Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  “You know what I am doing!” she cried.

  His gaze slammed over her. “You are naked in that dress!”

  “Not really. The chiffon below is nude and—”

  “Like hell!” He exploded and before she knew it, he was in front of her, gripping her shoulders. “Do you wish to be raped?” he demanded.

  “Calder . . . ” she tried.

  “No! I mean it! How do you think to survive an evening here? The next man to take you up here won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and he won’t jerk himself off to keep you innocent!”

  She inhaled hard. “What do you care?” she whispered.

  He froze. “What?”

  She began to shake, with a different fear—with the sickness haunting her all day. “Obviously you don’t care.”

  He stared at her as if she were insane. “Francesca, I want you out of this place, now.”

  “I don’t understand.” She was now furious herself. She struggled to break free of his grasp and failed. “Let me go!”

  “No.”

  “You have no more rights!”

  “Like hell I don’t.” He was dangerous now.

  “Men who throw away their fiancées like a discarded half-eaten piece of chocolate have no rights!” She glared. To her dismay, she felt tears forming in her eyes.

  His grip softened. “What?”

  “You heard me.” She glared again. Being upset now—being heartbroken—was the last thing she wished to be.

  He released her but touched her face. “You’re not a piece of candy, Francesca.”

  “You spent the night with me—well, a few hours or so of it—and have decided you are finished with me!” she accused.

  He straightened, eyes wide. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes.” She trembled.

  “My clever, ingenious, eccentric little sleuth,” he whispered, pulling her close and tilting up her chin. He kissed her deeply, opening her mouth, his tongue sliding over hers.

  Everything that had happened in the past few hours swept through her mind with stunning force—Dawn’s wish to seduce her, the Spanish prince’s three-day orgy, kittens’ tongues. Francesca moved closer, moaning, her body exploding with fire. Hart’s hands, on her lower back, tightened. His arousal had formed between them, long and hard, infinitely enticing, electric. He broke the kiss, whispering, “This is not the time or the place.”

  “You’re supposed to be making love to me,” she whispered back. “Just do it, Hart.”

  His gaze held hers. “For a sleuth, you have missed many clues, darling, when it comes to me and you.”

  “What?” She trembled.

  He reached up to touch her lips, her cheek, and her hair. “I wanted to give you a chance to decide what it is that you really wish to do, as we both know I am not the man you love.” He stared.

  His words were like ice-cold water, and the raging fever died. She backed up a step. It was hard to comprehend his meaning. “Calder?” She became incredulous. “You don’t want to break off our engagement?”

  “You heard me,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Of course I don’t.”

  She began to smile as a thrill rippled within her. Then she composed herself. “Well,” she said briskly, “now that that misunderstanding has been laid to rest, we must visit Rachael and rescue the other girls.”

  “I am visiting Rachael, and the police will rescue the girls. You are getting out of here and do not think, for one moment, that you are off the hook.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Very well.”

  “I am very angry with you, Francesca.”

  “I know.” She smiled sweetly again. “Rachael is just down the hall and I think we should both visit her. Solange thinks we are preoccupied. She won’t think to look for me for another hour.”

  “No. Go downstairs and if she or anyone asks, I wanted quick pleasure, that is all. Mingle until Solange is in her apartments. Then hurry out, Francesca, and I do mean hurry.”

  Francesca so wanted to see Rachael and find out how she was. She sighed, thinking ahead. “All right. I’ll notify the police. Is Bragg still at the hospital?”

  Hart nodded, his gaze changing.

  Francesca did not know what that meant. “I guess I will have to get Chief Farr,” she said, hating the very notion.

  “We don’t want a raid here,” Hart said firmly.

  She gave him a look, annoyed. “Which might warn the brothel where the children are. I am no fool, Calder, and this is my case. The brothel where the children are needs to be raided first so we can rescue the girls.”

  He took her wrist and reeled her in and kissed her nose. “We are on the same side, darling,” he said, softening. Then his eyes hardened. “Now get going.”

