Their gazes locked. The flu could kill its victims, especially the very young or the aged or infirm. Francesca hadn’t thought of Sarah as being infirm, but now she recalled Rourke exclaiming that she was far too thin, that she was all bones.
“What brings you here?” Evan asked.
“The case,” Francesca returned. “Let’s talk for a moment, please.”
He nodded and they sat down in a pair of facing chairs.
“Can you think of any young woman who, before your engagement, seemed especially enamored of you? Was any particular young lady trying harder than the others to win your heart—and your hand?”
He sighed. “Actually, after you asked me this last night, I have been thinking about it. I cannot imagine any young lady in our set doing such a thing. If you want to know the truth, I think it is far more likely that the vandal was striking out at Bartolla. She is simply the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the city, and I see the way all men hope to attain her notice and admiration. She is not a young virginal lady, looking for marriage. Someone, perhaps another woman, might have been jilted because of her, and decided now to strike back. Or maybe an old lover of hers has just realized she is in town? There are many possibilities here,” Evan said.
“Yes, there are,” Francesca agreed. “I suppose I must speak with Bartolla, again, although she hardly seems interested in helping solve this case. And of course, I do wish to see Sarah.” Francesca got to her feet. “Evan? Have you changed your mind about leaving the company and moving out of the house?” she asked hopefully.
His expression hardened. “I did not sleep last night. That is, I packed most of my bags, and they are in my front hall. After I leave here, I am picking them up and taking a room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,” he said. “So, no, I have hardly changed my mind.”
In a way, a terrible way, she was proud of him, because what Andrew was doing—and the way he was doing it—was so wrong. But she hated thinking ill in any way of her father, for he was her favorite person in the world, or at least, he had been—until Bragg. She sighed, resigned, when footsteps sounded on the stairs.
As one, brother and sister turned. Rourke was trotting down the stairs, looking somewhat disheveled, as if he had had a restless night. His tie was askew, his suit jacket open, and he had a day’s growth on his face. He carried a medical bag that was worn and shabby—Francesca suspected he had gotten it secondhand. Still, he was an extremely attractive man. Although he looked so much like Bragg, in a way he reminded her of Hart. Had he not been carrying his satchel, one might assume him to be a riverboat gambler, returning after a long and fruitful night.
Evan leaned close. “Now he is available, and he is four years older than you,” he whispered fervently in her ear. “Now, is that not perfect?”
Francesca stabbed her heel on his instep.
He yelped.
Rourke smiled at them both. “It’s nice to see that our family is not alone in behaving like a pack of cats and dogs. Good morning.”
Francesca smiled, but it was brief. “How is she?”
“She is better,” he said. “Her fever is down to just under a hundred. She is sleeping comfortably now.”
“That is good news!” Francesca exclaimed.
“Well, it could be worse. Her fever was too high last night for comfort. Perhaps Finney is right and it is merely a cold. Fortunately it is not her lungs—I woke her to check them again. They are clear.”
“You feared pneumonia?” Francesca asked with dread.
“She told me her back hurt, and it was my first thought. In any case, she should rest. And she certainly should not be burdened with anything right now.” He did frown thoughtfully.
“What is it?” Francesca asked.
“Miss Channing has a large bruise on her upper arm. Her mother has no idea of how she got it.”
Francesca blinked. Last night Sarah had been wearing sleeves. “Surely she must have had an accident.”
Rourke turned his amber eyes on her. They were flecked with light gold. “It looks to me as if someone grabbed her in an excessively brutal manner.”
Francesca was stunned. “Well, there must be a simple explanation; did you ask Sarah?”
“She was sleeping so soundly this morning when I arrived that I had no wish to awaken her.” He glanced at Evan. “You can go up, Cahill, if you wish to sit and hold your fiancee’s hand.”
“If she’s asleep, I shall not disturb her,” Evan returned.
