Solange paused, slowly looking up.
More wood splintered and broke, behind them.
Francesca half-turned. Her eyes widened as she saw Hart kicking the thug in the chest, whirling away, and then kicking him in the jaw. As the thug collapsed, Hart came back, lifting him up and chopping him once with the side of his hand on the back of the man’s neck.
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slid unconscious to the floor.
“Oh my,” Francesca said. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“Thailand,” he grunted, straightening himself and his tie. “I spent six months there when I was seventeen.”
Francesca was impressed. “Shall we go?” she asked, turning to Solange. Francesca passed her, checked the drawer, took out two guns, and tucked them both under one arm.
“We need to hurry,” Hart said. As they left Solange in her office, he said, “Jane Street off Hudson.”
“Where is that?” Francesca asked. They entered the foyer, which was filled with both the guests and their escorts, the pianist now pounding out a ragtime tune.
“Near Fourteenth Street,” Hart began.
“Do not let them out,” Solange ordered from behind them.
Francesca turned and saw her standing by the stairs, livid. She turned to face forward and saw two very big doormen coming toward them. One of the men had to be 300 pounds; another, six-foot-seven. Wincing, she handed Hart a gun.
He declined. “No thank you,” he said.
“Calder,” she began in protest.
He walked up to the obese man and smiled. “Can I help you?” he asked.
The man sneered and reached out, as if to grab Hart by the collar or some such thing. He was as slow as a tortoise.
Hart struck him in his jugular and, as he gasped and bowed, simultaneously on each temple. He followed with a kick to the kidneys; Francesca winced. The fat man hit the floor like a rock.
Hart smiled at her.
The club had become very quiet.
“Uh, Calder?” Francesca said, as the giant was approaching from behind him now.
Hart turned as the giant struck at him. He blocked the blow, ducking beneath the man’s outstretched arm, spun around and kicked him in the back, spun forward, and kicked him there again. The giant wobbled but did not fall, and turned to face Hart, grinning.
“Fight,” someone said with avid interest. A crowd was gathering now.
The giant grinned at Hart and reached for his neck.
“Calder!” Francesca shouted, alarmed, as the man grabbed him around the throat.
Hart somehow slid his arms into the vise of forearms, and before Francesca could blink, he was free and striking the man on the underside of his jaw, with first one foot, then the next.
“Fight!” someone shouted.
“Fight!” another man answered excitedly.
Something crashed in the salon, glass shattering.
The giant refused to go down. He stood there, staggering, but also grinning at Hart.
“Goddamn it,” Hart said with annoyance.
There were more crashes; Francesca dared not look away from Hart, but she was vaguely aware of several fights breaking out among the various gentlemen in the club. Hart smiled. “I do beg your pardon,” he said, and he kicked the man right in the testicles.
The giant gasped and slowly but surely sank down to the floor, turning white.
Hart held out his hand. “Now I’ll take that gun,” he said.
Francesca glanced around, wide-eyed, and saw that a riot had broken out—even several women were throwing things at and on their customers, for lamps, glasses, ashtrays were all flying about the rooms. Some very serious fisticuffs were also taking place. Francesca glimpsed Solange, pale now with alarm, and turned back to Hart, handing him a gun.
He turned it around and hit the giant with its butt right on the crest of his head. The man’s eyes finally closed. “Let’s get out of here,” Hart said.
Francesca blinked once more at the melee now in progress—the glorious Jewel was turning into a pile of broken furniture and adornments; even some magnificent paintings were being torn from the walls and stomped upon. Bodies were everywhere. Philip Seymour suddenly smiled at her, appearing at her side, his nose bloody, his eyes bright. “Now this is fun.” He grinned.
Francesca blinked at him.
A woman hit him over the head with a champagne bottle, and he grinned again at her, just before his eyes rolled back and he sank to the floor. She raised the bottle threateningly at Francesca.
