by Brenda Joyce
"Yes, just as pretty, I think."
He gazed up at the ceiling of the coach, his expression grim. He did not let go of her hand.
"What is it?"
He met her gaze. "Bragg is being less than honest with you."
"What?" She was incredulous—then she began to bristle. But before she could protest, he lifted his hand.
"We are dealing with white slavery, Francesca, of that I have little doubt."
"Then what are you talking about?" she demanded as they turned into Hart's long driveway.
"Child prostitution," he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, March 28, 1902—7:00 P.M.
Bragg was late. He followed the butler down a short hall, across gleaming parquet floors, toward a salon at its far end. The two mahogany doors were wide open, and not only could he see the assembly gathered inside, but he also could hear Leigh Anne's soft voice as she responded to a query. He stiffened.
By now, Francesca was at home, and he imagined her dining with her family, as she had mentioned she intended to do that evening. He envied her quiet evening spent at home; he remembered the last evening spent that way, because he had firmly decided that Sundays would be spent at home, no matter the invitation. And given his position, invitations were many, far more numerous than he could possibly accept. Recently he had let Leigh Anne decide which affairs they would attend. She had surprised him— she was only accepting the most politically and socially significant. They'd yet to waste an evening on an event not worth his while.
Bragg's gaze never left the salon. He was tired from the events of the day—and he hadn't slept at all last night, not after his half brother had so smugly announced his engagement to Francesca. Bragg was very worried about what he suspected was really happening to the missing children, and while he did not like misleading Francesca, he knew she would take their plight to heart and he hoped to spare her that. The police department had a history of being linked to prostitution and gambling—in one of his predecessor's terms, a study had estimated that the police took in about $4 million a year from such establishments. He also knew children were often used as lookouts or to hand out a brothel's business cards; was it possible that the girls were merely being used in that far less despicable manner? He did not think so.
And what should he do about Francesca? She had every right to marry, he knew that, and while a part of him clung to a dream of her in his home, he knew it was only that, a foolish dream, with no more substance than vapor. He also knew Hart was using her—the man had done what he did best, seducing her to his will.
He paused on the threshold of the room and for one moment stood there unobserved. Leigh Anne was listening to the Reverend Parkhurst, a smile on her face, her gaze so intent it was as if she were mesmerized by the minister's speech. But of course, she was not. She was just so clever that one would think so. It was the same with that little luncheon she had hosted today. Bragg knew she couldn't care less about public education or any other charity, for that matter.
But he stared. She was wearing a mint-green satin gown that bared her small ivory shoulders and some of her décolletage. She was such a small woman, almost fragile, her waist tiny enough for him to touch fingers when he closed his hands around it, yet she was surprisingly voluptuous, surprisingly lush, and he couldn't prevent a torrid image from the night before quickly rising in his mind—Leigh Anne astride him, her small body slick with sweat, her long hair wildly down to her waist, streaming past her breasts, over them, around them, her face beautiful and strained as she climaxed violently around him.
He closed his eyes and swore he would not touch her again. But it did not matter that he knew her game, nor did it matter that he knew she was a scheming seductress and that he was her target; he could not seem to keep the vows he made to himself. When the moon was high, the house silent, the city streets empty, the city asleep, his vows vanished as if they had never been conceived, much less made.
He met her gaze. Her smile changed almost imperceptibly, warmth coming to her eyes, a greeting silent and unformed there. He hardened against her, willing it. Never mind that the other women in the room were older, plump, their faces lined. Never mind that she stood out in their midst like a beautiful hummingbird among fat, clucking hens. Not for the first time, he wished she were different— that she had aged, that she was less attractive, that something had happened to mar her physical perfection.
He looked away now, as if he had not even seen her. Her face fell. Briefly he thought he had seen saw confusion and hurt in her eyes. He was glad—he would not feel for her now!—even as he knew he was being a miserable cad for taunting her that way. Surely, as Francesca had pointed out, it was time to forgive and bury the past. The gentleman in him knew that. The savage simply refused to do so.
