Free Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] by Deadly Pleasure

1902—10:00 A.M.
    The moment she awoke she recalled that she had her very first case and so much to do that she doubted it could all be done in a day. Too many questions to count flooded her instantly racing mind: Had Georgette de Labouche been found? What was Calder Hart’s relationship with the deceased? Had a neighbor seen or heard anything?
    And who hated Paul Randall enough to want him dead?
    Francesca was determined to solve the murder, thus proving to Bragg once and for all how invaluable she was, and she blinked her eyes open, imagining how, in a week or so, he would once again thank her for her indispensable help—and perhaps even confess that he could not have managed the investigation without her.
    She smiled.
    But it was not Bragg standing at the foot of her bed, smiling back at her. Her sister, Connie, clad in a beautiful rose-and-cream-striped ensemble, stood at the foot of her bed, as radiant as ever, smiling with bemusement. “Good morning, sleepyhead. That must be some dream, Francesca, to put such a smile on your face!”
    Francesca sat up with a wide and inelegant yawn. “It was.”
    “Let me guess. Our dashing new police commissioner?” Connie teased.
    Francesca sobered. There was one problem—she was not a police officer, and Rick Bragg was determined to keep her out of the investigation. It was as if their teamwork during the Burton Affair had never occurred. Somehow, she would have to sleuth very discreetly indeed. Until he realized how invaluable she was. “What are you doing here and what time is it?” Francesca flung the heavy quilts and blankets aside, glancing at her partially drawn draperies as she did so. Outside, the sun was up and high. She had overslept.
    “It is past ten, and I admit to being simply shocked that I have found you loitering abed like any other of your unwed peers.” Connie smiled again, arms folded.
    “It was a late night,” Francesca admitted. She and her sister were as close as could be, and Francesca was pleased to find her sister waiting for her to wake up. Perhaps their closeness could be explained by the fact that there was so little or no sibling rivalry between them because they were so different, in spite of their nearly identical looks. While Francesca was the bluestocking and reformer in the family, Connie was an indisputably perfect hostess, an elegant wife, and the doting mother of two darling little girls. As young girls, Francesca had studied and Connie had gone to tea parties with Julia. As much as Francesca had sought to avoid suitors, Connie had encouraged them even before her informal debut. Francesca had always, secretly, known she would postpone marriage for as long as possible; Connie had always, openly, dreamed of whom she might wed and prayed it would be as soon as she was old enough. She had been seventeen when she had met Neil Montrose, and they had been married a year later. She was only twenty-two now.
    “I see that it must have been a very late night,” Connie was saying. “Have you been up until dawn studying?”
    Francesca grinned as she stood, shivering a bit in her pale blue silk nightgown. “No. I have my first case, Con!” she exclaimed, keeping her voice down but unable to contain or even hide her excitement.
    “Your first what?” Connie asked with a furrowed brow.
    “My first case.” When Connie failed to understand, Francesca said, perplexed, “Con, as a crime-solver. Remember?”
    Connie blinked. “What?”
    Francesca could not believe Connie did not understand. She was already reaching for the purse she had used last night. She handed Connie one of her calling cards. “Didn’t I show these to you? I picked them up at Tiffany’s on Thursday.” Connie would be the first person she would show her new cards to—after Bragg.
    The card read:
    F RANCESCA C AHILL
    C RIME -S OLVER E XTRAORDINAIRE
    N O. 810 F IFTH A VENUE, N EW Y ORK C ITY
    A LL C ASES A CCEPTED , N O C RIME T OO S MALL
    Connie gasped. “Oh, dear. When