Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 3

Chapter Six.

SAt.u.r.dAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 -6 P.M.

Francesca felt as if she had been run over by a lorry. She wondered how she might navigate an evening when Hart would be present-and when Bragg would also be present. Of course, unlike Hart, Bragg did not sulk like a spoiled child and did not hold a grudge. His nature was a sunny one, just as his character was optimistic. He would undoubtedly have forgotten about their argument or realized the cause- Hart's commission-was hardly worth it. Still, his father had seen Hart storming away. How much had he heard and what did he think?

She had so wanted to make a good impression. By now, Rathe had already told Grace about her and Hart. Francesca could not even smile at Jonathon, the young and handsome doorman, as she handed him her coat. "Have you seen my disreputable brother?" she

asked. In spite of her own personal feelings, she did have a case to solve. "I do believe Mr. Cahill is with your father, Miss Cahill. They adjourned to the library sometime ago." Francesca was about to head down the hall, for she wished to speak with Evan about hersecond theory, that a rejected debutante was insane enough and vicious enough tovandalize Sarah's studio. But before she could do so, she heard two very familiar voicescoming from the stairwell. Francesca saw her mother and Maggie Kennedy descendingslowly, her mother magnificently dressed in a crimson ball gown, with rubies about her throatand diamond earbobs. The gown was a Poiret. Maggie wore a plain navy blue skirt and ashirtwaist. She was using a cane, which she leaned heavily upon. The redhead was pale and clearly still weak from the stab wound she had suffered earlier inthe week. Francesca reversed direction and rushed toward the wide alabaster staircase. "Mrs.Kennedy! Should you be up and about?" "I have asked her the exact same question," Julia said, pulling on elbow-length black gloves.Her hair had been waved with hot tongs, and she was a very elegant and beautiful olderwoman. Francesca was fully aware that her mother still turned heads. "I am much better, thank you," Maggie said, rather out of breath. "Dr. Finney said I shouldwalk about a bit now, to gain back my strength." "But going up and down stairs is another matter indeed," Francesca said bluntly. Maggie smiled at her. "I do need to get my strength back, Miss Cahill. You see, I was justexplaining to Mrs. Cahill that I will go home tomorrow." Francesca stared in surprise. Maggie Kennedy was the mother of her sidekick, Joel. Shewas a seamstress who worked at the Moe Levy factory by day while sewing customgarments for private clients at night. Francesca had liked her the first moment they had met,about a month ago. Then, in her last investigation, she had realized that Mrs. Kennedy mightbe the Cross Murderer's last victim. Francesca and Bragg had persuaded the pretty seamstress to move into the Cahill mansionwith her four young children. And after being stabbed on Tuesday night, she had remainedthere in order to recuperate. "That is nonsense," Julia said firmly, now. "My dear Maggie, you are clearly not able toreturn to your home. You cannot even navigate these stairs!" "My mother is right," Francesca began, dismayed and concerned. "I have imposed quite enough," Maggie said, a pink flush now marring her porcelain andperfectly flawless skin. She had been invited to stay at the Cahill mansion when it hadbecome obvious that her life was in dire danger. Francesca had been the one to invite herand her four children to stay with them. Julia had graciously risen to the occasion. "I thinkyour brother has had quite enough of my four little rascals," Maggie said with a slight smile,"and I shall lose my job at Moe Levy if I do not return to the factory on Monday." "Has Evan said something about the children?" Julia asked with her slender brows arched. "Evan adores your children," Francesca said. He had been squiring them about the parkand to the zoo and even to an indoor bowling lane ever since they had become guests at thehouse. "It isn't fair," Maggie said softly. Then she flushed. "I am so worried about my employment,Miss Cahill." "But Francesca," she said automatically, "the police commissioner spoke to your manager,explaining the circ.u.mstances. You will not lose your work." Maggie simply looked at her. "Are you certain? Because I do not think Mr. Wentz careswhether or not the police commissioner wishes me to be employed." Francesca hesitated. "Mrs. Kennedy? Let me be singularly bold. Bragg can cause troublefor the factory if you are dismissed." She stared. Then, "I do not think he would ever do such a thing, Miss Cahill. Not on myaccount."

