“I am not blind, Francesca,” Julia said, but with some kindness.
Desperation overcame her. And with it came fear. What did Julia mean? Had she guessed Francesca’s feelings? “We are friends. That is all.”
“And that is as it should be, of course. Andrew recently told me he has a wife. In any case, I shall begin a serious search for a proper husband for you.”
Francesca was disbelieving. She turned her gaze upon her father. “Papa, surely you disagree! Besides, I cannot be forced to the altar. You could not force me to wed.”
Andrew hesitated. Francesca saw an opening and seized it. “Papa, you know that one day I shall marry, but it must be the right man. And one cannot summon that man up as if one were a magician.”
Julia cut in, also sensing that Andrew was wavering. “I shall do my best to find you the right man, Francesca. And until then, there shall be no more investigative work.” She looked at Andrew. “You may speak with Bragg. I am certain he has not approved of Francesca’s interference in police affairs. Tell him how concerned we are.”
“I intend to do just that,” Andrew said stoutly.
Her father and Bragg were both reformers, passionately so. They admired one another and were friends. Francesca turned to Andrew. “Papa? He did not know. I did not tell him where I was going, and if I had, he would not have let me go. Mama? That is the truth.”
Julia shook her head. “I am going to lunch. I will be home tonight, and we shall have supper together,” she said. She gave Francesca a look and she had a feeling her mother intended to stay in order to supervise her.
Francesca watched her leave the room. When she was alone, she faced her father. “So you did know, didn’t you?”
He started. “I knew what, Francesca?”
“You knew that Bragg was married.” It was hard to keep her feelings from showing.
“He told you?”
“Yes, he did.” She remained calm, poised.
His gaze slipped over her features with some concern. “I met his wife once when they were first married, up in Boston. So I knew he was married, yes.”
She closed her eyes, recalling the moment Bragg had told her about his wife, a woman he had not seen in over four years, a woman he despised. In that moment, all of her hopes and dreams had been shattered. It was a moment she would carry with her in her heart forever. She pulled herself together, and looked at her father, with a small smile. “Why didn’t you tell me, Papa?” she asked lightly.
He stared, apparently surprised. “Should I have said something? The two of you have only just met. I do not know why his wife is not here in the city with him. I do not know why there has been no mention of her in all of the stories the press has written about him. A man is entitled to his privacy, and I never asked Rick what was amiss. I assumed he would treat you with respect, as you are my daughter. What has happened here?” he asked cautiously.
Francesca knew she must tread with extreme caution, now and in the future. “Over the course of the Burton Affair, we became friends. We have so much in common. I cannot recall exactly why, or when, he mentioned Leigh Anne to me, but it is a tragic story, and I, too, believe a man is entitled to his privacy, so I shall say no more.” There, she thought on bated breath, she had done it.
“Yes, you do have a lot in common with him. And it is too bad he is not single himself. He would be a great match for you.” Andrew looked at his pocketwatch. “I have a luncheon as well. Business. I must be off.” He smiled now at her, and kissed her cheek. “Please behave sensibly, Francesca.”
She knew he referred to her sleuthing. “I promise to try very hard to stay out of danger in the future. And I mean it, Papa.” And that was the truth, pure and simple. “Papa, you aren’t going to rush to marry me off, are you? Surely that was only your anger speaking?”
He hesitated. “I want you to be happy, Francesca. You know that. So, no, I will not rush you into marriage, but I agree with Julia, it is time to think seriously of marriage for you, and that means seeking a suitable man.”
Francesca inhaled, hard. At least she had bought herself some time, at least Andrew was coming around to her point of view. “Thank you, Papa,” she said.
“Have a good day,” he returned.
Francesca watched him leave the room. Andrew would soon be on her side of the fence again, but Julia was another matter, indeed. Now that Evan was affianced, she would sink her teeth into finding Francesca a suitor—and a husband. Francesca sighed.
If ever the day came, she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the altar, she decided firmly.
With that unpleasant image in her head, Francesca left the room.
