He stared. “I think I have offended you, but I cannot think of how.” He grimaced then. “I see no reason for you to leave. The house is a large one. Mother doesn’t mind. She said it herself, I heard her, she thinks of you as a saving grace, and she is most appreciative of all that you have done to help me through my injuries.”
Maggie knew that. Julia—whom she found to be the most elegant and intimidating woman she had ever met, bar none—had actually thanked her herself. “I am no longer ill, Mr. Cahill. It is time for us to leave.”
He did not speak for a moment. Maggie wasn’t used to seeing him unsmiling and so grim. Then, “Of course. You must make sure that Jenkins or another coachman sees you and the children safely home.”
Once again, he was so terribly kind. “We will take the Elevated,” she said.
“Absolutely not.” He reached for the bell by his bed and rang it. “Jenkins will drive you home. I insist.”
Maggie nodded as a housemaid appeared and received Evan’s instructions. When she had fled to order a coach brought around, Evan smiled grimly at Maggie. “It has been a pleasure getting to know your children, Mrs. Kennedy.” He hesitated, flushed. “May I be bold?”
Her heart skipped with absurd hope. “Yes.”
“I will miss them.”
She stared, felt moisture gathering quickly in her eyes, and refused to listen to Joe chide her now. “They will miss you, Mr. Cahill,” she said.
He hesitated again. “May I take them curling sometime soon? We had a rousing time last week, sledding and ice-skating, but we did not curl.”
She nodded, incapable of speech. He was referring to the popular game of sliding kettle-like objects across the ice.
He glanced away and then back at her. “And you should be most welcome to join us,” he added tersely.
She meant to smile, but it felt like a grimace. “I doubt I shall have the time,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Good day, Mr. Cahill. I do hope you feel better soon.”
“Good day, Mrs. Kennedy. I . . . I wish you great luck in your future endeavors.”
She smiled without looking at him and fled.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—1:00 P.M.
The first gallery was around the corner on Fourth Avenue. Francesca climbed out of a hansom with Joel, facing an old limestone building with a set of deep steps leading to the scarred and closed front door. Had the sign, GALLERY HOELTZ, not been hanging above the front door, she would not have found it. As it was, the windows on either side of the entrance were too high and narrow to see inside.
She smiled cheerfully at Joel. “Shall we?”
He smiled back, but he seemed a bit glum. “Sure.”
As they started up the stone steps, she asked, “Is anything wrong?”
Joel sighed. “We’re goin’ home today, Miz Cahill.”
Francesca started, finding the front door locked. “I had no idea! Maggie never said a word!”
Joe shrugged. Then, “She’s awful upset. Can’t think why.”
Francesca stared at him, for an instant recalling Maggie’s laughter and her brother’s smile, but then the front door was opened by a short dapper man with a goatee. “May I help you?” he asked, looking Francesca over, with obvious approval—perhaps thinking of her as a potential client—and then noting Joel, with similar disapproval.
“Yes. Are you the gallery owner?”
“Yes, I am. We usually see clients by appointment,” he said firmly.
“I am Francesca Cahill,” Francesca said, handing him her calling card. It read:
Francesca Cahill
Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted No Crime Too Small
He studied it for a moment, then regarded her grimly. “Very odd. So you wish to speak to me or view my collection? I have some fine upcoming artists on hand,” he said.
Francesca knew which way the wind did blow. “Actually, I must do both.”
He began to open the door more fully, then glanced at Joel. “The boy?”
“He’s my assistant,” she said.
The man grunted, his dour humor not changing, and let them both inside.
The front hall was narrow and dark. They followed him up a steep staircase, at the top of which light was pouring onto the landing. A moment later they had entered a sunny room that had clearly once been an entry hall. The door had been removed to the two adjoining rooms, which had once been a salon and dining room. Paintings were hanging on every visible space, while others were stacked up against the walls, on the floor. Here and there a sculpture rested. Francesca took it all in with a glance.
