by Brenda Joyce
Staring at the pale marble building, Maggie bit her lip, debating turning around and going home. She was on a fool’s errand, surely. Bringing Francesca’s new custom shirtwaist to the Cahill home was just an excuse to see Evan, and she knew it.
Are ye fallin’ in love, my silly girl?
One little kiss and he has yer whole heart?
She didn’t want to think about her beloved husband now. He had died many years ago, when Joel was just a small boy, but she had loved him with all her heart and she still did. She would never stop missing him, and hearing him in her head was so comforting. She knew he would be worried about her now. And while he was half in jest, she also knew that Josh was dead serious—and that he was also right.
He’s not for ye, no matter what he says. All men can turn a pretty word fer a pretty girl!
Maggie wished Evan had never kissed her. She wished, desperately, that he hadn’t confided in her. She even wished that anyone but Evan Cahill had saved her from the Slasher, just a month ago.
But he had kissed her—and she had let him. And it had been glorious. She hadn’t thought she would ever want to be kissed by a man again, but she had been so very wrong. In his arms, her entire body had awoken, as had all the wild yearning in her heart. Being in his arms had felt safe, perfect and so right.
He had confided in her about his gambling, his debts, his estrangement from his family and the subsequent reconciliation, and the child the countess carried. The countess was having his child.
Maggie trembled. She didn’t hate the countess; she feared her. Bartolla had called on her several weeks ago. At first, Maggie had hoped that she wished to order new gowns. Instead, the other woman had mocked Maggie for her feelings for Evan, and she had made it very clear that Maggie must stay away from her lover. Bartolla had been cruel, condescending and vicious. She had even threatened Maggie’s children.
Maggie had been shocked by her rudeness and her threats. When she had first seen Evan and Bartolla together, they had seemed like a magical, fairy-tale couple. Now it was so clear that the countess was mean and hateful. She could not bear the idea of Evan being trapped in such a loveless marriage.
She wanted to help him in every possible way—her nature was caring. Initially, she had encouraged him to marry Bartolla and give his bastard the family he or she deserved. But Evan had looked into her eyes and shocked her by telling her that he did not even like the countess. He had declared that he simply couldn’t marry Bartolla, but he would, of course, provide for her and the child.
Maggie realized she was crossing Sixty-first Street now. She had been relieved when he had told her that he wouldn’t marry the countess. In fact, she wasn’t certain when she had ever known such relief.
Yer such a foolish girl!
He should marry the countess and ye know it. He certainly won’t marry you.
Josh was right. She was being terribly foolish, as if she had lost the wisdom of her many years. Maggie prided herself on her common sense, but where Evan Cahill was concerned, it had gone flying out the door. The only thing she knew for certain was that she would stand by him, no matter what, and that he would never be happy with an evil woman like Bartolla Benevente.
The Cahill mansion was ahead. Maggie was breathless. She hadn’t seen the Cahills since Saturday night, when the house had been in chaos due to Francesca’s disappearance. She happened to like Francesca deeply, and she had been as worried as anyone. The newspapers claimed that the wedding was off. Maggie hoped that was not the case, and Joel had assured her that Mr. Hart and Francesca remained as enamored of one another as ever. They were having, he had said, a bit of a spat.
Maggie slowly walked up the driveway, instantly remarking the Cahill coach in front of the house. Joel was with Francesca, working on this new case. Her son was making a handsome salary as Francesca’s assistant, but most of all, he was no longer cutting purses. Francesca was a wonderful influence on him.
Maggie had just reached the house’s front steps when the front door opened and Andrew Cahill came out, clad in an elegant suit and a dark bowler, swinging a very handsome ivory-handled walking stick. He smiled pleasantly at her. “Good day, Mrs. Kennedy.” He added, “Francesca went out at the crack of dawn today.”
Mr. Cahill was as kind as his daughter. Maggie flushed and returned the greeting, wondering what he would think if he knew of her feelings for his only son. As he got into the waiting carriage she turned away, hoping he would never learn of her romantic foolishness. She smiled at the doorman, Jonathon, as she walked into the front hall. As always, she was overwhelmed.
