Andrew stared. A long silence ensued, in which Hart refused to smile. But he smelled victory; it was that near. “Other wealthy men can also show her the world.”
“Yes, they can. But other men will seek to clip her wings and control her.”
“She needs control.”
“I beg to differ. She needs someone standing beside her to make sure that she, in her desire to help others, doesn’t wind up jeopardizing herself. But she does not need to be controlled. Horses are controlled. Dogs are controlled. Francesca is a woman meant to fly.”
Andrew stared, becoming thoughtful. “Your case is a good one, Hart. I’ll hand that to you.”
Hart finally smiled when Andrew said, “Have you seduced her?”
“No!” He felt the anger rise up, swift and hard, and he tamped it back down, but with a great effort. And now he could not smile smoothly. “If your daughter were a merry widow, I can guarantee that by now she would have been in my bed. I have never, and will never, seduce fragile innocence.”
“So you have some morals after all,” Andrew started.
“Hardly,” he said coolly, still angry in spite of his efforts to be otherwise. “My motives are purely selfish ones. I have no wish to be bothered by the consequences of such a seduction.”
Andrew made a harsh sound. “And this is why you do not suit my daughter, sir! No woman is more noble of mind than she.”
“Of mind and heart. And yes, I do agree. In this one area, we are opposite, as I could not care less about nobility.”
“Then you are not for my daughter, and this conversation is over.”
He paused, regrouping, and smiled slightly—tightly. And when he spoke, he was calm, composed—in control. “I do not care about nobility, but I do care about your daughter. I have never met anyone, man or woman, that I admire and respect more.”
Andrew had been turning away; he now whirled to face Hart, wide-eyed with surprise.
He was direct. “I also treasure her friendship. And we both know that friendship, admiration, and respect are a far better foundation for a marriage than love, a passing romantic illusion, or lust.” This was his premeditated coup de grâce.
“I happen to agree with you,” Andrew said, flushing again and looking very grim. Hart knew he was on the verge of capitulation then. But his adversary had one last move to make, the one Hart had been waiting for—the one that would give Hart victory. “Do you wish to know what my real objection to this union is?”
“Please.” But he already knew.
“Francesca may be a bluestocking, but she is also a romantic. Clearly she is in love with you, and as clearly, you will break her heart one day.”
He didn’t smile now. “I have no intention of straying from my wife’s bed. I am a very disciplined man, Andrew. And furthermore, I do not see the point of marrying if I am going to be living as I have been my entire life, flitting from lover to lover. Why shackle myself with a wife if I wish to live as a rake? No, those days are over, and it is good riddance.”
Andrew started to speak, but Hart forestalled him by raising his hand, knowing he would win this battle here and now. “Besides,” he said. “Francesca isn’t in love with me.”
“But . . . she has accepted your suit!”
“I am her second choice. Or have you forgotten?” His smile was cool and mocking. “She is in love with a married man—she is in love with Rick Bragg.”
It was a knife that he held to her throat. She felt the sharp metal stinging as it cut her skin, and fear paralyzed her. Was he going to slit her throat? And if this wasn’t Arthur Kurland, then who was it?
Was this the prelude to an act of thievery? Or was this something more?
“You forget about the little girls, bitch,” he hissed in her ear. And the knife went deeper.
As pain stabbed through her throat, as fear became terror, blinding her, she had the answer to her question, and she had one single horrifying thought. First Tom Smith—and now, she would be next.
She cried out, her hands finding his hand as it held the knife. His grip tightened and she felt moisture trickling down her neck. She was panting uselessly—for she could no longer breathe, as if the earth no longer had an atmosphere of air.
“Next time you’re dead, you got that?” he sneered in her ear. His breath was hot on her neck, and it stank.
Francesca did not move. She could not. She wanted to beg him to spare her life. But she couldn’t speak, she didn’t dare, for fear that the blade would sever her artery if she did.
