Disappointment flooded his face. “I am sorry,” he said, too politely. “Is there anything I can do?”
She smiled as politely—it felt brittle, like plaster. “A nap should be enough, but thank you.”
He stepped back and bowed.
Relieved—horrified—she hurried up a wide oak staircase with an Oriental runner and a bronze railing. Tears seemed to fill her eyes. What was she doing? Why was she behaving this way? She glanced down from the first landing and saw him in the foyer, staring up at her, looking grim. Her heart quickened with more worry and more fear. She meant to smile down at him; instead, she looked away.
“Connie?” he called up to her.
She faltered between steps and glanced down. He was so handsome and she loved him so much that her heart hurt her with a sudden and unbearable pang. “Yes?”
“So whom did you have lunch with?” he asked.
He had canceled his plans for the evening. Suddenly his interest in an affair to support the new public library on 40th Street seemed boring as all hell, when he was an active supporter of a few select charities, mostly those connected with the arts. He had also sent word to Alfred that he wished all of the servants dismissed; Cook was to leave him his supper cooked and warmed in the kitchen, and Alfred was to open the 1882 Château Figeac and decant it.
Hart knew they thought him eccentric; he knew that, behind his back, they gossiped about his habits, his wardrobe, his women, his wealth, and his art. The housemaids tiptoed around him wide-eyed, clearly expecting him to ravish them in their tracks. (He had never and would never seduce a woman in his employ. And housemaids did not run to his taste, anyway.) Once, he had returned unexpectedly and had found several servants in the master suite, ogling the nude there, shocked and scandalized, as the oil was quite graphic. Upon realizing he was present, they had fled as if he were a cyclone and they were afraid for their lives.
He had had the most pleasant luncheon with Lady Montrose, so there was only one explanation for his humor having become foul—and that was her sharp-tongued bluestocking sister. He refused to think about Francesca Cahill now, as doing so annoyed him—he could not think of her without also thinking of his oh, so noble half brother, the epitome of virtue, Rick Bragg. How they truly deserved each other, but unfortunately, Rick was shackled by his bitch-wife, Leigh Anne.
Hart realized that his coach had stopped in front of the fifteen-room house he had just purchased. It had been built thirty years ago in the Georgian style, and it took up the corner of Fifth Avenue and 18th Street. He began to relax as he let Raoul open the door for him. He nodded at his driver, who merely grunted in reply. As Raoul slammed the carriage door shut, Hart said, “I will be several hours.” He glanced at his pocket watch. It was solid gold, and diamonds glittered around the bezel. “Be back at ten P.M.,” he instructed.
Raoul’s answer was another grunt, but his eyes gleamed. He knew what his employer was about.
Hart’s pace increased and he began to smile. He was genuinely fond of Daisy, and she was, on the surface, the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. She was also one of the most talented in bed, and her responses were genuine. He was very pleased to have reached an arrangement with her—she would be his mistress exclusively for a six-month period, after which she would be rewarded so handsomely she could leave her life of whoring behind. Of course, they had the option of renewing their agreement in six months, but Hart knew she would be eager to remain with him. He had the tendency to tire of women within several months, and he doubted he would wish for their arrangement to continue.
He walked up the pretty stone path leading to the front steps of the red brick mansion, noting that it was icy and had yet to be salted. Daisy had only moved in yesterday; still, even though she never discussed her past, he knew she had come from a good family and there was no reason for her not to have ordered a servant to sweep and salt the path. He knocked on the door.
It was opened after several minutes. “Yes?” a butler whom he did not recognize intoned.
Hart walked in and gave the man a cold stare. “I own this house and everything in it,” he said softly. “Make sure there is a doorman at this door the next time I arrive.”
The butler blanched. “I am sorry, sir,” he said. “Mr. Hart.” He bowed.
Hart did not even ask his name. “Where is Miss Jones?”