Francesca ducked and ran by her, meeting Hart on the other side of the reception hall. He took her hand and they hurried out the front door. Hart let loose a piercing whistle. Across the street, Francesca saw Raoul leap into the driver’s seat of Hart’s brougham.
“We made it!” she cried, smiling at him.
He did not smile back. “God, I abhor violence,” he said.
Even though Raoul drove the team at a near gallop, running interfering vehicles off the road, by the time they arrived at Jane Street, the police were already there. A police wagon and Bragg’s Daimler motorcar were parked in front of a decrepit-looking building; a number of policemen in uniform were hustling two roughs and a well-dressed middle-aged woman in a navy blue suit who had to be the madame down the brownstone’s steps. Several gentlemen who had undoubtedly been there as customers were also being handcuffed. Hart said, “I sent Dawn to Bellevue to get him. It’s odd that he managed to bring the police so quickly.”
His tone was suddenly strange and Francesca glanced at him. He smiled grimly at her and walked past her, toward the crowd that had gathered in front of the brothel.
Francesca suddenly saw Bragg coming out of the building, a child in his arms. Joel was following, and so was a familiar girl. But surely her eyes were deceiving her and that wasn’t Bridget O’Neil? And then she took a second look, because her brother was with both children!
And then she saw Rourke Bragg behind them, with two more girls.
Francesca ran forward. Bragg was coming off the front step when she reached him. “Is everyone all right?” she cried. She was wearing Hart’s jacket over the countess’s dress and clutched it closed.
His gaze flew to her cheek. “Yes. What happened?”
She gripped his arm, gazing at a flushed child in his arms. She had dark hair and pale skin. Was it Emily O’Hare? “Is she hurt?”
“No, she’s ill. It’s Emily O’Hare. Apparently she’s been ill for some time.”
Francesca smothered a cry as Rourke said, “Put her in the Daimler. She looks feverish. We should get her to a hospital immediately.”
Bragg transferred the child to his half brother’s arms. “You take her. I’ll meet you there later.”
Rourke nodded and hurried off.
“What happened?” Bragg asked again, taking her arm.
“It’s nothing,” she said, meeting his dark gaze. “But the Jewel, a club on Fifth Avenue, is also trafficking in children, Rick. The madam is Solange Marceaux.” She hesitated and decided not to tell him what had happened to her just yet.
“I’ll send some men down to raid it immediately and pick her up,” he said. “I’m afraid to ask what you were doing there tonight.” His gaze slid over her legs, obviously visible in the revealing dress.
Francesca winced a little. “Don’t ask.” She turned to Joel and Bridget. “What are you both doing here?” she cried. “Are you all right?” And then she looked at Evan. “How are you involved?”
“A police officer found me at my hotel,” he began, flushing and avoiding looking at her legs. “I am afraid to ask you what you are doing in a garment like that.”
“I can explain,” Francesca began quickly.
He waved at her. “Another time.” He patted Joel’s shoulder. “Your assistant is a hero, Fran.”
Francesca swelled with pride. “Whatever happened?”
Joel grinned at her. “The police threw me in the cooler when
I tried to git help fer Bridget,” he said. “A fly went up to Mr. Cahill an’ he come down to tell ’em I was on the up-’n’-up.”
“What?” Francesca cried. She remarked now that Bridget appeared somewhat distraught, but she was also casting wide, worshipful glances at Joel. He grinned baldly at everyone. “She got caught by them thugs and I got caught trying to save her.”
“Joel!” Francesca cried one more time, now aghast. “When did this happen?”
“This mornin’,” he said. “But ye don’t got to worry. I escaped an’ went to the police. They didn’t believe me, not at first, that’s why I sent ’em to your house, an’ why your brother came and witnessed me,” he said proudly.
Francesca put her arms around both children. “Thank God you are both all right,” she managed, glancing now at Bragg. He and Hart were having a hushed conversation, neither one of them smiling. Then both men glanced at her.