“Forget the girls,” he warned. “They ain’t none of your concern.” And suddenly the knife was gone—and the man had vanished.
Francesca fell to the ground the moment he let her go, gasping for air and choking upon it—or her sobs. Her fingers dug deep into cold earth and mud. She dug up pebbles, rocks. She felt the world spinning around her, wildly, precariously.
Dear, dear God. She had just been in the hands of Tom Smith’s killer.
The land continued to tilt up and down beneath her hands and knees. Her pulse was madly racing, alarming her with its speed and strength, and she tried to slow her breathing, to compose herself, so she would not pass out, not now. And finally the odd rotations of the ground began to slow and then subside, just as her breathing evened. She sank back on her haunches, gasping now, and was met by a sky filled with stars and a crescent moon. How normal it was.
She began to think.
This man had cut her throat, but she was fine, wasn’t she? She started to inspect her neck, but her gloves were filthy, so she tore them off. When she touched the wound, she felt the blood, and when she tried to look at her fingers, she saw the dark moisture there. She was alive, she told herself, trying to be rational now. If he had wanted it, she would be dead.
Like Tom Smith.
Whoever was responsible for the abduction of the children had committed murder to conceal the crimes.
And how badly was she hurt? Surely—and it was a prayer—the cut was superficial, skin-deep.
She heard a door and she shifted and gazed at the house. How could she go inside, now, like this? And then a shadow detached itself from the house, going down the front steps—a form she instantly recognized. Relief flooded her, and with it, utter, sheer gladness. “Calder!”
Her cry was a croak. She somehow managed to get to her feet, stumbling, but realized he had heard her, because he had paused and was looking her way. As she was in the shadows by the hedges, she doubted he could see her. “Calder!” Her voice was louder now, her strength returning. She started forward at a run.
He heard her and hurried toward her. “Francesca?” Lights from the house illuminated him from behind, and while she would be clearly visible, he remained in some shadow. Still, he faltered and she saw his eyes widen in shock.
“I’m fine,” she said, suddenly exhausted and unable to take another step. She halted, and her body seemed to sag.
He rushed to her and she was in his arms.
“How bad is it?” he demanded, ripping off his tie.
“I think it’s just a cut,” she said as he wrapped the silk tie swiftly about her wound, making a bandage from it.
He lifted her into his arms. “What happened?”
In his arms, she felt a huge tremor course through him. “Someone assaulted me near these hedges, just after I was dropped off at the house. Calder, I’m fine.”
“Rourke is home for the weekend,” he said, striding to his coach. “Raoul!”
But Raoul was already at the door to the barouche, and he opened it for them. Hart set Francesca on the backseat as gently as if she were a newborn baby, then climbed in beside her, saying, “I want to be at the house in two minutes. And I mean two minutes.”
Raoul grunted, slamming the door closed.
Francesca took one look at Hart and could not help herself. She moved deep into his embrace. The look on his face—anger and anguish—was one she was never going to forget.
He held her tight, kissing
her cheek. Francesca closed her eyes. She was safe now, and it felt so right.
His embrace briefly tightened. “Did you get a look at the assailant?”
“No.” She met his dark gaze and saw how worried he was. “I am fine. My throat hurts, but it’s only a cut.”
“We shall let Rourke decide that.”
Francesca realized that going to his house, only a few blocks uptown, was a far better idea than going to her own home. “There are more missing children, Calder. My investigation into Emily O’Hare’s disappearance led me to a nearby school, where three other girls vanished, two on their way home, one on her way to classes. One of the children’s fathers, Tom Smith, told us that he had sent his daughter to her aunt, but it was a lie. He was murdered this afternoon.” She looked up at Hart.
“What is it that you’re not telling me?” he asked grimly.
“His throat was slit,” she said. “And I have no doubt that I was just in the killer’s grasp.”
Hart’s jaw flexed. His temples seemed to throb.
“Bragg feels certain we have uncovered a white slaver, Calder,” she said.
