Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  MAY I, I889–FEBRUARY 27, 1902

  Francesca inhaled, stunned. Bonnie Cooper was dead. Her father had been telling the truth.

  Then she straightened.

  But the date on the grave was wrong, wasn’t it?

  Francesca stared at the fresh grave. Bonnie Cooper had disappeared February 10—Mrs. Hopper had said so.

  Today was the thirtieth of March. Meaning that Bonnie had died a month ago—approximately two full weeks after she had disappeared.

  “Hey, mister, wait yer turn!” Joel snapped.

  Francesca had erected a small card table on the corner, along with a folding chair. She had laid out her notebook and several pens and pencils. She was now interviewing her tenth would-be informant. The previous nine men, all rather disreputable in appearance, all thug types, had been absolutely worthless. Their stories had been absurd.

  The long line of men and women from the ward began in front of her small table and continued to the end of the block—ending in front of Schmitt’s Grocery. He had already come out of his shop three times to stare disapprovingly at her, his hands on his hips. The customers attempting to enter the grocery had to push their way through the crowd. Now the man Joel had just addressed, who looked as if he worked at the docks on Front Street, said angrily, “I been standing out here in the cold for an hour! I got better things to do on me day off than to freeze me arse out here waiting upon Her Highness!”

  Francesca folded her hands in front of her and said calmly, “Then why don’t you leave?”

  “You want information or not, lady?” he sneered.

  “Only if it is sincere. And even if it is, you still must wait your turn.”

  Maggie Kennedy appeared behind Francesca. “Mind your manners, Ralph Goodson.”

  Surprised, Francesca glanced up at Maggie, whose blue eyes flashed. “Thank you,” she said.

  Maggie smiled at her. “You are very brave, to be dealing with these roughs.”

  Francesca glanced at the striking woman with Maggie, recognizing her from the other day. “Do I have a choice if I want to find those missing girls? Hello.” She smiled at the woman with the auburn hair whom she had seen moving into Maggie’s building.

  “Oh, Miss Cahill, this is Gwen O’Neil and her daughter, Bridget. They are my new neighbors,” Maggie said.

  Gwen O’Neil smiled, then told her daughter she would be going downtown to look for work. “Behave yourself,” she said. “I’ll be home by five.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Bridget said, staring at Francesca with wide eyes.

  “I am a sleuth,” Francesca said with a smile, answering the child’s unspoken question. Little Bridget was too good-looking for her own good. “I am working on an investigation.”

  Bridget, her green eyes huge, her dark red hair flowing to her waist, whispered, “What’s a sleuth?” Her Irish brogue was delightful.

  Joel stepped forward. His face was beet-red. “Miss Cahill is my boss. She solves crimes. Real dangerous ones. I’m her assistant.”

  Bridget gave him a scornful glance. “No, you’re not. You’re a boy!”

  “Joel really is my assistant,” Francesca said. “He has provided me invaluable service, time and again. He has helped me solve every single crime I have worked on, in fact.” She smiled at the child. “How old are you, dear?”

  “Eleven,” she said, now gaping at Joel. “Blimey, you’re not like the boys at home, then!”

  Joel flushed even more. “No, I ain’t.”

  Francesca was relieved. Bridget looked twelve or thirteen, but she was not—she was too young for the criminals forcing those young girls into a life of prostitution, if that was what was really happening.

  “Hey, Miz Cahill! You goin’ to talk to me, or not?” Ralph called out, spitting tobacco on the curb.

  “Yeah, yeah, what’s the deal?” a chorus of impatient voices sounded.

  “One minute,” Francesca said sternly. She already had a headache from dealing with the monstrous claims of this riffraff. “How have you been, Maggie?”

  “Very well,” Maggie said, smiling softly. “Joel missed you while you were gone, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca was pleased. “I missed him, as well.” Suddenly she started, recognizing not one but two coaches coming down the block, approaching. One belonged to her brother; the other, extravagant, loud and lavish, belonged to Hart. Her heart did speed.

