by Brenda Joyce
"I can't drink. My stomach isn't quite right," Sarah said tersely.
Bragg laid his hand on her shoulder. "Has O'Connor upset you, Miss Channing?"
"No." Her tone was abrupt. "I am glad he is on the case. I just want this solved and over with."
Bragg seemed somewhat unsatisfied with that. His glance met Francesca's with concern.
But she was also concerned. She had never seen Sarah so tense or terse or abrupt.
"What happened to your studio?" Rourke asked.
Sarah turned. "Someone broke into it, apparently last night. They overturned most of my paintings, spilled and threw paint everywhere, and slashed up one particular portrait. And I just cannot think of who would do such a thing, or why." She held her head high. Francesca felt that the effort of being social was costing her dearly and that she wished to be anywhere but at the Plaza.
"Sarah surely has no enemies," Evan said, in an attempt to be gallant. "As she is very kind and everyone thinks so."
Sarah gave him a cursory smile.
"I am sorry," Rourke said, his amber eyes speculative. He glanced at Francesca. "Are you on the case?"
Francesca hesitated. "Mrs. Channing specifically asked me to help."
Rourke seemed amused. "I have never encountered a female sleuth before."
"Are there not female doctors?"
"There is one in the entire medical school. She is extremely unpopular with most of the students and staff."
"What a shame," Francesca said. "Surely you are not so quick to judge?"
"I tried not to, but she goes out of her way to be rude and I have given up." He shrugged.
"I am sure she will be a better doctor than all of her male counterparts combined," Sarah said.
Rourke looked at her.
So did Francesca. Of course, Francesca was less surprised; after all, she knew Sarah, who was actually very bohemian— but one would never guess from looking at her. However, what was surprising was her voicing her thoughts in the mixed company in which they were in.
Sarah's color increased. "Well, when a woman wishes to do something that is reserved exclusively for men, the passion she has usually causes her to excel. Take Francesca. As a sleuth she is superb."
"Ah, not really," Francesca murmured.
Rourke lifted both brows. "I take it you know this from experience?" His gaze moved over her features one by one, as if he were dissecting her in one of his medical classes.
Sarah shrugged, clearly careless and indifferent. She was so out of character tonight, Francesca thought, she could not help but be worried, and her eyes were simply so bright. "I think so."
"Shall we sit down for supper?" Mrs. Channing cried with alarm. "Dear sir, my daughter is the most polite lady, and her painting is a pleasant little hobby, the kind most ladies enjoy. A few simple watercolors here and there, and that is the brunt of it."
Francesca looked at Sarah and felt horrible for her and wished Mrs. Channing would not try to ingratiate herself so much into the present company. She was about to make a quiet remark, but a rebuttal nonetheless, when Lucy said, "I think she is brilliant."
Sarah smiled grimly at her.
Grace turned to Mrs. Channing. "I happen to agree with Sarah. In fact, for a long time I have seen what I only suspected when I was Sarah's age—that women have superior intellects, when they are allowed to use them. And those women who dare to fearlessly go where Man does not wish her to, why, they are simply superb doctors and lawyers and artists." She smiled at Mrs. Channing and then at Sarah. "I should love to see your art sometime."
Sarah smiled back. "I should love to show you. I am a huge admirer of yours, Mrs. Bragg. I have followed your career as a suffragette and an agitator for women throughout the country for years. I am thrilled to meet you. I never dreamed this would actually happen."
"That is very kind of you," Grace said.
Francesca could only blink. Now why hadn't she been able to approach Grace Bragg in such a fashion?
"Peas in a pod," Rourke seemed to mutter. He raised his voice. "So you are an artist?"
Sarah nodded. "Yes."
"And what kind of art do you engage in?" he continued. "Other than simple watercolors, as most ladies prefer?"
"I prefer oils," Sarah said briskly. "In fact, I rarely use watercolor anymore. I consider myself somewhat of an Impressionist, but I have studied the old masters extensively. There is a movement in the art world today called Post-impressionism, but I do not belong in it. In truth, even though I am somewhat of an Impressionist, my background is so solidly Romantic that I might be considered as such. And my second preference is charcoal." She did not smile. There was an odd light in her eyes. She even spoke differently, in an impatient way, with a staccato ring to her words.