Francesca was in her bedroom at her desk, her biology notes in front of her, when Connie walked in. Fortunately, she was not able to concentrate, as she kept thinking about the young woman whom she had found dead in the snow. The guilt had lessened a bit, but her resolve to find the killer had grown. Her new client was also on her mind. Therefore, her sister’s appearance was hardly an interruption. Francesca smiled and said, “Don’t you ever knock?”
“The door was open,” Connie returned, smiling widely. “How do I look?”
Francesca blinked, bewildered, for as always, her sister was sheer perfection. The pale pink dress she wore was more than lovely and more than elegant, and her blue eyes were sparkling. In fact, Connie looked quite happy, which pleased Francesca to no end. Maybe Connie had not been exaggerating when she had said the past must be dismissed; maybe she and Neil had truly mended their fences, and all was as it should be. Francesca was pleased. “You have never been more beautiful, and I must say, your spirits seem exceedingly good.”
“They are,” Connie said—and she grinned. She grinned and pirouetted a bit—and Francesca’s smile vanished.
She shot to her feet. “Oh, God! I forgot! Today is Friday—you have a luncheon with Calder Hart!”
Connie smiled coyly. “I certainly do—at one. I only came to ask you if this dress is too prim and proper.”
Francesca stared. “Too prim and proper?” she echoed.
“Well, it is a rather virginal shade of pink, don’t you think?”
“Have you lost your mind? You cannot meet him for lunch!” Francesca cried, truly agitated. Calder Hart was a notorious ladies’ man. He did not even try to elude his terrible reputation; indeed, he flaunted it. And Francesca knew beyond a doubt that he was preying upon her sister. For he was a man who found married ladies fascinating, and the whole world knew it. And this in spite of the fact that he had a mistress, and even consorted with a pair of beautiful sisters in a brothel.
“I can, and I shall, and we have already had this conversation. Do I look too prim?” Connie walked over to the Venetian mirror above an extraordinarily carved walnut bureau, and her reflection became anxious.
“How can you preen for him? What about your husband?” Francesca cried, moving to stand beside her.
Their gazes met in the mirror. “Hart is a friend and nothing more, and I am doing nothing wrong.” Connie blushed. “I am well aware that he is a terrible flirt, but many married women enjoy an inconsequential flirtation now and then.”
“But not you,” Francesca pointed out.
Connie faced her. “I have changed. I am enjoying his attentions. Fran, you almost sound as if you do not trust me. It is only lunch.”
“Oh, Con, I trust you,” Francesca said. “It is Hart I do not trust. He thinks to seduce you!”
“At lunch?” Connie asked, rolling her eyes, but her color deepened.
“How much do you wish to wager that after lunch he will offer you a ride somewhere? And in his coach, I am certain he will make his move.”
“But I am taking my own coach,” Connie said.
“Then he will invite you to see his art collection!”
“I have already seen it,” she said. Her gaze met Francesca’s and now they both blushed. Hart’s collection was infamous; one of the paintings he displayed openly in his
entry hall was absolutely sacrilegious, and he had a very shocking nude woman hanging in his grand salon.
“I am sure he has a hundred paintings upstairs in his private apartments,” Francesca muttered. She was going to have to have a serious conversation with Hart, oh yes.
“Oh please. Anyway, we are meeting at one, so I must be off.”
“Please don’t go,” Francesca said, following her from the room. “Now I am worried, Con. What will happen when Neil finds out?”
“I am merely having lunch!” Connie said over her shoulder as they went downstairs. “Besides, I am not telling him—as there is nothing to tell.”
Francesca had a terrible feeling—no good would come of this flirtation, oh no. “Where are you dining?”
“Sherry Netherland’s,” Connie said, and on the landing she whirled. “Why?”
“Perhaps I might chaperone,” Francesca said bluntly.
“I don’t think so,” Connie returned evenly. “In fact, I seem to recall your suggesting just such a thing on Tuesday, and Hart quite clearly declined your offer.”
Francesca folded her arms, annoyed now to no end, and watched as Connie went downstairs. The two of them had flirted madly on Tuesday in the dining room of the Plaza Hotel. In fact, Francesca knew Hart was rather fond of her. But on that afternoon, it had been as if she did not even exist.
