She smiled at him. He saw the anxiety in her eyes. It was like looking at a dog that eagerly awaited his master’s return but then expected to be kicked.
He hated himself. He leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. His lips did not touch her skin.
Their gazes met. “Hello,” she said softly, a sweet, seductive caress.
He nodded and turned back to the assembled company.
“So what have you planned for this Sunday?” Parkhurst asked. He smiled at Bragg, but it did not reach his eyes.
Aware of his tiny wife standing close beside him, he said, “I’m afraid I cannot give away police policy, Doctor.”
“Am I to understand that this Sunday will be like last Sunday—a general apathy to the acts of sacrilege performed on the Sabbath?”
Before Bragg could answer, Cutting said smoothly, “The commissioner just walked into the door. It’s been a long day. I’m sure he could use a drink.”
“Thank you, a scotch would do nicely,” Bragg said. But he faced Parkhurst. “Doctor, could we have a brief word?”
Parkhurst started, looking uneasy, but nodded. They stepped a few feet from the assembly. “Rick, you know I am only doing my duty,” the reverend began.
“I know. I am not here to debate police policy today.”
Parkhurst was intrigued. “Then what is on your mind?”
“Children,” he said. “Children being abducted and sold into brothels.”
Parkhurst blanched.
“Have you come across any children in any of the raids your society has held?”
Parkhurst hesitated.
“This is off-the-record, Doctor,” Bragg said firmly, as they both knew any act of vigilantism was illegal and criminal.
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “But I have not been on every raid, and frankly, since you took office, there have only been two.”
Bragg knew why. The Society was giving him a chance to reform the police department, which was why he had been appointed in the first place. Two months ago he had shaken up the entire department by demoting the detectives and officers in charge of the wards, then reassigning just about every single man. In that way, he had broken the chain of graft and bribery, as each ward had its own system in place. By now, there were surely some payoffs taking place between the brothels and the police. It was like shifting the moving sands of a desert. For a while, a hole would be there—eventually, it would fill up again.
“Can you put the word out among your people to see if there are any children being used in any brothels? Four young girls are missing, Reverend, since the New Year, all between the ages of twelve and fourteen.”
Parkhurst now flushed with anger. “I will call a special meeting first thing tomorrow,” he said. “Good God, the depravity of it!”
Bragg placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder. “No vigilante raids, Doctor, please.”
They returned to the assembly to see that the mayor and his wife had arrived. Low was shaking his head, amused. “We are already debating the Raines Law? But I have not been in the room for two minutes!”
Everyone laughed, including Bragg, but then Ridder said, “A study has shown that the Raines Law has actually increased crime by encouraging brothels and gambling halls! The sooner these useless laws are done away with, the sooner we can all enjoy our personal freedoms again. Am I not right, Mayor?”
Low sighed. “You all know I believe morality cannot be legislated,” he said.
Bragg tensed as his wife came up to him. “You look very tired, Rick. Should I get you another drink?”
“I am fine,” he said abruptly.
“Katie has a slight cough. I don’t think it is serious, but I spoke to Rourke, and he said he’d take a look at her tonight.”
He met her gaze. “You’re worried. How bad is it?”
“It’s very slight.” She hesitated. “I can’t help it—a tiny cough and I am thinking about tuberculosis! I’m sure she’s fine,” she added, her smile uncertain.
He had wondered over and over again whether her concern for the children was a ploy. “When is Rourke stopping by the house?”
“I suspect he’s there now. I know.” Her smile was fragile. “I wish we were at home, too.”
Their gazes met. He flinched and looked away. She said, “How is your case going?”
When he looked at her again he couldn’t help himself. He glanced at the white swath of skin that was her upper chest, then at the hint of a valley just barely revealed by her gown. “The case involves missing children, and it is not going well.”
“Missing children?”
“Girls. Girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen.” He was terse. His body was far worse than terse. It was responding to her in the way he simply hated. An urgency was rippling through him . . . .
