Rourke approached. “About time,” he remarked dryly.
Hart met his gaze. “Is there any good news?”
Rourke hesitated, their gazes locked. “I’m afraid not.”
So this was it, then. The moment of truth approached. For Francesca—and for himself.
And Rourke knew. He clasped Hart’s arm. “I’m sorry. Thank you for coming, Calder,” he said quietly.
Knowing the end was so near—not just for Leigh Anne, but for him and Francesca—made it hard to speak.
Rourke started.
Hart sensed a presence and turned.
Sarah Channing smiled nervously from behind him. Her big brown eyes were huge and filled with worry and compassion, and they were on Rourke, not him. She held flowers. There was an odd green color—paint—on her hand. “I just heard. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Rourke recovered, coming forward. “It’s good of you to come. You didn’t have to.” His gaze held hers.
Now it was Hart’s turn to be surprised as he watched them. For the first time, he saw what Francesca had suggested, and he thought, So that is how the wind blows; how odd. He was even more surprised when Sarah slipped her hand into Rourke’s, squeezing his palm. Rourke reacted instantly—he pulled Sarah close and embraced her hard, his eyes closed, his expression giving way to anguish and despair. Then he released her. “I am sorry,” he said grimly.
“It’s all right,” Sarah whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
“Would you take a walk with me?” Rourke asked. “I need a bit of air.”
Sarah nodded.
As they left, Hart entered the room. He went first to Grace, who smiled tearfully at him. He kissed her cheek and she took his hand and clung to it as if it were the line to a life preserver and she were adrift in stormy seas.
Rathe came over and slapped Hart’s back, then tugged on his wife’s arm. Grace stood, gestured to Nicholas, and the three of them left the room, leaving Hart alone with his half brother.
Bragg glanced at Hart. He was clearly agonized and he looked miserable. And in that instant, as their gazes locked, an image became so clear it was as if the past had become alive and he was ten years old again. They were no longer in a hospital room. They were in the sordid one-bedroom flat where they had lived for as long as Calder could remember. Lily lay on the bed, impossibly beautiful, with her ivory skin and raven black hair, dying. Rick held a glass of water to her lips, but she was so weak, she could not sip it. Calder watched from the foot of the bed, knowing the end was near, wishing desperately that his mother would wake up, one last time, and swearing to God that he would never ever speak to Him again if she died. But the fear was stronger than the anger, and tears slid in a silent stream down his face. He was afraid, afraid, so afraid to be left alone.
Don’t die, he kept thinking. Please don’t die! Panic laced his fear, choking him.
“Please drink, Mother,” Rick whispered. He was sweating profusely, holding the chipped cup to her lips. Calder wondered if he was afraid, too. He didn’t think so. Because his older brother was always so brave and so strong, always doing what was right—always berating Calder for doing what was wrong.
Which was why Lily loved him best.
Lily’s lids fluttered and stilled.
Calder stiffened like a shot. “Is she . . . ?” He could not get the word dead out.
Rick turned to look at him, pale and wide-eyed with anguish. Then he put his ear to his mother’s chest.
Calder couldn’t stand it. He turned and ran out, out of the sour-smelling bedroom, a room that had smelled like death for weeks and weeks, out of the dirty, squalid flat, out of the rotting building. In the street, he continued to run. He dodged carts and wagons, horses and mules, people, running as fast and as hard as he could. How could she leave him? He was terrified now. Tears blinded his vision.
Someone shouted at him. He tripped in the street and fell on his hands and knees, but the cart veered around him, the driver cursing at him. Then he felt someone seize him by his shoulder, and he knew it was Rick before he turned and saw him.
“Let me go!” he shouted, twisting.
“Do you want to die, too?” Rick screamed at him, dragging him to his feet.
“Get off of me!” Then he stopped. His heart seemed to stop beating, too. “Is she . . . ?”
Rick met his gaze and shook his head. “No. Not . . . yet.” And he seized his arm. “We have to go back. She needs us.”
