by Brenda Joyce
Shocked, Francesca pulled away, her gaze wide and on his.
“You know, I might very well become jealous,” he said, staring thoughtfully at her.
“Please,” she began.
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Bragg can exercise incredible self-restraint. He will never cross the line with you. So you must forget this infatuation of yours and move on. Otherwise, it will only bring you heartbreak and grief—not to mention the waste of much time.”
“It already has,” she muttered.
“I can see that.” He sighed. “Were you not involved, this would have been a most amusing melodrama. As it is, I admit, I look at you and am somewhat moved.” He shook his head again.
“I don’t know what to say.” She hesitated. “Does Bragg love his wife? At all?”
Hart laughed. “She’s a bitch.”
Francesca gasped.
“Forgive me. But you did ask. She is also a slut, by the way. I do believe her current lover is a Spanish count.” He shook his head. “If I were Bragg, and I do mean literally, I would bring her here, force her to live with me, and keep her on a very short leash. Instead, he lets her roam Europe with her string of paramours, living in the lap of luxury, as if she were a queen, which she believes she is. He continues to pay her exorbitant bills, bills he cannot afford, by the way, and chooses to look the other way.”
Was Leigh Anne really so bad? Oddly, Francesca was relieved. And he had not answered her question.
As if reading her thoughts, Hart said, “No, my dear, sweet Francesca, Bragg does not love Leigh Anne. But she is the cross he has decided he will bear, as he is too proper to get rid of her—one way or another.”
Francesca gasped. “Surely you did not mean whatever it is you sounded as if you were saying!”
He laughed. “You are so naive. That is also charming. Which world have you grown up in? The real world, or one of poetry, novels, and schoolbooks?”
Francesca did not bother to answer. She sank down on a love seat. At least Bragg did not love his wife. At least she was truly a horrible woman. Then she realized the train of her thoughts and she was angry. She must get over him! In that, Hart was right. Because there simply was no hope.
He sat down right beside her, and as he was a muscular man, the small love seat instantly became too crowded. He took her hand. “You are so despondent. I confess, I do not like seeing you this way. I am on my way to a black-tie supper. Why don’t you join me? 1 will wait for you to change and we shall be fashionably late.” He smiled at her.
Francesca tried to tug her hand from his, but it was impossible. So she stood up, and he had to let her palm go. “I do appreciate the offer, and your kindness, Calder, but I am afraid I must decline.”
He slowly rose. “Why? So you can mope about this empty house?” His gaze was searching; she avoided it.
For it was after seven o’clock. Anthony was waiting for her. She would solve this case—alone. Without Bragg. As they were no longer a team.
Even that notion hurt.
“I am afraid a bit of moping is just what the doctor has ordered,” Francesca said with a small smile.
He studied her, too closely, and said, “I have good instincts, and I think you are up to something, but for the life of me, I have no idea what that something might be.”
“What, me?” Francesca gasped, her eyes wide and, she hoped, innocent. She batted her lashes at him.
He laughed, caught her by the waist, and pulled her shamelessly close—completely up against his side. He pecked her cheek; his lips seemed to make her skin burn. “Forget it, Francesca. You shall never be the coquette. I am off, then. If you need me, your good deeds of these past few days shall be reciprocated. You may call anytime, night or day.” He winked at her. “Even if I am indisposed, I shall accept your call.”
Francesca was thoroughly taken aback. She walked him to the door. “Thank you, Calder. I do appreciate that.”
“You should. I cannot recall ever making such an offer before. Now. Chin up. Forget my duty-shackled brother. No good can come of it, not for either of you. There are other fish in the sea. Trust me.” He grinned at her and received his hat and coat from a servant.
As he did, a maid hurried up to her. “Miss Cahill? I am so sorry, but this came earlier and Penelope forgot to give it to you.”
Francesca accepted a small and oddly stained paper from her as Calder shrugged on his coat. She opened it and instantly saw a child’s labored scrawl, and knew the note was from Joel even before she read it.