She smiled at Hoeltz. “We are trying to locate a young artist by the name of Melinda Neville,” she said. “Miss Melinda Neville.”
He said, “Is this a jest?”
Francesca started. “No, it is not.”
He said, “Follow me.”
Francesca and Joel exchanged glances and followed him through the far room. He paused before a pair of portraits done in a classical and stoic manner. In one, a lady and her daughter were posed in ball gowns, seated together on a gold velvet settee. Francesca recognized them both. “I know these women,” she said. “That older lady is a friend of my mother’s, but I do not recall her name.”
Hoeltz smiled. “That is Mrs. Louise Greeley and her daughter Cynthia.”
Francesca took another glance at the tall, attractive woman, whose set expression and determined eyes reminded her, in a way, of her own determined mother. Her daughter, who was perhaps Francesca’s age, if not a bit younger, was quite plump but also pretty, with a soft, full face, orangered hair, and freckles scattered upon her pert nose. The daughter looked unhappy—miserably so.
Then Francesca looked at the portrait beside it. A young black-haired man of twenty or so stood in a very rigid pose. Had he not been in a dark suit, Francesca might have guessed him to be a young military officer. His eyes were as dark as his hair, his nose long, his mouth set firmly in a tight line. He might have been attractive if he were smiling, but as he was not, he looked far too serious and far too severe. Francesca knew she would not like him if they ever met. And the pose, with his hand upon one hip and his severe expression, was terribly familiar. Had she seen this work of art before?
Suddenly a notion struck her, hard. Had the artist who had done LeFarge’s portrait also done this one? The works seemed terribly similar to her uneducated eye.
“And who is this?” she asked finally.
“Thomas Neville,” Hoeltz answered.
Francesca gasped. “Miss Neville’s brother?”
“Yes, Melinda’s brother. And now I must ask, why are you trying to find her?”
She blinked. Hoeltz had referred to Miss Neville in a manner indicating that they were good friends. “The police wish to interview her, as do I,” she said softly.
He started. His dour look disappeared. He was wide-eyed now. “Why?”
“The actress Grace Conway was found murdered in Miss Neville’s flat,” she said.
He turned white. “They were friends,” he said, looking as if he might faint at any moment.
Francesca gripped his arm to keep him upright. “May I assume you were Miss Neville’s friend as well?”
He looked at her with the same wide, stunned black eyes, and he laughed. The laughter was not a happy sound—it was, instead, rather hysterical. “Friends? We are hardly friends!” he cried.
Francesca waited.
“She is my mistress,” he said.
Bragg had chosen the Fifth Avenue Hotel for their lunch. Hart strode down a dark, rather dreary corridor, the wall paneled in wood and covered with the portraits of some of the city’s most famous and infamous men from the century before. Dark, unwavering eyes stared down at him as he passed. His curiosity was piqued. He hardly had a social relationship with his half brother, so why the invitation to dine?
It quickly crossed
his mind that, other than the Bragg family, the only thing they had in common was Francesca. Clearly she would be the subject of their luncheon. Did Rick wish to warn him away from her yet again? He could not help but be amused. He was not the kind of man who took orders from anyone. And he could not help imagining his half brother’s reaction should he tell him of his intention to marry the lady in question.
The dining room was extremely crowded, as the hotel did a busy luncheon; table after table was occupied by gentlemen. The room was a sea of dark suits and sideburns. Hart paused on the threshold, instantly espying his half brother seated at the room’s most coveted table, facing out upon everyone. His mouth quirked. Was Rick enjoying his newfound power? Somehow, Hart knew the answer was no, and it was a shame. But then, Rick was just too noble to enjoy the perks of his position.
“Mr. Hart, sir!” The maître d’ rushed over to him, fawning and obsequious. “It’s so wonderful to see you, sir. It has been at least six months!”
“Good afternoon, Henry. I see my party has arrived. I can find my way, thank you.”