“Thank God Katie is only six,” she whispered.
“Katie isn’t pretty enough for these monsters,” he said stiffly.
“She’s beautiful!” she flashed angrily.
He started, refusing to be drawn into the debate. “I have company to attend,” he said.
She didn’t follow him toward the assembly. But he heard her say, “I can’t believe you don’t think Katie is beautiful,” in utter disbelief.
She had misunderstood. Katie was pretty, of course she was, but not like Emily O’Hare and the others.
“Rick, what do you think?” Cutting asked. “Surely you saw that ridiculous article in the Sun today.”
He was calm. “The editorial surmising that Platt will abandon Odell?” But as they began to discuss the absurd notion that the master of the Republican machine was falling out with the state’s governor, he was aware of Leigh Anne’s gaze upon his back. It was accusing.
And he had the terrible urge to explain.
Francesca refused to let him carry her into his house, where his foster parents, Rathe and Grace Bragg, and their son Rourke were in residence. The Braggs had returned to New York City two months ago and were building a new mansion not far from Hart’s place. But as she walked in with Hart firmly holding her arm—as if he thought she might faint at any moment—Alfred appeared. He took one look at her and paled. “Miss Cahill!” the bald English butler cried. “Whatever has happened?”
“I am fine, Alfred, a slight incident with a thug, that is all,” she said, over her shoulder now, as Hart was propelling her into the closest salon.
His home was as large as a museum, monstrously so—it was less than a year old—and the salon was the size of a small ballroom. He ordered her onto the first sofa they came to, and there were a dozen seating arrangements in the room. “Get Rourke, his medical bag, and two Scotch whiskeys,” he said. “Is Rourke in?” he demanded, turning to Alfred.
“Yes, sir, he is.” Alfred left instantly, almost at a run. It was the first time Francesca had ever seen him without his composure.
“This can’t be happening.” She turned to Hart, facing her worst fear. “Children as prostitutes?! The thought had occurred to me, but Bragg feels certain this is about sweatshops.” She was trembling now.
“Do not get up,” Hart warned. “My saintly brother has been lying to you.”
“But why?” she demanded—but she knew.
“To protect your fragile sensibilities,” he said flatly, “and to prevent you from worrying so.”
Francesca hugged herself. She had already suspected the truth. Why else would all the missing girls be so beautiful? She was ill, facing it now. What ordeals were those poor children going through? “We have to find these children, before it is too late. We have to save them, Calder.”
He didn’t speak. He began to pace the room, not looking at her, removing his jacket and tossing it carelessly at a chair. He missed and it fell to the floor. He never missed a long, hard stride. He was as restless as the tiger Francesca had once seen caged at the Bronx Zoo.
Francesca had to admire him, nevertheless. She knew he was extremely upset because of her injury, yet he remained calm and
in control—enough so to be the commander of an army on a battlefield. In moments like these, Hart was every bit as heroic as Bragg, she thought, her heart tightening oddly. The biggest difference between them was that Hart never put a sugar coating on anything.
Hart had stripped off his tie, having used it to bandage her neck; now he unbuttoned his collar, facing her. His face was carved in stone. It was an angry, determined expression, and it did nothing to detract from the man’s dangerous and oh-so-seductive appeal.
She wet her lips. “Is there any chance you are wrong?” she whispered. “Is there any chance Bragg is right and these girls have been forced into a sweatshop?”
Hart halted, staring down at her, his stance a terribly offensive one. “I doubt I am wrong. They would abduct younger children for a sweatshop, as they would be far easier to control. Besides, I overheard a stranger a few nights ago mentioning something to his friend about a new brothel, one that offers purity and innocence.” He never took his gaze from her face. “I do believe those were his exact words—’purity and innocence.’ ”
The girls were enslaved in a brothel. It was too terrible to even contemplate. She felt the tears rising then, blinding her.
