The woman whirled. As she did so, her hood fell back to reveal rich, chocolate-brown hair. She ran down the steps to the curb.
“Wait!” Francesca shouted, rushing after her.
Her cry only made the woman run faster. Francesca suddely realized that a brougham was approaching and that the young woman was running directly into its path.
“Stop!” she screamed, halting at the curb.
Too late, the woman realized the danger from the oncoming vehicle. She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide with terror.
The coachman saw her, too. He jammed down the brake, cursing at her. The two bays reared as he wildly tried to rein them in.
Francesca dove after the woman, knocking her down and out of the way of the two plunging horses and the carriage.
She felt a carriage wheel graze her shoulder as the coach passed. It slowed and then stopped a short distance away.
The woman blinked up at her, and for one moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Francesca knew the woman’s terror had nothing to do with almost being hit by a carriage.
Francesca had landed on top of her, and she quickly rolled off, still stunned. The woman leapt up, and without a word, she lifted her coat and skirts and ran.
“Wait,” Francesca gasped, still sitting in the middle of the street as three reporters and half a dozen bystanders rushed to her. “Are you all right, Miss?” someone asked.
“Miss Cahill! Who was that?” This from Isaacson.
A crowd had gathered around her. “Did you see that? The woman must have been mad, to run in front of a coach like that!” “Maybe a lunatic, from the looks of her.”
Someone was shoving through the crowd. Francesca felt him before she saw him, and she turned and looked up, meeting his eyes. Bragg knelt. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
She nodded, her wind having returned, and he helped her to her feet. She leaned into him, shaking a bit from the close encounter. “There’s a woman in danger, Bragg. She wanted to approach me, I am certain of it, but then she ran away, and was almost run over!”
He held her upper arms. His gaze was concerned and grim. “You don’t know that, Francesca. I was just coming out of the hotel to speak with you again, and I saw you chasing her into the street. You have no facts.”
“I am certain she wished to speak with me!” Francesca cried, as he released her. Suddenly she realized just what was happening. She blinked at him, and in spite of the danger the mysterious woman was undoubtedly in, she did smile, just a bit.
“Oh, no,” Bragg said, with a soft groan. “I know exactly what you are thinking.”
“There is another crime to solve,” she said sweetly.
“Francesca! You were almost killed last night—”
“Balderdash,” she said.
He stared.
She grinned.
THE ADVENTURES OF FRANCESCA CAHILL WILL CONTINUE! TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW
OF
DEADLY AFFAIRS
(ON SALE IN APRIL 2002)
AND
DEADLY DESIRE
(ON SALE IN MAY 2002)
DEADLY AFFAIRS
“You have a caller, Francesca.”
Francesca halted at the sound of her mother’s voice, having just handed her coat, hat, muff, and gloves to a servant. She slowly turned, with dread.
For the voice had been sharp. Now, disapproval covered Julia’s attractive face. She was an older image of both daughters: blond, blue-eyed, with classic and fine features. Although over forty, she remained slim and glamorous; many men her own age often eyed her in a covert manner.
“Good day, Mama,” Francesca said nervously. She had seen The Sun. Francesca would wager her life on it.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was magnificently attired, clearly dressed for an early evening affair. Her sapphire-blue gown revealed a slim and pleasing figure, while two tiers of sapphires adorned her neck. Before she could answer, Andrew appeared on the stairs, in a white dinner jacket and satin-trimmed black trousers. He took one look at Francesca and his expression became pinched, with disbelief and accusation warring in his eyes.
“I can explain,” Francesca whispered.
“What can you explain?” Andrew demanded, halting beside his wife. “That you have made the front page of The Sun! That you once again immersed yourself in a dangerous affair? One belonging, I believe, to the police?”
Francesca inhaled. How to begin? Before she could speak, her mother interrupted.
“I am aghast. I am aghast that my daughter would confront a killer and place herself in unspeakable danger. This shall not continue, Francesca. You have gone too far.” Julia turned and nodded at a servant, who was holding her magnificent sable coat for her. She allowed him to slip it over her shoulders.
“I am beginning to wonder if my brilliant daughter has truly lost her mind,” Andrew said.
Francesca cringed. Papa never spoke to her in such a manner. “I helped the police enormously,” Francesca murmured. The fact was, she had solved the case at the eleventh hour.
“You have been up to your ears in police affairs ever since Bragg arrived in town,” Julia said sharply. “Do you think I am blind, Francesca? I can see what is happening.”
“Nothing is happening,” Francesca tried, stealing a glance at her father. He knew about Bragg’s married state, she thought suddenly. This was the secret he had been keeping. But why hadn’t he told her?
“We are on our way out for the evening, but we shall speak tomorrow morning, Francesca.” Julia gave her a look that was filled with warning, and did not look at her again while Andrew donned his coat. But her father met her gaze, shaking his head, looking so terribly grim that Francesca knew she was in a kind of trouble she had never dreamed of. There was no relief when they left the house. But what could they do? She was a grown woman.