He made a sound.
“They are abducting these innocent children and forcing them into a sweatshop. They have to be stopped!” Suddenly the burden of having to free the children became too much for her. She leaned against him, her cheek to his cashmere coat. “Those poor children need to go home,” she whispered.
He took her hand and pressed it to her lips, silencing her and causing her to look up at him. “Calm down. There is nothing more that you can do tonight.”
She analyzed that. Bragg was, by now, at the supper affair he had promised he would attend. And her neck was throbbing—she needed medical attention. She didn’t want to alarm Hart, but she was afraid she might need stitches.
“Tell me about the other missing girls,” he said quietly, cutting into her thoughts. He was stroking the hair at her nape, just below her hat.
She inhaled, the sound loud and harsh in the confines of the coach. “Rachael Wirkler disappeared more than a month ago. Bonnie Cooper was the next to vanish, and then Deborah Smith March second. They were all in the sixth grade.”
“So they were all twelve or thirteen years old?”
“Rachael was fourteen, I think,” Francesca said, uncertain only because she had amassed so many facts she could not get them all straight now without the use of her notes. Her purse was somewhere on the Cahill grounds, she realized, and in it were not just her notes but also her gun. She moaned.
“What is it?” he cried, moving closer to her.
“I dropped my purse. Someone will find it. Mama will know it’s mine! If she sees my gun, I am finished!”
“God, Francesca, you frightened me,” he said, gripping her hand. “I thought you were in pain.”
She was in pain, but she decided not to tell him that. “It’s better now,” she lied.
He gave her an odd look—as if he knew exactly what she was up to. Then, “Were the girls half as pretty as Emily appears to be?”
“Yes, just as pretty, I think.”
He gazed up at the ceiling of the coach, his expression grim. He did not let go of her hand.
“What is it?”
He met her gaze. “Bragg is being less than honest with you.”
“What?” She was incredulous—then she began to bristle. But before she could protest, he lifted his hand.
“We are dealing with white slavery, Francesca, of that I have little doubt.”
“Then what are you talking about?” she demanded as they turned into Hart’s long driveway.
“Child prostitution,” he said.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—7:00 P.M.
BRAGG WAS LATE. HE followed the butler down a short hall, across gleaming parquet floors, toward a salon at its far end. The two mahogany doors were wide open, and not only could he see the assembly gathered inside, but he also could hear Leigh Anne’s soft voice as she responded to a query. He stiffened.
By now, Francesca was at home, and he imagined her dining with her family, as she had mentioned she intended to do that evening. He envied her quiet evening spent at home; he remembered the last evening spent that way, because he had firmly decided that Sundays would be spent at home, no matter the invitation. And given his position, invitations were many, far more numerous than he could possibly accept. Recently he had let Leigh Anne decide which affairs they would attend. She had surprised him—she was only accepting the most politically and socially significant. They’d yet to waste an evening on an event not worth his while.
Bragg’s gaze never left the salon. He was tired from the events of the day—and he hadn’t slept at all last night, not after his half brother had so smugly announced his engagement to Francesca. Bragg was very worried about what he suspected was really happening to the missing children, and while he did not like misleading Francesca, he knew she would take their plight to heart and he hoped to spare her that. The police department had a history of being linked to prostitution and gambling—in one of his predecessor’s terms, a study had estimated that the police took in about $4 million a year from such establishments. He also knew children were often used as lookouts or to hand out a brothel’s business cards; was it possible that the girls were merely being used in that far less despicable manner? He did not think so.
And what should he do about Francesca? She had every right to marry, he knew that, and while a part of him clung to a dream of her in his home, he knew it was only that, a foolish dream, with no more substance than vapor. He also knew Hart was using her—the man had done what he did best, seducing her to his will.