“In the salon, sir. She is—” He stopped as Hart shrugged off his coat, which the butler promptly took. Hart handed him his gold-tipped cane, which was for show only, and strode across the unpolished beige marble floors. He knocked once, something softening just a bit inside of him, and then he stepped inside, not waiting for Daisy’s response.
His response to her was almost immediate. She was standing in the middle of the half-furnished salon, clad in a stunning dress that was the palest, softest shade of pink imaginable—it matched her lips, which she never rouged, as their natural tone was perfect. Daisy was ethereal. She was slender, her skin the palest ivory, her hair the color of moonlight. She appeared fragile and delicate, but so breathtaking in beauty that sometimes it hurt to look at her face. For ultimately, it was her face that was magnificent: it was triangular, her lips lush and full and dominant, her nose small and perfect, her eyes wide and childlike. Her cheekbones were very high, hinting at some Slavic ancestry. He had never seen a man glance at her and look away—it was simply impossible.
She was also good-hearted.
Now, he studied her, noting in a glance that her dress was perfectly respectable—and that pleased him no end. He hated mistresses who flaunted their station in life. In fact, Daisy had a natural elegance—even starkly naked, her mouth on him, there was something regal and graceful about her.
She turned as he entered. Her blue eyes widened and she cried in her soft, breathy voice, a voice that was childish and belied her extreme intelligence, “Calder!”
He had already remarked the interview in progress and its nature. A heavyset middle-aged woman was seated in a gold bergère, and she had been trying to keep her expression impassive—but he also saw the distaste and disapproval in her eyes.
Daisy glided to him, smiling with genuine pleasure. “What a surprise,” she whispered.
He took one of her hands and kissed it gallantly—he refused to make an open display of either his affections or his desire in front of anyone, much less a servant.
Daisy smiled into his eyes.
He smiled back briefly and then walked in front of her and met the not quite blank gaze of the seated woman. Coolly he said, “Miss Jones will not be needing your services. Thank you. You may go.”
The woman stood. Her jaw clenched, she said, “But I have good references, sir.”
“You are dismissed.” He did not move, reminding himself of patience.
Stunned, she stood. “But I don’t understand,” she began.
Daisy stepped forward, her smile kind and apologetic. “I am sorry, Mrs. Heller. Apparently Mr. Hart has already filled this post, and I do apologize for the waste of your time.”
Mrs. Heller gripped her purse quite tightly. “If you change your mind, the agency will know where to reach me. Of course, by then I might be employed.”
“I am sure you will be,” Daisy said in her soft voice while Hart stood beside her, trying to be patient, acutely aware of the proximity of her slim, perfect body.
Mrs. Heller made a sound and hurried out of the salon. Hart knew it was an effort for her not to glare back at him, but to her credit, she did not.
Daisy walked after her and closed the salon doors behind her, so that she and Hart were entirely alone.
He watched her face him, wanting to take her in that moment, against the doors. He did not.
“Calder? Why?”
“She looks down on you as a whore, and thinks me the Devil,” he said quietly.
Her eyes widened. “I trust your judgment, of course,” she said, and she did not continue.
“I said I would take care of you, but perha
ps you did not quite understand my meaning.” He sauntered toward her. “I did not mean strictly monetarily, nor did I mean strictly in matters of the flesh. She would cause you grief in the end—she was not to be trusted.”
Daisy relaxed against the door. He sensed the moment her interest changed, and his own interest flared. “Thank you.” She regarded him with her steady blue cat eyes.
He leaned his shoulder against the door, near her but not touching her. “A glass of champagne? I sent over a case of Dom Perignon. Did you receive it?”
She nodded, smiling slightly, and she touched his cheek, cupping it with her soft, unblemished palm. “I even chilled a bottle.” She moved her thumb over his lips. “This is such a nice surprise.”
“I forgot to warn you—I am a man of impulse. I should have sent word I was coming—I apologize.” On that last word, he kissed the heart of her palm.