But Henry rushed forward, leading him through the linen-clad tables, saying, “The commissioner just arrived. Perhaps not a minute before yourself, sir.”
Hart wasn’t really listening. He was nodding at the various gentlemen he passed, all of whom he knew, for one reason or another. A few men he purposefully made eye contact with. He had slept with their wives at one time or another and would not evince the least bit of guilt or regret. After all, he hadn’t been the first lover in their beds, and he wouldn’t be the last.
Which was why he had always preferred married women. Those who were already unfaithful, that is. They understood the game and would make no demands. But now his life was going to change.
He knew he would never be bored with Francesca, and he also knew that if she ever married someone else, he would lose her friendship. No husband would tolerate her being his friend, and with just cause. And it was this last certainty that compelled him to proceed. Her friendship had become as vital to his being as the very air he breathed. And it did not matter that she did not “love” him.
He refused to contemplate the fact that she thought that she “loved” Rick.
Bragg stood when Hart reached the table. He was not in a good mood, as he was scowling, an unusual expression for him. Hart instantly wondered what Francesca had done to cause his irritation. He smiled then, to himself. She had the worst penchant for putting herself in danger, all in the good cause of helping some needy soul. But the trials and tribulations of a relationship with Francesca Cahill were surely worth it. In any case, as he had put his neck on the chopping block, he would soon find out. He sat down. “My, we are dour today.”
“Good day, Calder,” Rick said with a terse nod.
Hart decided this would be an amusing luncheon after all, and he lolled a bit in his chair. A bottle of red wine was being placed on the table. “Château Lafite? At a luncheon? Are we celebrating?” He knew that was not the case.
“I am sure you are pleased that I am out of sorts today, but no, we are not celebrating. I have a migraine,” he said, nodding at the waiter to open the wine.
“Is she giving you a run for your money? She can be a bit of trouble, I suppose. What has she done now that I don’t know?”
“She is hardly giving me a run for my money.” Rick grimaced. “But she has given me this migraine. She dared to come down to the office this morning,” he added.
Hart was confused. After all, Francesca was frequently at headquarters. “Odd, I thought you enjoyed having her downtown.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rick said savagely. “The last thing I need is Leigh Anne appearing at my place of business.”
Hart’s eyes widened when he realized that they were not discussing the same woman. “I was referring to Francesca,” he said mildly, enjoying himself now more than ever. Oh, ho! So his brother was out of sorts because of his gorgeous little wife. He should have known. Nothing had changed, now had it?
Bragg was tasting the wine, and he choked. “Francesca?” he asked. Then, setting the glass down, “Why are you staring at me as if I have grown two heads?”
“Apparently she is not the woman on your mind,” Hart said, flashing his teeth in a bare imitation of a smile. “Don’t you think you have hurt her enough?”
“You may mind your own affairs where Francesca and I are concerned,” Bragg said flatly. He turned to the waiter. “The wine is very good.”
Their glasses were filled. Hart made no move to pick up his menu. “I really meant it. Your friendship with Francesca is putting her in a terrible position and you know it.”
“Don’t you ever think to be her defender,” Bragg snapped. “That role hardly suits your black heart. We are both struggling to do what is right. Neither one of us expected Leigh Anne to appear in our lives.”
“So what did you intend? To take a young, untried, and innocent woman as your mistress?”
“No,” he said slowly, “that is not what I intended and you know it. Nor did I intend to fall in love with her. But it happened, and now we are both suffering for it.”
In a way, Hart felt sorry for his brother, too, but as Rick had always gotten the respect and accolades, he refused to entertain such compassion now. Let Rick sleep in his own untidy bed. “How long will Leigh Anne be staying?” He couldn’t wait to hear the answer.
Bragg looked at him, positively suffused with anger. “Six months.”
His curiosity escalated wildly. “How odd that you do not send her away.”
Bragg set his wineglass down. “You know, I did not come here to discuss my wife—or Francesca. I came here to discuss a case.”