Mis Cahill. cant come tonite. Sorry. Joel.
Her heart sank.
“Trouble?”
She jerked and looked up at Hart, who was watching her closely. Darn it, but now she would have to meet Anthony alone. “No.” She smiled. A doorman was opening the front door for him. Francesca said, “So we remain friends after all.”
“Yes, we do,” he said with a merry glint in his eyes. “I am one to hold a grudge, but not against a beautiful, clever, and kind woman.” He bowed elaborately at her.
She laughed.
“I like that sound,” he said, and with a parting smile he left.
Francesca paused, watching him stride down the steps and to his elegant, overly large coach, one drawn by four stunning blacks. A footman in dark livery opened the door for him and he disappeared inside. The coach moved around the circular half of the drive, the team quite spectacular, and down it, toward the avenue on the other side. Francesca sighed.
That had been like being in the eye of a hurricane, she decided. One false step, and she might have found herself in gale winds. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or alarmed. Of course, having such a man as a friend could not hurt. Especially given her current new line of work.
She watched a shadow detach itself from a large oak tree by the house and take on the shape of a man. He approached the house swiftly.
Mark Anthony. Tension overcame her. She would have to go alone. Breathlessly Francesca turned. “Wallace, please get my coat and hat. I am going out.”
She was on her way to catch a killer.
Only now, she was afraid.
Mark Anthony had had another hired fare waiting for them on the avenue, and this time, to his credit, he paid the fare when they arrived at their destination, a small hotel on the corner of Broadway and Houston Street. During the ride downtown he did not speak, although he remained watchful. “This is it,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him up the hotel’s front steps.
The hotel was called the Grande, rather inappropriately, as it was a run-down four-story brick building that looked neither inviting nor luxurious. “After you,” Mark Anthony said with a smile.
Francesca hesitated. She was extremely nervous, and the fact that Anthony had not been talkative during the cab ride had not helped calm her down. “I thought Georgette did not want her whereabouts known,” she said, stalling. Her mind raced. Should she go up? She desperately wanted to speak to Georgette. What if this was a trap? But if this was a trap, what kind of trap could it be?
Anthony smiled at her with his cocky grin. “1 just took the room two hours ago,” he said.
That did not ease her fears.
He looked directly at her. “Why are you so nervous? I thought you believed my sister to be innocent.” He grinned as he said “sister.”
“I do,” she said tersely.
“Are you afraid of me?” He was mockingly incredulous.
She could not answer him.
“Listen.” His smile faded. “I might be a lot of things, but in my own way, I’m a gentleman.”
Francesca knew her expression had become disbelieving.
He jabbed his hand at her. “What that means is that I don’t hurt ladies.”
She looked at him. Did that mean he hurt other kinds of people?
“Oh, forget it.” He seemed disgusted. “Do you want to see Georgette or not?”
Francesca found herself nodding. She told herself that first thing
tomorrow, she would purchase a gun just in case she ever had the need to protect herself. Perhaps Calder would help her.
Anthony nodded gruffly and gestured for her to precede him in. Francesca lifted her skirts and did so, entering a small lobby with a dilapidated couch and a threadbare rug. It was empty except for the clerk reading a newspaper behind the reception desk.
Anthony ignored him and they walked up the unlit narrow stairs to the second floor. He knocked on door 200.
“Who is it?” Georgette asked in a low and fearful voice from the other side of the door.
“It’s me—an’ Miss Cahill,” Anthony returned.
The door was unchained and unbolted. Francesca stepped into a small bedroom with a single bed, on chair, a bureau, and wall pegs. There were no personal items in the room, so clearly Anthony had been telling the truth about only renting it a few hours ago.
Relief filled Georgette’s eyes, but whether it was at the sight of Francesca or Anthony, Francesca did not know. Georgette had eyes only for Francesca. She looked extremely agitated, at once nervous and distraught. “Miss Cahill,” she cried, “I am so glad you have come!”