Rourke's gaze narrowed. "And your choice of subjects? Might I take it landscapes are not a preference?"
"No, they are not. I find landscapes boring. I adore doing portraits of women and children," Sarah said flatly, and suddenly she smiled and glanced at Francesca. Francesca wanted to wave frantically at her; instead, she sent her a warning look, but Sarah had not seen. She had turned back to Rourke. "Calder Hart has commissioned a portrait of Francesca. I am so very fortunate."
A silence fell.
And suddenly Francesca realized that Hart was not present, that he had not come—and in that moment she knew that he was not joining them for supper. In that moment there was vast confusion; there was disappointment and there was relief. And somehow she also knew why he had decided not to join them. She felt herself still as the conversation swirled around them. She was the reason he had refused to come to his own family supper.
She amended her thoughts. The conversation they had had earlier was the cause, not she herself.
She refused to entertain any disappointment. Disappointment was absurd.
Rourke smiled slightly. "So, Hart has commissioned Miss Cahill's portrait. I cannot say that I blame him." He smiled far too warmly at Francesca, then turned to look directly at his brother. "Do you blame him, Rick?"
"Hart does as he chooses; he always has," Bragg said coldly.
"Oh, ho, this is jolly indeed!" Rourke began to chuckle.
"I think Mrs. Channing is right and we should go in to supper," Rathe said, stepping between the brothers while clasping each one on the shoulder. But his gaze moved to Francesca with speculation.
She felt herself flush.
His regard was not as kind as it had been earlier, and there was a set to his expression that she did not like.
Rathe was about to escort Mrs. Channing, and Bragg had looped his arm in Grace's, when Inspector Newman appeared in the lobby, two roundsmen with him. In general, detectives were obvious in their shabby tweed overcoats and bowler hats, even if one did not notice the badges pinned to their jackets, for they simply did not look like gentlemen. Of course, Francesca recognized Newman from several of the past cases she had worked on. And the sight of two uniformed policemen in the lobby of the hotel was not a usual one. Francesca halted in her tracks. The feeling she had was a distinctly sinking one.
Bragg had seen them, too. "What is this?"
Francesca muttered, beneath her breath, "I have no idea."
"Grace, one moment, please," he said to his stepmother, and he strode away. Newman was at the concierge desk, where a group of hotel staff had congregated, but he saw Bragg and quickly detached himself, coming forward. Francesca was drawn to them like paper clips to a magnet.
"Newman? What's amiss?" Bragg asked.
"Gunshots, C'mish, sir. Or at least one, just outside of the hotel."
"Was anybody hurt?"
"Looks like it. There a trail of blood on Fifty-ninth Street, heading west, between Fifth and Sixth," he said.
Bragg stared.
"Starts just outside of a side entrance to the hotel, too," Newman added. He was a short, beefy man with huge red cheeks that were perpetually flushed. He now saw Francesca and nodded. "G'day, Miz Cahill."
Abruptly Bra
gg turned. "What the hell is going on, Francesca?"
She inhaled and smiled. "I don't know. This is the first I have heard of this incident."
He stared.
She held his gaze, no easy task, oh no.
"But didn't you and my sister go around the corridor on that side of the lobby—meaning the corridor that leads to Fifty-ninth Street?"
He had watched them too carefully, she realized with a pang. He had seen them bypass the ladies' room and go down the damning corridor that led to the street.
Suddenly Bragg turned to Newman. "I shall go outside in a moment to see the sight," he said. "Please, continue interviewing the staff."
Newman nodded and turned away. The moment he did so, Brag said oh-so calmly, "May I see your gun, Francesca?"
Chapter Eight
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 8:00 P.M.
She had misheard, surely. "I beg your pardon?"
"You and Lucy are up to something. And Lucy is not herself. I suspect she is in trouble—again. A shot was fired outside of this hotel recently. Oddly, I am suspicious," Bragg said flatly.