"Yes, he would. If I insisted," Francesca said, and then she realized what she had said andhow it sounded and turned to face her mother. Julia wasn't pleased. Her blue eyes said, We shall talk, and soon, Francesca, and clearlythere would be a lecture involved. Francesca sighed. Julia said, surprising everyone, "Maggie, you are not well enough to go back to work, I shallnot allow it, but on Monday I shall go down to the factory and speak to your managermyself." Maggie paled. "Oh, I could not let you do such a thing!" "Nonsense. And not only shall I go myself; I shall make it clear that I am ordering newuniforms for my entire staff and for the Montrose household as well." She smiled. Maggie gaped. Francesca whooped and embraced her mother in a bear hug. "Mama!" "Francesca, what are you doing?" Julia said sternly, trying to disengage her daughter, buther eyes were smiling, even if her expression remained firm. "You never cease to surprise me," Francesca said, giving her another huge squeeze. "Now,I am off to speak briefly with Evan, and then I am to supper at the Plaza with the Braggs."She started back down the hall. "We will speak more later, Maggie," Julia said. Then, "Francesca!" She turned. "Yes, Mama?" Julia approached. "We need to speak," she said. Dismay filled her. "Can't it wait? I must be at the Plaza at seven and I am already going to belate." "No, this is about your sister," Julia said, her voice low so she could not be overheard. "Sheand Neil were supposed to join us this evening, but apparently she is in her bed with somekind of migraine-yet she refuses to see Dr. Finney." Francesca stared. "I saw her this morning." "I know. What is wrong? Is she ill?" Francesca hesitated. "The only thing wrong with her is that she has a broken heart. Butperhaps she does have a migraine, Mama." "Since when does your sister have migraines?" Their gazes locked. "I feel like I don't knowmy own daughter anymore." Francesca took her hand. "She seemed quite normal this morning. Except for the fact that itwas well after nine and she was in her nightgown. Maybe Connie is changing a bit? Maybeshe does have a migraine." "I don't know whether to hope her excuse is truthful or not," Julia said. "You know I havenever interfered in your sister's marriage. But I am tempted to do so, now." Inwardly, Francesca cringed. "She will get through this. I suppose she needs time. She hasalways loved Neil. I feel certain that has not changed. And ... Neil truly loves her. He regretsall that he has done. Give them some time, Mama, to sort out things." A look of anger appeared briefly in Julia's eyes, and then it was gone. "It is a bit late for himto cry over spilled milk," she said. Francesca was taken aback. Her mother adored Montrose. In the past, he could do nowrong. But there had been no mistaking the anger she had just seen. "I am going to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with your sister," Julia decided flatly. "The two ofthem have been at odds for too long. I shall put my two cents in." Francesca hesitated. She did not know if this was a good idea or not. Her entire life, Conniehad been pushed and prodded by Julia to be a perfect child, a perfect debutante, and nowthe perfect wife, mother, and socialite. On the other hand, if Julia could help Connie regainher happiness, if her relationship could just go back to the way it had been before his affair,it would be wonderful. "Well, tread gently, then." Julia gazed at her in surprise. "That is extremely good advice, Francesca." Francesca was thrilled with her mother's praise. It was so rare. "Thank you, Mama."

Julia patted her shoulder. "So why have you been running about the city all day when you are supposed to rest? And what is this about a dinner with the Braggs?" Francesca froze. Julia sighed. "I am entirely suspicious, Francesca. But even you would not be involved in police affairs so soon after your brush with a fiery death." "Of course not," she managed. "And I am delighted you shall be dining in such good company." She kissed her cheek. "Wear your new turquoise gown. I am sure it will be a wonderful evening." The door to her father's library was wide open. The room was Francesca's favorite in the entire house, as it was a warm room with wood paneling and soft gold tapestry cloth covering the walls. The windowpanes were stained gla.s.s and the same rich, dark oak wood that formed ribs across the ceiling. Her father's desk was also dark oak, but with a leather-inlaid top. They kept their telephone there. Now there was nothing warm about the library, in spite of a fire that roared in the hearth. Because Evan's face was flushed with fury and he was saying angrily, "And if you do not change your mind, you are the one who shall pay the consequences!" Andrew was as flushed. "You threaten me?" he gasped. "Yes, I do," Evan said coldly. He was six foot tall, with the fair Cahill complexion but raven-black hair. His blue eyes were murderous. "After all, it is a t.i.t for a tat, is it not, Father? Doesn't blackmail deserve threats?" Francesca was aghast. She rushed into the room. "Stop! What is happening! What is this?" she cried, reeling from the utter hatred on her brother's handsome face. "He dares to threaten me!" Andrew cried, a distinct and unflattering shade of crimson. He was a portly man with a benevolent face and thick whiskers. "I am simply stating my case. He wishes to ruin the rest of my life by forcing me to marry a woman I will never love-or even like. If he does not change his mind, then rest a.s.sured, our relationship as a father and son is over." Francesca felt as if she had been struck. Clearly Andrew felt the blow as well, for he seemed to be reeling. She ran to his side and grabbed his arm, as if to steady him. "Evan, you do not mean that." "I mean it. In four months he will have me exchanging vows with Sarah Channing. In four months my life becomes one of manacles and chains, of unhappiness and anguish. And I will not take it." His blue eyes were nearly black. Andrew Cahill shook Francesca off. "You haven't spoken to me in almost a month. Now you dare to come in here and tell me that you will cease being my son if I do not call off this wedding?" "Yes. I dare." Evan did not back down. "I am doing this precisely because you are my son! I am doing this because you are almost twenty-five and you have no direction in your life except for gambling halls and dens! And cheap women!" Evan folded his arms across his chest. "We cannot all be like you, Father. We can't all grow up impoverished and illiterate but with such a burning ambition that we shake off those shackles with sheer fort.i.tude and wit. I am truly sorry I have not grown up on a farm, milking cows and plowing fields the way that you have done. I am sorry that I did not go to work for a butcher at the age of twelve and that I did not spend the rest of my childhood working myself to the bone and saving every penny earned so I could buy that d.a.m.ned butcher shop! I am sorry I did not do so, and then continue on to buy my compet.i.tors out, one by one, until Cahill Meatpacking was born! I am not you! And I never will be you!" he shouted. "No one expects you to be exactly like Father," Francesca began. "You do not have to grow up on a farm on a diet of milk, b.u.t.ter, and bread in order to have some kind of ambition, some sense of direction, and some glimmer of responsibility," Andrew snapped. "Or have you forgotten that the reason you are so currently shackled is because you have gaming debts which total almost two hundred thousand dollars?"

