by Brenda Joyce
Everyone turned to leave the salon. Bragg stopped, facing them all. "I shall go alone with Miss Channing."
Francesca started, about to protest. But Bragg looked at her and said, "Francesca may join us, of course. As the Channings are her clients."
She smiled at him. Then, as they left the others behind in the salon, she said, "Do you think it is safe to leave Lucy and Bartolla together?"
His jaw firmed, telling her he still had Hart's commission on his mind. "They shall have to work it out."
Sarah was leading the way. She paused outside her studio door. "Bartolla has been a huge comfort to me. I am glad she is here. She is so strong. I wish I were more like her, and more like you, Francesca."
Francesca put her arm around her. "You are the strong one," she said firmly.
"Actually ..." She hesitated. "I am scared."
Francesca's gaze met hers. Before she could reassure her, Bragg spoke. "You have no reason to be frightened, Sarah. This may be a foolish prank and little else."
Francesca had seen the studio. She had seen the slashed canvas and, worse, all that dark red paint. She did not think this the work of a prankster, oh no. But she would let Bragg decide for himself.
"I hope you are right," Sarah said softly.
Bragg looked over her head at Francesca, and she realized that, even though he had yet to see the studio, he did not think it a prank, not at all. He was merely hoping to calm Sarah.
And of course, it was too much work to be a prank. After all, someone had carefully and deliberately broken into the Channing home in order to carry out his or her vicious night's work.
Sarah pushed open the door. "I am not going in," she said, her breath catching.
Francesca followed Bragg inside. He paused in the center of the room, slowly regarding it all.
Francesca paused beside him. The day was brilliantly sunny now, and the studio was brightly illuminated, the contrast gruesome, of light and shadow, of sunshine falling across overturned paint, the brushes and canvases, the pools of blood-red paint. For the first time, Francesca noticed that the intruder had taken a brush or a stick and begun to write upon the wall. She started, forgetting to breathe.
Was that what she thought it was?
The single crude letter had been interrupted. It began like an I or the number 1, but the top curved down. Bragg was staring at it, too. He seemed to have lost some of his coloring.
"Is that an attempt at a letter?" Francesca asked, with the beginnings of real dread.
"I don't know," he said, glancing rigidly at her. "It might be the beginnings of a p or a capital B. Or it might be nothing at all."
She could not speak. Then, "It looks like an f, Bragg," she said on a deep breath.
And their eyes met.
Chapter Four
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 2:00 P.M.
They stared at each other. Then Bragg said, "Only one can vas has been slashed."
Francesca tore her gaze from his, to glance around the studio. While a few completed canvases remained stacked upon the walls, all brilliantly colored portraits done in a Post-impressionist style, a half a dozen were strewn about the studio's cement floor. She realized that he was right. Five of the paintings that had been overturned and thrown about were in perfect condition. Two were landscapes, one a scene of a mother and her two children, the other two portraits of young women. Francesca approached the sixth canvas.
She could not make it out. Black and red paint marred the surface, making the work beneath indecipherable. It had also been slashed into ribbons. Slowly she looked up.
Bragg held her gaze for a moment. "I find this rather significant," he said.
"Yes. It seems that this one painting was singled out for destruction."
"I wonder if it is a portrait?"
"And if so, of whom?" Francesca smiled a little.
He began to smile back, then recalled himself. "When were you going to tell me?"
She cringed inwardly and knew exactly what he was speaking about. "That's not fair."
"Why does he want your portrait, Francesca? Or need l bother to ask?" His eyes had turned black.
"You said so yourself! He likes causing trouble!" Francesca exclaimed.
"Yes, he does, but in this case, I feel he has an ulterior motive."
"The only motive he has is to annoy me. You see, he was angry with me when he decided to commission the portrait. This is just a game to him, Bragg. He could not care less about my portrait!"
Bragg's eyes narrowed. "My half brother is pure predator when it comes to beautiful women. You know that. Yet still you defend him. You always defend him!"