It was a secret that only Leigh Anne knew. He wasn't half the moral man that everyone thought him to be. With her, his morals vanished and he was nothing but a beast.
Which was the real reason he could never remain married to her. He hated the man he was when she was present. He hated the man he had become—the man she had turned him into.
Robert Fulton Cutting seized his arm. "Rick! Finally! Good to see you, my boy; I am so glad you could make it."
Bragg smiled. Cutting came from an old and wealthy family, and the man was one of the driving forces behind the Citizen's Union party and the good-government reform movement. "Sir, the pleasure is all mine."
Ron Harris, his host, now pumped his hand. An appointee of Low's, he was a middle-class Protestant Yankee like the majority of Low's supporters. "We were just discussing the fact that you might run late. The missus was going to hold up supper."
"That won't be necessary," Bragg said, smiling at Mrs. Harris, who looked sixty to Harris's forty-five.
Parkhurst hurried over. "Your pretty little wife was just making your excuses. A busy police commissioner is a good police commissioner. How are you, sir?" He smiled, but his gaze was dark and sharp.
Bragg shook his hand, fully aware that the reverend's political agenda was at times at odds with the department's. Parkhurst had formed the Society for the Prevention of Crime, and he had hundreds of fervent followers. At times, members of his society had raided various establishments, including brothels, making citizens' arrests. Parkhurst was also vehemently opposed to the saloons' being open on Sundays and expected a strict enforcement of the Blue Laws. Bragg fully expected a debate that night, as the policy that had evolved, under his auspices and in conjunction with the mayor's political needs, was one of selective enforcement of the law. The worst and most flagrant violators were closed. The rest of the saloons were left alone. The decision was a political one—Low could not afford to alienate the working masses.
Herman Ridder, leader of the German Reform Movement, gripped his hand. "Good to see you, Rick. I've been hoping we could catch up."
Bragg smiled, knowing that what Ridder really meant was to encourage him to even more selectively enforce the Blue Laws. The majority of the city's German population were adamantly against any infringement on their right to drink on the Sabbath. "Good to see you, Herman." And Bragg finally looked at his wife.
She smiled at him. He saw the anxiety in her eyes. It was like looking at a dog that eagerly awaited his master's return but then expected to be kicked.
He hated himself. He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. His lips did not touch her skin.
Their gazes met. "Hello," she said softly, a sweet, seductive caress.
He nodded and turned back to the assembled company.
"So what have you planned for this Sunday?" Parkhurst asked. He smiled at Bragg, but it did not reach his eyes.
Aware of his tiny wife standing close beside him, he said, "I'm afraid I cannot give away police policy, Doctor."
"Am I to understand that this Sunday will be like last Sunday—a general apathy to the acts of sacrilege performed on the Sabbath?"
Before Bragg could answer, Cutting said sm
oothly, "The commissioner just walked into the door. It's been a long day. I'm sure he could use a drink."
"Thank you, a scotch would do nicely," Bragg said. But he faced Parkhurst. "Doctor, could we have a brief word?"
Parkhurst started, looking uneasy, but nodded. They stepped a few feet from the assembly. "Rick, you know I am only doing my duty," the reverend began.
"I know. I am not here to debate police policy today."
Parkhurst was intrigued. "Then what is on your mind?"
"Children," he said. "Children being abducted and sold into brothels."
Parkhurst blanched.
"Have you come across any children in any of the raids your society has held?"
Parkhurst hesitated.
"This is off-the-record, Doctor," Bragg said firmly, as they both knew any act of vigilantism was illegal and criminal.
"Not to my knowledge," he said. "But I have not been on every raid, and frankly, since you took office, there have only been two."