Evan's flush increased. "Papa, don't," Francesca whispered. "He regrets those debts; he truly does!" "Does he?" Andrew moved behind his desk and almost tore a drawer from it. He held up ahandful of papers. "These debts are new and they have just come to my attention. Last weekyou incurred another eighteen thousand dollars of d.a.m.ned debt!" he shouted. Francesca turned huge eyes upon her brother. Had he been gambling again? But he hadpromised that he would never do so again. How could he? He met her gaze and looked away, with clear guilt. Then he looked up at Andrew. "Do notmake me marry this woman. I will pay off my debts, somehow. Over time. But do not shackleme to Sarah Channing." Francesca looked at Andrew. "Papa? It is the worst match. I adore Sarah, but she is not forEvan. And she doesn't even want to marry, not him or anyone. Please, Papa, let them gotheir separate ways." "She is the best thing to ever happen to him!" Andrew cried. "You are wrong! She is the worst thing to ever happen to me!" Evan cried in return. "And whom would you have as a wife? That countess Benevente?" Andrew demanded. Evan stilled. "I hadn't really thought about it, but she is available and we should do nicelyindeed." "Over my dead body," Andrew spat. "That woman would cause you nothing but grief! Youare a fool, Evan, a complete fool, ruled by one thing, no, two things. And I do believe youknow what those two things are." Evan's face hardened. "You know what? I am done here. I am truly done." He turned andstrode for the door. "What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" Andrew cried, not moving from behind his desk. "Don't," Francesca whispered, ready to cry. Evan paused in the doorway, his smile ugly. "I am finished. I am finished with all of this. I amsick of being your lackey at the office, and I am not marrying Sarah Channing, and as of thismoment, I am no longer your son." "Please don't!" Francesca cried, rushing to him. Andrew strode forward. Evan did not move. Francesca found herself trapped between the two men, her father, who was aboutfive-foot-nine but stout, and her taller, slim brother. It was not a happy or pleasant place tobe. "Are you saying that you are leaving the company?" Andrew asked, his tone eerily quiet. "Yes." "And you will not marry Sarah?" "Yes." "Then I am not paying your debts," Andrew said softly. "I will find a way to pay them myself," Evan said. Andrew hesitated. "Papa, don't; enough has been said," Francesca said into the sudden silence, grabbing hishand. But it was as if he hadn't heard her. "Then you may leave this house, for you are no longermy son," he said. Francesca followed Evan down the hall. "Go back. Apologize. Don't do this!" He reached the stairs. When the Cahill mansion had been built, it had been done so in sucha way that his house was attached on the other side. The intention was that one day, aftermarrying, he would live right next door with his wife and children. Evan's house was almostas large and grand as his parents'. There was an outside entrance on Sixty-second Street,but he could also enter from within the Cahill home, on the second floor. That was clearlywhere he was going, now. Evan paused and faced his sister, still flushed. "I would not be a man if I meekly did as Father ordered." She closed her eyes, filled with fear. Then she looked at him. "If you do not pay your debts,you will wind up in debtors' jail." "That's right," he said grimly. "And that is a risk I have decided to take, because I am notmarrying Sarah Channing." Francesca touched his sleeve. "Wouldn't it be better to pretend to go along with theengagement for now, while raising the money to pay off your debtors?" He looked at her and sighed. "Leave it to you, Fran, to strike to the heart of common sense.Yes, obviously it would. But I am so furious right now that I think I have come to hate Father." "Don't say that!" "Why not? He has been disappointed in me since I was born. I have never done a singlething right, not in his eyes." "That's not true!" "Yes, it is. And you know it. And do you want to know something else? This isn't just aboutSarah. I hate being his lackey, and that is what I have been my entire life. I hate thecompany. I hate it! I have hated every single day I have worked there, and you know I startedworking there after school when I was twelve years old." She bit her lip. "I knew you didn't really like the business, but I never suspected you dislikedit so much!" "I do," he said firmly. "You will not at least think about retracting some of what you have said?" He didn't hesitate. "No. I shall take a room at one of the hotels, look for a new job, andeventually let a place of my own." "Oh G.o.d," Francesca said, feeling as if her world were falling apart. "But this is your home."She meant next door. "Mama and Papa built Number Eight-twelve for you. You have beenliving there since you were eighteen." "You may have it on your wedding day. I don't want it." She sensed he didn't really mean it. She sensed that within him there was a part thatremained loyal to his family, a part that did not want to leave. Or was it wishful thinking on herpart? "Please rethink what you are going to do," she whispered. "Fran, do you think I have decided to quit Cahill Meatpacking on a whim? Do you think Idecided to break off the engagement on a whim? I owe one hundred and ninety-eightthousand dollars! I have some unsavory types breathing down my neck! I am worried thatone of these days one of them will break my neck! I have been up at nights, debating myoptions. I have no choice!" "You dislike Sarah that much?" "No, Fran. In fact, as a friend, I rather like her. This is about me, and this is about Father.Sarah is just an unwitting p.a.w.n in a much larger scheme of things." Tears came to Francesca's eyes. But she understood. "What about Mama?" she askedsuddenly, with dread and concern. Mama adored Evan. For her, he could do almost nowrong. Francesca thought that she was going to be heartbroken but could not be sure. "Mama will cry. And it will break my heart to be the one to make her cry. But I love her dearly,and I will not let my war with Father interfere in our relationship. We will continue on,somehow." Francesca stared at him. He was dark and grim now. Her brother was, by disposition, kindand friendly; in fact, he had a naturally sunny disposition and he rarely lost his temper. Shehad never seen him so resolved or determined-or so darkly and deeply angry-before. "Iwill help you raise the money," she said, meaning it. And instantly Hart's image came tomind. He was so wealthy. He had given her a $5,000 check for one of her societies, the LadiesSociety for the Eradication of Tenements. Thus far, they were the only two members, as shehad not had any time to lobby for her latest cause. He softened. "I knew you would. I could use the help, Fran."