  Maggie turned to follow her regard and her cheeks seemed to color. “Mr. Cahill is taking the children for a picnic in the park,” she said. “It seems to have become a habit of his on the Sabbath.”

  Francesca knew how fond her brother was of Maggie’s children. Still, he was, she had heard, so busy with Bartolla Benevente. “How wonderful,” she said, meaning it, but now quite curious.

  Evan’s carriage halted first, the passenger door quickly opening. Maggie turned to watch him alight. Evan came strolling up the block, a handsome, dark-haired figure, tall and lean. His black greatcoat whipped about him, hanging carelessly open. He was whistling. He smiled at Francesca, shaking his head. “I am afraid, Fran, to ask you what in God’s name you are doing.”

  Francesca smiled sweetly back. “I am on a case. I have posted a reward for information, and as you can see, I am interviewing everyone who lives in the ward.”

  He laughed and turned his bright blue eyes on Maggie. “Mrs. Kennedy, good day.”

  She glanced away. “Mr. Cahill. The children are ready. They are very excited. I’ll go get them.”

  Evan had his hand on Joel’s shoulder. “I’ll come with you,” he said, his glance moving over her. She, of course, did not see.

  Maggie was already moving away, and she appeared flustered, at least as far as Francesca could tell. “No, that’s fine. I will bring them down in a moment.”

  He smiled at Maggie. “Would you care to join us? That is, if you do not have other plans?”

  She stumbled and faced him abruptly. “What?”

  He approached her, smiling, intent. “Please join us, Mrs. Kennedy. I know it’s a rotten day for a picnic, so I have arranged a surprise for the children. I think you’d enjoy it, too.”

  She blinked at him. “I couldn’t possibly. . . .“

  “Whyever not?”

  “I . . . Ido have other plans, I’m afraid,” she said.

  Evan continued to smile, but Francesca knew him very well, and he was disappointed. She saw it in his eyes, for they instantly sobered, darkening. And as for Maggie, well, she was definitely not telling the truth. That much was clear to Francesca.

  She stared. This was not the first time she had witnessed an exchange between her brother and Maggie Kennedy, one that confounded her. Her brother was a gentleman. He would never casually dally with a good honest woman like Maggie Kennedy.

  Besides, she was not his type. Not at all. He’d had a mistress, a famous stage actress, a beautiful and flamboyant woman. He preferred women of that type and nature—women like the widowed Countess Benevente.

  And now he was head over heels in love with the countess. Wasn’t he?

  Maggie was quiet, sincere, pretty enough, but she was a widowed seamstress raising four children alone in poverty. She was simply not the kind of woman his brother was interested in, and even if he were, as he would never dally with her, he certainly would not bring her home. Even Francesca, a true liberal, knew that Evan could never bring a simple seamstress home.

  On the other hand, he had disowned his home and his father, quitting the family business, taking employment in a middling lawyer’s firm. And he had been disowned as well, in turn. She was very proud of her brother for doing what he felt he must do. But what was this? What was going on?

  Francesca felt certain that something was afoot. She had witnessed one too many interesting interactions between her dashing brother and the oh-so-reticent and good-hearted Maggie Kennedy.

  Evan had nodded, accepting Maggie’s avowal that she was occupied that day, while she had disappeared like a frightened schoolgirl.
“Evan?” Francesca began curiously.

  But Evan had gripped Joel’s shoulder. “I have taken over an exhibition at the Museum of Natural History. We shall have our picnic there. I think your mother would enjoy herself. What do you think?”

  Joel smiled fiercely at him. “I’ll get her to come,” he said. And he looked questioningly at Francesca. “Miz Cahill?”

  She smiled at him. “Go do your best,” she said.

  He ran off.

  Francesca looked at Evan. “And what is the countess up to today?”

  “She likes to sleep late,” he said, unperturbed. “This is not what you are thinking.”

  “And what am I thinking?”

  “Mrs. Kennedy is a noble woman, Fran. A noble, kind, and industrious woman. I adore her children. She could use an amusing day.”

  Francesca simply gaped. And then she saw Hart approaching. Her heart seemed to quicken. How glad she was to see him.

