Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] by Deadly Affairs Page A

before you make judgments about mine.” Truly angry, she turned to her coachman.
    “May I?” Hart intoned from behind them.
    Francesca started, truly hoping he had not eavesdropped upon them. She backed away as Hart took Connie’s arm. Still, Francesca strained to hear them—and she watched closely as her sister beamed at him.
    “When will I have the opportunity to wine and dine you again?” he asked softly. Oh, how seductive he was!
    Connie did hesitate. “I must check my calendar. Perhaps next week?”
    “Next week!” He seemed dismayed. “An eternity shall pass between now and then, Lady Montrose.”
    “I doubt it,” she laughed.
    He smiled and lifted her gloved hand, kissing it. “Your husband is a very fortunate man,” he said, staring into her eyes.
    Connie looked away. “I am the fortunate one,” she murmured.
    Hart smiled, but Francesca saw the speculative look in his gaze, and she felt like kicking his shin. He handed Connie up into her coach, slamming her door firmly closed. As Clark climbed up into the front box, releasing the brakes, Hart backed up one step, still smiling at Connie. She lifted one hand in return and did not look at Francesca, not even once.
    Behind her, Joel breathed, “Blarney. Wut fools, all lovesick.”
    Francesca regarded him grimly as he shook his head in disgust.
    The coach rolled off. Briefly Francesca hoped that Montrose would learn of Connie’s luncheon and take her head off for it. Then she was sorry for her pettiness.
    But someone had to protect her sister, and who better to do so than Neil?
    Hart walked over to them. “May I offer you a lift? I am only going a few blocks, and then Raoul can take you where you wish.”
    Francesca hesitated.
    “What? Is my company no longer alluring?” He seemed to be laughing at her.
    “You are clearly an expert when it comes to being alluring, Hart,” she said briskly.
    He took her arm and glanced at Joel. “Let’s go, kid. I am giving you both a ride.”
    Francesca did not protest as he guided her farther up the block, where his swarthy coachman was standing by the already-open door of his large, extremely turned out brougham. His team was four magnificent blacks with gilded nameplates on their harnesses. His driver wore royal blue livery, and the leather squabs inside of the coach were red; the lighting fixtures and railings were bronze. One would have judged his vehicle as belonging to royalty, except for the fact that Raoul appeared to be a hoodlum from downtown. He was of medium height, of Spanish,Mexican, or Latin descent, and he looked too rough and too bulky for his impeccable uniform. He nodded at everyone, but had neither the manners nor the presence of a servant, for he seemed indifferent, surly, and perhaps bored.
    Hart handed Francesca up the step, then allowed Joel to leap in. He settled eagerly against the rear-facing seats as Hart climbed in. The boy said with disgust, “Wut a fancy rig.”
    Hart settled down beside Francesca, and without a word, the coach started off. “So, Kennedy, why don’t you like me?” he asked pleasantly.
    Joel gave him a mulish look. “ ’Cause you ain’t no good,” he said flatly.
    That amused Hart, because he laughed and looked at Francesca. “Is your little cohort in crime-solving correct?”
    “No,” Francesca said tersely. “I am sure there is good somewhere in you, Hart.”
    “So today it is Hart. Not Calder. Hmm. You are still angry with me,” he remarked, his gaze sliding over her features as if he found her beautiful and fascinating. “Perhaps your sister is right?”
    Francesca felt herself begin to flush. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I could not help overhearing.” He grinned.
    She crossed her arms. “I have no idea what you are speaking about.”
    He tried to take her hand, and as he was the stronger and more determined of them both, he succeeded. “Are you jealous, Francesca?” he asked softly.
    “No!” she cried, far too quickly and far too loudly.
    He