Bragg knew why. The Society was giving him a chance to reform the police department, which was why he had been appointed in the first place. Two months ago he had shaken up the entire department by demoting the detectives and officers in charge of the wards, then reassigning just about every single man. In that way, he had broken the chain of graft and bribery, as each ward had its own system in place. By now, there were surely some payoffs taking place between the brothels and the police. It was like shifting the moving sands of a desert. For a while, a hole would be there—eventually, it would fill up again.
"Can you put the word out among your people to see if there are any children being used in any brothels? Four young girls are missing, Reverend, since the New Year, all between the ages of twelve and fourteen."
Parkhurst now flushed with anger. "I will call a special meeting first thing tomorrow," he said. "Good God, the depravity of it!"
Bragg placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "No vigilante raids, Doctor, please."
They returned to the assembly to see that the mayor and his wife had arrived. Low was shaking his head, amused. "We are already debating the Raines Law? But I have not been in the room for two minutes!"
Everyone laughed, including Bragg, but then Ridder said, "A study has shown that the Raines Law has actually increased crime by encouraging brothels and gambling halls! The sooner these useless laws are done away with, the sooner we can all enjoy our personal freedoms again. Am I not right, Mayor?"
Low sighed. "You all know I believe morality cannot be legislated," he said.
Bragg tensed as his wife came up to him. "You look very tired, Rick. Should I get you another drink?"
"I am fine," he said abruptly.
"Katie has a slight cough. I don't think it is serious, but I spoke to Rourke, and he said he'd take a look at her tonight."
He met her gaze. "You're worried. How bad is it?"
"It's very slight." She hesitated. "I can't help it—a tiny cough and I am thinking about tuberculosis! I'm sure she's fine," she added, her smile uncertain.
He had wondered over and over again whether her concern for the children was a ploy. "When is Rourke stopping by the house?"
"I suspect he's there now. I know." Her smile was fragile. "I wish we were at home, too."
Their gazes met. He flinched and looked away. She said, "How is your case going?"
When he looked at her again he couldn't help himself. He glanced at the white swath of skin that was her upper chest, then at the hint of a valley just barely revealed by her gown. "The case involves missing children, and it is not going well."
"Missing children?"
"Girls. Girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen." He was terse. His body was far worse than terse. It was responding to her in the way he simply hated. An urgency was rippling through him....
"Thank God Katie is only six," she whispered.
"Katie isn't pretty enough for these monsters," he said stiffly.
"She's beautiful!" she flashed angrily.
He started, refusing to be drawn into the debate. "I have company to attend," he said.
She didn't follow him toward the assembly. But he heard her say, "I can't believe you don't think Katie is beautiful," in utter disbelief.
She had misunderstood. Katie was pretty, of course she was, but not like Emily O'Hare and the others.
"Rick, what do you think?" Cutting asked. "Surely you saw that ridiculous article in the Sun today."
He was calm. "The editorial surmising that Platt will abandon Odell?" But as they began to discuss the absurd notion that the master of the Republican machine was falling out with the state's governor, he was aware of Leigh Anne's gaze upon his back. It was accusing.
And he had the terrible urge to explain.
Francesca refused to let him carry her into his house, where his foster parents, Rathe and Grace Bragg, and their son Rourke were in residence. The Braggs had returned to New York City two months ago and were building a new mansion not far from Hart's place. But as she walked in with Hart firmly holding her arm—as if he thought she might faint at any moment—Alfred appeared. He took one look at her and paled. "Miss Cahill!" the bald English butler cried. "Whatever has happened?"
"I am fine, Alfred, a slight incident with a thug, that is all," she said, over her shoulder now, as Hart was propelling her into the closest salon.
His home was as large as a museum, monstrously so—it was less than a year old—and the salon was the size of a small ballroom. He ordered her onto the first sofa they came to, and there were a dozen seating arrangements in the room. "Get Rourke, his medical bag, and two Scotch whiskeys," he said. "Is Rourke in?" he demanded, turning to Alfred.
"Yes, sir, he is." Alfred left instantly, almost at a run. It was the first time Francesca had ever seen him without his composure.