"I know. I will never let you down, Evan." He smiled then. "I know that, too. I feel the same way." They smiled at each other. Suddenly Francesca saw Maggie in the hall, approaching from the other end, clearly having been in the kitchens. She was paler than she had been earlier and leaning far more heavily upon her cane. Evan heard her and he turned. His eyes went wide. "Mrs. Kennedy! What are you doing downstairs!" He rushed to her, putting his arm about her. "You should not be downstairs," he scolded gently. "What are you thinking?" Maggie had clearly used up most of her strength, and she leaned against him, two bright pink spots of exertion on her cheeks. "The doctor told me I could move about, but I have suddenly lost all of my strength," she said softly. "That is obvious, and Finney is a fool," Evan said. "Do not protest. I am going to carry you upstairs." "No," Maggie said instantly. "I can walk-" He swept her up into his arms, as easily as if she were a feather. "Where are the children?" he asked, starting up the stairs with boundless agility. Clearly Maggie's slight weight did not affect him at all. "They are having dinner in the kitchens. Please put me down, Mr. Cahill." "Mrs. Kennedy, I am merely being a gentleman. Do cease and desist." But his tone was soft and he was smiling down at her. Francesca's heart had done a quick somersault. She stared thoughtfully after them. It was simply not possible that Evan would find a seamstress romantically interesting, or would he? She knew him so well. He liked flamboyant beauty, and he frequented women like his mistress, Grace Conway, the actress, and Bartolla Benevente. He never fooled with housemaids or barmaids. He was not that sort of man. He glanced down toward her. "I will be going to dinner, Fran. Shall we ride over together?" "Yes." She hesitated. He understood. "Sarah and I have agreed to meet at the Plaza. I will speak with Sarah later tonight, or first thing tomorrow." She suddenly felt some relief, because the ending of this engagement was a good thing for them both. It was, ultimately, in both of their best interests. "I won't say a word," she promised. And too late, she realized that they had not had a chance to discuss Sarah's case. The Plaza Hotel was one of the city's most renowned and elegant hotels. Doormen in red livery rushed to intercept their brougham, and Francesca was a.s.sisted out. It had begun to snow, rather heavily, but the huge bronze canopy effectively shielded her and other guests from the inclement weather. The gaslights of the hotel and those on the street caught the snowflakes as they fell in their halo, and the snow seemed to be dancing in the air. On the cab ride over, Francesca had told Evan what had happened to Sarah's studio, and he had been concerned. He had been incredulous, though, at the notion that a young lady of his acquaintance might have been so hopeful at the prospect of becoming his bride that she had gone off on a rampage in Sarah's studio. He thought Francesca's theory of a jilted woman absurd. Now, as Francesca walked up the stairs and into the lobby, with Evan by her side, she was acutely aware of being beset by an extremely nervous antic.i.p.ation. She felt like checking her appearance in the cloakroom, as she had barely had fifteen minutes to change into an evening gown. Her hair had been hastily swept up and back; there had been no time to wave it with tongs. At the last moment she had seized a small pot of rouge, and she had used it on her lips in the coach. Evan had not been amused. Now he whispered in her ear, "You are so tense-and so excited. You are worrying me, Fran." She smiled at him. "I am merely looking forward to what shall be an impossibly interesting evening." "No, you are looking forward to seeing the police commissioner, even though you know he is married. And the other night when Bartolla mentioned his wife, you were not surprised-you already knew! What are you thinking?" he demanded. They had entered the lobby. It was a vast room, the ceiling high, huge columns forming a square around an atrium. To Francesca's right were the registration and concierge counters, all gleaming mahogany inlaid with a pale, streaked marble. Directly ahead, but on the other side of the atrium, was the oh-so popular and elegant restaurant. The last time she had been within it had not been to dine. Hart had been pursuing her sister and she had dropped in on them to chaperon them and to prevent Connie from making a drastic mistake. It felt like ages ago that he had set his sights on her sister. Still, the notion disturbed Francesca no end even if he had backed off-at her insistence. "Fran? Have you heard a word I said?" "Not really," she said truthfully, smiling. "There they are." She stopped in midstep. They had taken a table in the atrium and were being served champagne. She saw Bragg first. He wore a white dinner jacket and midnight-black trousers; he sat on a small love seat, beside Lucy, looking far too thoughtful and miles away. She knew he was thinking about police affairs or perhaps even the Channing Investigation. Light from the chandelier that was overhead fell upon him, highlighting the streaks in his dark golden hair and accentuating his high cheekbones. An impossibly warm feeling came over her. She so trusted this man. But there was also a twinge of guilt. Of course, she had to tell him about Leigh Anne's note. She should have told him the very day she had received it. It crossed her mind that if he took her home, she would have the private moment to do so tonight. He shifted ever so slightly and he saw her and their eyes locked. His expression changed, becoming dark, intent. And then he was on his feet, smiling. He moved toward her, his strides long and effortless. Francesca was vaguely aware of the rest of his family turning to look her way while she tried to appear calm and unmoved. But it was a facade. She did not have a calm cell in her entire body. He paused before her. "Cahill," he murmured to Evan, giving him the barest and most cursory glance. "Francesca." His eyes warmed. "I'll take your coat," he said, his golden gaze skimming over her. She handed it to him, their hands brushing, touching. She knew at once that he was no longer distressed over her posing for Hart's portrait. She knew he was happy to be spending the evening with her, too. "I thought we might be late, but I see that Sarah is not yet here," she said lightly, hoping everyone would think their conversation innocent, should anyone be observing them, and somehow, everyone was. "No." His gaze slid over her new turquoise dress again. The vee over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s was low, tiny cap sleeves clung to her shoulders, and the gown fell closely over her hips, finally swelling in a pool of lace around her calves and ankles. The dress showed off the best curves of her body, accentuating them, when, in truth, she was a touch too thin. At the very last moment, she had thought to add a necklace with a pearl cameo. "Mrs. Kennedy's work?" he asked with a soft smile. Francesca nodded, pleased because he clearly liked it. "Any news on the vandal who struck at Sarah's studio?" she asked. From the corner of her eye she glanced at his family. Grace remained calmly seated, as if sipping champagne, but her gaze was steadily upon them. Rathe was standing politely, as was another man whom Francesca had never seen before. As he was almost Bragg's twin, he had to be Rathe's son as well. Like his father and his mother, he was watching them, but unlike the other two, his gaze was hooded and hard to comprehend. Francesca wondered if Bragg's family cared at all for his wife.