She would never get used to the grandeur and glamour of the rich. She was just a simple Irishwoman who sewed clothes for a living. Whenever she came uptown, she was overcome by the differences between her kind and their kind. She lived in a tiny, one-bedroom, windowless flat with four children; they lived in the lap of luxury in palatial homes filled with fancy furniture, fine paintings and marble floors. Her walls were rotting; theirs were covered in fabrics and wallpapers. Her floors were cracked and threadbare; their floors were marble or gleaming parquet, covered with rugs from all over the world.
Recently, she had begun to read the society pages. Not a day went by that Julia Van Wyck Cahill, Lord or Lady Montrose, Francesca, Evan or Mr. Cahill weren’t mentioned, dining at some famous establishment or attending some elegant affair. Reading those pages almost made her feel as if she were a family member.
But she was not an insider, and she would never be one, Maggie thought. Facts were facts—she must simply remember them.
The doorman had barely closed the front door when Julia appeared at the other end of the hall, surprised but smiling. “Good day, Maggie. Is that Francesca’s shirtwaist?”
Julia’s stare seemed sharper than usual—as if there was suspicion just behind her welcoming smile. “Yes, it is. I thought she might wish it for the weekend.”
“That is very kind of you,” Julia said briskly, taking the garment bag. As always, she was the epitome of elegance and sophistication, in a fitted pale blue dress and aquamarines. “Bette, please hang this in Francesca’s room,” she told a passing maid. With the garment gone, she faced Maggie, her gaze intent. “Francesca isn’t here.”
Maggie felt herself flush. “I know. I saw Mr. Cahill as I came in.” She added in a rush, “I would like to say that I am so relieved that nothing terrible happened to her on Saturday.”
Julia softened. “I know you are. You are a good woman, Maggie.”
“I am sure Francesca and Mr. Hart will make new plans soon,” Maggie said quickly, her gaze straying past Julia. They hadn’t discussed it, but she assumed Evan would soon leave the city for the rest of the summer, as the entire upper class did. The wedding had kept him in town—much to her relief. She knew that Evan often had breakfast at the Cahill mansion with his parents and she wondered if there was a way to ask for a word with him.
“Can I help you with anything else?” Julia’s tone had tightened.
She knows, Maggie thought, her insides curdling. She somehow smiled. “No, I just wanted to make sure Francesca had her new shirtwaist for the holiday. She has taken Joel about today on her new investigation. Joel is the happiest when with Miss Cahill.” How odd that comment sounded.
“That is my daughter—a crime-solver extraordinaire.”
Maggie’s gaze returned to Julia. Francesca’s mother was angry. Before she could comment on what a gift Francesca had—she had solved so many ghastly crimes—she heard footsteps on the stairs. Her gaze met Evan’s.
His eyes widened as he hurried down the stairs. “Maggie! Is everything all right?” he cried.
Her heart was thundering.
Yer smitten, Josh accused.
Yes, I am! she told him helplessly.
“Everything is fine,” Maggie managed to say. He was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on—and the kindest. He adored her children and was always bringing gifts and treats. He would make a wonderful father.
<
br /> Aye, to Bartolla’s bastard!
Evan visibly relaxed. He smiled at Julia. “Good morning, Mother.”
Julia’s blue gaze had turned to ice. “Maggie has brought Francesca her new shirtwaist and she is just leaving.”
Evan seemed taken aback by her firm tone. Maggie cringed. What was she thinking? Doing? Evan would one day find true love with a beautiful, elegant young lady—someone from his own class. He might be fond of her now, and fond of her children, but he was the Cahill heir. Even the newsmen of the city called him that.
“Maggie has a long way to go to get back to her home.” He turned to Maggie and smiled. “Are you hungry? I am going to take a late breakfast. Would you care to join me?”
He had the most beautiful smile in the world, one of sunshine and laughter—one that reflected his innately good nature. “I’ve already eaten,” she lied.
