by Brenda Joyce
Hart looked at Connie, too. His eyes softened, then gleamed. "Lady Montrose?"
"Lunch was wonderful," Connie replied, but her gaze had locked with Hart's and something sizzled between them.
Testing her, Francesca asked, somewhat sourly, "And what did you have?"
"I am glad you so enjoyed yourself. I think a luncheon out, with myself, is exactly what the physician has ordered for you," Hart said softly.
"Yes, I do think so," Connie said. "I cannot recall when I have passed such a pleasant afternoon."
"And I was thinking the exact same thing," Hart told her.
In that moment, Francesca realized that Connie had changed her dress before meeting Hart. She was wearing a sapphire blue gown that was low-cut and extremely fitted, revealing her every curve and an expanse of cleavage; the prim and proper pink was gone. "What did you have for lunch?" Francesca insisted. She realized her tone was shrill.
Connie and Hart looked at her. "I do not remember," Connie said, and she blushed.
Hart laughed warmly, his gaze sliding over Connie and lingering on her small bosom, which hardly looked small now. Francesca felt like kicking her sister right in the butt. "Shall we? I hate to end a perfect afternoon, but I have a final meeting this afternoon at four-fifteen. Fortunately, it is uptown." He signaled to the waiter for the bill.
"And I must get home." As Connie began to stand, Hart rushed around the table to quickly move her chair and help her up. She leaned into him. "Thank you," she said, and her tone was husky.
"Oh, please," Francesca heard herself mutter.
Connie did not hear; Hart did. He glanced at Francesca and he grinned. Once again, he was clearly enjoying himself. He winked at her.
A waiter approached; Hart signed the bill. "Ladies?" As they all began to leave, he grabbed Joel's shoulder. "Ladies first, Kennedy," he said.
"As if you would know," Joel retorted, but he let Francesca and Connie walk out ahead of them.
Connie did not speak to her or even look at her; Francesca could tell that she was extremely annoyed at having her sister appear at her luncheon. As they walked out of the hotel, Connie's pace quickened. Francesca recognized her elegant brougham, parked one coach ahead of Hart's. Her driver, Clark, immediately opened the carriage door, having instantly remarked her approach.
Connie's strides lengthened, and as Francesca quickened her step they outpaced Joel and Hart. Connie faced her, and her eyes flashed. "Just what do you think you are doing, Fran?" she demanded.
Francesca smiled pleasantly. "Rescuing you."
"Whoever said I needed rescuing?" Connie asked coldly.
"All moral women need rescuing from Hart."
Connie's hands, encased in blue gloves a shade darker than her dress and coat, fisted on her narrow hips. "If I did not know about your feelings for Bragg, I would say you are jealous."
"I am not jealous," Francesca said quickly, but with an odd inkling that she lied—even to herself. "I do not want to see you fall victim to Hart's considerable charms—not to mention his expertise."
"I am not falling victim to anything or anyone," Connie snapped. "And I suggest that you consider your own personal life 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 was clearly pleased.
"Oh, do let go of my hand," she snapped.
He laughed and released it. "You have nothing to be jealous of," he said, still smiling, but he seemed thoughtful now. "The friendship we share is far better than any flirtation."
Francesca looked at him. "Do you think Connie and I look alike? Many consider us to be nearly identical."
"I believe we have discussed this before. And the answer is no, I do not."
Francesca felt hurt, but she smiled gamely. "Yes, Connie is far more beautiful. I have always thought so myself."
His eyes widened. "You are the more beautiful one, Francesca."
She was stunned. "What?"
He glanced briefly away. Was he now uncomfortable? And if so, why? "Why are we discussing beauty? And do you, of all women, wished to be judged on your appearance?"
"No," she managed,
absolutely flustered. He thought her more beautiful than her glamorous and elegant sister?
"Remember, I am a connoisseur of art—and all fine things. I never judge a painting merely by its color, composition, or skilled execution. There is a subjective element to every judgment." He briefly met her gaze. "You and your sister share similar external qualities, but you are so vastly different, it would be like comparing the sun and the moon."
