Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

      Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.

      “Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.

      Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”

      “I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart’s mistress is dead? Murdered?”

      Francesca’s mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart’s relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart’s biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn’t known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”

      Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”

      “Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy’s friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don’t even have an autopsy report.”

      But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”

      “I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”

      Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don’t worry. I am going to find Daisy’s killer.”

      “Don’t worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”

      “Mama! Hart is innocent!”

      Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won’t even matter.”

      FRANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn’t been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.

      He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D’Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia University, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.

      Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.

      Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer’s fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”

      “Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart’s art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”

      “I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D’Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.

      Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.

      “Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”

      “Alfred, that’s quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland’s visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”

      Alfred seemed surprised. “Of course, Miss Cahill.”

      “You were here, were you not, when Mr. Hart arrived home last night?”

      “I most certainly was. I let him in.”

      That was a relief, Francesca thought. “Do you recall the hour?”

      “It was a minute or two after the hour of eight o’clock—I happened to glance at the clock in his study, which is where he went directly upon arriving.”

      “And then what, Alfred? Did you bring him supper? Did you help him hail a cab when he left?”

      “He told me he did not wish to be disturbed.”

      Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what time he left the house last night?”

      Alfred shook his head. “I did not see Mr. Hart again until this morning, Miss Cahill. When he gives an order to be left alone, it is my responsibility to ensure that no one—not even family—intrudes 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