"I am hardly defending Hart," she snapped. "And he has not ever preyed upon me—and he never will. For God's sake, you know as well as I do that a marriageable prospect is anathema to him! Trust me. He has no intention of going forward with this ridiculous commission."
Bragg looked ready to explode. "Then why did he give Sarah a deposit for the painting?" he asked dangerously.
She started. "I have no idea, and I am growing tired of this subject. You are treating me as if this is my fault! Believe me, I find Hart as insufferable as you do."
"Then tell him you will not sit for the portrait," Bragg said flatly.
She froze. "I can't do that." She saw his knowing look. "And it is not about him; it is about Sarah! She is thrilled that Hart wishes for her to paint for him. I cannot let her down."
Bragg stared and abruptly turned his back on her. "Sarah? I am sorry, but you must come inside."
Francesca started to gape. She realized what she was doing, and she quickly closed her mouth.
Sarah paused on the threshold of the room. She was very pale now and she looked ill.
Francesca wanted to kick Bragg in the shin until she realized why he had called Sarah in. He said softly, "We need to identify that canvas, Sarah. Do you know which subject it was?" he asked, pointing at the destroyed canvas on the floor.
Sarah looked at it and cried out. Then her hands went to her midsection and she began to retch.
Francesca rushed to her, helping her remain upright. Sarah gasped for breath, but she fought the urge to heave, and she did not. She finally straightened, panting. Her eyes were wide.
"You know what the canvas was," Bragg said.
Sarah nodded, swallowing. "It was the portrait I did of Bartolla," she said.
"I am so pleased that you girls decided to join us for lunch!" Mrs. Channing cried happily.
They had all taken their seats at the cherry wood table, which seated fifty—in a monstrously huge dining room, where the walls were papered in red and the ceiling was mint green with red starburst moldings. Every time Francesca glanced up—past three grossly large crystal chandeliers with angels sculpted atop them—she thought the starbursts looked like splatters of blood.
Why had Bartolla's portrait been destroyed? Had the act of vandalism been aimed at her and not Sarah?
"It is simply so exciting that you are Derek Bragg's granddaughter and the heiress to his fortune," Mrs. Channing was saying. "I have always wanted to meet him! He is a legend, you know."
"Actually, I have five brothers, not to mention dozens of cousins," Lucy remarked.
"The Bragg heiress is in town! Oh, we must give you a party. Pull out the old welcome wagon." Mrs. Channing winked, not hearing Lucy at all.
Bartolla leaned across the table and met Francesca's gaze. "You are staring. Don't you like my dress?" She was smiling, but her green eyes were probing.
"You are the most stunningly dressed woman I know," Francesca said truthfully. Bartolla was even more outstanding than her own sister, Connie, although Connie was by fat the more elegant. Still, Bartolla was the woman one would always notice first in any room.
Bartolla seemed pleased. Francesca smiled, thinking she was the kind of woman who had enemies.
Bartolla turned her smile on Lucy, and it turned to ice. "How wonderful it must be, to grow up a Bragg heiress."
/> Lucy's smile was superficial. "It was wonderful growing up, period. I have parents I respect, admire, and adore, not to mention my five brothers, my half brother, and Calder, whom I consider a stepbrother. I love each and every one— even if they are all first-rate pranksters. And I have dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles, and, of course, Grandpa Derek and Grandma Miranda. We are a very close family, even if we are scattered about the country and England. I consider myself extremely lucky."
"Your husband probably considers himself lucky as well," Bartolla said far too sweetly. The innuendo was clear—that Lucy's husband was a fortune-hunter. "Did not the two of you somehow inherit the Bragg ranch? I do believe I read about it."
Lucy was all sugar in return. "My husband fell in love with me at first sight. We are still in love. And yes, it was the most amazing wedding gift—my grandparents' entire ranch! Of course, we had to earn their trust. But it is a long story. Are you married, Mrs. er... ?" And she cocked her head innocently.
Francesca sighed. She felt like telling them both to sheathe their claws.
"I am a widow, God rest my dear departed husband's soul," Bartolla said with vast sadness, a trembling hand upon her breast. It boasted an extremely large emerald ring.
