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 that 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