Deadly Kisses Page 2

  “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 stared at the wide staircase facing her, straining to hear. The guttural noise came again, and this time, she felt certain it was a woman.

  The noise had not come from upstairs, but beyond the staircase, somewhere in the back of the house. Francesca wished she had a weapon.

  Throwing all caution to the wind, Francesca rushed past the staircase. “Daisy? Rose?”

  And now she saw a flickering light, as if cast by a candle, coming from a small room just ahead. The door was widely open and she quickly discerned that it was a study, with a vacant desk, a sofa and chair. Francesca rushed to the threshold and cried out.

  Rose was sitting on the floor, hunched over a woman whose platinum hair could only belong to Daisy. Rose was moaning, the sounds deep and low and filled with grief.

  Surely Daisy was only hurt! Francesca ran forward and saw that Rose held her friend in her arms. Daisy was in a pale satin supper gown, covered with brilliantly, shockingly red blood. Francesca dropped to her knees and finally saw Daisy’s beautiful face—and her wide, blue, sightless eyes.

  Daisy was dead.

  Rose moaned, rocking her again and again.

  Francesca was in shock. From the look of her dress, Daisy had been murdered, perhaps with a knife. Horror began as she realized the extent of the wounds on Daisy’s chest.

  Who would want her dead, and why? Francesca recalled the last time she had seen Daisy. She and Rose had appeared at the funeral for Kate Sullivan, a murder victim from Francesca’s most recent investigation. There had been no reason for her to attend, except one: to taunt Francesca. She had been hostile and bitter, and she had clearly wanted Hart back. She had done her best to cause tension between Hart and Francesca, and she had wittingly played upon all of Francesca’s insecurities.

  That day, outside of the church, she and Daisy had exchanged harsh words. Although Francesca could not remember the exact conversation, she knew she had been upset and dismayed, precisely as Daisy had planned.

  But dear God, though Daisy had maliciously done her best to hurt both Francesca and Hart, she had not deserved this.

  The questions returned. Who would do this—and why?

  Francesca knelt. Rose had not stopped rocking her friend, weeping now in silent grief. Francesca reached out, grasping her arm. “Rose,” she gasped. “I am so sorry!”

  Rose froze, slowly looking up. Her green eyes were glazed with misery and tears. She shook her head, unable to speak.

  Francesca quickly closed Daisy’s eyes, shivering as she did so. Daisy was impossibly fair, blue-eyed, with platinum hair, her skin the color of alabaster. Delicate and petite, she had a sensuous grace th
at could only be inherent, never achieved. Now her small bosom was a mass of bloody, gaping flesh. Francesca would never become accustomed to death, and especially not violent death.

  She stood, shaking, and decided against turning on more lights. The murder had been a brutal one. Rose did not need to be confronted with the extent of Daisy’s wounds. Francesca took a soft cashmere throw from the sofa, feeling ill, very much so. She inhaled raggedly for control.

  “I will find out who did this,” she whispered, aching for Rose now.

  Rose looked up accusingly. “Don’t pretend that you care! We both know you hated her because Hart took care of her. I know you hated her for ever having been in Hart’s bed!”

  Francesca, still holding the throw, shook her head. She felt a tear tracking down her cheek. “You’re wrong. I do care. I care very much. Daisy did not deserve this. No one deserves this!” She approached and laid a hand on the brunette’s shoulder. “Please. Leave her now. Come, Rose, please.”

  Rose shook her head, choking, hugging Daisy more tightly. She was as dark, voluptuous and tall as Daisy was fair, slender and petite. Now she was covered with her friend’s blood.

  “I need to go to the police,” Francesca said, thinking of Rick Bragg.

  Francesca needed him now. They made an excellent team—they had solved a half a dozen dangerous and difficult cases together, and he remained her good friend. It was late, but he had to be summoned immediately. Together they would find Daisy’s killer.

  Hart’s dark, smoldering image came to mind. He might not have ever loved Daisy, but how would he react to the news of her murder? Francesca realized she would be the one to tell him of the death of his former mistress, and un fortunately, she would have to do so the moment he returned home.

  “The police?” Rose’s voice was scathing and bitter. “We need to find Daisy’s murderer! I am hiring you, to find the killer, Francesca. Forget those leatherheads! They won’t give a damn about Daisy,” she said, and she began to weep all over again.

  Francesca nodded, but her instincts warned her not to take on Rose as a client. She took the opportunity to kneel and cover Daisy’s brutally disfigured body with the throw, then somehow she pulled Rose to her feet, putting her arm around her. “Please, come sit down in the salon,” she said, wanting very much to get Rose out of the room.

  But Rose balked. “No. I am not leaving her alone like this!”

  Francesca quickly knelt and pulled the throw over Daisy’s face. “I do need to get the police. There has been a murder, and they must be notified. But I don’t want to leave you here alone, Rose.”

  Rose sat abruptly on the sofa, her face collapsing into tears again. “Who would do this? And why? Oh, God why?”

  Francesca sat besides her, her mind beginning to function fully again. She had received Rose’s note a good half an hour ago, a few moments before midnight. Betty had said the note had been dropped off at the house just a few minutes before they arrived home. The trip uptown from Daisy’s house was thirty minutes in light traffic, so Rose had sent the note around eleven-thirty. “Rose? Can you answer a few questions?”

  Rose looked up. “Are you going to find her killer? The police won’t care. I don’t trust those flies.”

  Francesca hesitated, recalling Daisy’s hostility the last time they had spoken, and Rose’s own hatred of Hart for taking Daisy away from her. But how could she refuse Rose, who had loved Daisy so? “Yes. Yes, Rose, I will take the case.”