"How sad," Lucy said, waving her own hand, which boasted a yellow diamond ring, almost as large as Bartolla's emerald. It was questionable which ring was worth more.
"Oh, we are having salads for lunch; how perfect," Francesca interrupted. She was afraid knives would be thrown across the table if the two women were allowed to continue.
But Lucy said, "My, how impressive. You married an Italian count. I have traveled quite extensively in Europe. Benevente. The name is familiar. I wonder if I knew your husband?"
Bartolla's smile was stretched tight. "I doubt it."
"But surely we ran in the same circles—didn't we?" Lucy batted her big blue eyes innocently.
"I am sure we did," Bartolla said, refusing to admit that perhaps she and her husband were not wealthy enough to travel in the same society as the Braggs.
"And there is Scotch salmon," Francesca said. She smiled brightly, then gave Lucy a dark look, which meant, "cease and desist." "What a wonderful lunch."
"I do hope you girls are hungry," Mrs. Channing said. She added to Lucy, "You may not have known the count. He was a dear man, but so much older, of course. These past few years he did not go out often, as he was so ill. Didn't he have a stroke, dear, a few years ago?"
"Actually, he walked a mile every day. Right up until his death," Bartolla said flatly.
Lucy practically snickered. Bartolla's jaw clamped down. Lucy said, "Shoz is a bit older than me, too. He is forty. But he looks exactly the way he did when we first met five years ago." She smiled. "He's incredibly handsome. How old was your husband when he died?"
Bartolla stared.
"Oh, he was in his sixties, I believe. And they were only married eight years! The count was smitten, Lucy, simply smitten with his young American wife," Mrs. Channing supplied eagerly.
Bartolla stabbed her salad with a fork.
"I am sure," Lucy said, gleeful.
"I can't eat."
Sarah had spoken. Everyone looked at her. She sat rigidly, her plate untouched.
"Of course you can't," Francesca said softly. "Mrs. Channing? Would you mind terribly if Sarah and I took a walk? I think some fresh air would do her good."
Mrs. Channing's face had fallen, but she was resigned. "No, Francesca, of course not."
And as Francesca and Sarah got up, Lucy jumped up, too. "I must join you," she said. "I do hope you understand, Mrs. Channing. But Francesca has allowed me to assist her in this case."
"Sarah?" In the music room, Francesca took her hand. "Perhaps it might be best if we instructed the staff to clean up your studio."
Sarah sighed. "The commissioner said he is sending a detective over and not to touch anything."
"I know; I was there," Francesca said quietly. "But I think it might be best if you got back to work immediately. We could tidy up just a section."
Sarah blinked at her. "I have no urge to work."
Francesca did not like the sound of that. "But—"
Sarah held up both hands. "Do not insist! I am not painting a thing," she said flatly. "Not even your portrait."
Francesca knew she should be relieved, but she was not. She saw how distressed Sarah remained, and even as an image of Hart formed in her mind, and it was rather mocking, she would have preferred that Sarah insist they rush to do the portrait rather than refuse to paint at all. "How can I help?" she finally asked softly.
Sarah fought tears. "Find the hoodlum who did this. Then bring him to me so I may know why!"
Francesca was seeing the side of Sarah so rarely seen by anyone, as a young woman of courage and strength. She wished her brother might see his fiancée now, like this. "I told you I would get to the bottom of this, and you know I will," she said.
"Yes, I know." Sarah sighed again and walked over to a window that looked out on the back lawns. They were blanketed in snow, and beyond them was nothing but undeveloped land. The Palisades were just visible, rising up out of the horizon, a steep and jagged iron-gray line of rock cliffs.
"Sarah? We are having a family dinner tonight at the Plaza. I have a wonderful idea," Lucy said with a smile. "Why don't you and your mother and, of course, your fiancée join us?" She turned to Francesca. "And you, too, Fran. I know it is the last minute, but it will be very festive, I promise you that, and I think it will lift your spirits considerably!"
