She sobered. For he was right. And which employment agency should she use to find a nanny for the girls, and could she hire one on credit? Sleuthing was quite expensive, as cab fares and bribes ate heavily into her allowance. Traveling back and forth to school did not help matters. And then there was the list of items she had promised herself while on the Randall Murder that she would purchase, items that she had quickly come to realize were crucial to investigative work. At the top of that list was a small gun. There were just too many killers in the city.
She sighed. Tomorrow she would visit a gun shop.
Fifteen minutes later, as it began to flurry, the cab halted at Sherry Netherland’s. As Francesca had kept the cab waiting on Avenue C, the fare was outrageous—two and a half dollars. After she paid the driver, she and Joel alighted. The doormen smiled at her, then saw Joel and barred her way.
Francesca smiled her best smile. “Hullo. Might we enter?”
“No rowdies in here,” one of the doormen said, a fat fellow with a handlebar mustache.
“I beg your pardon. I am Francesca Cahill, Andrew Cahill’s daughter. And Joel Kennedy is my friend and assistant—he comes with me.” She instantly dug a calling card out of her purse, slapping it against the man’s chest. He caught it. “Or shall I speak with the manager of this fine establishment—where I dine frequently with my family?”
“Hey, are you the young lady who caught Randall’s killer?” the second doorman asked.
Francesca nodded, surprised and proud all at once.
“Hey, Joe, she caught the killer all by herself, used a cast-iron pan or something. Been in the papers.” The doormen exchanged looks. Then they moved aside.
“Please,” the first doorman said. “And I beg your pardon, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca felt like a famous person. She gave Joel an amazed look, and together they walked into the wide lobby of the hotel.
Pillars graced its perimeter and huge Oriental rugs covered its marble floors. Francesca knew the way to the restaurant, and she and Joel crossed the lobby quickly. A maitre d’ came forward, smiling apologetically. “I am afraid we are not serving lunch, miss.”
Francesca did not answer. Only three parties remained in the large dining room, and in one corner, at a white, linen-clad table, sat her sister and Hart.
He was touching her hand. She was laughing and pulling her hand away. He leaned forward, speaking again. Connie seemed somewhat flustered and was definitely acting coy.
Francesca could only stare. Even from a distance, Hart was the kind of man to attract a woman’s attention. He was dark, deadly so, with swarthy skin and thick black hair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a small cleft in his chin. Today he was wearing a starkly black suit and a snowy white shirt. She realized every time she had seen him, he had been wearing black.
But it suited him.
As if sensing that he was being watched, he turned and looked her way.
And even from a distance, she sensed his surprise. And then, she sensed his pleasure.
He stood, still looking toward her.
Francesca turned to the maitre d’. “My sister is dining with Mr. Hart. I have an urgent message for her.”
“Oh, please, then do go in.” He smiled and turned away, and she and Joel walked past his small desk and through the spacious dining room.
Hart remained standing, his gaze unwavering, upon her. Francesca briefly felt flustered, and she looked at Connie, who wasn’t smiling. If looks could kill, why, Francesca surely would be dead.
There was also an empty bottle of wine on the table, she saw. Connie’s glass contained a sip or two, while Hart’s was empty.
“This is an exceedingly pleasant surprise,” Hart murmured. He had a way of speaking that was purely sensual. It reminded Francesca of the fact that he enjoyed visiting two supposed sisters at the very same time. Daisy and Rose worked in a brothel and Francesca had met them on her last case. She could not stop her thoughts from turning to a very intimate image of Hart with both striking women.
“We were just passing by,” Francesca said cheerfully. “My, a burgundy with lunch.”
“I am sure you were,” Connie said coolly.
“The wine was superb, as was the meal—and the company.” He smiled warmly at Connie, who cast her eyes demurely down, and then Hart grinned at Joel. “Hey, kid,” he said.
Joel eyed him with hostility. “Name’s Kennedy.”
“I see your little hoodlum has not changed his manners,” Hart said, unruffled and amused. “Pray tell the both of you are not chasing ruffians these days.”
“His manners are just fine,” Francesca returned.
“Ever the defender of the underdog,” Hart said. “It is ever so charming, Francesca.”
She was pleased, because she knew he meant it. “Should I change overnight?” she bantered.
“I hope not!” He laughed, his hand going to his heart. “I would be stricken. What would I do without such a unique friend?”
She smiled, realizing he was flirting with her and she loved it. “You would be at a complete loss; I assure you of that.” She glanced at Connie. “How was lunch?”
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 uncomtortable? 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, a
nnoyed. “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?
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