Francesca knew they were speaking about her, undoubtedly about her part in the events at the Jewel. She turned back to the children, not liking both brothers’ talking together about her behind her back. In fact, it worried her no end. “We have to get you both home, and Deborah and Bonnie as well.” She glanced at the two beautiful girls. They were both wide-eyed and holding hands tightly.
And both children had been listening, because one said, “I don’t want to go home. He’ll just sell me off again.”
Francesca started, her heart breaking. She glanced at Evan. He said, “I’ll take Joel and Bridget home.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, rushing over to the girls. “Are you Bonnie?” she asked the honey-blonde who had just spoken.
“I’m not going home,” the girl breathed. She had bright green eyes and thick, dark lashes. “Yes, I’m Bonnie.”
“All right,” Francesca said. After all, Bonnie’s father had claimed she was dead and someone had filled her coffin with stones. She faced Deborah Smith. “Your mother misses you terribly.”
Deborah’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss her, too. But if I go home, my papa will beat me, or worse.”
Francesca pulled her close. “No, he won’t. Your father isn’t at home, Deborah, and he’s not coming back.”
Deborah stiffened and looked up, hope in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
Francesca wasn’t about to tell her that her father was dead. “I’m sure,” she said.
Bragg walked over to them. “We’ll take everyone to headquarters and find them a comfortable place to sleep. We’ll have Eliza Smith and Mrs. Cooper brought to the girls.” He gave Francesca a look and she understood. John Cooper was going to be arrested for his part in selling his daughter into slavery, whatever part that was. He had also lied about her death, and that was an obstruction of justice. “I’m also having an officer notify the O’Hares that Emily is at Bellevue,” he said. “Rachael will also stay in police custody until we can rest assured it’s safe for her to return home.”
Francesca nodded. “Good. And is she the one behind all this?” She glanced toward the middle-aged woman in the navy blue suit.
“We don’t know yet,” he said. “But her name is Elspeth Browne—or so she claims.” For a moment he was silent. “The bald thug cannot stop talking. He’s already confessed to killing Tom Smith, but said he was only following orders.”
“Whose orders?” Francesca asked quickly.
“We don’t know yet.”
Francesca hesitated, searching his gaze. He appeared exhausted and was both unshaven and unkempt. He also looked haggard, drawn, and too thin. “How are you?” she asked softly, reaching for his hand.
For one moment he let her hold it before he pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he said, looking away from her.
She tensed, knowing he lied and wishing he would not put another wall between them. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He faced her, softening. “You have helped by solving this crime,” he said.
Francesca didn’t hesitate. “This time, it was a team effort. I couldn’t have done it without Joel and Calder.”
Bragg’s jaw hardened, but he nodded. “I’ll need full statements from you both,” he said, turning away.
Briefly she was aghast. It was as if she was now losing his friendship, too. Or was he too raw to be able to speak with her intimately and personally?
Suddenly he turned back and took both of her hands in his. “The girls are at Calder’s with my parents,” he said. “I took them to see Leigh Anne.” He stopped, clearly fighting for composure. He cleared his throat. “Katie is dismal, Francesca. And even Dot seemed to understand that Leigh Anne is ill.”
“I’ll see them tomorrow, first thing,” she said, her heart hurting her now for the two little girls. “In fact, maybe I can take them to the zoo and distract them from what is happening.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said. Their gazes met. “I’d appreciate that a lot.”
Suddenly a familiar voice came from above. “Look at what I have found.”
Francesca glanced at the brownstone. Standing on the porch was the very rakish youth Nicholas D’Archand, and he was holding the collar of a very familiar man. Her eyes widened as she met a pair of terribly pale eyes.
“Well, well.” Hart moved to stand beside her. “If it isn’t a Tammany lapdog.”
Recognition came then. “Is that Tim Murphy?” He was the man she had met while having lunch with Grace!
“Yes, it is. He was commissioner of education in Van Wyck’s administration. I guess he enjoyed his tours of our city’s wonderful public schools,” Hart drawled.
Francesca felt ill. “What a crook,” she breathed.