Why? She and Connie looked almost alike. Was it because she was the prim, bookish one? Of course, she wasn’t jealous, not a stitch. She was in love with Bragg.
Of course, Hart knew that, too. And Bragg was his half brother, in spite of the rivalry and animosity they shared.
Francesca sighed, when she heard Connie call up to her. “Fran! Mrs. Kennedy is here to see you.”
Surprised, Francesca started down the last flight of stairs, wondering what had brought Maggie Kennedy back to see her so soon. She could not imagine it would be something as innocuous as not being able to find one of the ordered fabrics, and she could have sent Joel with such a message. Since she also worked, shouldn’t she be at the Moe Levy factory?
Francesca entered the large entrance hall, which was graced with pairs of huge Corinthian columns, marble panels inset in the walls, and a magnificent pastoral scene painted upon the high ceiling. Pleasure filled her when she saw Joel’s dark, shaggy-haired head, until she realized he was standing protectively by his mother, and her smile vanished.
Maggie turned. Her eyes were red from weeping, and she held a handkerchief in her hand. It was crumpled.
Francesca met Connie’s gaze briefly, and her sister left. She hurried forward. “Mrs. Kennedy, what has happened! Are you all right? Please, do come inside and sit down.”
“Thank you,” Maggie managed.
Francesca looked inquiringly at Joel as she ushered the pair into the small salon. He gave her a long look, one she could not decipher. What could be wrong?
Maggie sank into a chair. Clearly, she was fighting not to weep again.
Francesca did not sit. She took Maggie’s hands in hers, kneeling in front of her. “Surely this is not about a few gowns. Has something happened?”
Maggie nodded, still not able to speak.
Joel, who was slim and short, his complexion extremely pale in a startling contrast to his dark eyes and black curly hair, stood by his mother. “Her friend been done in,” he said bluntly. “Colder than a block o’ ice.”
“Oh, dear,” Francesca said, gripping Maggie’s hands more tightly.
Maggie inhaled hard. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill.”
“Francesca. Please, do not worry.”
“No.” She attempted a smile and failed. “I . . . I am in shock. You see, I just heard . . . I was at work . . . Mary worked at Moe Levy for a few months last year, that was how we met.” Her face seemed about to crumble again.
Francesca pulled up a tufted ottoman and sat down. “Please, start from the beginning.”
“You have to find the killer,” Joel cried. “She was a nice lady an’ she got no man, just her two little girls.”
Francesca looked at Joel. “You know I will do my best,” she said.
He nodded fiercely. “I know.”
“Joel,” Maggie whispered, reaching out. He gave her his hand and she clung to it as if he were the stronger of the two.
Watching them, Francesca’s heart turned over. Suddenly she wanted a son like Joel, someone smart and loyal and too adorable for words. In the next instant, she sat up straighter than a board, stunned by herself. She had never wanted a child before. Of course, she had always assumed that one day she would have several, but just then, the desire had been intense and tangible.
Of course, she would not have children now. Because the man she loved was not available, and she would not marry anyone else.
Maggie was speaking, so softly Francesca had to lean forward to hear her. “The police came to the factory with a drawing of her. They asked if any of us knew her. I recognized the portrait instantly. They took me aside and began asking me questions—I realized something was terribly wrong. But I never dreamed she would be dead!”
“They told you she was dead?”
Maggie nodded. “Her body was found last night by a woman, buried in the snow. They wouldn’t tell me how she had died, only that it had been murder.”
Francesca stared. She could not speak. Dear God! Maggie’s friend was the dead woman she had discovered last night!
Maggie looked at her. “Miss Cahill?”
Francesca swallowed, hard. “Who was she, Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Mary O’Shaunessy, a lovely girl, and as Joel said, she has two daughters, three and six. She never mentioned her husband, and my understanding was that he had left them years ago. She was a seamstress, until recently—a few months ago she began working in a private home as a lady’s maid. She was so happy with the change,” Maggie added sadly.