Rourke stared at him. It was impossible to read his eyes or fathom his expression. But Francesca felt that there was censure there, somewhere, lurking beneath the surface.
Francesca was surprised when Rourke glanced at her and said, “I stole down to her studio last night. Lucy is right. She is rather brilliant, for such a tiny girl.”
“Yes, she is, and I am glad you think so,” Francesca said, when Bartolla appeared on the stairs behind them, smiling. She was wearing an extremely fitted royal blue brocade suit and skirt, trimmed with paler blue fox at the cuffs and hem. A trio of sapphires winked from her throat. Her hair had been perfectly waved, with a few auburn tendrils escaping to wisp sensually about her face.
Francesca introduced Rourke. “This is Bragg’s brother Rourke, and this is the Countess Benevente.”
Bartolla shook her head. “You look so much like your brother! Of course, there is a difference, but it is obvious you are brothers—or twins.” Rourke assured her with a twinkle
“We only look alike,” Rourke assured her with a twinkle in his eye. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly. “Rest assured I am far more clever, far more interesting, and far more amoral.”
Bartolla laughed. “Then I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance, as morality is a stiff bore.”
“It is indeed,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement and admiration. “Too bad you did not join us last night.”
“I am afraid I had other plans,” Bartolla said. In truth, she had not been invited.
“I vow that we shall not exclude you from our next family supper,” Rourke declared.
Bartolla laughed again.
Evan stepped over to her, clearing his throat.
She instantly turned, taking his hand, and from the way their gazes met, it was as if everyone else had disappeared. “How is Sarah this morning?” she asked earnestly.
“Better, fortunately,” Evan said, gazing intently at her now. Francesca glanced down and saw him squeeze her hand.
She froze, in that instant wondering if they were lovers. She glanced at Rourke and knew he was wondering the exact same thing.
Bartolla stepped away from Evan and said breezily, “I think I shall buy Sarah a gift. Something to cheer her up. She has been far too distressed ever since she found her studio vandalized. Hmm. I wager an art book would be just the thing to keep an artist preoccupied in bed.”
“I can think of better diversions for one confined to a bed,” Rourke murmured.
Bartolla glanced at him. “And so can 1. But then, I am a widow, while Sarah is not yet a bride.”
“Ah, I do offer my condolences, Countess,” Rourke said, and it was obvious he hardly regretted the count’s death.
“Thank you.”
“Bartolla is newly arrived here in the city,” Evan said, stepping forward and between them. “I have been showing her the town. With Sarah, of course.”
“Of course,” Rourke said dryly.
“An art book is a wonderful idea,” Francesca cut in. Everyone looked at her. She knew that they could not be lovers. Evan would not abuse his fiancée so, by cuckolding her with her cousin.
Still, she knew firsthand how passion could break free of the bonds of morality and convention. And both Bartolla and Evan were far too experienced in matters of the heart.
“My carriage is outside,” Evan said, speaking only to Bartolla. “I can give you a lift downtown, if you like.”
“I would love a lift,” Bartolla said with an expansive wave
of her hand, but she never took her eyes from his face. “And I happen to be ready, as I do have an appointment this morning.”
It was not even eleven. Francesca wondered what kind of appointment Bartolla could possibly have on a Sunday morning, especially as she knew that she preferred not to arise, much less leave the house, until eleven. “Bartolla? I need to speak with you for a moment before you go.”
Bartolla seemed startled, as if she had forgotten Francesca’s presence. “Oh! I hope this isn’t about Sarah’s studio?”
“It is.”
“Don’t tell me you still think someone deliberately damaged my portrait—and this is about me?” she exclaimed, clearly amused.
“It’s a possibility,” Francesca said. “One we must consider. And the portrait was slashed to ribbons—viciously, I might add.”
“My dear, I hardly care.” She laughed.
“Bartolla.” Evan touched her arm. “Maybe you should be worried—maybe the vandal was striking out at you and not at Sarah. I think that is far more likely. I can wait until you have had a chance to speak with Francesca.”
