Then she realized that Bragg would be looking for her. Her eyes widened. “Come, Con,” she said, grabbing her hand and half-dragging her across the salon as quickly as she could.
But she was a bit late. Bragg stood in the entry, arms folded across his chest, his expression dark. But he wasn’t staring at the doorway they had just run through; he seemed to be staring at the floor. Francesca halted, trying not to sound out of breath.
Bragg was grim as he looked up at her. Francesca flinched but did not look away. Instantly she knew he was preoccupied, the unpleasant exchange with Hart firmly on his mind.
She decided to take advantage of his preoccupation. She touched his sleeve. “I apologize. I had no idea that Hart was Randall’s son.”
He met her gaze. “I know you didn’t, Francesca. You would not hurt a fly, if it could be avoided.”
She smiled a little at him. “Are … are you all right?”
His gaze was direct. “I am fine.”
She knew it was a lie. Briefly, she touched his sleeve.
He seemed surprised. Stirring, he said, “How much did you overhear?”
“Just … a little.” Was he so disturbed now that he did not realize she had been snooping in the other room? Francesca was ashamed of her behavior, but on the other hand, her heart melted for Bragg now. She did not think he hated Hart, but Hart clearly hated—or wanted to hate—him. “Hart is jealous of you, Bragg,” she said softly. “It is obvious.”
His brows lifted. “I doubt it. He has become one of the city’s millionaires. Prior to my appointment here, I worked as a lawyer in D.C., and half of my cases were criminal ones—defending those I believed to be innocent of the charges leveled against them. It was not a lucrative practice, Francesca. Hart has more now, in this brief moment, than I will ever have.”
“I admire you, Bragg,” she said, and then she flushed, as the words had just popped out, but they were so very true. His nobility moved her in so many ways, and perhaps it was one of the reasons she found him so attractive. Of course, he was a strikingly handsome man.
He started and their gazes locked.
Francesca did not move. She forgot that they were not alone. He said, softly, “Do not put me on a pedestal.”
“I won’t,” she returned as softly.
He smiled then; so did she.
Connie coughed, behind them, but Francesca remained motionless. She didn’t really hear Connie. Her heart was racing now. She had the oddest feeling that Bragg was going to reach out for her, perhaps to touch her.
But he did not. Instead, his hands found the pockets of his dark trousers. “The admiration is mutual,” he said finally, as if he had not heard Connie, either. And then it was as if he came to his senses. He frowned. “You have interfered with my investigation, Francesca. I simply cannot allow it.”
She swallowed. “I know. And I am sorry.”
“Really? I do not think you have one sorry bone in your body,” he said, but he was not angry.
She inhaled hard, debating reminding him that she did have a client, and then she decided against it. “Do you really think Calder Hart murdered his own father?”
His expression closed. “It is my moral duty to keep an open mind and consider all the possibilities.”
He was not going to confide his true feelings to her. “Did you find Georgette de Labouche?”
“No.”
“The gun?” She was hopeful now.
He eyed her. “Francesca, what do I have to do to get you to return to your studies at Barnard College and to your life as a reforming woman?”
She froze. “What?”
“I do believe you heard me.”
“How … how did you find out … about my studies?” she gasped.
He smiled and it was affectionate. “Francesca, I am a policeman. Do you really think we would investigate the Burton Abduction together as we did and I would not learn all that is significant about you?”
She could only stare.
Bragg turned to Connie in the interim. “Surely you do not approve of your sister’s new avocation?”
Connie was grim—and vocal. “I most certainly do not.”
“Good. Then I have an ally.” He faced Francesca. “Stay away from Hart. Trust me. He is a dangerous man.” He glanced at Connie. “You should stay away from him as well, Lady Montrose. I highly recommend it.”
Connie flushed. “Why would I do otherwise? I do not know the man. He is hardly a friend of mine or Neil’s.”
“Good.” Bragg looked at Francesca. “I take it you have not heard from Miss de Labouche?”