  She nodded, aware of some fear rising. She hesitated, gave him a look, and went to her purse. She withdrew her small pistol.

  Hart groaned. “Just where the hell are you hiding that?”

  The question was a good one. Francesca knew her dress hugged every inch of her body and she was at a loss.

  “Try your garter,” he said.

  She glanced at him.

  Hart gave her half of an encouraging nod.

  Francesca lifted her skirt, aware of him watching as her leg was exposed. She tucked the pistol in her garter on the inside of her thigh. “It won’t stay,” she said.

  He strode over and knelt, adjusting the garter.

  She stilled instantly, his hands precariously high on her thigh.

  He lowered the garter and the pistol, positioning both above her knee, then retied the garter so tightly, Francesca wondered if her blood could possibly circulate. Then he glanced up. “Hopefully that won’t be for too long.”

  Their gazes held. It was a moment before she could speak. “Hopefully my leg won’t fall off.”

  He rose gracefully to his feet and she dropped the gown. The gun felt cold and bulky against her inner knee, but it didn’t seem visible. Then she looked at him.

  “You should go,” he said grimly.

  She nodded.

  He walked her to the door. “Francesca, be careful.”

  She smiled at him, far more bravely than she felt. “It’s a piece of cake.”

  He grimaced.

  She slipped into the hallway.

  Two lush women and one older man were walking past her, arm in arm, sipping champagne and smelling of an odd smoke. Francesca smiled at everyone and went to the stairs. The piano tune had changed. It was more lively, more festive, and no longer at all classical. The conversation level had changed, too. It was loud and raucous.

  Her heart felt as if it were wedged in her upper chest somewhere. She started down the stairs.

  As the reception hall came into view, she saw several men and women, including Philip Seymour, but no sign of Solange. Hart had told her to mingle until the coast was clear. She stepped into the hall, glancing into the dining room, and she saw several gentlemen dining there with several servants. Still no sign of the madam.

  She turned and glanced into the salon, which was now quite filled with clients and the ladies of the house. Francesca met Dawn’s gaze instantly. The woman gave her an urgent look. If Francesca understood, she was signaling to her. Francesca turned and glanced toward Solange’s apartment. The door was solidly closed.

  Her heart leaped with hope. She turned back to Dawn, wide-eyed, silently asking her if Solange Marceaux was closeted in her suite.

  Dawn nodded urgently at her and seemed to say, Go.

  Francesca turned quickly. The doorman was preoccupied with arriving clientele; she hurried past Solange’s closed door and down the empty hall. Dear God, could it be any easier?

  A small feeling of dread formed.

  Ahead was a closed door, painted blue. This was too easy, in fact.

  She reached the door, testing it. It was locked.

  She realized it was locked from the inside, and as she unlocked the small lever, she reminded herself
not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Francesca was greeted by a sky filled with stars and a half-moon. She stepped swiftly outside, closing the door behind her, filled with relief.

  She had made it. She had escaped.

  And from behind, Solange Marceaux said, “Seize her.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1902—9:00 P.M.

  THE CHILD WHO WAS waiting for him had silver-blond hair and silvery gray eyes. She had been dressed up in a gown more appropriate for a schoolgirl of eight or nine, all white cotton and frilly lace. Hart closed the door behind him and smiled at her. She stared at him through a drug-induced stupor. His stomach turned as if he had actually been poisoned, as if he were actually ill.