  “Hello, darling,” Calder Hart said. He was smiling, and he bent and kissed her cheek. “Good morning.”

  She smiled at him widely. “Thank God you are here! Bonnie Cooper is dead. I found her grave this morning.”

  His smile vanished. In fact, he looked very solemn indeed. “That is sober news,” he said.

  She studied him and felt a frisson of unease. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  “We need to speak,” he said, unsmiling. “Privately.”

  Francesca did not like the sound of that.

  When they had settled in his coach, she on one seat, with him facing her, he smiled at her. “What is on your mind?” she asked warily. “You look odd.”

  He sighed. “Hold your temper, darling.”

  She blinked and stiffened. She could practically hear alarm bells shrieking. “What is it?”

  “I went to a very disreputable establishment last night, as I said I would.”

  Francesca sat up straighter. “Which establishment?”

  “You are the last person I would tell the name to,” he said soberly. “As it is not a place you should ever set foot in.”

  Blurry half-formed images of some dim, dark smoky room filled her mind, and in them lush, half-naked, beautiful women pranced around. “What did you find out? What happened?” She had a bad feeling. She could not take her gaze from Hart.

  But his attention was riveted on her, too. His brief smile was oddly derisive. “Usually I can read people, Francesca, like a book. The madam of this club, Solange Marceaux, is undoubtedly a master poker player. Madame Marceaux wasn’t thrilled to have me in her place of business, which was odd; she also told me she could not fulfill my desires to be with a beautiful and innocent child of thirteen or fourteen.”

  “And?” she breathed, visualizing an orange-haired older woman with garish makeup as the brothel’s keeper.

  “Well,” he said dryly, “I could not determine if she was being truthful or not. She may not have trusted me; she may have wished to test me. In any case, even if she does not traffic in children, I would be surprised if she could not direct me to a brothel that did. But her club has the strongest reputation for catering to the needs—any needs—of its patrons.”

  Francesca had crossed her arms over her chest. “What is it that you really wish to say, Calder?”

  He grimaced. “She offered me more standard entertainment,” he said.

  She sat up as if shot with a bullet. “Oh, no!” And instantly she could see Calder, naked, powerful, aroused, in some faceless woman’s bed.

  He held up a hand. “Francesca, surely you don’t think I spent an hour or so in bed with a whore? That isn’t what I wish to tell you.”

  She relaxed, hugely relieved. “Go on.”

  “Rose was there.”

  Francesca gasped. Rose hated Calder passionately, as she was terribly in love with his mistress, Daisy. Calder was still keeping Daisy until the term they had agreed upon expired, even if he wasn’t seeing her. Francesca knew both Daisy and Rose; in fact, she liked Daisy very much and sympathized with Rose’s plight. But the fact that Rose had been at this club could not be good, oh no. “Did she expose you as my fiancé?”

  “No.” He sighed. “I was on the spot. I was hoping to get Rose aside, alone, to speak with her—as she was in the underworld, I thought she might know something. When Madame Marceaux offered me a woman, I told her I knew Rose and would accept her offer if Rose was free.”

  “What did Rose say?” Francesca cried, straining forward eagerly.

  He reached for her hand and clasped it. “Madame Marceaux is very clever. She instructed me to wait while she went for Rose. I could not let that happen. I don’t trust Rose and I did not want the two of them speaking privately about me. I had an instant in which to think of a way in which to circumvent a tête-à-tête.”

  Francesca did not like this. She tugged her hand free, staring. What was he about to tell her? Maybe sending Hart off into an illicit establishment hadn’t been the best idea after all, and certainly not one that had women like the terribly seductive Rose. “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “I told her that the entertainment I had in mind was to watch Rose with another woman, with Madame Marceaux, in fact.” He smiled slightly then, as if something had amused him, but he never took his watchful gaze from Francesca’s face.

  Alarm bells went off. Calder Hart was the most seductive man she knew—Francesca had never met a woman immune to his charm, his looks, his power. “While you have been telling me this story, I have been imagining a fat old woman with orange hair. But that isn’t what Madame Marceaux is like, is it?” she cried.