Francesca shook her head. “No, I have not.”
He studied her, saw the truth, and smiled at her.
It so warmed Francesca, inside and out.
“Well, I must be going,” Bragg said. “Francesca, enjoy your day of shopping.” He gave her a stern look as they all started for the door, where a servant waited for them.
“I despise shopping,” Francesca said, her mind racing. She must get rid of Connie if she wished to do any more sleuthing that day.
“Take her shopping,” Bragg said firmly to Connie as the doorman opened the front door for them all. Bragg’s motorcar, a handsome cream-colored Daimler, was parked behind Connie’s coach.
“I will,” Connie promised him. “Good day, Commissioner, and again, I am so sorry for all that we have done.”
Bragg nodded to them both, and it seemed to Francesca that his gaze lingered a bit longer upon her than was necessary. She followed her sister into their coach but craned her neck in order to watch Bragg as he cranked the roadster to a start, climbed in, and shifted into gear. Their coachman let him pull out first.
Francesca sighed. The moment she did so she blushed and glanced quickly at her sister. Connie was smiling. “You are so obvious, Fran.”
“He is merely a friend. Do not think anything else,” Francesca warned.
“Very well,” Connie returned. She leaned forward to give their driver instructions.
“And I refuse to go shopping. Let’s go home,” Francesca said, with ulterior motives. “As I have been pinched this day, so to speak, I may as well use my time to good advantage and get some studying done.”
Connie told their coachman to take them home and she glanced curiously at Francesca. “Pinched?”
Francesca grinned. “That means bagged. You know—caught by the police.”
Connie rolled her eyes. Then, as their carriage moved onto Fifth Avenue, going uptown, as Fifth headed north, she stared pensively out the window, her expression changing. She seemed sad.
Francesca briefly closed her eyes, wishing she could help her sister. But the only person who could help Connie was Neil. “Perhaps Mama can be enticed into going shopping with you,” she suggested.
Connie did not turn from the frozen landscape that was Central Park. Even in the inclement weather, several horseback riders and carriages were enjoying the day on the track. “I do not wish to spend the day with Mama.”
“Well, what time will Neil be home? And Charlotte?”
Connie hesitated.
“Con?”
Now it was her sister’s turn to sigh, but the sound was very different from Francesca’s, belabored, if you will. “I don’t know. He wasn’t certain. He has been so … distracted of late.”
Francesca nodded. “Yes, I think so.” Finally Connie looked at her. “So you have noticed.” Francesca felt some small nagging guilt. “I have.” “I have noticed that the two of you seem to be at odds,” Connie remarked tersely. Francesca blinked. “What?”
“What are you two fighting about? You have always adored Neil.” Connie’s voice quavered. “The other night at Evan’s engagement party, it was as if the two of you could not stand each other.”
Francesca was rigid with tension. “Well, Neil thinks I am having an affair.”
“What?” Connie gasped.
Francesca nodded seriously. “So does Evan, and Bragg did, too, for a time.”
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“What?” Connie said again.
“My sleuthing had me out and about at some very unusual hours during the Burton Affair,” Francesca said, her heart pounding. “I could not tell Neil what I was doing, and he leaped to the wrong conclusion. Thus we fought.”
Connie regarded her with amazement. “Neil never said a word.”
“He promised me he would not.” Just as she, Francesca, had failed to promise him that she would keep her own silence as to what he knew—which was the real reason they were at odds now.
“Well …,” Connie trailed off, clearly relieved. “Oddly, I thought there might be another reason for your dissension.”
Francesca stared, realizing now that Connie suspected everything and that she had somehow surmised the real reason for Francesca’s quarrel with Neil. I should tell her, Francesca thought in a panic. If ever there was a moment, it was then. Perhaps she would be better off having her suspicions confirmed. Perhaps knowing the truth, instead of worrying about it, would be a relief, of sorts. For then she could repair her marriage, not just for her own sake, but for that of her two daughters.