He tried to pull away and failed. Every day seemed to be the last one, yet somehow, it wasn’t. He wanted her to live, but knew she wouldn’t—and he didn’t need a doctor to tell him that. But with the relief there was more fear and so much exhaustion. He couldn’t bear seeing her that way anymore. It hurt too much. He couldn’t bear the smell of death. “She needs you.”
“C’mon.” Rick spoke as if he hadn’t heard him. “We need to get back. I got to see if Doc Cooper will come.”
“Cooper won’t come ’cause we can’t pay him.” Calder pulled his arm free. When he was a man, he was never going to be poor again. Being poor was for lackwits, for fools. One day, he would be so rich that he could buy anything he wanted—even life, for someone he loved. For someone like Lily.
Hart shook himself free of the vivid memory, one that still vaguely hurt. Lily had lingered on for another few days, hadn’t she? It was hard to recall, when it was so easy to see himself as a young, dirty, skinny boy, his brother there beside him—older, bigger, braver. It was odd, but he couldn’t recall the day she had died.
Hart shook his head, cleared his vision until the two boys had disappeared and only the adult Rick Bragg remained. He walked slowly over and Rick looked up. There was a question in his eyes as their gazes met.
Hart clasped his shoulder. “I’m very sorry,” he said, meaning it.
Rick started slightly, then relaxed, nodding. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?” And he realized that even his power and wealth could not save Leigh Anne’s life.
Rick stared. After a pause, he said, “No.”
Hart nodded and pulled up the chair Grace had vacated. He sat down, determined not to squirm, and watched Leigh Anne dying.
The first customers were arriving and Francesca was filled with dread, standing on the landing above the main floor. If she had gotten into such a difficult situation with Dawn, what would happen once she went downstairs? She could barely imagine; she only prayed that Dawn would not expose her real identity. Dawn had listened to her account of the case she was working on, but if she cared at all about the missing girls, Francesca had not been able to tell. She had given Francesca an odd look and walked away without another word. Francesca had not seen her since.
And what did that mean? As Francesca listened to the soft rumble of male voices, mingled with Solange’s graceful softer tones, as the pianist began to play a pleasant classical tune, she wondered if her charade were already over. Had Dawn spoken to Solange? And if so, why hadn’t she been tossed out on her backside? Or was Dawn playing her own waiting game, hoping to lure Francesca into her bed? As shocking as that notion was, it was far better than Dawn telling Solange the truth.
Francesca dreaded going downstairs.
She was perspiring and her face felt flushed. She reminded herself that she was in the Jewel for one reason and one reason only—to find out if it trafficked in children and, if not, find out where a brothel that did was. She had yet to attain any useful information, and she had to play this out. After all, the one thing she was not was a coward.
Francesca looked down at her legs. She hated the Countess Benevente’s dress. She felt naked in it. The layer of gold lace appeared to expose her flesh, but in fact, the chiffon underneath was a nude color. The dress also slithered down her every curve. Where could the countess have worn this dress? It would never be accepted in polite society, and Francesca was afraid it had only been worn to some bacchanal in Italy.
“Would you like me to accompany
you downstairs?” Dawn asked from behind.
Francesca whirled and saw the brunette standing just behind her in a beautiful ruby-red gown. But while low-cut, the gown wasn’t half as daring as Francesca’s dress. “I seem to have lost my courage,” Francesca said nervously.
“I don’t blame you,” Dawn said, glancing up and down.
Francesca winced.
“You should not be here, Emerald.” She gave her a look, clearly indicating that she knew the false name was just that.
Francesca waited for a pretty redhead to pass them on the stairs before she spoke. “You know why I am here. I have no choice,” she said in a low voice.
“This is not a place for ladies. I didn’t lie about the prince or the dog or anything else,” Dawn said. She seemed grim.
“Why do you care? If I get into trouble, it’s my problem, isn’t it? After all, you don’t seem to care about the missing girls,” Francesca said very quietly.