  His reputation was not a groundless one. He had discovered the pleasures of the female body at thirteen and had been sexually active ever since. But in fact, at that age, his first few lovers had been several years older than himself. In his mid-adolescence, he had devoted a great deal of his time to hedonism, most of it sexual. But he was not a pedophile, thank God. Still, in the course of experiencing some of life’s more illicit and sordid pleasures, he had, from time to time, met gentlemen known for their pedophilia. It was also a fact of life that children were abducted and sold into slavery all of the time, and not just for sex. But his own dark and lusty world had never before so openly collided with that other even darker world, and having now stepped so frankly into it, he was furious. Determination made him ruthless. He looked forward to exposing the men and women behind this latest effort at child prostitution; oh yes, he did. He would enjoy bringing each and every one single-handedly to his and her knees. Unlike his sainted half brother, he would prefer to lock them up and throw away the keys. However, as he was not a policeman, he would not have that opportunity. But a whisper in the right and most honorable ear would have the same effect.

  Grim, he paused to glance around. There was a mirror on the wall. Was it a mirror or a window to a viewing room? He walked directly to it and took it down. He was prepared to be angry and call in the management, but it was just what it appeared to be, a mirror. They were alone.

  He faced the bed where Rachael sat and put his finger to his lips. “Ssh,” he breathed.

  Rachael simply stared.

  He walked slowly to her, but she did not flinch or appear afraid. He paused before her, kneeling. “Rachael? Is your name Rachael Wirkler?” he asked in a low voice, afraid they might be eavesdropped upon from the hall or the door that clearly opened to an adjoining room.

  He finally got a reaction from her. She blinked, starting with surprise.

  “I am not a customer. I am going to take you home,” he whispered.

  Rachael bit her lip, no longer appearing quite so inebriated, a light of comprehension in her eyes.

  “My name is Calder Hart,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “Can you tell me where your friends are being kept? Emily, Bonnie, and Deborah?” he asked.

  She nodded, now wetting her lips. She did not speak.

  He understood. He went to the nightstand and poured her a glass of water. He suspected she had been given a small dose of opium, just enough to sedate her and not enough to make her a rag doll. He brought it to her and helped her drink.

  “Who are you?” she whispered after taking several thirsty sips.

  “Calder Hart,” he repeated patiently, and he smiled as kindly. “Now, do you know where you have been staying? It is very important that we free all of your friends.”

  She blinked, suddenly in tears, and nodded. “On Jane Street,” she said huskily. “Just off Hudson.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Near Fourteenth Street,” she said, staring. “One of them is sick. She needs to go home, sir.”

  “Who is sick?” he asked quickly.

  “Emily,” she whispered.

  He patted her back. “Don’t worry, it will be over very soon.” Hart suddenly realized that he could not go through with the plan he and Francesca had developed. The plan had been to get information from Rachael and leave her behind, allowing the police to rescue her later. But what if the raid on the Jane Street brothel alerted everyone at the Jewel, and Rachael was spirited off before she could be freed? There was simply no way he could leave her behind, and he saw no alternative but to walk out the front door with her. But then word would be sent to Jane Street, alerting them of his actions.

  He had to get word to Bragg. And by now, Francesca should be on her way to Mulberry Street to rouse Farr—but only to have the police stand by.

  The night had become a black one. Free Rachael—or free the other girls. Both options did not seem viable.

  Suddenly a sharp knock sounded on the front door. Hart ripped the covers up. “Get under the covers and pretend to be asleep,” he ordered.

  Rachael obeyed, but slowly. When she was safely tucked in, he went to the door. Whoever was there was knocking again—insistently. He loosened his tie and cracked the door open a hair’s breadth.

  The brunette who had been with Francesca said, “Let me in.”

  He started and opened the door; she hurried in and closed it breathlessly. “Francesca is in trouble.”

  “What?” he asked, alarmed.

  “She’s been taken to Solange’s office. Not willingly, I might add,” the brunette said. Her gaze went to the bed.

  Hart faced her. “How much will it cost me for you to help us?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  He shoved several hundred-dollar bills down her bodice. “Take Rachael out the front door. My brother is police commissioner and he is at Bellevue. Tell him the children are at Jane Street off Hudson. I will meet him there.”

  She nodded, already at the bed, encouraging Rachael to get up. “I’m Dawn,” she said with a smile. “Come on. We’re leaving this rotten place.”