Francesca hesitated. A part of her instantly wanted to agree, because Bragg would be there. But so would Hart.
"I think Mama has made plans," Sarah said. Then, "Truthfully, I am a bit despondent, and I hope to stay in tonight."
"Posh," Lucy said, taking her hand. "You will adore my family! You will enjoy yourself; trust me!" she cried.
Sarah smiled a little at her. "I am sure Mama will love to have dinner with your family. She is always so impressed by nobility and wealth."
Lucy winced.
"But she means well," Francesca added quickly, surprised by Sarah's comment, which, while truthful, was a bit unkind.
"Yes, she always means well," Sarah said, and she appeared saddened.
Francesca and Lucy exchanged glances.
"And you are coming as well," Lucy said firmly to Francesca.
Francesca hesitated, and her urge to spend the evening with Bragg won out. "Very well." Then she turned to Sarah. "Sarah? Has it occurred to you that the vandal might have a grudge against Bartolla and not yourself?"
Sarah stiffened. She did not speak for a moment. Then, "No, it did not. But perhaps you are right! I have no enemies, but I would not be surprised if Bartolla did."
The three women exchanged glances and then returned to the dining room in search of their prey. Bartolla had just returned to her rooms, and Francesca asked Lucy to wait for her downstairs as she hurried up to conduct a brief and, she hoped, insightful interview.
"My, that was quick," Bartolla said when a maid allowed Francesca into a lavish suite of rooms. Bartolla was trying to decide between three different fur stoles, each with a matching muff. "What do you think?" she asked, holding up the fox. "Or does the mink suit the blue of my dress better?"
"The mink. Bartolla, I am sorry that you and Lucy have not hit it off."
Bartolla laid the stole back on the four-poster bed. "Why? And whoever said we have not hit it off? I have no problem with her. I think she is jealous of me." She shrugged. "After all, I am a countess. She is only ... a Bragg."
Francesca decided not to delve into the subject. "I need to ask you a few questions," she said. "It's important."
Bartolla walked over to a huge armoire, which was open. She stared inside, debating hats and gloves. "I know nothing about Sarah's vandal, Francesca."
"And if the vandal is someone you know? Someone who wishes to strike at you and not Sarah?" Francesca asked.
B
artolla turned. "What?"
Francesca said, "Only one canvas was destroyed. It was slashed to shreds and obscured with paint. It was your portrait, Bartolla."
She stared. Then she started to smile. "Oh, please! And you think someone stole into this house in the middle of the night because of me? I hardly think so!" She laughed.
"Bartolla, you are the kind of woman to break hearts. Is there no one you can think of who has recently suffered such a fate?"
Bartolla's smile vanished. "I have only just arrived in town. I have not had time to break any hearts, Francesca."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certain," she said firmly. "And I am also late." She hesitated, then said, "Sarah does not wish to join us, but I am meeting your brother for a bit of window-shopping, as it is such a beautiful day."
Francesca tensed. She knew they were just friends, still, she knew her brother, and his head had been turned the moment he had met Bartolla Benevente.
"Would you care to join us?" Bartolla smiled.
"No, thank you. Do you have enemies, Bartolla?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do. But you may trust me on this, Francesca. No enemy of mine would bother to steal into this house and slash up my portrait. An enemy of mine would do far worse."
Francesca absorbed that. "What is far worse?"
Bartolla blinked. "She would hurt me where it counts."
"And that would be how?"
"My, you are so unimaginative! Or is it naive? Francesca, if I were still married, she might do something to damage my relationship with my husband. Does that give you an idea of the kind of game I am talking about?"
Francesca found it interesting that Bartolla referred to such a malicious act as a game.
"Now, if you do not mind? You are going down the wrong path, and I would like to freshen up."
"I'm sorry to keep you. Bartolla, have you seen Leigh Anne recently?"
Bartolla started. "Leigh Anne? You mean the commissioner's wife?" She seemed genuinely surprised.
"Yes."
"How could I see her? Is she in town?"
"I heard she was in Boston."