But Bragg had once told her that words spoken too lightly could never be taken back. His wisdom held her back now. What should she do?
It would be a relief for everyone to have Neil’s sordid past put behind them, Francesca thought glumly. But Francesca had already had a great internal debate, and she had decided not to say anything to Connie, no matter how she might ache to do so. For Francesca would want to be told the truth if she were in her sister’s shoes, but Connie was not Francesca—they were as different as night and day.
Francesca felt certain that even as worried as she now was, Connie would not want to know the truth.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Connie asked, cutting into Francesca’s thoughts.
Francesca swallowed hard. “I am sorry. I did not mean to stare.” Quickly Francesca looked away.
But Connie gripped her knee. “Fran? What is it?”
Startled, Francesca gasped. “What?”
Connie was starkly pale. Briefly, she closed her eyes. “There is something else, isn’t there? There is another reason for the dissension between you and Neil.” She opened her eyes. “There is something you are not telling me. Isn’t there?”
Francesca was in shock. Was Connie asking her for the truth? Did Connie want to know? What should she do? Her panic increased. “Con …,” she began, a protest.
“Isn’t there?” And it was a harsh demand.
Francesca stared. She had to wet her lips in order to speak. What she would not do was lie. “Yes,” she said.
SEVEN
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY I, 1902—1:00 P.M.
Connie’s eyes widened, and Francesca saw fear there. Then Connie glanced away. Their brougham was approaching the block where the Cahill mansion was. “What is it?” Connie asked tersely. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”
Francesca reached out and took her hand, forcing her sister to meet her eyes again. Her own pulse was racing wildly—she so feared doing the wrong thing now. “Connie, if there was something amiss, something I know about that you, perhaps, should also know about, would you want me to tell you what I know?”
Connie was rigid and breathless. She stared, and the moment became an endless one. “Is this about Neil?”
Francesca hesitated.
“It is, isn’t it?” Connie pulled her hands free of Francesca’s and stared out her window. Another endless moment passed. Francesca did not speak. She could not blurt out the fact of Neil’s adultery, not unless she was certain her sister was ready to face the truth. “You know, I have changed my mind. I will go shopping with you!” she exclaimed. “And I have a wonderful idea! Let’s call on Sarah Channing and ask her to join us.” Sarah was Evan’s fiancée. The engagement was a recent one and quite against Evan’s will. “Sarah is the most amazing artist. We will undoubtedly find her feverishly at work in her studio. I doubt she is inclined toward shopping, but she will surely want to get to know her future sisters-in-law better.”
The coach had halted in front of the huge limestone house that was the Cahill home. Connie turned to Francesca. “There is another woman,” she said.
Francesca, in the act of rising, sank back down on the leather squab. She wet her lips. “You … know.”
Connie stared, her expression one of dread and anguish. “No. I don’t know. But somehow you do.”
Her heart hurt her now, because her words would hurt her sister unbearably, even if she were only the messenger. “Yes. I know. I saw him … with someone … another woman.”
Connie did not speak. She seemed carved out of stone. In a few small moments, she had become an unbearably lovely and frozen ivory statue.
“I am so sorry,” Francesca whispered. And the statement seemed to hang there, tautly, between them.
How small the carriage had become.
How silent the day.
And Connie made a harsh sound. “How long have you known?” Her eyes glazed over. “He adores the girls. He adores me. I do not understand!”
Francesca took her hand. “I don’t understand, either. I haven’t known for very long. Perhaps a week or so. I didn’t think you would want to know; I didn’t think I should say anything.”
“Are you certain?” Connie asked with desperation. “Are you certain? Perhaps you misconstrued the situation.”
Francesca was silent, feeling for her sister—having already wept copiously herself. “I am certain. I was snooping,” she said, trembling. “I saw him clearly.”
Connie hugged herself. “I think I shall die,” she said.
“No, Con, you will not die! Neil does love you, I am certain of it, and you will fix this madness; I am certain of that, too!” Francesca cried.