Francesca relaxed slightly. She would worry about her parents tomorrow. She turned as Bette handed her a delicately engraved calling card on a small sterling tray. Francesca studied the card for a moment, curiously; she did not believe she had ever met a Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She thanked Bette and entered the far salon.
It was beautifully appointed, but small, and used for more intimate gatherings, such as a single caller. It was painted a pale, dusky yellow, and most of the furnishings were in various shades of yellow or gold, with several red and navy-blue accents. The moment Francesca entered the room, she saw Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She had been sitting on a sofa at the room’s other end, but upon espying Francesca, she instantly stood. Francesca smiled and approached.
Mrs. Lincoln Stuart twisted her hands.
Francesca saw that she was a few years older than her. She was rather plain in appearance, her features usual and unsurprising. But her hair was a beautiful cascade of chestnut curls, and it was what one noticed first. She was very well-dressed, in a green floral suit and skirt, and she wore a rather large, yellow diamond ring. Her husband was obviously wealthy. And she was nervous and distressed.
“Miss Cahill. I do hope you do not mind me calling like this,” Mrs. Stuart said in a husky voice, one filled with tension. Worry was expressed in her eyes.
Francesca smiled warmly, pausing before her. “Of course not,” she said politely. “Have we met?”
“No, we have not, but I was given this by a boy the other day.” And Mrs. Stuart handed her a card.
Francesca recognized it instantly—how could she not? Tiffany’s had printed the cards at her request upon the conclusion of the Burton Affair. It read:
Francesca Cahill
Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small
“My assistant, Joel Kennedy, must have handed this to you,” Francesca mused, pleased. She had recently assigned him the task of drumming up business for her. She glanced up at Mrs. Stuart. Was she a prospective client? Francesca’s heart thudded in anticipation.
“I don’t know the boy’s n
ame, I only know that I am frightened and I have no one to turn to,” Mrs. Stuart cried, her eyes wide. Francesca saw that they were green and lovely. Mrs. Stuart was the kind of woman who had a quiet kind of beauty, one that was not instantly remarkable, she decided.
Francesca also realized that she was on the verge of tears. She took her arm. “Do sit down, and I am sure I can help you, Mrs. Stuart,” she said. “No matter what your problem might be.” There was no doubt now; Mrs. Stuart had come to her for help. This would be her second official case!
The woman dug a handkerchief out of her velvet purse. It was hunter-green, like the trim on her elegant tea gown. “Please, call me Lydia,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “I saw today’s article in The Sun, Miss Cahill. You are a heroine, a brave heroine, and when I realized that you are the same woman on this card, I knew it was you to whom I must turn.”
“I am hardly a heroine, Lydia,” Francesca said, barely containing her excitement. “Excuse me.” She rushed to the salon door and closed it, so that no one might overhear the conversation. Her resolve to take a “sabbatical” from sleuthing had vanished. In fact, she forgot all about her studies now. She hurried back to her guest—her client—and sat down. What could this woman’s problem be? And was she truly going to have, for the very first time, a paying client? In the past, she had offered her services for free. A paying client would truly make her a professional woman.
Lydia managed to smile at her, and she now handed Francesca a small piece of paper, upon which were two names, Rebecca Hopper, and an address, 40 East 30th Street. “What is this?” Francesca asked.
Lydia Stuart’s face changed, becoming filled with distaste. “Mrs. Hopper is a widow, and that is where she lives. I believe my husband is having an affair with her, but I want to know the truth.”
Francesca stared.
“And I have no doubt that he will be there tonight, as he has said he is working late and he will not be home for supper,” Lydia added.
Mrs. Hopper’s residence was a corner one, and while all of the lights were on downstairs, only one bedroom upstairs was illuminated. It had been years since Francesca had climbed a tree, and now she was sorry that she had not gone further downtown to locate Joel to do her evening’s work for her. He would have been very useful indeed—especially as he did not have cumbersome skirts to deal with.
Huffing and puffing, her hands freezing because she had stripped off her gloves, she sought another foothold in the huge tree she was climbing, clinging to the trunk.
She had decided to tackle Lydia’s case head-on. It was nine P.M., and a quick look at the house had shown her that if she climbed the big tree in the yard, she might very well be able to spy upon the lovers directly. In fact, if Lydia were right, this case might be solved before it was even begun.
Francesca made it to the large, higher branch. She clung to it, one leg atop it, both arms around it. Her skirts were in the way; she had not worn men’s clothing for she did not have the psychic ability to know when she would be climbing trees. With great effort, she somehow moved her other leg onto the thick branch, and then she hugged it with all her might, afraid she was going to fall. She glanced down.
She was not sure she liked heights. When she had been on the ground, in the yard, the tree had not seemed so tall. Now, looking down, her cheek upon the rough bark, her hands feeling rather scraped and raw, the ground looked very far away.
She had not a doubt that if she fell, the snow would be rock-hard, as it was solidly frozen. It would not break her fall; she might wind up with a broken arm, or God forbid, a broken neck.
But she was determined to ignore her cowardice now. Very, very carefully, Francesca sat up. When she was astride the branch as if it were a horse, she began to breathe easier. This wasn’t too bad. She believed she could mange.