  Hart opened the door and saw Joseph lying on the floor, unconscious. Blood was trickling from the back of his head and a bookend was on the floor. Hart quickly dragged the body inside and then gestured to Dawn and Rachael to follow him out. The hall had been empty—now a prostitute and a young, inebriated man exited one of the rooms. Hart smiled at them both—the whore smiled back and followed her customer downstairs. “Let’s go,” Hart said.

  Solange sat behind her lovely desk, smiling at Francesca. Francesca sat in a chair, facing her, feeling like a student in the dean’s office, except for the two thugs standing behind her. “So, what is your real name and why are you here?”

  Francesca was wide-eyed with innocence. “Madame Marceaux, my real name is insignificant. I have used ‘Emerald Baron’ for many years. I am afraid we have a terrible misunderstanding,” Francesca said with a smile.

  “Really?” How pleasant Solange was.

  “I was taking some air. Mr. Hart was quite, er, vigorous, and I wanted to refresh myself before my next customer.” Francesca smiled again.

  Solange looked at one of the thugs behind Francesca and nodded.

  Francesca tensed, turning to see what was happening. He struck her hard across the face, so much so that she cried out, the pain in her cheek making her wonder if he had cracked or broken her cheekbone.

  “I despise liars,” Solange said calmly.

  Fear almost paralyzed Francesca, fear and pain. She slowly straightened and met the other woman’s pale gray unblinking eyes. “My name is Francesca Cahill,” she began, and she saw a light of triumph in the madam’s eyes, “and I am a sleuth. You are trafficking in children, Madame Marceaux, and I intend to see you appropriately charged, tried, and convicted for your disgustingly self-serving and unabashedly shameless crimes.”

  Solange stood.

  Francesca told herself not to be afraid—Solange was just another woman, and a whore at that.

  Solange walked around her desk.

  Francesca grimaced, preparing herself for a very unpleasant encounter.

  Solange struck her again, across the same cheek, and her turquoise-and-diamond ring cut throu
gh the skin there. “Bitch,” she said, staring, her eyes as hard as the diamonds that had abraded Francesca’s cheek. “I knew you were a fraud the moment I interviewed you.”

  Francesca blinked back stinging tears. “At least I am not a whore.”

  Solange didn’t hit her again, but Francesca did cringe, expecting another blow. Instead, Solange smiled and looked at the thugs behind Francesca. “Take her, use her as if she were the cheapest whore imaginable, and then, when you are through, get rid of her. Dump her body in the river, please. I do not want it found, not ever.”

  Francesca felt real fear. What should she do? Before she could think and formulate a plan, her arm was seized. Francesca did not hesitate. As she leaped to her feet, she reached for the gun between her legs and pointed it at Solange. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Solange froze. Then, calmly, coolly, “Get that gun from her, George.”

  Francesca turned. George hurled himself at her. As his body collided with hers, she fired. He grunted as they both went down, Francesca on her back, George on top of her. God, he weighed a ton!

  Their gazes met. “You little whore,” he rasped, pain in his eyes. His hands closed around her throat.

  Francesca whimpered, pressed the gun into his chest, and fired it again.

  His eyes widened and he collapsed.

  She shoved him off as the locked door flew in off its hinges. Relief soared. It had to be Hart. “Calder!” she shouted.

  Something in the office crashed to the floor as Francesca struggled out from under the huge thug. Hart said, “Are you all right?”

  Francesca paused on her knees, glancing up. He was a most welcome sight. A bookcase had collapsed from the wall near where he stood and the other thug was on the floor, staggering to his feet. “Fine,” she whispered, glimpsing Rachael and Dawn, hand in hand, in the doorway. Then they ran off, just as she saw and heard Solange moving behind her.

  She turned as the thug launched himself at Hart. Solange was at the desk, digging in a drawer. Did she have a gun? Francesca still gripped her own gun and she leaped to her feet, raising it. “Freeze, Solange,” she warned.