"There has been no other instance of such vandalism in the city in the past three months,"Bragg was saying. "But Inspector O'Connor is checking further back." "If such an attack were not reported to the police, then he will never learn of it." "That's true," he said with a slight smile. "And a single act of vandalism might not have everbeen reported." She absorbed that. "Have you or your men interviewed Bartolla?" "She has been elusive," he said, meeting her gaze. "She clearly is amused by the entireevent. And I do believe O'Connor is smitten with her." He rolled his eyes. "He has beennewly promoted," he added. Francesca laughed but sobered quickly. "I spoke with her briefly. She had nothing ofimportance to say and she did seem unperturbed by the entire event." "I think I will call on her tomorrow myself," he said. "Press her a bit." Francesca touched his hand. His skin was smooth but not silken or soft. His eyes touchedhers. She said, "Let me join you." He hesitated. "You may join me, but I think I might have more success, in this one case, withBartolla if I speak with her alone." She stared, not liking the implications of his comment. "What does that mean?" How terseher own tone sounded to her ears. "You do not have to be dismayed, Francesca. The countess adores men. And while I haveno intention of flirting with her, I think I can interview her more effectively if you are notpresent." She hated the idea. "Don't scowl," he said with amus.e.m.e.nt. "When you are old, you shall have scowl lines." It wasn't funny and she did not laugh, but she hated the extent of her jealousy. "What is this about?" Evan asked, apparently having been listening to their conversation."How is the countess involved?" Francesca started, having forgotten that her brother was standing behind them. She glancedat Bragg. He said, "The single canvas destroyed in the attack upon Sarah's studio was aportrait of Bartolla. Perhaps, and it is a mere perhaps, the vandal struck a blow at thecountess and not at your fiancee." Evan's eyes were wide. "Is she in danger?" Bragg hesitated, and it was clear that he was uncertain as to which woman Evan referred to.Francesca knew that he referred to Bartolla, as she had previously a.s.sured him that Sarahwas fine and did not seem to be in any danger. Her words had been automatic, however, a.s.she had only to recall the use of so much dark red paint to shudder and have a terriblesense of foreboding. "Neither Sarah nor Bartolla appears to be in any imminent danger." Evan was now concerned. Grim, he walked away. "You must be Mr. Bragg," he said,extending his hand toward Rathe. As they shook hands, Lucy jumped up to make theintroductions. Francesca turned to Bragg. "So much has happened," she said in a low voice, thinkingabout the horrendous falling-out between Evan and her father. "I have to talk to you." Andshe was thinking about his wife's note. "Are you all right?" She shook her head. "Offer to drive me home tonight, after supper," she said. "It will give usa private moment to speak." His jaw flexed. "That is not a good idea," he said flatly. She faced him fully. "Please. We won't have a single moment alone otherwise; I feel sure ofit. Now that your family is in town, it will be harder than ever to have a decent conversation." He took her elbow and they stepped away from his family. "It is hard enough being with youwhen they are present," he said, low. His eyes were dark. "But you are right. We do have tospeak." Alarm filled her. "What does that mean?" she cried softly. "Just as you wish to speak with me, I wish to speak with you."