“Please, think nothing of it. I am worried about you, Miss de Labouche,” Francesca said, clasping the other woman’s hand briefly.
“And I am so worried, too!” Georgette cried. “The boy said you are working for me. But I have not hired you! Then Sean said you were doing so for free. Is that true?”
Francesca nodded and glanced at Anthony, who was standing with his brawny arms folded across his broad chest, watching them both with interest. So that was his real name. Or at least, so she assumed.
“He also said that you said the police do think I am the murderess!”
Francesca gripped her elbow. “Please, Georgette. Your disappearance has only heightened the police commissioner’s suspicions. You must trust me now. You must come with me, to police headquarters. He wishes, dearly, to speak with you.”
Georgette looked fearfully at Anthony. He said, “Can you swear, on the Bible, that she will not be arrested?”
Francesca looked at him. She looked back at Georgette. They were both waiting. She wet her lips. “That would be an impossible promise to make.”
“I thought so,” he said.
“I didn’t do it. You still believe me, don’t you?” Georgette asked, tugging on her sleeve.
“Yes, I do,” Francesca said. “But why are you so afraid?”
“Because I am the mistress. I am the other woman, the cheap woman, the immoral one—the whore! Whom shall they blame? I mean, I think she did it—his wife. They’ve hated each other for years! But it happened in my house. I am the one who will go to jail for this. I am the one who will hang, because I am not a real lady!”
“You will not go to jail, because you are innocent,” Francesca said firmly. “And we do not hang murderers, Miss de Labouche.”
“But you can’t promise me that!” Georgette cried.
“You convince the police commissioner, being as he is your friend and all,” Anthony said softly.
Francesca looked at him. Their eyes locked. “What did that innuendo mean?” she asked stiffly.
He smiled at her. And he shrugged.
“Bragg happens to be married. Did you know that?” she flashed. She felt dangerous now.
He stared, his smile disappearing. “No, I did not. That’s news. What’s the deal? His wife a crazy woman, locked up in an attic somewhere?”
“That’s not amusing. She lives in Europe,” Francesca said tersely.
“He’s still your friend. It’s the word on the street. You can walk into his office anytime, they say. So convince him Georgette is innocent.”
Francesca was so angry—and she did not know where the anger had come from. She marched over to Anthony and faced him down. In her one-inch heels, they were exactly the same height, meaning they stood eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose now. Of course, her bonnet actually gave her an inch or two in the end result. “Look, Mr. Anthony, or Sean, or whatever your name is. Just what is it to you? Why are you so bent on protecting Miss de Labouche? Who is she, to you? Are you her friend?” she demanded furiously.
“Well, well, the little Fifth Avenue lady has claws.” Anthony grinned at her, as if amused. “Georgette and I are old friends, if you know what I mean.”
“You were lovers,” Francesca said.
“My, someone is awfully curious,” Anthony said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.
Georgette stepped between them. “We haven’t been lovers in years, but we have remained good friends, that is all,” Georgette said.
Francesca regarded her. “Your neighbors think he is your brother.”
She shrugged. “You know how people talk. It’s easier to say he’s my brother. That way he can call and tongues don’t wag.”
Francesca believed her. She turned back to Anthony. “Did you know Randall? Had you ever met him?”
“Nope, but I knew of him, and I’d seen him around. We didn’t ran in the same circles,” he said wryly.
“Did he treat Georgette well?”
Anthony stared. “If you’re asking me if I liked him, the answer is...” He shrugged emphatically. “Georgette’s a grown woman. She got a good deal. He paid the rent, the staff, bought her a few trinkets, some clothes. I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse. He didn’t beat her, or hurt her in any way. I’d never heard her say he was mean or jealous. It was OK. It was good for Georgette.”
Francesca didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She looked at Georgette, who was an attractive, lush woman—the kind of woman whose attentions many men would enjoy and covet. Did Anthony still like her in that way? Had he been jealous—and enough so to kill Randall?
