by Brenda Joyce
“Speak up,” he warned threateningly, his face a dark mask of ruthless intent.
“Hanrahan!” the stalker cried. “David Hanrahan and I done nothin’ wrong! It’s my right to be here!”
Hart released him abruptly. “You have your answer,” he said coolly to Francesca.
And realizing just how angry Hart remained with her, some of her elation died.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday, April 23, 1902 10:00 p.m.
GWEN SIMPLY STARED at her husband as they led him inside her flat.
Francesca had expected a bit more of a reaction. Still, Gwen was pale and wide-eyed. But there were no hysterics and the extent of her surprise—the lack of shock—was more than odd, it was telling.
Hart shoved Hanrahan onto a kitchen chair. Then he loosened his bow tie, flipped a chair backward and sat down himself. He still seemed annoyed. Francesca hoped it was because of Hanrahan and not because of her reckless behavior earlier. Of course, her hopes were foolish, indeed.
“David?” Gwen whispered.
He nodded at her, his expression grim.
“It was you? You were outside?”
He nodded. “I got every right to be here! You’re my wife!” he erupted.
Gwen covered her face with her hands, releasing a sob.
And Bridget suddenly stepped out from behind the drapes in her flannel nightgown. Her eyes were huge with surprise. “Papa?”
Francesca quickly stepped over to her as Gwen whirled with a cry. As she put her arm around the child, Bridget said, “It was really you. I really saw you after school today!” She began to tremble. Clearly the child was stunned to see her father.
And while Francesca realized that Bridget was shocked and upset, she could not be certain that the girl was happy to see her father, either.
“It was me,” David said flatly. “Hello, my little poppet.”
Bridget did not move.
Gwen rushed to stand between them. “You stay away from her!” she cried.
David made a sound of disgust.
Bridget pressed closer to Francesca. She could not decipher the complicated family relationships. “Joel? Take Bridget into the hall for a moment, please.”
Joel flushed as he approached Bridget, but he was kind. “C’mon. They’ll be plenty of time fer you and your papa later, after Miz Cahill an’ Mr. Hart finish their questions.”
Bridget looked worriedly at Gwen. “Mama?”
“Go outside, baby,” Gwen whispered, her mouth barely moving as she somehow formed the words. “We won’t be too long.”
Joel took her hand and the two children left. Francesca stepped forward. “Did you follow your wife this afternoon when she left work?” she asked Hanrahan bluntly.
He scowled. “An’ if I did? It’s my right!”
Hart stood. The action was highly threatening, and not simply because Hart was tall and strong. His intention was undeniable, as was his air of authority and power. He was not to be denied. “Stalking is no man’s right,” he warned softly.
David Hanrahan’s expression became vicious. “She’s my wife and that means she belongs to me. She had no right runnin’ away, no right comin’ to America. She’s got no rights, none!” Then he became meek and added, “Sir.”
Francesca winced. According to the law, most women had no rights and he was, for the most part, correct. In fact, Gwen could be forced to return to him. In this city, no one would bother to interfere. She imagined it might be very different in a small village in Ireland.
“You told me to go!” Gwen dropped her hands. She was shaking. “You told me to get out of your sight, that you never wanted to see me again!”
“I changed my mind,” he spat. Now he was trembling with anger.
“How long have you been following your wife?” Francesca asked flatly.
He shrugged.
“Do you wish to go uptown to police headquarters?” Hart asked coldly.
David blanched. “I didn’t follow her!”
Francesca made a sound of disgust.
“I didn’t! I been outside, on the street, hopin’ to talk to her. But she won’t talk to me! You can surely see that? I want her back an’ she refuses to talk to me!” he cried, looking from Francesca to Hart and back again, as if pleading with them.
Gwen walked over to the sink, standing with her back to everyone. She did not run the water but she toyed with a chipped plate.
How odd this was. “Gwen? You don’t seem very surprised to see your husband. You don’t seem very surprised that he has followed you to America and that he wants a reconciliation,” Francesca said.
She walked over to Gwen. “How long have you known that he was in the country?”
Gwen was stiff. “A few weeks.”
“How did he get out of jail? Was he in jail? For attempted murder?” Francesca asked.
“They couldn’t prove anything!” David cried.
Gwen hesitated. Finally, her voice barely audible, she said, “Yes.”
“He dropped the charges,” David snarled. “His Lordship admitted it was a lie! He admitted I didn’t try to kill him!”
Gwen choked on a sob.
Francesca faced David, doubting the veracity of his statement. He clearly hated Lord Randolph, but did he hate him enough to have attempted murder? Had Randolph dropped the charges? Or had Hanrahan somehow escaped? “How did you know where to find your wife and daughter?”
“She told a neighbor back home, Mrs. Reilly, that she could be reached through Father Culhane. Gwen left the father’s address with her. The good father was only too obliging to tell me where my wife and daughter were.” David stared at Gwen, not looking once at Francesca.
Gwen said, hoarse and low, “I am not going back. Not to Ireland and not to you.”
“You are making a mistake,” David said just as low.
That was a threat if Francesca had ever heard one. “Have the two of you already discussed a reconciliation?”
