear. Francesca suddenly
shivered. Whom was she fooling? She was no match for her mother. Her
heart seemed to sink like a rock at the very thought.
“Thanks for the help, Connie,” she finally said.
Connie squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Chin up. There are some
dashing rogues present. If Wiley’s not the one, tonight might very well be