"About what?" She was more than alarmed now; she was afraid. He knew Leigh Anne was on her way to New York. He knew that his wife wanted to meether. He had heard about her encounter with Hart. But he knew something, something dire, and she was afraid of what his reaction would be. He seemed surprised. "Francesca, this is not the time or the place for a real conversationbetween us." She grabbed his hand, as he was about to leave. "Is this about us?" she asked in a very lowvoice. "Yes," he said. He tugged his hand free and stepped back to the others. But she could notmove. There was a thought in her mind, but it was too terrible to contemplate. Still, it refused to goaway. Not too long ago he had claimed that being alone with her was simply too difficult atest of resolve and willpower. What if he had decided that it was impossible to be merefriends? Once, he had suggested that maybe they should not see each other again. Because it wastoo dangerous being together. "I don't believe we've met," a male voice said, cutting into her worst fears. She started and found herself looking at the man who might have been Rick Bragg's twin.His hair was darker- more brown than blond-and his face was squarer. But the rest wasthe same-the amber eyes, the dark eyebrows, the high, high cheekbones, the dimples andcleft chin. "I'm Francesca Cahill," she said, and she heard how tremulous her own tone was. He smiled and it was a smile to melt female hearts. "The infamous sleuth. I'm Rourke, theeldest after my no-good policeman brother." He extended his hand. She shook it, trying to clear her head. "Rourke? What an unusual name." "It's my middle name. But I got tired of being beaten up when I was six, trying to defend theworst name a child could have-Brian Bragg. So it's been Rourke ever since." His eyeswere warm and kind and he grinned. "Are you the one in medical school?" she asked with real curiosity. She realized he wasprobably several years older than she was, and just two years or so younger than Bragg. "Yes. In Philadelphia. Third year. Excellent grades. My sister is enamored of you." Francesca smiled and was about to say that she truly liked Lucy as well. But he added, "Andapparently, she is not the only one." She felt her smile vanish. She followed his gaze-and caught Bragg watching them bothintently. For once, she was entirely at a loss for words. She looked at Rourke and could not summonup a coherent reply. His smile was compa.s.sionate. "I'm sorry. I suppose I shouldn't have said that. I have a badhabit; I tend to speak my mind." Francesca shook her head. "I don't have a clue as to what you are talking about," she said,intending to keep her tone light. But it came out terribly hoa.r.s.e. He patted her arm. "We'll strike that ungentlemanly comment right off the record. Friends?"He grinned. But a huge question remained in his eyes. "Friends," she whispered. And then, beyond Rourke's broad shoulder, she saw the thug whohad been standing outside of police headquarters yesterday, who had been so intentlywatching Lucy. Francesca felt herself stiffen, and she turned to find Lucy in order to gauge herreaction-and to see if she had remarked the burly man. "What is it?" Rourke asked quickly. Lucy had been sipping champagne. Now she turned white and set her flute down abruptly. Francesca faced Rourke. "Nothing. So, what year are you in?" "My third," he said quietly, his regard intent and searching. "But I already said that." With one ear Francesca heard Lucy making an excuse that she must powder her nose. Shesmiled at Rourke and, out of the corner of her eye, watched Lucy cross the atrium, clearly wishing to hurry and, as clearly, trying not to. In the lobby, the thug had disappeared.

Suddenly Bragg was standing beside them.

"I see you have met Miss Cahill," he said to his younger brother, not looking particularly pleased.

"I have, and it is a pleasure indeed." Rourke smiled.

"Do not let my brother's profession delude you," Bragg said. "He is an unrepentant ladies'

man."

Rourke chuckled. "We can't all be as n.o.ble as you." He winked at Francesca.

"My n.o.bility vanished some time ago," Bragg said tersely, and he turned to Francesca and their gazes locked.

She thought that he meant that he had lost his morals because of her. She stared, instantly dismayed. Surely he did not mean what he had appeared to mean?

Bragg turned back to Rourke, who seemed to be watching them both like a hawk. And he did not seem like the kind of man to miss a thing. "I doubt you have turned from a saint into a devil," he said, but quietly. "However, on a more important note, what is wrong with Lucy?"

And Rourke looked right at Francesca.

"I don't know," Bragg said. "But think I shall go find out."

"I'll go," Rourke said. "You can escort Miss Cahill in to supper." And the two brothers exchanged a potent look.

"The Channings haven't arrived," Bragg finally said, a slight flush upon his cheekbones.

"I'll go," Francesca interrupted, and before either one of them could engage her in a debate, she hurried across the atrium, lengthening her stride, as Lucy had turned the corner and vanished from sight.

But the ladies' room was on the far side of the lobby and just around that corner. Of course, Francesca was certain that Lucy had no real interest in the ladies' room and that it was not her destination. Turning the corner, she saw Lucy and darted behind a column so she could watch her.