She stared at his handsome face. "You never cease to surprise me, Calder."
"Good." That apparently pleased him no end. "And now we are back to Calder?"
She flushed. "Apparently so." She hesitated. "My sister loves her husband very much."
He eyed her. "I am not in the mood for a lecture, Francesca."
"But you shall receive one anyway."
He sighed, as if an adolescent in no mood for a parental scolding.
"Calder! She loves Montrose. She has loved him from the moment she set eyes upon him five years ago."
"Perhaps," he murmured, gazing out of his window.
"Can you not chase someone else?"
He turned to meet her eyes. "She accepted my invitation to lunch, Francesca."
Francesca hesitated. It would not do to tell Calder too much about Connie's private affairs, and she had the unfortunate feeling that he would use that knowledge, should he have it, to his own perverse advantage. "As your friend, if I ask you to cease and desist, will you?"
"No."
She gaped, in shock.
"Your sister is an adult. I do believe she can manage her life very well without your interference."
Francesca folded her arms, trying not to become infuriated. "She has been through a difficult time recently!"
"Hmm. How difficult?"
"As if I shall tell you," she snapped.
"You are so protective of Lady Montrose. I wonder why."
"She is my sister!" she cried.
"Temper," he chided.
"So you will not do me this one favor? After all I have done for you?"
He stared. Then, dangerously, "Be careful of the marker you think to call in. You might wish to use it at another time. Once it is gone, why ..." He shrugged and did not have to say any more.
"You are truly unscrupulous," she said, eyes wide.
"So it is said."
"I thought we were friends."
"We are. But that does not change my true nature. Remember? I am selfish, not selfless."
"Oh, please," Francesca said, annoyed. "I know you better than you think. You are not completely selfish, and that is that."
His mouth quirked as the coach rolled to a stop before the grand entrance of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. "I shall debate that point at another time." He waited patiently for Raoul to climb down from the driver's seat and open his door. He turned before alighting. "Where shall Raoul drop you and the rowdy?"
Joel scowled. Francesca touched his arm. "Police headquarters," she said sweetly.
Somehow she had known she would get a reaction. His eyes blackened. But his face remained impassive as he said to Raoul, "Three hundred Mulberry."
The olive-skinned driver nodded.
Hart glanced at her, still dispassionate. "So you are off to visit my esteemed and oh, so reputable brother. Are you back to your crime-solving ways? Or is this a social call?"
She lifted both brows. "Perhaps it is a bit of both."
His smile was somehow mocking and cool as he inclined his head, allowing Raoul to slam the door closed. Francesca watched Hart turn and stride up the street. She was still annoyed, and wondered at herself for it.
FOUR
Friday, February 7, 1902—4:00 P.M.
Bragg was standing with his back to the door when Francesca paused on the threshold of his office. He was on the telephone, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the line, and he did not seem to be aware of her. Francesca was about to knock when she saw the photograph on his desk. It was face up, but even from this distance, she knew who it was. She hesitated.
And before she could reprimand herself, she hurried across the small room as Bragg turned, seeing her. On his cluttered desk was one of the photographs he had requested; Mary O'Shaunessy lay in the snow face up, with her hands clasped in prayer on her chest, the ugly cross carved into her throat.
Francesca must have made a sound, because Bragg flipped the photograph over and the look he gave her was a dark one. But it was too late; in the light of day and his office Mary's expression in death of fear was all too vivid and all too clear. Francesca closed her eyes, instantly recalling a similar expression of fear when she had been alive. Why had she changed her mind and run away from Francesca?
Francesca sighed and opened her eyes. She was Katie and Dot's mother. It was such a terrible tragedy, for everyone—for the two little girls and for Mary, who on all accounts seemed to have been a wonderful person. Anger at the unknown killer suddenly swelled within Francesca, not for the first time. Why had he done this?
"Thank you," Bragg said, and he hung up the receiver. "Francesca?"
She tried to smile and failed. "Hello, Bragg." She felt like walking into his arms and laying her cheek upon his solid chest, but that would not do.
"I'm sorry you saw that." He seemed grim. "Please tell me you are not still blaming yourself for her death?"