"Bragg, you will embarrass me in front of your family," she said nervously.
"Did you fire your gun recently?" he asked, looking very displeased.
She hesitated. "I am sworn to a confidence, Bragg."
"Whose? My sister's?"
She closed her eyes and swore silently, to herself. She did not want to be put in this position. Then she looked at him. "Do not make me lie. Please. If I could, I would tell you everything, but I can't. I promised."
He hesitated, glanced around them, and then took her arm and pulled her several more steps into the lobby. "Francesca, if you had a cause to fire your gun, then something is terribly wrong."
"Don't make me lie to you," she begged.
"Did you fire your gun?" he asked.
She inhaled, because he was not going to give her a single inch. "Yes. But I did not mean to shoot anyone."
"So it was a warning shot." He seemed frustrated now. "I am going to have a long talk with my little sister," he said abruptly.
Francesca thought that might be for the best. In spite of Lucy's pleas for secrecy, Francesca's instinct was to make this a family matter. But she could not betray Lucy, either.
"Ugh," she said carefully, "I am in quite the position. I really do not know anything, except that Lucy does not want you or anyone else in her family involved. She was very clear on that." She met his probing regard. "Of course, I cannot stop you from speaking with her. But she trusts me, and I do intend to help her."
He hesitated, at once grim and bewildered. "You are almost frightening me. How badly in trouble is she? Is it dangerous—or need I even ask?"
She spoke again, as carefully. "That's just it. I really don't know anything myself."
"That is hardly a relief," he said sharply.
"I do realize that." Her mind raced. "Could I stop by headquarters tomorrow and look at the Rogues' Gallery?" she asked, referring to a catalog of photographs and drawings of various criminals.
He stared, and then frustration crossed his face. "You may look at the mug book, Francesca."
Their gazes locked. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
His smile was odd. "I suppose I might take a look at that mug book myself when you are done. And Lucy doesn't have to know—now does she?"
She tensed, at once elated and afraid. Clearly Bragg was going to help his sister, no matter the promise Francesca had made, no matter what Lucy wanted.
He stalked away, after Newman, clearly to go outside and look at Francesca's handiwork.
Francesca stared after him, hoping that Lucy would not blame her for his involvement.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 11:00 P.M.
"That was such a wonderful evening," Mrs. Channing gushed. "Don't you think so, Grace?"
"It was very enjoyable," Grace said with a polite smile. "I have so missed my son. I am so happy to be back in the city." She turned her smile on Bragg.
He smiled back at her. "The feeling is mutual," he said.
"Are you staying here in New York, then?" Mrs. Channing asked eagerly. "Didn't you sell your home a few years ago?"
"Actually, it has been leased," Rathe said with an easy smile. "My wife thinks we should be moving uptown, and we will soon begin to look for a suitable parcel of land to buy." He took his wife's hand.
Francesca was walking with the group while Sarah and Evan trailed behind, neither one speaking. Sarah had fallen extremely silent through the meal, barely eating a thing. Rourke was behind them, apparently absorbed in thought— his head was down, his hands in his trouser pockets. Now Francesca watched Rathe smile at his wife, and then she saw Grace send him a soft, answering smile.
She had already sensed that they loved each other dearly, but she was surprised now to realize they were still in love.
Rourke moved to her side. He said, "Shall I see you home, Miss Cahill?"
Alarm filled her. She looked into his handsome face, a face that was so eerily like his brother's. Worse, she met his eyes and saw the comprehension and amusement there. "I should probably go with my brother," she said swiftly. Bragg was on her other side and she had felt him stiffen.
"But he must escort his fiancée all the way to Dakota," Rourke said dryly. "And if he wishes to linger a bit with his future bride?" He glanced back at the silent couple. Francesca thought, but was not certain, that there was censure in his eyes.
Francesca glanced at Bragg, urging him to come to the rescue. Not that she minded Rourke. He was intelligent and interesting, but far too astute. But she wished to speak with Bragg and, frankly, had no wish to be alone with Rourke, for she had no desire to parry and fend off his innuendos.