He paused on the threshold of the room and for one moment stood there unobserved. Leigh Anne was listening to the Reverend Parkhurst, a smile on her face, her gaze so intent it was as if she were mesmerized by the minister’s speech. But of course, she was not. She was just so clever that one would think so. It was the same with that little luncheon she had hosted today. Bragg knew she couldn’t care less about public education or any other charity, for that matter.
But he stared. She was wearing a mint-green satin gown that bared her small ivory shoulders and some of her décolletage. She was such a small woman, almost fragile, her waist tiny enough for him to touch fingers when he closed his hands around it, yet she was surprisingly voluptuous, surprisingly lush, and he couldn’t prevent a torrid image from the night before quickly rising in his mind—Leigh Anne astride him, her small body slick with sweat, her long hair wildly down to her waist, streaming past her breasts, over them, around them, her face beautiful and strained as she climaxed violently around him.
He closed his eyes and swore he would not touch her again. But it did not matter that he knew her game, nor did it matter that he knew she was a scheming seductress and that he was her target; he could not seem to keep the vows he made to himself. When the moon was high, the house silent, the city streets empty, the city asleep, his vows vanished as if they had never been conceived, much less made.
He met her gaze. Her smile changed almost imperceptibly, warmth coming to her eyes, a greeting silent and unformed there. He hardened against her, willing it. Never mind that the other women in the room were older, plump, their faces lined. Never mind that she stood out in their midst like a beautiful hummingbird among fat, clucking hens. Not for the first time, he wished she were different—that she had aged, that she was less attractive, that something had happened to mar her physical perfection.
He looked away now, as if he had not even seen her. Her face fell. Briefly he thought he had seen saw confusion and hurt in her eyes. He was glad—he would not feel for her now!—even as he knew he was being a miserable cad for taunting her that way. Surely, as Francesca had pointed out, it was time to forgive and bury the past. The gentleman in him knew that. The savage simply refused to do so.
It was a secret that only Leigh Anne knew. He wasn’t half the moral man that everyon
e thought him to be. With her, his morals vanished and he was nothing but a beast.
Which was the real reason he could never remain married to her. He hated the man he was when she was present. He hated the man he had become—the man she had turned him into.
Robert Fulton Cutting seized his arm. “Rick! Finally! Good to see you, my boy; I am so glad you could make it.”
Bragg smiled. Cutting came from an old and wealthy family, and the man was one of the driving forces behind the Citizen’s Union party and the good-government reform movement. “Sir, the pleasure is all mine.”
Ron Harris, his host, now pumped his hand. An appointee of Low’s, he was a middle-class Protestant Yankee like the majority of Low’s supporters. “We were just discussing the fact that you might run late. The missus was going to hold up supper.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bragg said, smiling at Mrs. Harris, who looked sixty to Harris’s forty-five.
Parkhurst hurried over. “Your pretty little wife was just making your excuses. A busy police commissioner is a good police commissioner. How are you, sir?” He smiled, but his gaze was dark and sharp.
Bragg shook his hand, fully aware that the reverend’s political agenda was at times at odds with the department’s. Parkhurst had formed the Society for the Prevention of Crime, and he had hundreds of fervent followers. At times, members of his society had raided various establishments, including brothels, making citizens’ arrests. Parkhurst was also vehemently opposed to the saloons’ being open on Sundays and expected a strict enforcement of the Blue Laws. Bragg fully expected a debate that night, as the policy that had evolved, under his auspices and in conjunction with the mayor’s political needs, was one of selective enforcement of the law. The worst and most flagrant violators were closed. The rest of the saloons were left alone. The decision was a political one—Low could not afford to alienate the working masses.
Herman Ridder, leader of the German Reform Movement, gripped his hand. “Good to see you, Rick. I’ve been hoping we could catch up.”
Bragg smiled, knowing that what Ridder really meant was to encourage him to even more selectively enforce the Blue Laws. The majority of the city’s German population were adamantly against any infringement on their right to drink on the Sabbath. “Good to see you, Herman.” And Bragg finally looked at his wife.
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