Dismayed, she suddenly realized her eyes were still below the window and she could not see into the bedroom in order to learn what was going on. She was going to have to stand up.
But Francesca realized she was turned around the wrong way—the trunk of the tree was behind her. Oh dear. This might be far too dangerous a maneuver, she thought.
She could not see into the bedroom, and she was at a grave risk if she tried to turn around. Now what?
There was no choice. She had to turn herself around. She simply had to. Because Lydia Stuart was her first paying client.
Francesca lifted her right leg up slowly, until she was able to move it up and over the branch. Now she sat with both legs dangling off the same side of the tree, and her position was precarious at best. She failed to breathe now. She had to reverse herself, but she was afraid to move.
That was when she slipped.
Francesca cried out as she lost her balance and started to slide off the branch. Instantly, desperately, she reached out, trying to grasp the branch with her hands, the bark scraping and abrading her palms, and for one moment, she thought she had succeeded in stopping herself. She gripped the tree, but then her hands failed her and suddenly she was falling through space.
She saw the white snow below, racing towards her face, and she thought, Oh dear, this is it. It is all over now.
Whomp.
Francesca landed hard on her shoulder and her side, not her face, her head smacking down last. And then she was spitting out snow.
God, she thought, dazed. Was she intact? Had she broken anything?
She began to move. The snow was not as frozen as she had thought it would be; it was not rock-hard, surprisingly. She wiggled her toes and fingers in the snow, moved her hands and legs.
She froze.
Had she just touched something? Something beneath the snow? Something sticky? And solid?
Francesca sat up shakily, and as she stood, she looked down at her own hands.
One was pale and white in the moonlight, the other was dark and splotched in places.
She had an inkling. She did not move. She recognized those splotches.
Her heart pumped hard now.
And then she rubbed her fingers together. Oh, no.
Francesca was on her knees, tearing at the frozen snow. And as she moved the top layer away, she found a piece of garment.
Francesca stared at a patch of brown wool, and the dark, still not thoroughly frozen, stain upon it.
She touched it.
It was no different than what had been on her fingertips; it was blood, and it was fresh.
Someone was buried in the snow, recently, and maybe the person was alive!
Francesca pawed the snow frantically, shoving it away in clumps, and then she saw the woman’s face—she saw the open, sightless blue eyes, and they were glazed in terror.
She saw the throat.
She stood, and unable to help herself, she screamed.
For carved in the once-pristine white skin was a perfect and bloody cross.
DEADLY DESIRE
The Channings lived on the unfashionable West Side of the city. Sarah Channing was becoming a good friend, ever since her engagement to Francesca’s brother, Evan. When her father had died, her mother, a rather frivolous and harmless socialite, had inherited his millions and promptly built their new house. As Francesca approached the mansion, which was quite new and horrendously gothic, she clutched her reticule as if she expected a cutpurse to appear and seize it.
Francesca was told by the doorman that Miss Channing was not receiving visitors.
“Would you care to leave your card?” the liveried doorman asked.
“Harold? Who is it?”
Francesca stepped forward at the sound of Mrs. Channing’s voice. A not-quite-pretty woman with reddish-blond hair who was extremely well-dressed and somehow reminded one of a flighty, mindless bird was entering the foyer. “Why, Francesca! This is quite the surprise!” She clapped her beringed hands together in childish delight.
Francesca managed a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Channing. I am sorry to hear that Sarah is indisposed. I hope she is not too ill?”
Mrs.
Channing’s dark eyes widened. Then she put her arm around Francesca and leaned toward her, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps this is a stroke of fate, indeed. That you should choose this very day to call!”
Francesca looked into her dramatically widened eyes—as there was little else to do, with the other woman’s face a mere two inches from her own. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Channing?”
“We are in the midst of a crisis,” Mrs. Channing said. Her breath was sweet, as if she had been eating raspberries and chocolates.
Francesca was in no mood for a crisis other than her own. “Perhaps I should leave word that I have called—and come back at another time.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Channing cried, finally releasing Francesca. “I told Sarah we should call for you! But she said you were recovering from that horrid encounter with the Cross Killer, and we mustn’t disturb you! But you are a sleuth, dearie, and we do need a sleuth now! Nor do I have the foggiest of whom else to call upon in our time of need!”
Francesca straightened. In spite of her worries, she could not help being intrigued. “You have need of an investigator?” she asked, a familiar tingle now running up and down her spine.
Mrs. Channing nodded eagerly. “Why, what has happened?”
“Come with me!” Mrs. Channing exclaimed. And she was already hurrying into the hall.
Francesca followed, not bothering to hand off her coat, hat, and single glove. She quickly realized, as they moved down one hall and then another, that they were heading in the direction of Sarah’s studio. She was perplexed.
Suddenly Mrs. Channing turned and placed her back against the door of Sarah’s studio, barring the way. “Prepare yourself,” she warned, rather theatrically.
Francesca nodded, holding back a smile, more than intrigued now. What could be going on?
Mrs. Channing smiled, as if in satisfaction, and she thrust open the door.
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