  “No.” His brows raised in surprise. “She is rather an ice queen, Francesca, pale blond, regal, elegant.”

  “Wonderful,” Francesca said, trembling. Hart had met a woman he could not read, a blond ice queen, a woman she just knew was beautiful, a rare woman who could outwit him at his game. How amused he must have been. How enthralled. Jealousy was a cloak shrouding her, and as it did, more images tumbled through her mind—Hart, aroused, intent, standing over a bed where two women, one pale, one dark, were passionately entwined. Her heart beat now like a drum. She should have accompanied him last night. She knew his dark past included Rose, but she also knew that was over—or so she had thought. But the thought of him now, sexually attracted to Solange Marceaux, sparring with her, drawn to her, was terribly hurtful. It was also terribly disturbing—in a shocking way.

  “Last night, while I was sleeping, you were amusing yourself watching Rose and Madame Marceaux making love,” she said huskily. And had he really been able to do nothing but watch? No one was more virile and sexual than Hart.

  He started. “Madame Marceaux declined, as I knew she would. The request was an adversarial tactic, Francesca, a strike designed to shake her up and put her off balance, that is all. And it worked—for a moment.”

  She stared at him. The compartment had become airless, while those darkly seductive images continued to dance in her head.

  “This was a test,” he said softly, reaching for her hand again, and this time she did not—could not—pull it away, “and the only reason I had to pass it was because I am helping you solve your case.”

  “So you watched Rose and some woman in bed,” she breathed.

  He started again. “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you join them?” she asked, faint. Dear, dear God, she was so terribly attracted to Hart that the idea of his being with two women last night did not merely cause jealousy to consume her. It did not simply hurt her. Desire also trickled through her limbs, building, warming her blood.

  “I did not,” he said, aghast.

  She believed him, as his reply was so instantaneous, so disbelieving, and she could only stare in real relief.

  “Francesca, I gave you my word. Besides, you are the one on my mind now, not a pair of whores.” He was incredulous.

  She continued to stare, suddenly close to tears and afraid of herself far more than she was afraid of him. “But you love pleas
ure,” she whispered. “I suspect you are addicted to it. And you like being with two women at once.”

  He took her hand firmly in his. “Darling, after this moment, I do not want to discuss my black past again. Because if you shall hold my past over my head, we will never do well together. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, blinking back tears.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked softly.

  “I’m not,” she lied.

  He cupped her face in both hands. “You are the one I want to be with. A long time ago, the chase, the conquest, it all became terribly old—terribly boring—a mere game to play in the interminable hours of the night.”

  She wet her lips, aware of how close his lips were, needing his hot, wet kiss. “But you were with Daisy and Rose, together, in the past,” she murmured, trembling.

  He stared. And he knew. He recognized the beast immediately, as how could he not? It chose the oddest moments to arise, hot and huge, between them. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, their gazes locking. And he leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his.

  She gasped; his tongue filled her; their lips mated wildly, quickly, urgently. As quickly, he broke the stunning kiss, staring into her eyes. He seemed surprised by what had just happened. “You are the one I want in my bed, Francesca.”

  She nodded, not able to speak, not quite yet.

  “As for Daisy and Rose, it was simply another game to play for a man as jaded as myself. I won’t deny that I like sex and that I need it.” He lifted her chin. Her gaze was smoke and fire, but hard now, too. “I won’t deny that my current state of self-imposed celibacy isn’t physically annoying, because it is. Actually, at times it is rather painful, but there are ways to circumvent that.” He smiled derisively then.

  Francesca straightened, very curious as to what he meant.

  He dropped his hand. “But adhering to the vow I made to you isn’t difficult, Francesca, and why should it be? If I didn’t want to marry you and change my life, I wouldn’t. If I wanted to continue on, with whores and divorcees, I would. But I don’t. I was in that club last night to find those missing girls. I have never been in that club before, as it is hardly elegant and I demand elegance in all that I do. If you wish, I will never go there again.” He smiled briefly but stared intently into her eyes.