“Which home did she work in? Where did she live? Do you think her neighbors will speak with me?” Francesca asked quickly. “And did she mention that she knew she was in danger?”
Maggie seemed puzzled. “She never mentioned that she was in any danger, Miss Cahill. And I cannot recall where she was working, but I am sure one of the neighbors will know. And they are all good, hard-working people, they will speak to you, Miss Cahill.”
“I can take you to her flat,” Joel said eagerly. “We been out o’ work too long,” he added.
Impulsively, Francesca ruffled his thick hair. “Yes, we have.” She was disappointed that Mary O’Shaunessy had not confided in her friend. “Mrs. Kennedy? I will do everything I can to solve your friend’s murder,” Francesca said resolutely. And she meant every word.
“Thank you.” Maggie seemed relieved, and she had recovered her composure. “I knew you would help us. This is a terrible act of evil, Miss Cahill. Mary was a ray of sunshine. And those poor little girls.”
Francesca patted her hand, when she heard her brother’s voice in the foyer. Loudly, he was asking for Francesca. By the tone of his voice, she could see that his humor was quite good. But then, Evan was usually in a sunny mood; it was his disposition.
Maggie stood. “I must get back to the factory, or I will be let go, especially after calling in sick yesterday.”
Francesca walked her into the hall. “If they think to dismiss you, let me know, as I will have a word with the manager.”
Maggie smiled a bit at her.
Evan was approaching, his strides long and careless. He was dark-haired and handsome; now, his tie was askew, his suit jacket carelessly open as well, revealing his lean, muscular build. He was smiling at Francesca. “So there you are! I have had the oddest request.” His gaze moved over Joel and Maggie with some curiosity. He paused beside her, flinging his arm around her. “And how is my daring, frying pan—wielding little sister?”
“Not funny,” Francesca said, slipping free. “My, we are jolly today.”
“I had a very interesting evening last night,” he said, glancing at Maggie again. His brow
s furrowed a bit, as if puzzled. “Hello. Have we met?” he asked, his blue gaze sliding over her figure.
“No.” Maggie looked at the floor.
“Evan, this is Mrs. Kennedy, and her son, Joel. My brother, Evan.”
“So he’s the one keepin’ Grace Conway,” Joel said flatly, his eyes bright with admiration.
Grace Conway was an actress. She was also Evan’s mistress, never mind that he was unwillingly engaged to Sarah Channing. Francesca had never heard of her before she had discovered her relationship to her brother as, apparently, she did vaudeville theater in working neighborhoods. But clearly Joel knew the beautiful red-headed actress and singer, and as Maggie glanced up, blushing, it was clear that she did as well.
A silence fell.
Evan was also blushing, high up on his cheekbones. “Well,” he said, looking from Joel to Fran. “I can see that your hoodlum friend is well-versed in my private affairs.”
“I am sorry,” Francesca managed, mortified.
“Wut’s the ruckus? She’s a beauty, an’ we saw her in some play when I was ten. I ain’t niver forgot her,” Joel said, looking from Evan to Francesca and back again.
Evan took Joel by the arm. “Come with me a moment, young fellow,” he said. He pulled him to the other end of the hall, and, as he was six foot tall, he leaned over to mutter in Joel’s ear. There was nothing harsh or unkind in his manner, and Francesca smiled a bit, watching the pair. Joel turned red, looking abashed.
Francesca faced Maggie. “I am sorry about that,” she said.
Maggie had been watching the exchange between Evan and Joel as well. “So am I. I didn’t mean to cause your brother embarrassment. I will speak with Joel. He doesn’t understand etiquette, Miss Cahill, but that is my fault,” she said firmly.
Francesca felt a rush of warmth toward the other woman. “It’s not your fault.”
“No. I know the difference between your class and mine. But I haven’t had time to teach Joel proper manners, and it didn’t seem so very important—until now.” She glanced toward Evan and Joel again as they returned, Joel still flushed, Evan apparently having recovered from the brief moment of embarrassment. Blushing, Maggie said, “Mr. Cahill, please forgive me and my son. We have been terribly rude.”
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