“But I do have an appointment,” she said lightly. “I must get to midtown. Evan dear, do not worry about me!”
“Of course I worry,” he said huskily. “I should hate to see anything ill befall you—or Sarah,” he added quickly.
Rourke made an insulting sound.
Evan gave him a very cool look.
“I am leaving,” Rourke said. “And as I am going uptown to Hart’s, I will not offer the countess a ride. It was a pleasure, madam.”
“Please, do call me Bartolla; all of my friends do.”
He lifted her hand again. “I am sure our paths shall cross again, Bartolla.” He smiled at Francesca. “Good luck, Miss Cahill. Do keep my feckless brother out of harm’s way.” He chuckled, then nodded at Evan and strode out.
When he was gone, Francesca took Bartolla’s hand. “Give me just a moment, please,” she said, realizing that with Bartolla being so difficult, she would have to begin the interview alone—and maybe even conclude it that way, too.
“I am running late already,” Bartolla said pleasantly, but it was clear she intended to remain as stubborn as a mule.
“Just one moment,” Francesca said, feeling pressured to get right to the point. “Do you have enemies?” she asked.
Bartolla seemed amused. “Who does not?”
“Seriously, Bartolla. Please, do take this seriously.”
“Yes, Francesca, of course I have enemies.”
“Who are they? I need names,” Francesca said.
Bartolla sighed. “Do you want the truth?”
She nodded.
“Before I married the count, when I was only sixteen, I came out here in the city. I stole a dozen young men from their sweethearts.” Bartolla shook her head. “I was rather a flirt, as a young girl,” she said. “And to make matters even worse, I broke too many young male hearts to even count.”
“Could any of these women—”
“I don’t know,” Bartolla said, interrupting. “But if you want to know who really hates me, why, it is the count’s family.”
Francesca was thinking about the women who might still be in the city hating Bartolla for ruining their prospects. And what about all of those young men whom she had flirted with and left? “But they are all abroad, are they not?”
“His sons live in Paris and Rome. But his daughter lives right here in New York, with her three spoiled brats.” Bartolla smiled and it wasn’t pleasant.
“What is her name?” Francesca cried eagerly.
“Jane Van Arke,” Bartolla said.
Ten
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 11:00 A.M.
Francesca was about to leave when Bragg stepped past a doorman and into the house. She saw him, not really surprised, and hesitated.
“What is it?” he asked, instantly noting her agitation.
That decided her. She rushed to him. “Bartolla has just left. But I spoke with her,” she said breathlessly.
“And I can see that she has given you a lead,” he said, his gaze holding hers.
Francesca inhaled and spoke in a rush. “Jane Van Arke lodged a formal complaint against Craddock in April of 1900!” Francesca cried. “But she changed her mind a month later, and the complaint was dismissed.”
“And?” He raised both brows.
“Jane Van Arke is Bartolla’s stepdaughter—and despises her with a vengeance.”
Bragg stared. It was a moment before he spoke. “I seem to be missing something. Are you thinking that Jane Van Arke is behind the vandalism—and that she hired Craddock?”
Francesca wrung her hands. “I don’t know what to think. But this is an amazing coincidence.”
He was reflective. “Let me back up for a moment. Craddock is a criminal with a record. He is violent, and blackmail is the name of his game. He probably murdered Lester Parridy—but it could not be proved. However, Parridy was another shady sort, and no one really cared.”
“You’ve read the file!”
“I have. Let me continue. Mrs. Van Arke—Bartolla’s stepdaughter—was probably a victim of his blackmail. Of course, that is an assumption. She claimed as much initially, then withdrew and claimed she had been mistaken.”
“It is rather hard to mistake a blackmailer,” Francesca groused.
“I would think so.” Briefly he smiled at her.
As briefly, she smiled back.
Now he frowned. “Could it be a coincidence that Craddock was blackmailing Jane Van Arke, who so dislikes Bartolla that she might wish to hurt her, while he is now victimizing my sister?”