It shielded her from view, just in case Lucy turned. The redhead had paused beside the ladies' room door, looking back over her shoulder, clearly to see if anyone was watching-or following. As she was wearing a daring crimson gown, she stood out like a sore thumb-the several ladies and gentlemen in the hall were all turning to look at her, with either envy or admiration, as did every bellman and concierge who pa.s.sed.

Lucy did not notice. She was pale with fear. Giving one last glance to make sure she was not being watched-and Francesca felt certain it was her family she was afraid of now-she hurried down another corridor.

Francesca followed.

She realized Lucy's intention instantly. At the corridor's farthest end were a small door and an exit sign. That door was closing behind the strange man. Lucy now hurried through it and outside.

Francesca reached inside her purse, and her left hand closed awkwardly over her tiny gun.

d.a.m.n it, she thought. This was exactly what she had not wanted to happen. She did not want to confront a hoodlum without the use of her right hand.

But she had no choice, because Lucy was frightened and Francesca was certain that she was in danger.

She slipped through the small door and outside. She was on the south side of Central Park.

Carriages and a few motorcars were double- and triple-parked up and down the endless block. A few pedestrians were heading her way.

And Lucy stood a few doors down the block, near a service entryway. So did the hoodlum.

Francesca stood stock-still, straining to hear them, as a pair of gentlemen walked past her, eyeing her in her bare evening gown as they went.

"Leave me alone!" Lucy cried.

"An' why should I? When you got something I want?" he returned, and his tone was lewd and smug.

"You followed me to New York!" "d.a.m.n right I did!" he laughed and suddenly he grabbed her. "You know what? Maybe weshould start over." And he started to kiss her. Francesca rushed forward, removing the gun from her purse. "Get your hands off of her!"she cried. The hoodlum froze, but he did not release Lucy. "What the h.e.l.l?" And then he saw the gunshe held and he laughed. She pointed the gun at him. "Release her," she said. He laughed harder.

Chapter Seven.

SAt.u.r.dAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 - 8:00 P.M.

Lucy turned incredulous eyes upon Francesca. As she did, the thug said with a grin, "What is that?"

"I think you know what it is. Let her go," Francesca said, hoping that her hand was not shaking visibly. But her heart was certainly pounding now. What had Lucy gotten into?

He yanked on Lucy. "We got business to-"

Francesca did not give him a chance to finish. She pointed the gun at his feet and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out loudly in the night.

The thug yelped, releasing Lucy. Francesca thought that she had shot his foot although she had really aimed more at the pavement. He turned disbelieving eyes upon her and their gazes met. His eyes were blue and bloodshot. Then he turned and ran.

Lucy and Francesca looked at each other, stunned. The shot had been surprisingly loud-like the shot from any normally sized gun. Francesca glanced past Lucy. A number of elegant carriages were in the street, moving down it. Window latches were being clicked free, windows pushed out. Heads were popping into sight. Opera gla.s.ses were trained upon them.

Francesca and Lucy looked at each other again. As one, they grabbed hands and rushed back into the side entrance of the hotel. They slammed the door closed, then huddled in the doorway. Francesca looked in both directions down the hallway, but it was vacant-thank G.o.d.

"Did you hit him?" Lucy cried. "I'm not sure. I think so. But only in the foot!" Francesca realized that both her hands wereshaking now as she hurriedly stuffed the derringer back into her purse. It remained almostimpossible to use her bandaged hand. She looked back up the hall, almost expecting to seeBragg coming down it, his expression thunderous. But surely that gunshot had not beenheard inside of the hotel and she was merely stricken with paranoia. "Did anyone see us?" Lucy asked breathlessly. "I don't think so. Except for those inside the carriages on the street." Their gazes locked withsudden comprehension. They were hardly unremarkable now, not with Lucy in her crimsonevening gown and Francesca in her turquoise one. "d.a.m.n it," Lucy breathed. "What is going -on?" Francesca cried. Lucy's eyes went wide with fear and she backed away, shaking her head. "Nothing." For one moment, Francesca was disbelieving. "Nothing? I was there! I saw and heardeverything. He accosted you. You are in trouble, Lucy!" Lucy looked ready to cry. "I can't..." This time, Francesca used her bandaged hand as well, taking both of Lucy's hands in hers."Let me help. You are already a dear friend. Please, let me help!"