Dawn stared at her and a pause ensued. “Would you consider sleeping with me?”
Francesca stiffened, thought about the children, but said, “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Dawn sighed. “A child was brought here a few hours ago.”
“What?” Francesca cried.
Dawn touched her mouth with her fingers. “Ssh. Her name is Rachael and a customer is coming for her tonight. I wanted to speak with her, but she is being guarded as if she is a royal treasure and I could not get into her room. Nor will anyone say where she came from,” Dawn added.
Francesca was shaking with excitement. “That must be Rachael Wirkler!” She seized Dawn’s hands. “Which room is she in?”
“The last one on our floor, on the right,” Dawn said. “But Joseph is up there, outside her door.”
Francesca nodded, thinking. She would need a diversion. Perhaps Dawn could provide it. But she had to get to Rachael and find out where she was being kept. For surely that was where all the girls were!
Dawn slid her fingers over her arm. “We should go downstairs. Before Solange sends someone for us.”
Francesca balked. “I have to speak to Rachael.”
“You cannot. Not now, anyway. We can find a time later.”
“We?” Francesca stared.
Dawn shrugged. Their gazes locked.
“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.
Dawn made a disparaging sound. “Once, a long time ago, I was somebody somewhat like you.” She shrugged again, linked arms with Francesca, and they started downstairs. “I think you should slip out the back door and come back with the police. Rachael will be here for a few hours, at least.”
Her plan made sense. Francesca smiled at her. “Is there a back door?” she asked.
“Straight down the hall, but unfortunately, you’ll have to go past Solange’s office and suite.”
Francesca nodded as they stepped into the reception hall, scanning the gathering crowd. Six or seven gentlemen had already arrived and were sipping flutes of champagne, some of them accompanied by the ladies of the house. Francesca saw Solange by the front door, with the doorman—and Hart.
She cried out.
“What is it?” Dawn asked quickly.
She clamped her hand over her mouth in horror as Solange apparently greeted the newly arrived Hart. He handed his coat and gloves to a valet, smiling at the madam and greeting her in return.
“Someone you know?” Dawn asked.
“Yes,” Francesca whispered fearfully. She no longer recalled that Hart wished to break off their engagement; she only knew that if he saw her now there would be hell to pay.
“Calder Hart,” Dawn murmured, following her gaze. “He was here the other night.” She glanced curiously at Francesca.
“I have to hide!” Francesca cried. She stepped back, behind Dawn.
Dawn turned to gape at her. “I don’t think you can hide in that dress.”
“I don’t think so, either,” a blond young man said with a grin. His eyes were bright with appreciation as he bowed to both ladies. “Philip Seymour’s the name. And the pleasure is all mine.”
Francesca looked past Philip frantically and saw the moment Hart spotted her. He and Solange had begun to walk into the reception hall and he halted right in his tracks, stumbling. And briefly his gaze was riveted on her, wide with shock and sheer disbelief.
Had the situation been otherwise, his stunned expression would have been comical.
And instantly his surprise vanished, an expressionless mask slipping into place.
Francesca turned her back to him, praying, but God only knew for what.
“And your name is?” Philip was asking, reaching for her hand and taking it to his lips.
And he actually kissed her flesh. Francesca could only stare blankly at him.
“Her name is Emerald,” Dawn said quickly, “and she is new here.”
“I can see that.” Philip grinned. “Damn, being new, you will be too pricey for me. I’ll have to wait a week, at least!”
Francesca pulled her hand free, unable to even attempt to smile at him. She glanced back over her shoulder with more horror, more dread.
She was expecting to see Hart charging her like a bull seeing red. But he was chatting politely with Solange and another gentleman, someone he seemed to know. Relief flooded her then—he wasn’t going to expose her, at least. And her mind began to race. If Hart was here—and Rachael had just arrived—then hopefully she had been brought for him. More relief made her weak in the knees. Hart could take care of Rachael and learn where she had come from while Francesca escaped and got the police.
“Bloody hell. Hart can pay your price.”