“Then eat again.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Because I am having pancakes, eggs and sausage. With loads of butter and maple syrup from Vermont.”
She felt her stomach growl. Breakfast at home consisted of Irish grits. They could not afford eggs or sausages, much less butter or maple syrup.
“I insist,” Evan murmured, taking her arm. He glanced at Julia. “Will you join us?”
Julia frowned. “I have a luncheon at the Hotel Essex,” Julia said. She smiled politely. “Thank you for bringing the shirtwaist, Maggie.” Giving Evan what might have been a reproving glance, she went out.
The moment Julia had gone out the front door, he laughed. The sound was as warm as his smile. “She is so transparent. She is dismayed because I am so pleased to see you.” And he took her hand and squeezed it.
She melted. “Well, our friendship is hardly usual.”
He gave her an odd look and she wondered if he was thinking that this was far more than friendship. He said, “I am very glad you have come by and that you are going to dine with me. I have a better idea. Let’s walk down to the Metropolitan Club. Of course, we will have to forgo pancakes for a luncheon fare.”
She froze. “I can’t go in there.”
“Of course you can.”
Was he mad? They would never let her in!
He said softly, as if reading her mind, “I am a member, Maggie. I can bring any guest I choose.”
She wet her lips and lied. “The pancakes and sausage sound so good.”
He slowly smiled. “You do know your wish is my command.”
She knew he was flirting, but her heart flipped wildly. Feeling as shy as a thirteen-year-old girl, she said, “I wasn’t sure you would still be in town.”
“I am to spend July and August on Fire Island with friends. I was supposed to be there already, but Fran’s latest adventure has delayed me.”
She wondered where Fire Island was, and who his friends were. “How is Francesca?”
He became grim. “I hardly ever see her. She is on some grand new case, trying to apprehend whoever lured her from her own wedding. Meanwhile, she and Hart are estranged. At first, I did not blame him, but now I am growing annoyed that he doesn’t see reason. He must forgive her—she loves him terribly.”
“I am sure they will work this out, Evan,” she said softly.
He suddenly took both her hands in his. “Maggie, I would never leave for the entire summer without saying good bye.”
She bit her lip. “I am glad,” she managed to say. What she wanted to do was tell him how much she would miss him. Two months seemed like an eternity.
He began to smile. “I have an idea. Let’s take the children to Coney Island for an entire day’s outing.”
She hadn’t ever been to Coney Island. They could not afford it, no matter that she knew her children would love the rides and amusements and they so dearly needed an outing. “You want to take us to Coney Island?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a beautiful day—why not go?” He grinned.
She inhaled, wanting to go so badly it hurt. But she said, “Evan, you know I can’t afford it and I can’t possibly let you take us on such an expensive outing.” She meant to be firm, but all she could think of was how much her children deserved a day at the amusement park.
“I know you can’t afford it, but I can. I intend to take you and the children and show you the best time you have ever had!”
Maggie knew she was about to cry. She was so moved she couldn’t even speak.
“Hey.” He caught her face in his hand. “Why are you crying?”
And she gave up. She didn’t even try to reply.
“Maggie,” Evan murmured, and pulled her into his arms.
Maggie held on, hard.
FRANCESCA STARED OUT the carriage window as Hart’s coach continued west on Seventy-second Street, entering Central Park. They were nearly at the bridge spanning the lake. Within moments, she would be confronting her blackmailer. Very grimly, she faced Joel, but it was Bill Randall she was thinking about.
The last time she had encountered Randall, he had been vicious and cruel. He had locked her in his sister’s bedroom, tying her ruthlessly to the bed there. She had managed to escape. When he had realized that, a violent encounter had ensued. Fortunately she’d had the winning hand—she’d struck him over the head with a fry pan.
He’d been hateful before she had exposed his sister as a murderess. With Mary incarcerated at Bellevue, his mother serving a sentence at Blackwell’s Island, she imagined he was even more hateful now. And she feared she was about to meet him on the bridge.