“You never have to send word,” she murmured.
“I want to kiss the heart of your sex,” he said as she melted against him. “You know what, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said on a tight and indrawn breath.
Their eyes locked. He slid his hands over her shoulders, smiling a little, feeling the last of his annoyance melting away. “I like the dress.”
She smiled, pleased. “I hope so. If ever I do anything you do not like, you must tell me,” she said.
He leaned close. “We shall argue and then make up.” He smiled as he kissed her.
She did not answer, as she could not. His tongue was in her mouth, exploring every wet inch of her. “This is the prelude, Daisy,” he said later. “My tongue here, this way, and there, later.”
When she could speak, she asked, “What about now?”
He pulled his mouth from hers, sliding his hands down her satin-clad back and over her high, ripe buttocks. Even through several layers of fabric, he separated them. “First, champagne,” he murmured. “And you shall tell me about your day and the progress you are making on the house.”
FIVE
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1902—5:00 P.M.
Bragg strode through the precinct, barking commands to Inspector Murphy, who trailed him. Francesca raced beside him excitedly, Joel on her heels. A roundsman assigned to the station house that day rushed up to Murphy, waving a piece of paper. The tall, burly inspector snatched it from the young man’s hands. “Is this the O’Donnell address?”
“Yes, sir,” the young patrolman answered, his eyes wide and excited behind owlish eyeglasses.
“Kathleen O’Donnell’s place of residence,” Murphy said, handing it to Bragg. “Before she died,” he added unnecessarily.
Bragg glanced at the paper and handed it back to him. “Take a police wagon. Bring two men, and follow me downtown.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy said. He turned to the bespectacled young officer. “Harold, fetch Potter and let’s go. Full gear!”
Bragg was already donning the coat he had carried over his arm. He suddenly looked at Francesca, his severe expression changing. It softened. “Once again, well done, Miss Cahill.”
She could not smile back; she was so breathless with excitement. Was O’Donnell related to the first victim? Was he her husband? A brother, a cousin? Surely there was a connection, as the coincidence was too great, his being Mary O’Shaunessy’s brother and his having the same last name as the first murder victim! “Thank you,” she said crisply. “I am coming, Bragg.”
He had been about to launch himself through the precinct’s wide front doors; now, he whirled. “Absolutely not. It is time for you to go home while I conduct police affairs alone.”
His words were a stunning blow. “But I must come!” she cried.
This time he did not answer her, racing through the front door. She ran after him. He could not leave her behind now!
He had not put on his gloves, which were jammed in a coat pocket. He began to crank up the roadster’s engine, turning the lever round and round.
Joel tugged on her sleeve.
“Not now,” Francesca said. “Bragg,” she began.
Joel stood up on his toes and whispered, “Lady! Did you see the paper before he crushed it? Did you see her address?”
She started and gazed at him. “Unfortunately, I did not.”
“Too bad,” he said, giving her a significant look.
The engine coughed as if it would not start, and then it roared to life.
By now, they had attracted a crowd of gawkers and passersby—some prostitutes and several shady-looking men, a ragged child or two. Bragg walked briskly around to the driver’s door, opened it, and slid in, reaching for the goggles he kept at hand. A police wagon was now halting behind the roadster; Murphy, Harold, and another officer were rushing down headquarters’ front steps.
Francesca did not hesitate. She pulled open the passenger’s door, and as Joel scooted into the narrow space behind the front seats, she leaped into the Daimler. “It is because of the girls, Bragg. I am not taking no for an answer.” She slammed her door closed.
He was disbelieving. “I cannot put you into this kind of danger,” he said. “And I will not.”
“What danger?” she cried. “We are merely going to question a man about his relationship to two women.”
“Two dead women, who were brutally murdered,” he said with anger.
She shivered, recalling the cross carved into Mary’s throat. “The knife to the throat was not what killed her, was it?” The cut had not looked that deep. How Mary had actually died had been bothering her no end.