She could not fail them.
And he was on his knees, at her side. “Darling, don’t cry. You cannot save the entire world,” he whispered, lifting her chin in his hand.
Her mouth was trembling wildly as their eyes met. And she didn’t want to cry. She stared into his navy blue gaze, flecked with amber and gold, and whispered, “But I can try.”
“Yes, you can try—but perhaps with a bit less passion?” He smiled a little then, but his gaze was searching.
“Calder, the plight of those children . . . ”She could not continue and she moved into his arms, her cheek upon his chest, somehow kneeling on the floor with him.
He unpinned her hat, threw it aside, and stroked her hair. “I know, darling, I know.” He kissed her cheekbone, and suddenly his mouth, against her skin, stilled.
And Francesca felt the beast the moment it arose. His mouth remained unmoving, pressed against her cheek. In that second, Hart’s sudden desire slammed over her, as hard as any physical blow. In that moment her heart lurched wildly, and when it began beating again it was to fill her veins with hot blood. And there was simply no doubt about the need that had so swiftly arisen.
He pulled back and their gazes locked.
“Calder.” His name sounded like a seductive caress, even to her own ears, in the still of the huge room.
His jaw flexed. He tilted her face up, his fingers long and strong. “Maybe if I keep you in my bed, we can avoid the dangerous episodes that you constantly find yourself in.”
“Maybe,” she breathed.
Hart stared, his gaze smoldering, and he lowered his face toward hers.
“What’s happened?” Rourke’s voice sounded from the threshold of the room, at once doctorlike and calm.
Hart gracefully stood, bringing Francesca to her feet with him. Then he turned away, but she saw his lids lower, shielding his eyes and the urgency evident in them. It was a moment before he looked up at his brother and Grace, who was at Rourke’s side. In that moment, Francesca tried to breathe naturally and hoped her cheeks were not too red. “Francesca was assaulted with a knife. Hopefully the cut on her throat is a superficial one.” How calm he sounded then.
Rourke had his black medical bag in hand, and instantly he faced his mother. “Please bring me a bowl of warm water, clean rags, lye soap, and any linens you may find for a bandage.”
“Of course.” Grace gave Francesca one wide-eyed look and raced from the room, past Alfred, who was entering with a tray containing two whiskeys.
Rourke smiled at Francesca. “We must stop meeting this way. Could you sit down, please?”
Once, it had disturbed her to look at him, as he could be Rick Bragg’s twin. But that was no longer the case—he was very different from his older brother, and not just because he wished to be a doctor. She sat down on the edge of the sofa. “Yes, we must. It is nice to see you, Rourke.”
He smiled, a smile always accompanied by two dimples, as he gently untied the tie Hart had used as a bandage. “But I do wish it were under better circumstances,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
She almost told him that she was quite ill, but that had everything to do with the missing girls and nothing to do with her neck. “I was very dizzy at first, but I couldn’t breathe when he assaulted me. I am fine now.”
Rourke paused. “I need warm water to remove this. I am going to take your pulse and listen to your heart.”
Francesca nodded. As he lifted her wrist, she glanced at Hart, who stood behind Rourke with Alfred, a scotch in hand. Hart never removed his gaze from her, and he seemed terribly grim. She thought about what would have happened if Rourke and Grace hadn’t entered the salon when they had, and she looked away.
“Pulse is normal,” Rourke said cheerfully, taking a stethoscope from his bag. He did not glance behind but said to Hart, “Could you step out, please?”
“She is my fiancée,” he growled.
“Congratulations. Now step out. Grace may come in when she returns,” he said amiably.
Francesca glanced at Hart, who quaffed half the whiskey and then marched out with Alfred, closing the double doors behind him. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist, uncomfortable now and aware of blushing.