Francesca jerked to look at Philip Seymour. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is all so new and I am very nervous tonight.”
He took her hand again. “Honey, you don’t have to be nervous, not in that dress.” He smiled and raised her hand to his lips.
Her stomach turned and she tugged it away before he could kiss it again. “Until next week,” she promised firmly.
He clearly liked that, never mind that she had lost any ability to be seductive or coy, as he grinned and turned away.
“You need to get out of here,” Dawn advised. “Because you looked like a frightened fawn a moment ago and you seem to have forgotten how to flirt.”
“Hart is working with me,” Francesca said quickly. Dawn looked surprised. “If you need help—or if you learn anything—tell him. And I’m quite certain Rachael was brought here for him.”
Dawn nodded. “I begin to see. We have to mingle. You have to mingle. And at some point, when Solange is not present, you need to leave.”
Francesca nodded. Had the woman not wanted to sleep with her, she would have hugged her. “Thank you so much.”
Dawn laughed softly. “Another time, Emerald.”
“It’s Francesca,” she whispered.
Dawn started, smiled, and glided away.
Francesca was alone. She inhaled, turned, and came face-to-face with Solange Marceaux. She almost gasped.
“Is something wrong?” Solange asked.
“No.” Francesca smiled.
“I see you have your first admirer,” she said.
“Yes, Philip Seymour. He is looking forward to the day when he can afford me,” Francesca said quickly. Hart was now with two women, both of whom were acting far too seductive. He was being far too pleasant to them in return. Was he enjoying himself? She realized she was staring and forced her gaze back to Solange.
“No. I meant Dawn,” Solange said calmly.
Francesca started as her gaze locked with the other woman’s. She did not miss a thing! What else had she seen?
Solange smiled and it did not reach her eyes. “You did not tell me you also worked in Paris.”
Francesca froze and tried to think. Had Solange seen Hart’s reaction to her? Had he said something to cover it up? He was so clever—no one could outwit him. “I also worked in Hong Kong for two months,” Francesca said softly.
And perhaps, just perhaps, Solange was surprised. “Mr. Hart has his plans for the evening. However, he wishes to renew your acquaintance briefly first. He is your first customer, my dear. Unfortunately, he only paid for an hour.” Then she smiled. “Fortunately, he paid triple what I was asking. You must be very good in bed.”
Francesca smiled grimly. Hart had detached both women from his arms and was walking toward her and Solange. She knew him well. His stride was very purposeful. Inwardly she quaked.
Solange seemed to lift a brow as she shifted so she could watch their “reunion.”
“My darling Emerald,” he murmured, his lashes hooding his eyes. “How wonderful to find you here.”
She tried not to wince. “Calder. It has been a long time.”
“Such a long time.” Both slashing black brows lifted and he finally looked up—directly at her. “I wish I had known you were here. I would have reserved my entire evening for you . . . darling.”
His face was perfectly composed; however, his eyes were not; they glittered, hot and dangerously black. “Another time?” she managed, her pulse racing wildly. He was terribly angry with her.
“Oh, absolutely.” He smiled without warmth and took her arm possessively in his. In fact, she knew she would not be able to free herself unless he wished it. He nodded at Solange. “Thank you, Madame Marceaux. And hors d’oeuvres from Emerald and the entrée I previously requested—this is quite a feast, beyond my wildest expectations.”
Solange smiled at him. “Bon appétit,” she said, drifting off.
His fingers dug into Francesca’s arms and he was propelling her up the stairs, so forcefully her feet barely touched the ground.
“You’re hurting me,” she warned breathlessly.
“Good,” he ground out. “Which room is yours—Emerald?”
Francesca nodded down the hall. At the door she indicated, he pushed it open, never releasing her. Francesca had the unhappy feeling that he wanted to kick it down.
Once inside, he released her, closing and locking the door. Francesca ran to the far side of the room, the big bed between them, operating on pure instinct. He turned. “What the hell are you doing?” he ground out in a low tone.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Page 30