Tears welled in Lucy's eyes, but they did not fall. "This is simply a mistake. Nothing is goingon! That man has mistaken me for someone else." She stared grimly at Francesca, on theverge of copious tears. And clearly, she was so afraid. Francesca did not believe a word Lucy had just said-thatthug was not mistaking her for someone else. She touched her bare arm. "Lucy, please letme help you." "There is nothing for you to do!" Francesca inhaled. "You have the most wonderful family behind you. Your brother is policecommissioner, your father one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country." Shethought about Hart's wealth and power. "And your stepbrother can certainly move a fewmountains here in the city. I can see that you are afraid ... but you do not need to be inwhatever trouble you are in alone. They can help, as can I, I am sure!" Lucy pulled away. "I am going to the ladies' room," she said. "And we are about to be latefor supper." Francesca had not been able to walk away from Lucy in her distress and had joined her inthe ladies' room. There was a huge bronze clock on one of the bureaus in the lounge, andFrancesca realized as they left that they had been gone almost a half an hour. Lucy read hermind. She said, "I will tell everyone I had a coughing fit." Francesca just looked at her. Lucy seemed belligerent. "I do not want anyone worrying needlessly, Francesca. There is noreason to mention that... that incident to anyone." Francesca disagreed but did not say so. Lucy was in trouble, and surely her brother couldhelp. Francesca would speak to Bragg the moment they were alone. Lucy gripped her arm as they entered the s.p.a.cious lobby. "Do not breathe a word of this toanyone, not even Rick!" Francesca looked into her eyes, which were steely with determination. "You know Idesperately want to," she finally said. "No. Or our friendship is over," she said harshly. Francesca recoiled. Whatever dilemma Lucy was in, clearly Francesca must solve it alone;either that or jeopardize their new friendship. "Can I trust you?" Lucy asked. Francesca nodded. "Yes. Although it is against my better judgment." Lucy sighed, relief flashing in her eyes. "Thank you." She now smiled. "I will tell them wewent up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto." Francesca nodded, as that was a far more plausible lie. But it was a lie, and she wasacutely uncomfortable now. Lucy faced her as they crossed the lobby, pa.s.sing the concierge and registration desks. "Iknow. I hate lying to those I love the most!" "In general, a lie is never a good idea." Francesca glanced ahead. The family had remainedin the atrium, but Bragg was standing and looking impatiently at them as they approached.Even from a distance, she could see that Bragg's stare was particularly intent andsuspicious. "Oh, we are lucky; the Channings are just arriving!" Lucy exclaimed softly. Francesca glanced over her shoulder and saw Sarah and her mother entering through thelarge front doors at the opposite end of the lobby. Both women were dwarfed by huge sablecoats. Bragg stepped over to them. "Where have you two been?" he asked, his gaze movingcarefully from Francesca to Lucy. "We went up to my rooms to check on the twins and Roberto," Lucy said with a wide smile."And I decided to show Francesca photographs of the ranch and Shoz." Francesca smiled at Bragg. He did not smile back. He knew a lie when he heard one. Rathe had stood and he came forward, looking closely at his daughter. "Are you all right? Is everything all right with the children?"

"Jack has a bit of an upset stomach, but other than that, we are all as perfect as can be,"

Lucy said, far too happily.

Her father gave her a long look. A pause that seemed endless ensued. "Good," he finally said.

Francesca sensed that he suspected quite a bit. To make matters worse, Grace had also come over. She said, "Have you been crying?"

"Of course not. I have an allergy." Lucy smiled at her mother. She did not smile back.

Instead, Rathe and Grace exchanged a glance. "We are looking forward to seeing your parents tomorrow night," Rathe remarked, turning to Francesca. "It has been awhile since Andrew and I spent an evening solving all of the world's political and social problems."

Francesca laughed. It felt good to laugh just then, after the past few moments. Then she realized that Rourke had gone up to Lucy and he seemed angry. He pulled her aside.

Francesca pretended not to notice, but she strained to hear. Whatever he whispered to her, Lucy became angry and she pulled defiantly away.

"The Channings are here," Bragg remarked quietly.

"I am so sorry we are so late!" Mrs. Channing replied, handing her sable to the cloakroom clerk who had suddenly materialized. "But that awful detective returned and he just would not leave Sarah and the countess alone. It was an impossible and endless interview!" She turned a dark look on Bragg, as if it were his fault. "Sarah, dear, do hand off your sable," she said.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Channing, if Inspector O'Connor has disturbed you. I did not realize he would return to interview you and your daughter tonight."

"It was the worst timing," Mrs. Channing said, but she beamed now at Rathe and Grace.

Bragg quickly made introductions all around, and as he did so, Francesca saw Rourke cast a once-over at Sarah. She winced as she saw Sarah's gown, then glanced back at Rourke.

She saw him wince as well.

Sarah did not look well to begin with. She was far too pale, yet she had two bright, garish spots on her cheeks, which looked like rouge from an earlier epoch-but they were clearly a natural and agitated flush. And she was wearing a dark emerald green gown that overpowered her small size and delicate features. The color suited her, but the bulky shape and amount of fabric made Sarah look plump, when she was anything but. She was also wearing a ridiculously expensive emerald choker that was absolutely inappropriate for a young unwed girl. Francesca knew Sarah's mother had chosen it for her, just as she now knew that Sarah couldn't care less about the clothes or the jewelry she wore.

Evan had turned to his fiancee. "Sarah," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "I am so sorry about your studio."

Sarah seemed tense. She pulled away. "Thank you, Evan. But I am sure the culprit will be found." She turned wide eyes upon Francesca. Francesca now winced again-she had to help Lucy, but she also had to find the vandal who had destroyed Sarah's studio.

"Evan dear, how handsome you look!" Mrs. Channing cried, kissing his cheek. "Yes, it has been the worst nightmare, and poor Sarah is beside herself."

Lucy came over and hugged Sarah. "How about a sip of champagne? It will help, I am sure."

"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?"