“I have no idea,” Francesca said. “My mind is still spinning from learning all of this. But I do think we should interview Mrs. Van Arke as soon as possible.”
He glanced at his pocket watch. “This is a very good time to try. I doubt she has left the house yet for the day.”
Eagerness filled her. “Then let’s go.”
But he made no move to go. “There is more.”
“More?” Francesca had been about to rush out the front door, but she halted.
Bragg was grim. “Lucy’s husband was a prisoner at Fort Kendall, in 1890,” he said.
Francesca saw Bragg’s Daimler parked on the avenue. Beyond it was Central Park, which on this side of the city was mostly deserted, and eerily so. “I simply don’t understand,” she said.
He had his hand on her back, using a slight pressure to guide her down the walk. “He was erroneously incarcerated, Francesca, but he did do time before he escaped.”
“He escaped prison?” She halted, facing him.
Bragg nodded. “He was formally pardoned by the governor in 1899.”
She was reeling. “Her husband—”
“His name is Shoz.”
“Shoz—this must have something to do with him!”
“I am thinking so,” he said gravely. “Shoz is the kind of man to have enemies, and the fact that they were in prison together is simply too coincidental.”
They shared a look. Francesca felt as if someone had taken a plywood board and struck her with it. “So maybe this is not about blackmail,” she finally said. “Maybe it is about revenge.”
He nodded as he opened the side door of the Daimler for her, but she made no move to get in. “It is time for Lucy to come clean,” he remarked.
“She won’t,” Francesca said, feeling certain of it.
He smiled ruefully. “So you have already learned that she is more stubborn than you?”
Francesca almost smiled in return. “It is fairly obvious.”
“A trip to Fort Kendall is in order,” Bragg said. He gestured at the car. When she slid in, he handed her a pair of goggles and walked around the front of the motorcar.
Disturbed but also excited at the prospect of traveling up to the prison with him, she watched him crank it up. “Shall I try to speak with Lucy, or shall you?”
He glanced up as the engin
e roared to life. “You might have the opportunity tonight.”
She froze.
Guilt must have been written all over her face, because he said, approaching his side of the motorcar, “I am aware of your mother’s dinner party tonight.”
The one that was on account of Calder Hart, the one he was not invited to. Francesca did not know what to say. Bragg moved around the roadster and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Were you going to mention it to me?”
“I hadn’t even thought about it,” she lied nervously. “Mama refuses to let me off the hook, I must attend, and I do wish you were coming.”
“Calder is the catch about town, is he not?”
“Not for me!” she cried earnestly. “You know that!”
He suddenly sighed, the sound heavy. And he looked at her. “You know as well as I that life is hardly sugar candy and rainbows,” he said grimly.
Their gazes locked. Francesca recalled every single terrible word they had exchanged the night before. She gripped his hand impulsively. He returned the pressure of her palm but did not speak, and she knew he was also thinking about their conversation of last night.
“I believe in happy endings,” she said softly. “I really do.”
He smiled a little. “I know you do,” he said.
It was brilliantly sunny—and still terribly cold out. Because of the sun, which was shining almost directly in her eyes, Francesca did not instantly recognize the man who stepped out from between two carriages, approaching them. Francesca felt Bragg stiffen, and then, as he paused before her car door, she recognized the man and became rigid, too.
It was Arthur Kurland, the obnoxious reporter from The Sun.
Francesca slipped her hand free of Bragg’s.
Kurland’s eyes seemed to follow her movement. Then he looked up from the stick shift between them and her lap, where her left hand now lay. “My, my. Imagine my surprise at finding you both here, at the Channings’.” He smiled, his hands in his pockets, shivering.
“We were just leaving,” Bragg said, pushing the stick into gear.
But Kurland did not move away from the roadster. “Surely you are working on another case. Or is this a social occasion, a pleasant Sunday afternoon drive?”
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