Evan said, his eyes sparkling, "My sister tends to do as she pleases. But I should certainly approve were you to take her home, Rourke."
Rourke chuckled.
Bragg said, "Actually, I am taking Francesca home. There are some significant matters which I wish to discuss with her." His gaze was cool upon Evan. "And I assure you that she will be far safer in my hands than my brother's."
"At least I am an eligible bachelor," Rourke murmured.
Alarmed, Francesca said to him, "I am on a case. We haven't had a chance to discuss it. I really do need Bragg's advice."
Rourke gave her a knowing look. "Very well. I shall gracefully bow out," he said.
Before she could even smile, as he was wryly amusing, there was a thump behind her.
Francesca turned, as everyone did, to find Sarah on the floor in what appeared to be a dead faint. Rourke was already kneeling beside her, and Mrs. Channing screamed.
Rourke lifted Sarah's head onto his knee, his fingers going to the artery in her neck.
"What is it?" Bragg asked, kneeling beside him.
He did not answer. Francesca saw that Sarah was deathly white. Then Rourke reached into his pocket, but he swore. "Smelling salts, anyone? I usually keep them on hand for my landlord, but I seem to have left them behind tonight."
"Did she faint?" Rathe asked.
Miss Channing was moaning now.
"It seems so, but I would hesitate to say so definitively. Her pulse is a bit slow. However, she is feverish," Rourke added, his hand covering her forehead. He laid her head back down on the floor and began to raise her knees. As he did so, his brows lifted in surprise. "She is all bones," he remarked.
"She is too busy painting to eat," Mrs. Channing managed, near tears. "Oh, my poor dear Sarah!"
Rourke ignored her. He was fanning the air near Sarah's face when Evan appeared, having run off to the concierge desk. "Here," he said, handing Rourke the salts.
"Thanks," Rourke said. "Miss Channing? You have fainted; do not be alarmed," he said softly, holding the salts to her nose.
Sarah suddenly cried out, her eyes flying open and tearing.
Rourke slid his hand beneath her head, but he said, "Lie still for a moment. We wish for the blood to go back
to your head."
Sarah looked at him. It was a moment before she spoke. "I fainted?"
"I think so. See?" He smiled at her. "Already the color is returning to that pretty face of yours."
Sarah started to smile, and then she stopped. She said, "I think I can sit up."
"Slowly, then," he said, a soft command. He helped her to sit.
Sarah leaned back in his arms, closing her eyes.
"Dizzy?" Rourke asked. Sarah could not see his expression, but Francesca could, and clearly. He was concerned.
She nodded.
"My medical bag is at Hart's. See if there is a doctor in the house," he said, not glancing up. Evan turned and hurried off.
"I don't need a doctor," Sarah muttered, opening her eyes at last.
"You have a bit of a fever." He looked more closely at her. "I thought so earlier. You did not eat a thing, Miss Channing," he chided.
"I did not notice; I'm surprised you did," she said a bit tartly. Then she seemed to lean into his arms again. "I'm sorry. I am so upset. I am not myself tonight."
"It is understandable. Ah, the troops arrive."
A concierge and another gentleman, who introduced himself as the hotel manager, had hurried over. "There is one doctor in the house, sir, but he is at the opera tonight. We can send for Dr. Johnson and find the lady a room until he arrives."
"I think that is a very good idea," Rourke said. He smiled at his patient. "Sarah? We shall find you a room and you can rest until the doctor arrives."
"I am fine. Just a bit weak. I should go home." She stared at him, but she appeared fragile, not mulish or stubborn at all.
"Absolutely not. It will only be a few moments until Dr. Johnson arrives."
"I am sure it will be more like an hour. I must get home!" She was agitated now. Francesca knelt down beside her and laid her hand on her back. Sarah did not seem to notice.
"What is the rush? I really would prefer that your temperature be taken, your throat looked at, your heart and lungs listened to. It is all normal procedure," he added with a pleasant smile.
"I must work in the morning, Rourke," she said.
"I doubt you will be working in the morning," Rourke returned evenly—patiently.