He stared, his jaw clenching. “Francesca, good night.”
It was hard to believe, but she was going to lose this round—she was going to have to leave. “I will find out, eventually. I am sure the press will go into every ghastly detail.”
“She was stabbed,” he said bluntly. “In the back, repeatedly.”
Francesca looked at him, and as his words sank in, she shivered. “What?”
“Now do you see why I do not want you involved? And after the brutal attack, her clothes were carefully rearranged. She died slowly, Francesca—but fortunately, she would have passed out first.”
Francesca stared in horror.
“Please go home,” he said, suddenly weary. “I have a responsibility to the families of these two young women, and I cannot be responsible for you, too.”
Francesca got out of the car. She was grim. “I want to help you, Bragg. Can I help? Perhaps in some other way? I do not want to add to your worries.”
“I know you wish to help. But you will have your chance, another time.”
She managed to nod, crestfallen.
Suddenly he closed his eyes, but briefly. When he opened them he said, “I may not find O’Donnell today. You know that.”
She nodded.
He added, “But I will meet you at my house in two hours or so.”
She realized what he meant and she started. “You will meet the girls?” she asked, stunned.
“But they cannot stay,” he warned. “Except for a single night.”
She wanted to hug him. Of course, she did not dare; she beamed. “In two hours then, Bragg.” And never mind that she might be late for her supper and that Julia would be waiting at home, demanding to know where she had been.
He smiled a little, and she watched him drive off. The police wagon followed, pulled by a large Clydesdale horse.
“Now wut?” Joel asked peevishly.
Francesca was thoughtful, watching the Daimler turn right at the end of the block. The crowd quickly dissipated and she turned. “It is five o’clock. I think I shall make a purchase I have postponed and then go check on the girls—before Bragg returns home.” Suddenly that seemed like a very good idea, just in case Peter had had a rough time taking care of them.
Joel grinned at her slyly. “But don’t you want Kathleen O’Donnell’s address? Don’t you want to go down there an’ ask her folks all kind of questions?”
She studied him, somewhat amused. “You
know I do! But I cannot go now, in any case, for Bragg and the police will be there. Besides, it might take some time to learn where she lived.”
“I know how to get O’Donnell’s address,” Joel returned with a grin.
“You do?” she asked, startled. “How?”
“Got a fiver?”
Francesca was about to open her purse; she stopped. “Surely you do not expect me to bribe a police officer for the information?”
“Best way to get it,” Joel said cheerfully.
“Joel! That happens to be a criminal offense!”
“Lady, everyone pays off the spots. An’ you know it. He knows it.” Joel said, nodding his head in the direction Bragg had disappeared.
She stared at Joel, for one moment debating walking inside the station house, handing Captain Shea the five-dollar bill, and asking for Kathleen O’Donnell’s last known address. Then she shook her head, trying to clear her spinning mind. “I will not bribe a police officer,” she said firmly.
Joel held out his hand.
“What?” But she knew what he wanted and, more important, what he intended to do.
He grinned at her.
She handed him the five dollars. “Oh, dear,” she said.
“Be right back,” he said, and he ran up the front steps of the squat brownstone building.
The gun shop was on Sixth Avenue and 45th Street, a block lined with stores, many of them apparel stores, with a music store next door. Joel had succeeded in gaining Kathleen O’Donnell’s address, which was on Avenue C, but Francesca would wait until the morning to go there—as Bragg and his men might still be at the flat, looking for clues and evidence, and Julia was expecting her for supper. Sixth Avenue was busy now; suited men, huddled up in their overcoats, top hats pulled low, were either walking briskly up- or downtown on their way home from their place of employment or leaping onto one of the electric trolleys that ran uptown. Black cabs congested the traffic, and all were occupied. An occasional gentleman’s carriage or coach was visible, and one block away a series of el trains roared downtown, one after another, clearly on a rush-hour schedule.
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