“I will not go back!” Gwen cried.
Francesca went to her. “Please, I am asking these questions for a reason. I need your honest answers.”
Gwen looked at her, tearful now, and nodded. “Yes. He asked me if I would go back when he first arrived in the city, and I was clear. I said no.”
Francesca felt savage satisfaction then. She looked at Hart who stared back. She assumed he understood her thoughts completely, and then he nodded slightly at her, telling her to go on. She faced David. “Where were you this past Monday between noon and 4:00 p.m., Mr. Hanrahan?” she asked.
And she smiled grimly.
They had their first real suspect.
AT THIS LATE EVENING hour, police headquarters was oddly quiet, half of the staff dozing on the job. Hart slipped his arm around Francesca’s waist as they left the reception area, David Hanrahan having been put in the lockup for the night. Francesca started in surprise as they paused before going down the building’s front steps. Hart met her gaze and smiled a little at her. His arm tightened.
Their evening work was done. It was late, but they were entirely alone. Francesca was frankly exhilarated from finally uncovering a suspect, but Hart’s sudden gesture presented her with an entirely different feeling. Warmth mingled with the leftover excitement. “I take it you are no longer quite so angry with me?” She smiled at him.
“I am frankly appalled with you,” he murmured, a soft gleam in his eyes.
“We have a suspect, Hart,” she said with jubilation. And she laughed.
“You have a suspect,” he agreed.
She turned and found herself in his arms. A soft breeze caressed them both. “Aren’t you pleased? Hanrahan has motive and no alibi!”
“If he were the killer, I imagine he could do better than coming up with a statement that he was wandering about the streets, looking for work, on Monday. And he would surely have an alibi for the previous two Mondays, but he does not.”
Some of her elation vanished, as if a balloon had been popped
. “But he is not very clever.”
“No, he is not.” He caressed the soft hairs at her nape almost thoughtlessly. “Do not be too disappointed. He does have motive. Perhaps you have your killer after all.”
“The Slasher is clever,” Francesca disagreed. She intuited that with all of her being. She felt certain he was no thug.
“You do not know that.”
“I sense it.”
He cupped her shoulders. The gown had tiny cap sleeves, but in spite of them and the light shawl she wore, the feeling of his palms was thrilling. She tensed and looked into his eyes. “I have never seen more reckless, rash behavior,” he murmured, “than I have this night.”
His thighs were rock hard against her softer ones. “I wanted to help,” she said quietly, gripping his broad shoulders.
“I know—and that is what scares me so,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back.
She allowed herself a soft moan of pleasure. “Don’t stop,” she said.
“I should like to see you in this dress without a corset,” he murmured, bending over her shoulder. He moved the shawl aside and kissed the bare skin near her collarbone.
Sparks seemed to ignite, quickly flaming throughout her body. “Without a corset?” she gasped. How daring that would be! And how she loved the notion!
“Without a corset,” he affirmed, kissing her throat, just once. “No corset, no chemise, no drawers, nothing but your shoes and stockings and this lovely dress.”
She felt faint. Somehow she opened her eyes to find Hart staring intently. His own dark blue gaze had turned to gray smoke. “How shocking,” she managed to say, hoping to sound appropriately scandalized.
He began to smile. “You’re not shocked.” He lowered his head and feathered her lips with a kiss.
She clung. “No…” She opened her mouth, praying he would invade, but he did not. His lips touched the corners, the soft full center, the dimple above. “When, Hart?”
He smiled against her mouth. His weight had shifted as she spoke and she felt the length of his arousal near her hip. The urgency intensified deep in her, making her feel faint and hollow.
“When what, darling?” His every word brought his mouth against hers. Their breath mingled. “When will I kiss you? Or when will I take you soaring to the heavens above?”
She gripped his lapels and pressed against him. His smile vanished as their gazes locked. “When can I wear the dress for you?” she breathed.
He anchored her hips so she could not move. She felt the blood coursing in his body. “Such a game should wait until after we are married, until after we have had some time to explore the more traditional aspects of lovemaking.”
She felt like socking him in the nose. “Then why bring it up!”
“Because I was thinking about it, that’s why, but it was rude, thoughtless and teasing, was it not? I apologize.” He smiled, clearly not remorseful in the least.
She could not smile back. She stared, unable to move, barely able to breathe, wedged against him. “We need to make love, Hart.”
“Yes, we do.”
His response stunned her.
Hart released her. “Our courtship has become difficult for me, Francesca.”
She was so surprised, she did not comment.
“I’m a man with basic needs,” he said with a shrug. “And I am used to assuaging them frequently.” He walked away, hands in his pockets now, still in his white dinner jacket and midnight-black evening trousers, and stared up at what was left of the other night’s full moon.
Did he mean what she thought he did? She composed herself—it took a moment—and went to stand besides him. “I know how important it is to you to be noble now, with me.”
“It is beyond important,” he said, not looking at her. He stared up at the starry night.
“Why?” She was careful not to touch him. She knew the need inside her could be ignited with a mere touch or even a single glance.
Still looking at the heavens, he shrugged.