He smirked at her. “Don’t look at me. I had no damn reason to kill him. The one thing I’m not is a killer.”
Francesca thought she just might believe him. But she saw Anthony’s eyes go past her, to where Georgette stood, and there was a warning in them. Francesca turned.
Georgette looked about to cry. She began wringing her hands convulsively. “Sean—”
“Shut up,” he said harshly.
Tears filled her eyes.
“What is it?” Francesca asked quickly. “What are the two of you hiding?”
Georgette began to cry.
“Shit,” Anthony said. “Look at what you’ve done.” He was angry, and Francesca stepped away from him—but he was moving to Georgette. He put his arm around her and she wept on his shoulder.
They were still intimate, Francesca realized with a start. She felt certain.
He murmured, “Miss Cahill is going to go. I’ll drop her at the police station. She’ll convince the commissioner you’re innocent and in no time you can go home. Don’t cry.”
“My life is over. I’m going to jail,” she wept.
A frisson swept over Francesca.
“Sean ...” It was a plea.
“No!”
Georgette pulled away. “Someone’s going to find out! That little busybody overheard you and Paul on the street! She’s bound to have told the police already. I know Mary from years of being with Paul; trust me!”
Conversations flashed through Francesca’s mind. Mary, tight-lipped and filled with anger, saying, Hart was blackmailing my father.... I overheard them on the day of the murder.
She had been speaking about Calder Hart. But Hart had been in Baltimore, or en route from Baltimore, at the time.
Anthony’s jaw was clenched. “Not another word,” he warned.
But Hart wouldn’t have condescended to blackmail his father anyway—no matter what. Francesca looked at the two of them, seized with total comprehension. “You were blackmailing him, weren’t you? The two of you? Or was it only Anthony? Mary overheard a conversation on the morning of the murder, and she thought it was between Randall and Hart, but Hart wasn’t in the city at the time. It was you,” she said, looking at Anthony. “Randall was arguing with you.”
&n
bsp; Anthony’s jaw tensed. Georgette cried, “I didn’t know about the blackmail, I swear, not until it was too late, and even then, I had nothing to do with it!”
Francesca felt the horror begin.
Anthony’s eyes locked with hers.
His eyes were so cold now. They were cold enough to be the eyes of a killer.
Francesca tried to discern just how far behind her the door was. Because she had to make a run for it, now.
“Christ,” Anthony said in real disgust. Then, “Not another word, Georgette. And as for you, Miss Cahill, you have just ruined my evening.”
TWENTY
Monday, February 3, 1902—8:00 P.M.
Francesca stood unmoving by the door, her pulse pounding so rapidly now, she felt as if she had the strength of several men. She had to make a run for it. Georgette was grabbing Anthony’s arm. “This isn’t her fault. She is trying to help us!”
“Like hell she is. Did you have to tell her about the damned stupid blackmail scheme?” Anthony asked grimly.
“It was stupid! And Paul did not deserve it!” Georgette cried.
Francesca moved the tiniest step backward. Her hands were now at her sides.
“Forget Paul, because he’s dead. Now what? She knows about the blackmail, and this makes me—and you, Georgette—look damn bad. And by ‘bad’ I do mean guilty.” Anthony rolled his eyes.
“They already think I’m guilty.”
“That’s right, they do, so you have just nailed down your own coffin. What the hell are we going to do with her?”
Georgette stopped crying. “We’re going to send her home.”
“She won’t go home. She’ll go right to Bragg with a mouthful of stories. Damn it.” Anthony glared at Francesca.
She had managed to move another inch backward, and she felt certain that she could touch the doorknob if she tried. If her memory served her correctly, it had not been chained or locked when she and Anthony had entered the room.
Anthony sighed. “I need to think.” He looked down grimly at his scuffed brown shoes.
Francesca turned, and she had been right: she could reach the knob—she wrenched open the door.