"I am trying not to. Mary was young and pretty and she has two beautiful daughters who are now orphans. We have to find the madman who did this," Francesca said passionately. It was an outburst she could not contain.
He walked slowly out from behind his desk. "We? You are not on this investigation, Francesca. And how do you know that she has two daughters?" His golden regard was calm but intense, and infinitely patient as he waited for an answer.
She sighed. "Maggie Kennedy came calling this morning—and she was grief-stricken."
"Maggie Kennedy? Is she by chance related to the little hoodlum you are so fond of?"
"She is his mother, Bragg. And Mary O'Shaunessy was her dear friend," Francesca said bluntly. There was no point in telling him that she had been very involved in the case from the moment she had found Mary dead.
His eyes widened fractionally. "Please, do not tell me that Mrs. Kennedy has retained your services!"
"She has," Francesca said with an upward tilt of her chin. "Oh, Bragg. From what I have learned, Mary was a ray of sunshine, a wonderful mother, a devout Catholic! She did not deserve this, and now her two small girls are orphans." She knew she was angling for his consent in allowing the girls to remain in his home temporarily, but she also meant her every word.
He came closer and lifted up her chin with one fingertip. His fingers were long and strong and their eyes met and locked. "What have you been up to, Francesca?" His gaze was searching. She no longer feared him, not at all, and a tingle went from her head to her toes.
Somewhat breathlessly she said, "After I consoled Maggie, Joel showed me to the apartment Mary shared. I believe the police have already spoken with the Jadvics."
He dropped his hand and stared. "I will not have you involved, not in a case involving a deranged killer."
"Is that what you have concluded?" she asked—far too eagerly.
"No comment."
"Bragg!" she cried. "I am not the press."
"As I well know. By the by, are you not treading a thin line? You are supposed to be devoting yourself to your studies, and yet you have that new client, Mrs. Stuart. How is that case progressing, Francesca?" His gaze was narrowed.
"You think to divert me, and it will not work," she said sweetly.
"What shall I do with you?"
"Do you have any leads?" she returned swiftly.
"Yes, but I shall not share them with you." He was firm. Determination glimmered golden in his eyes.
She felt a thrill then and said slyly, "I was crucial to the conclusion of the Randall Murder."
He did not answer.
"Not to mention the Burton Abduction."
"No,
" he said. Then, "Have you come to badger me? If so, I have work to do."
"Bragg!" She was truly shocked. "Am I badgering you?"
Suddenly he seemed tired. He sat down on the edge of his desk. Softly he said, "You could never badger me. I am frustrated. That is all."
"Over this case?" she asked sympathetically, taking the seat in front of his desk.
"That and the appointment I have made. It was announced at City Hall an hour ago. At the last moment, I decided against Shea; I have appointed Inspector Fair instead. I do not think you have met him. His is a royal annoyance, too smart for his own good, and as crooked as Front Street. But he seems eager to please, now, in fact, he is eager to please me, and I think I shall be able to control him."
Francesca winced. "I do hope so."
"He is run by Tammany Hall through and through," Bragg added.
"Well, just be on guard. Make sure he is working for you—and not against you."
Bragg smiled at her, and it was filled with affection. "However did you come to be so intelligent?"
She flushed with pleasure. "My father encouraged my freethinking."
"I am glad."
She fell silent, smiling.
Then, "I invited your brother and Miss Channing for tomorrow night's musical. And supper afterward. I hope that is all right."
"Of course it is." Her gaze locked with his.
He seemed to flush. "I felt it was more appropriate."
She nodded. "I know." She had begun thinking about the two little girls when he said, "So what did you find out from the Jadvics?"
"Not much. Have your men been to the tailor shop where Mary worked before the Jansons'?"
"Newman is there now with a detail."
She nodded, smiling—he was discussing the case with her.
And suddenly he must have realized it, because he stood. "Francesca—"
"I'm sorry. I could not help myself." She wanted to ask him about the Jansons but did not dare. He did not fill in the brief, focused silence. Finally she said, meekly, "Do you have a suspect?"
"If I did, I would not tell you."