Nick pushed Murphy down the stairs. “I found him attempting to burn a big ledger book in a back office, Rick,” he said. He shoved Murphy at Bragg. “Why bother to arrest this scumbag? I vote we take him for a little jaunt in the countryside—a one-way tour, so to speak.” His smile was distinctly unpleasant and his own silvery gray eyes flashed.
Murphy straightened. “You will suffer for your maltreatment of me, young man. And you, Commissioner? I warn you, do not toy with me or you shall pay a heavy price indeed. My friends are in high places and terribly loyal.”
“Shut up,” Bragg said, seizing his arm. “Sergeant, gag him, shackle him, and put him where he belongs. In a cell in the Tombs.”
Murphy cried out, “I demand to speak with my lawyer and you cannot imprison me without a trial!”
Bragg smiled at him. “Imprison you? Who said anything about imprisoning you? The holding pen is full at headquarters; we are merely placing you in the next most convenient location, and can I help it if the prison is filled with murderers and cutthroats? You shall stay there until you are formally charged. That shouldn’t take too long, I think. Maybe a week . . . or two . . . or three.”
Murphy flushed, crying, “You are twisting the law, Bragg! You will pay for this!”
“Get him out of my sight,” Bragg said, turning his back on him.
Francesca watched as shackles were snapped on his wrists and he was shoved forcefully into the police wagon. As the back door was bolted and locked, the other prisoners were herded into a second wagon. The crowd on the sidewalk began to disperse. One of the horse-drawn wagons trotted away.
Bragg glanced at them. “I’ll need to see you both downtown. We can do it now or we can do it tomorrow,” he said without inflection.
“Tomorrow,” Hart returned firmly. “It’s time for me to take Francesca home.”
“I don’t mind,” she began, her gaze seeking but not finding Bragg’s. He stood staring into the night, looking terribly lonely and terribly sad. She plucked Hart’s sleeve. She lowered her voice so Bragg wouldn’t hear and said, “If he is going back to the hospital we should go with him.”
“I am taking you home,” Hart said flatly. “It’s late and we’ve both had a hellish day.”
She hesitated; Bragg was now speaking to another policeman and she wanted to stay with him, at least for a while.
“I want to talk to you,” Hart said.
She started, meeting his eyes. The expression there remained different, disturbing. So much had happened and so quickly that it was only then that she became aware of a new anxiety. “Is something wrong?” she asked cautiously.
He took her arm, steering her toward his brougham. By now, the last police wagon was also leaving and most of the gawkers had dispersed. Bragg and Nicholas were walking back toward the brownstone, probably to go search Murphy’s office. Francesca took one last look over her shoulder and allowed Hart to help her up into the coach. He settled down beside her, ordered Raoul to drive them to her home, and turned to gaze directly at her.
She became uneasy. “You’re worrying me. This isn’t about tonight, is it?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?” She couldn’t help recalling how sure she had been that he wished to break off their engagement.
He smiled a little, grimly, not at her, but at himself. “I have something to ask you,” he said.
Her alarm grew. “Very well,” she said with even more caution.
He didn’t look at her. “I have been thinking,” he said. “And my conclusion is that we should elope.”
She gaped.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1902—MIDNIGHT
HART SEEMED INCREDIBLY GRIM and now he gazed out at the passing buildings as his brougham rolled by.
“What did you say?” Francesca whispered, her ears ringing as if she’d been the victim of a blow.
He faced her. Shadows flickered over his face. “I’ve been thinking and you are right. A year is far too long to wait.”
Images of the few hours they had shared on Sunday in his bed assaulted her then. They were followed by an image of her in a white wedding dress with Hart behind her, undoing her gown. She could barely breathe. “Did you just suggest that we elope?”
He smiled slightly—and it was strained. “Yes, I did.” Now he watched her carefully, unblinkingly.
She sat up impossibly straighter. He wanted to elope?
But he was right. Wasn’t he? Waiting a year to be together was absurd. It was that simple. But elope?
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Page 32