Hart hardly wanted to talk police business, although he did wish to know what Francesca and Rick were working on. “Well, that is a new twist.” He did not touch his wine. “What dastardly crime has been committed now?”
Bragg drummed his long fingers on the table. “Grace Conway, the actress, was found strangled in an artist’s studio. The studio was vandalized exactly as was Sarah Channing’s,” he said.
Hart was at attention now. “You do not pull any punches,” he said, stunned. “But Grace was Evan’s mistress!” And his mind raced. First an assault upon Sarah’s studio and now this, the murder of Grace Conway. And Evan Cahill was the single man involved with them both.
“You knew Miss Conway?” Bragg asked sharply.
“Yes, I do—I did. In fact, two years ago we had an affair. She was a wonderful woman,” Hart said grimly, the fact of her death just sinking in. But he was also thinking about Francesca. How could he help her brother now? For surely he was, somehow, involved. “I don’t like this,” he said abruptly. “How is Evan Cahill involved?”
“We don’t know. Do you know of an artist named Melinda Neville? A Miss Melinda Neville?”
“No, I have never heard the name.”
“Miss Conway was in her studio when she was murdered. The two women were neighbors,” Bragg said. “And now, Miss Neville seems to have disappeared.”
“I can find out if anyone is handling her work,” Hart said. “Shall I ask around the various galleries which I frequent?”
“I would appreciate it. We are concerned that Miss Neville may have been the killer’s target.”
“How is Francesca taking this?”
Bragg looked him in the eye. “She is managing very well. We both wish to keep the fact that Miss Conway was Evan’s mistress out of the news journals.”
“A good idea,” Hart said.
The waiter approached. “Would you gentlemen like to order?”
“A moment, please,” Bragg said. The waiter left. “Any idea why someone would start violating various art studios? Ones belonging to young women?”
“No. But I shall certainly think about it.”
“Any odd characters in the art world these days?”
Hart grinned. “Most of its denizens are odd, Rick.”
Rick ac
cepted that, and he began to spin his menu around with his fingertips. Hart felt the moment that his brother’s thoughts veered from the criminal investigation. A set expression closed his face. It was an expression Hart had seen many times, four years ago, when Leigh Anne had run off to Europe.
He finally sighed. As much as he disliked his brother, they did share a drop or two of blood. “Care for some advice?”
“From you? If this is about my personal life, I don’t think so.”
He leaned forward. “Get her out of your system once and for all. Fuck her brains out. And send her away. If you wish, I shall give you a tidy sum with which to pay her off. A single large one-time payment and the two of you are done.” He was disappointed with himself for being so benevolent with his impossibly virtuous brother. He would much prefer to gloat over the impasse Rick now found himself in. Nor did he really wish for Bragg to be running about the city with no wife in sight. Still, should that day come, it did not change the fact of his marriage. Leigh Anne would never give him a divorce and Francesca was too hot-blooded to wait for years and years for her supposed knight in shining armor.
Bragg leaned back in his chair, his amber gaze unwavering. “I seem to recall that you do not give a damn about my life, so why the sudden advice to sleep with my wife, and why the hell the offer to loan me enough money to pay her off?”
Hart hesitated. “Even you do not deserve the pain of such a viper.”
“Really? I think there is more to your offer than meets the eye, Calder; I am just not sure what is really on your mind.” He leaned forward, tension knotting his neck and shoulders. “Let me guess why you are so generous with your advice. If I follow it, you shall be free to pursue and seduce Francesca yourself and then, should I send Leigh Anne away, I will be deeply, impossibly in your debt!” He stared, grimacing. “You are the last person I wish to owe my life to. I would never be able to pay you back; therefore, my answer is no, thank you.”
“I shall do as I choose with Francesca whether you are screwing Leigh Anne or not. And you are a fool,” Hart said coldly. “Why this city thinks so highly of you I shall never know. But know this—I am not making such an offer again.”
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