“Even if we slept together, I will never be like the others,” she pointed out. His past was filled with women, but all had been experienced—divorcées, widows or married women on the prowl for a lover. Hart had never before toyed with innocence.
He made a sound. “I know that.”
“Then why? I know you are worldly enough to make certain I would not get pregnant—”
He whirled. “It’s about me, not you.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“I barely understand myself.” He was grim.
She dared to pluck his sleeve. “Please, Calder, please try to explain this to me.”
His jaw was rigid. “There is a man…a different man…and I can feel him…he actually exists.”
She had not a clue as to what he meant.
He stared ahead now. “Having decided to marry you, Calder Hart would have seduced you months ago, never mind your innocence. Calder Hart has been more than tempted, more than once. Because he wants you so much. Now that he is engaged, Hart really doesn’t give a damn about your innocence. Hart has actually thought about seducing you well before the wedding and he has come quite close to accomplishing the feat.”
She was wide-eyed. And why was he talking about himself as if he was a stranger?
“But someone else has appeared on the scene.” He made a sound of self-derision. “Someone better, in fact. Someone who can actually see that the sun exists on a gray, rainy day. Someone who actually prefers sunshine to rain.”
And she understood. Her heart swelled impossibly; tears welled. “Oh, Calder.”
“He isn’t as selfish. He wants to be noble.” He finally glanced at her. “I’m not being very clear, am I?”
“No,” she whispered. “I understand completely.”
“You would,” he whispered softly. “Only you would understand.” He touched her face then dropped his hand.
Francesca started to cry.
He did not pull her close. He shoved his hands back in the pockets of his trousers and stared out into the night. It was a moment before he spoke. “This other man…this is the man that you have made me want to be.”
THE MILLINER’S SHOP WHERE Kate Sullivan was employed was a block and a half north of Ehrich Brothers’ Emporium on Sixth Avenue, just past the west corner of Twenty-third Street. The small shop boasted a large display window filled with modest bonnets, elegant hats and fine silk scarves, with a single counter inside and a rack of more goods. Upon Francesca’s presenting herself to the proprietress that next morning, Kate Sullivan was summoned from the back room where she had been stocking goods.
The Slasher’s second victim was a pretty blonde in a dark skirt and white shirtwaist. As she approached Francesca, her pallor was obvious. Francesca smiled warmly.
“Mrs. Hathorne said you are a sleuth,” Kate said, eyes wide.
“Yes, I am.” Francesca continued to smile, handing her a calling card. Kate did not even look at it. She seemed frightened and dismayed. “I am investigating the crimes committed by the Slasher. I have some questions for you.”
Kate appeared to be near tears. “But I told the police everything.” She went to one of two chairs in a corner of the shop and sat weakly down.
She looked on the verge of fainting. Francesca followed her. “Can I get you some water?”
Kate shook her head. “I am trying to forget,” she whispered. Then tears filled her eyes. “But how can I? Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every time I close my eyes, I hear him.”
Francesca knelt besides her. “You saw him! That was not in the police report!”
She shook her head negatively. “I never saw him, Miss Cahill, he seized me from behind. But I can see him now, so clearly, this tall elegant man!”
She was not making any sense. Francesca stood and took the chair besides Kate Sullivan. “What do you mean, precisely?”
Kate shrugged. “I can imagine how he must look. I know he was tall, because I am rather
tall for a woman—I am five foot five—and he was far taller than I.”
“You said he was elegant.”
She nodded. “I had just disrobed.” She turned impossibly pale. A tear fell.
“Do you need some air?” Francesca asked in real compassion.
She nodded weakly.
Francesca took her arm and helped her up. A moment later they were standing on Sixth Avenue. The elevated train was roaring overhead, causing the buildings around them to shake, and leaving a cloud of black smoke in its wake. Horns were blaring on the congested avenue, and a trolley was clanging its bells. Pedestrians, both ladies and gentlemen, swarmed around them. “Do you feel better?”
Kate inhaled and nodded. “I get so sick whenever I think of him,” she whispered.
“That’s understandable. He must be apprehended, Miss Sullivan.”
“Yes, he must.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve read about you, Miss Cahill. I’ve read about the Cross Killer and the City Strangler. You solved those cases! And now I read you are engaged to the city’s wealthiest bachelor, Mr. Hart.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
“I am very determined to solve a case when I take one on,” Francesca said firmly, trying not to appear pleased. But it was flattering, indeed, to be such an object of interest that the newsmen reported on her doings. “So the Slasher seized you from behind after you had disrobed?”
Kate nodded again. “I had no idea he was in my flat,” she said. “But I was very weary from being on my feet all day. Mrs. Hathorne had asked me to come in a few hours early to help with inventory. So it was a long day, really. I was almost asleep on my feet, I must say! One moment I was pulling on a robe, the next, he had me in his arms and he had a knife to my throat.” A tear fell.
“And he was tall.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you say he was elegant? What would make you think that?” Francesca asked. There was nothing elegant about David Hanrahan—but Kate might be wrong. Victims frequently made mistakes when it came to identifying their assailants.
“His clothes,” she said. “His jacket was very fine wool, the kind of wool that only a gentleman would wear.”
“Are you sure?”