She tamped down her fear. She was going to get her portrait back!
She inhaled, opened her purse and stared at the two small pistols there. She took the one she had recently purchased and looked at Joel.
He started. “Is that a new gun?”
“It is. I realized some time ago that I had better have a substitute. And today, you will carry this one.”
His mouth dropped wide open. “I ain’t never shot nuthin’ or no one.”
“Don’t worry—it isn’t loaded.” It had seemed terribly irresponsible to give Joel a loaded gun. “But you are going to be my protection. I am assuming we are about to come face-to-face with Bill Randall—and he has never seen you. You can hide this under your shirt. Do not reveal it unless I am in trouble. He won’t know the chambers are empty.”
He smiled at her. “I can strap it to my waist with my belt and pull my shirt over it,” he said, clearly excited.
She wondered if she should have told Hart the truth. He wouldn’t be very pleased with her right now, either. But she had overcome Randall once before. Surely she could do so again.
She also had to consider that the blackmailer might not even be Randall. She might come face-to-face with Solange—whom she considered an even more dangerous adversary. “I am going to wait on the bridge with the valise for the blackmailer. But you will precede me, Joel. I want you to take that ball and play with it, about halfway across the bridge. When you see me make contact with our thief, pretend not to notice, but watch us with care. If all goes well, I will exchange the valise for the portrait. If things go awry, come running with that gun.”
“Don’t worry, Miz Cahill,” Joel said with arrogance. “We been in worse times before. We’ll get the painting—and the buzzer.”
Francesca certainly hoped so. She turned to gaze out the window. The bridge was beautiful, pale gray stone spanning the lake, with a few pedestrians and carriages crossing it. Ducks and swans floated on the water, as did one small toy sailboat. She noticed two boys on the lake’s edge on this side of the bridge—apparently they had launched the miniature sailboat.
Overhead, puffy cotton-candy clouds floated in an azure sky, the sun shining brightly. It was a perfect summer day.
With any luck, the nightmare of her missing portrait would be solved in a few more minutes.
She knocked on the ceiling of the coach and told Raoul to park. A moment later she and Joel alighted. The hansom that had been behind them now passed. Raoul waited for his instructions. “You can stay
here,” Francesca told him. “I won’t go more than halfway across the bridge. I do not know if the thug I am meeting will cause trouble or not.”
Raoul grunted. He was a big, dark man of Spanish descent who had served with Teddy Roosevelt in the Rough Riders in the war for Cuban independence. Francesca had not a doubt that Hart had already instructed him to keep a close eye on her. Before they had even become engaged, Hart had decided that Raoul would be a bodyguard of sorts for her.
She warmed in her chest, just a little. Hopefully, later that night, she and Hart would share a scotch together as she recounted the events of that afternoon. Hopefully, they would be celebrating the outcome.
She turned off her thoughts, glancing at the bridge. A single couple was crossing it now, as were two hansoms. She wondered if Randall—or Solange Marceaux—was in one of those cabs. She nodded at Joel.
He had his shirt out over the gun. A ball in his hand, Joel walked jauntily across the bridge, whistling. He began tossing the ball at the railing, and catching it as it bounced back.
One of the hansoms had stopped, quite near the midpoint of the bridge. Francesca’s heart thundered. She picked up the heavy valise and smiled grimly at Raoul. He was expressionless. It occurred to her that she had never heard him say a single word.
She marched to the bridge and started up it. The couple glanced at her as they passed her, somewhat curiously. After all, she did not carry a parasol, wasn’t wearing gloves and was toting a man’s leather attaché case. She carried her purse—with her pistol—in her other hand.
Francesca paused not far from the hansom, glancing at it as she set the valise down. Joel was now some ten feet head of her, playing ball vigorously. He was truly a wonderful assistant.
She suddenly noticed that they were the only ones on the bridge. It was very odd. As she had that disturbing thought, the hansom door opened.
Francesca froze. But a pretty young woman got out and hurried to the railing, crying out in delight. She turned and said something in German, and another, older woman got out to join her.