“That’s enough,” Rourke said mildly after she had undone three buttons, and not even looking at her, he laid the stethoscope against her bare skin, listening to her heart beating. As he moved it around, never glancing at her, she felt her cheeks cool. He was very professional, she thought. And she dared to study him.
He had the Bragg cheekbones, high and sharp, the golden skin, the amber eyes. He was about Bragg’s height, six feet, but not as lean. His hair was more brown than gold, but there were sun-bleached tips around his face. His brows were startlingly dark.
She thought about him and Sarah Channing. Rourke was a catch, and undoubtedly many beautiful women chased him. Sarah was both a bohemian and an artist, at once skinny and some would say plain. But Rourke had been so interested in everything she had to say that night at supper at the Waldorf. Perhaps he had only been playing the part of a perfect gentleman.
Still, when Sarah had fainted, he had taken her home and nursed her through a raging fever. But he was in medical school; he would one day be a doctor.
“I am going to listen to your lungs,” he said, sliding the icy cold stethoscope beneath her shirtwaist and down her back.
“How is Philadelphia?” Francesca asked.
“Hush.”
A moment later he removed the stethoscope. “Your pulse, heart, and lungs are normal. Now we need to remove that tie and look at the wound.”
“How is Philadelphia?” Francesca tried again.
His dark brows lifted. “I did very well on my midterms,” he said.
“You must study very hard.”
He seemed amused. “Yes, I do. We all do.”
“All work and no play, how boring.” She grinned.
He began to appear slightly suspicious. “One must always find the time to enjoy oneself, Francesca. By the way, is it true? You and Calder are engaged?”
She flushed and held up her hand, showing him the ring.
He was suitably impressed. “My, things have swiftly changed since I was last here.” He gave her an odd look.
She knew he referred to Bragg. She shrugged. “Yes, they have. So what do you do when you are not studying?” she asked lightly.
He studied her. “I have friends. I do what most gentlemen do. Supper, the occasional affair, a club.”
She simply had to know. “And who is she?” She grinned but was breathless now, praying for the right answer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who is the lady who holds your heart?”
He looked at her for a moment and then shook his head with a small laugh. “If you are aski
ng me if I am seeing someone, the answer is no. At least, not in the way that you mean.”
Her mind raced even as she was exultant—for he wasn’t involved and that gave Sarah a chance! Then she blinked. “You have a mistress?”
“Francesca,” he had begun sternly when Grace suddenly came into the room. “Ah, the troops have arrived—just in time.”
“Dear, how are you?” Grace asked, setting the tray down on a small side table. She was a tall, willowy redhead in her middle years, still very attractive, even with the hornrimmed spectacles she wore. She had also been one of the nation’s first suffragettes. Today she was considered a leader of the women’s movement.
“I believe I am fine.”
“Are you on another case?” Grace asked.
“Yes, and it involves missing children—all young, attractive, and female.”
Grace grimaced. “Oh, dear. May I help?”
Francesca started as Rourke began to sponge down the tie. “That is a wonderful offer. I am sure I can use some help.”
Rourke shook his head, gently prying the tie from her skin. “Mother, Francesca attracts danger the way honey attracts bees. I don’t think your involvement is a good idea.”
“Do not dare treat me as an elderly individual,” Grace warned. And she smiled at Francesca, sending her a wink.
Rourke sighed as Hart paced into the room, demanding, “Well?”
“A moment, please,” Rourke said, peeling off the tie.
“Where is my scotch?” Francesca asked, wincing.
Hart came to her and handed her his half a glass.
She gulped it down.
“Sorry,” Rourke murmured.
Grace was staring. Francesca realized she had seen the ring, and she began to flush uncomfortably now. Hart said, “They heard this morning. I told them the news.”
Francesca didn’t know what to say as Grace looked up from the ring. Their gazes held. And while Grace wasn’t Rick’s or Calder’s natural mother, she and Rathe had taken both boys in upon the death of Lily, their mother. Francesca knew she considered both Rick and Calder her sons.
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