  “You will take the case, even though you hated her?”

  “I didn’t hate her, Rose. I was afraid of her.”

  Rose jerked, meeting Francesca’s gaze. Slowly, she said, “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “What happened here tonight? When did you find her?”

  Rose swallowed. “I don’t know. I was out for the evening. When I got here, the house was dark, I knew some thing was wrong! I called for her, but she didn’t answer.” Rose stopped, for out in the hall, a soft bump had sounded.

  Stiffening, Francesca looked at the open door, as did Rose. The hall beyond was lost in shadow and she saw nothing. But she had heard a noise—someone was present.

  Francesca stood. “Where are the servants?”

  “The butler sleeps in his room behind the kitchens, as does the maid. The housekeeper goes home at five.” Rose was ashen and wide-eyed now.

  “Did you go below stairs when you came home?”

  Rose shook her head. “No. I was about to go upstairs when I saw the light coming from this room.” Her mouth trembled and she glanced at Daisy’s covered body. She inhaled, clearly fighting more tears.

  “Wait here,” Francesca said. She glanced at the desk, saw a letter opener and took it. Then she changed her mind, putting it back and taking a crystal paperweight instead. After what had been done to Daisy, she did not think she could stab anyone. Clutching the paperweight, she left the study. The corridor outside remained dark and every blond hair on her nape prickled with dread and fear.

  Someone was lurking in the corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. But it would make little sense for that someone to be the killer, who must have long since fled. It was probably just a servant.

  On the other hand, murderers often defied every possible assumption one might make about them.

  Francesca took a deep breath for courage, once more wishing she had her gun, and she started forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. She heard footsteps approaching—each footfall slow and cautious. She froze.

  Her grip on the paperweight tightened. She debated turning to flee, but in a moment whoever was beyond her would appear and see her. Instead, she pressed against the wall, waiting. The shadowy form of a man appeared, carrying a candle. He saw her against the wall, halted in midstride and lifted the candle higher.

  Francesca was illuminated—but so was he.

  Standing there in the hall was her fiancé.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, June 3, 1902—12:45 a.m.

  FRANCESCA WAS DISBELIEVING. Hart was the very last person she had expected to see. What was he doing in the city?

  And then she saw the dark stain on Hart’s white shirt, where his suit jacket was unbuttoned. “Calder?”

  He hurried toward her, his own surprise fading. “Francesca!” he exclaimed, and his expression changed, becoming displeased. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

  “Are you hurt?” she demanded, but the beginnings of a terrible fear had crept into her mind. Somehow, she knew the blood was Daisy’s. She stiffened, staring up at his dark, handsome face.

  “I’m not hurt.” He took her arm, as if to steady her. “Daisy is dead, Francesca.”

  She met his probing regard, her mind scrambling to sort through the confusion. “I know.”

  “The blood is hers, Francesca, not mine. I found her in the study. She had been stabbed.”

  Their eyes met. All of Francesca’s shock suddenly vanished. He was supposed to be in Boston. When had he returned to town and why hadn’t he called her? What was he doing here at Daisy’s, in the kitchen and servants’ quarters? Given the blood on the front of his shirt, he had held Daisy, too, the way Rose had. Some thing sharp and distasteful filled her: dread. “Calder, Rose said she found Daisy. In fact, she sent me a note asking me to come here.”

  “When I arrived, Rose wasn’t here.” His regard held hers. “I found Daisy on the floor of the study, very much alone.” He looked away from her now. His composure was usually rock solid, but Francesca saw that he was struggling to maintain it. “She was already dead.”

  Francesca swallowed, feeling ill. “You checked for a pulse?”

  He met her gaze. “Yes.”

  Francesca felt as if she were interrogating a suspect. Of course, that was not the case. “When did you arrive here, Calder?”

  His look was sharp. “I left my home around eleven,” he said. Then, softly, with warning, he added, “I do not want you involved, Francesca.”

>   Francesca’s tension rose. She was already involved, because Daisy had once been Hart’s mistress, because she had once been Francesca’s friend and because she had recently been her rival.

  “Francesca,” he said, his tone pointed, and he took her wrist.

  She looked into his eyes. “Daisy is dead, Hart. She has been murdered. I think we are both involved.”

  He turned away, but not before Francesca saw the anguish in his eyes. She was shocked. Had she imagined it, or did Calder have some feelings for Daisy still, after all of this time?

  He slowly faced her. “You are staring.” His tone had softened and his hand slipped to her palm. “Francesca, I am also in shock. We had better summon the police.”

  Her heart raced with painful force. If she had seen anguish in his eyes, it was now gone. He seemed grim, but not grief-stricken. Of course he would be distraught that a woman he had once known intimately was dead. “Calder, what are you doing here?”

  He hesitated, his expression hardening. “I finished my affairs in Boston earlier than expected. I arrived at Grand Central at a quarter to seven this evening.” He met her gaze directly. “After I found Daisy, I decided to look for the killer. I was about to do so when Rose came into the house. She was not wearing any wrap—clearly she had just stepped out. I hid. She went directly to the study, Francesca, directly to Daisy. I followed her. She was not surprised to see Daisy murdered.”

  Francesca’s mind raced. Calder had not answered her question. He had not told her why he was at Daisy’s in the first place. Any affairs that remained between him and Daisy were of a financial nature. Such concerns could have waited. It was well after midnight now.

  If he had left his uptown home at eleven, he would have arrived at Daisy’s perhaps an hour ago. What had he been doing in the house for all of that time? Her pulse quickened with fear. She did not have to be thinking all that clearly now to know that Hart could be in trouble with the law. “And then what happened?”