"This can't be happening." She turned to Hart, facing her worst fear. "Children as prostitutes?! The thought had occurred to me, but Bragg feels certain this is about sweatshops." She was trembling now.
"Do not get up," Hart warned. "My saintly brother has been lying to you."
"But why?" she demanded—but she knew.
"To protect your fragile sensibilities," he said flatly, "and to prevent you from worrying so."
Francesca hugged herself. She had already suspected the truth. Why else would all the missing girls be so beautiful? She was ill, facing it now. What ordeals were those poor children going through? "We have to find these children, before it is too late. We have to save them, Calder."
He didn't speak. He began to pace the room, not looking at her, removing his jacket and tossing it carelessly at a chair. He missed and it fell to the floor. He never missed a long, hard stride. He was as restless as the tiger Francesca had once seen caged at the Bronx Zoo.
Francesca had to admire him, nevertheless. She knew he was extremely upset because of her injury, yet he remained calm and in control—enough so to be the commander of an army on a battlefield. In moments like these, Hart was every bit as heroic as Bragg, she thought, her heart tightening oddly. The biggest difference between them was that Hart never put a sugar coating on anything.
Hart had stripped off his tie, having used it to bandage her neck; now he unbuttoned his collar, facing her. His face was carved in stone. It was an angry, determined expression, and it did nothing to detract from the man's dangerous and oh-so-seductive appeal.
She wet her lips. "Is there any chance you are wrong?" she whispered. "Is there any chance Bragg is right and these girls have been forced into a sweatshop?"
Hart halted, staring down at her, his stance a terribly offensive one. "I doubt I am wrong. They would abduct younger children for a sweatshop, as they would be far easier to control. Besides, I overheard a stranger a few nights ago mentioning something to his friend about a new brothel, one that offers purity and innocence." He never took his gaze from her face. "I do believe those were his exact words—'purity and innocence.' "
The girls we
re enslaved in a brothel. It was too terrible to even contemplate. She felt the tears rising then, blinding her.
She could not fail them.
And he was on his knees, at her side. "Darling, don't cry. You cannot save the entire world," he whispered, lifting her chin in his hand.
Her mouth was trembling wildly as their eyes met. And she didn't want to cry. She stared into his navy blue gaze, flecked with amber and gold, and whispered, "But I can try."
"Yes, you can try—but perhaps with a bit less passion?" He smiled a little then, but his gaze was searching.
"Calder, the plight of those children ..." She could not continue and she moved into his arms, her cheek upon his chest, somehow kneeling on the floor with him.
He unpinned her hat, threw it aside, and stroked her hair. "I know, darling, I know." He kissed her cheekbone, and suddenly his mouth, against her skin, stilled.
And Francesca felt the beast the moment it arose. His mouth remained unmoving, pressed against her cheek. In that second, Hart's sudden desire slammed over her, as hard as any physical blow. In that moment her heart lurched wildly, and when it began beating again it was to fill her veins with hot blood. And there was simply no doubt about the need that had so swiftly arisen.
He pulled back and their gazes locked.
"Calder." His name sounded like a seductive caress, even to her own ears, in the still of the huge room.
His jaw flexed. He tilted her face up, his fingers long and strong. "Maybe if I keep you in my bed, we can avoid the dangerous episodes that you constantly find yourself in."
"Maybe," she breathed.
Hart stared, his gaze smoldering, and he lowered his face toward hers.
"What's happened?" Rourke's voice sounded from the threshold of the room, at once doctor like and calm.
Hart gracefully stood, bringing Francesca to her feet with him. Then he turned away, but she saw his lids lower, shielding his eyes and the urgency evident in them. It was a moment before he looked up at his brother and Grace, who was at Rourke's side. In that moment, Francesca tried to breathe naturally and hoped her cheeks were not too red. "Francesca was assaulted with a knife. Hopefully the cut on her throat is a superficial one." How calm he sounded then.