Connie stared. Tears began to fill her sky blue eyes. A tear slid down her face.
“Neil does love you,” Francesca insisted, wishing she could somehow spare her sister the brutal pain she must just now be experiencing and praying her own words were true.
Connie said, “I have to know. I have to know who he was with.”
Francesca hesitated. “Eliza Burton.”
* * *
Francesca slipped somberly into the house, a large marble-floored hall with Corinthian pillars set at intervals about the room. Marble panels divided the walls, and a high ceiling depicted a fresco of a pastoral scene. Francesca felt shaken and depressed. Connie had asked her if anyone else knew, and Francesca had said she thought not. Bragg knew. But she had not seen the point in making her sister more anxious by telling her of that. She had promised not to breathe a word of Neil’s affair to anyone, not even Evan, and especially not their mother.
Francesca somehow smiled at the doorman and handed off her muff, her hat, which she unpinned, and her fur-lined coat to a manservant. The house was very quiet. But Mama was undoubtedly on her way to a ladies’ luncheon, Evan would be long since gone by now, and perhaps, just perhaps, she had the house to herself. Francesca started toward the library.
It was early. As soon as she looked at the morning’s newspaper—which she had forgotten to do when she had awoken, due to Connie’s unexpected visit—she would hail a cab and go find Joel. They had all afternoon to continue their investigation into Randall’s murder. Francesca thought a safe place to start might be with Georgette de Labouche’s neighbors, if she managed to be very discreet. She did not dare visit the widow now. She was afraid to run into Bragg and the police there.
She stepped into her father’s study, which also happened to be her favorite room in the entire house. With its goldcloth-covered walls and stained-glass windows, with its dark wood accents and warm, comfortable furnishings, it was a most inviting sanctuary. Now she blinked in surprise. Andrew Cahill sat at his desk, engrossed in writing a letter. He did not look up, not even hearing her.
She left the door ajar and smiled fondly at him. “Papa, I did not see the second carriage, and I did not realize
you were home.”
Cahill started and looked up. His smile answered that of his daughter. “Good day, Francesca. I noticed you slept quite late this morning.”
In a way, it was a question, one asked very mildly. Francesca was not alarmed—had Julia asked the very same question, she would be anxious and afraid of being found out. “Yes, I did. It was delicious, too, I might add. Perhaps I will acquire a new and lazy habit.”
Cahill laughed. “That would astonish me to no end.”
Francesca smiled back at him and walked over to the couch, which faced the fireplace. On the cushions she saw the Tribune and the Times. She sat down, reaching for the former, and quickly scanned the headlines. Randall’s murder had not made the news, apparently—she was certain it would be on the front page of the Tribune, although perhaps not the Times—but Bragg had made the news. She stiffened. “Bragg Wreaks Havoc on Police Affairs,” the headline screamed. The subtitle read: “Hundreds of Officers Demoted in Attempt to Halt Corruption.”
She glanced quickly at the Times. “Three Hundred Detectives Demoted and Demoralized,” she read. And then, “Reassignment will break graft in wards or destroy crime-fighting ability.”
“Bragg has certainly taken the tiger by the tail,” Andrew commented, standing and coming over to her. “He is a courageous man.”
Francesca was thrilled, although she did not like the Times’ suggestion that Bragg might be hurting the capabilities of the city’s police. “Will he survive this brave act of his, Papa?”
“We shall see. But by transferring these officers to different precincts he has dealt a severe blow to the system of graft and corruption that is synonymous with police protection.”
Francesca understood. “The detectives from a single ward take payoffs and bribes from the saloons, brothel keepers, and gambling halls in their ward, By demoting them and reassigning them to an unfamiliar ward, it will be difficult for them to immediately devise a new system of graft and corruption. How clever. How bold.”
“Bragg is not very popular in his own department right now,” Cahill commented. “And if you read the Times, one journalist suggests he has gone too far too quickly and that crime will actually blossom in this new environment.”
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