Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (2 page)

But attaining her degree was only the beginning. Francesca was a reformer with a capital
R.
It ran in the family; her father, Andrew Cahill, a self-made millionaire, also championed dozens of charities and supported political candidates like Lowe, not just in New York City but all over the state and the country. She was proud of her intellect and her passion for reform. She had no time for or interest in parties, shopping, or marriage; she could barely understand why every other young woman she knew did. She actively belonged to five societies, all dedicated to fighting injustice and easing the poverty rampant in the city, and she had founded one society herself—the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements. She had intended to write articles and books about the city’s worst side of life in order to enlighten the ladies and gentlemen living so blithely and elegantly uptown. But her ambitions had, suddenly and drastically, changed. Two weeks ago. For Francesca had discovered her true calling in life.

Crime-solving.

It had been a most unfortunate yet fortuitous accident, stumbling upon that first “ransom” note. From that moment on, she had taken it upon herself to help the city’s new police commissioner solve the ghastly crime of the small boy’s abduction. Together, she and Rick Bragg had faced the gravest dangers, uncovering clue after clue, each one pointing to the likelihood that the boy was dead, but in the end, against all odds, little Jonny Burton had been found alive and safely returned home, to his waiting mother’s arms.

Bragg could not have done it without Francesca. He had even said so.

Francesca smiled at the thought and found herself openly regarding the doorway, through which more guests continued to arrive. Her father had said Bragg would be at the White party tonight.

Of course, they were only friends. They had only just met. But soon there would be another crime for them to solve—together. How could there not be, in this city of hooks and crooks? In fact, yesterday Francesca had picked up the new calling cards she had ordered at Tiffany’s, and she had already begun handing them out. They read:

“Where is your father? He promised me that he would stop at his club only briefly. He is late,” Julia said, frowning, having returned to Francesca’s side.

Francesca had to tear her gaze away from the doorway now, as she did not want her mother to become more suspicious of her than she already was. Stealing about the city—and into some of the worst wards—was no easy task in itself, but eluding Julia made it even more difficult. And Francesca had learned that in order to be an effective sleuth, one must travel quite freely about town, dealing with every possible kind of person. But more important, Julia had noticed Francesca’s interest in Bragg and had told her daughter in no uncertain terms that a bastard was not acceptable as a suitor, never mind that he was educated, a gentleman, the police commissioner, and a Bragg.

Still, she was as anxious as a schoolgirl on her first date. And it was absurd. She was no marriage-mad ninny—she was a college student and a crime-solver. She must get a grip—and fast. By tomorrow at noon, in fact, when he came calling for her.

Yesterday, he had invited her for a drive in the country. Francesca smiled to herself. Clearly, he wished to now court her.

“Francesca, do look. There’s White. I think I will wait for your father to greet him.” Julian Van Wyck Cahill gripped Francesca’s arm, not even looking at her, moving away from the doorway.

They paused behind several ladies and gentlemen, all surrounding Stanford White. He was a tall, heavyset man with a booming voice, somewhere in his middle years. Julia studied the group surrounding White. Two of the women were clearly not from their social circle. “Oh, dear,” Julia said. “Are those women what I think they are?”

Francesca wanted to say yes. The two gorgeous women were probably very well-kept mistresses. “I wonder if they are White’s?” she murmured. “I have heard he keeps an apartment not far from here for his dalliances.”

“Chase all such thoughts from your mind!” Julia cried. Then, “And just where did you hear such a thing?”

“Evan,” Francesca said sweetly. Her brother deserved a little nick.

“I shall certainly have a word with him. And what else did he say?” Julia demanded.

“Oh, here is Papa!” Francesca cried, turning away from her mother’s speculative regard.

But Julia said, softly now, “I know you are up to something, dear, and we both know that sooner or later the truth will out.”

Francesca’s cheeks warmed. She waved gaily at her portly father. She was always pleased to see him.

Andrew Cahill had been raised on a farm in Illinois; he had made his fortune in meatpacking in Chicago. He had moved his family to New York when Francesca was eight. Now, he beamed at his youngest child and kissed her cheek. “In the nick of time, eh, Fran?”

“Your timing is impeccable, as always, Papa,” she returned. Then, in a whisper, “I cannot believe Mama wished to come to a party given by White.”

Andrew Cahill had plump cheeks and heavy gray-white sideburns. “Curiosity kills most cats, but it won’t kill Mother.” He turned to Julia. “Dear.” He kissed her warmly. “That is quite the dress. I don’t believe I’ve seen it before.”

“If you think I shall forgive you for being late, you are wrong,” Julia said, as warmly. “And yes, Andrew, the dress is brand-new.”

“I like it.”

Julia smiled. “I’m glad.”

Francesca saw the look they exchanged and she turned away. Andrew spoke. “Ran into the commissioner on the way out of the club and had to speak with him.”

Francesca stiffened instantly. She was all ears.

“No politics, tonight,” Julia warned.

“What news, Papa?” It was hard not to speak Bragg’s name.

“The rumor is true. Unbelievable!” Andrew exclaimed.

Her heart raced. “What rumor?” What could she have missed? She had seen Bragg yesterday, having decided to call on him at police headquarters—where she was now somewhat known—after picking up her new calling cards at Tiffany’s.

“Rumor has it that he demoted all three hundred of the department’s wardsmen. It’s true!” Andrew exclaimed. His eyes were bright with excitement and he faced only his daughter. “Can you believe the nerve of that man?”

Francesca stared, feeling faint and giddy at the same time. Police reform was one of the burning issues facing the city. It had been for years, ever since Theodore Roosevelt had held the post of commissioner and had begun to make a few inroads on the existing system of graft and corruption. The entire city—well, all reformers like herself, as well as liberals, clerics, and journalists—was waiting with bated breath to see if Bragg would bring to heel the notorious institution. Francesca thought he might succeed. If anyone could reform the city police department, she thought it was Bragg, a man of true moral fiber and character, a man capable of swift, unremitting action. “How could he demote three hundred wardsmen?” she asked.

“We really did not speak. He said it would be in the papers on the morrow. He is here, by the way. We came up together,” Andrew said.

Her heart stopped. Then she saw her father studying her, and she ducked her head. As much as she adored Papa—and he was always on her side—he and Mama talked. And too frequently, the subject they discussed was their children. Connie, Francesca’s sister, had married Lord Neil Montrose four years ago, and recently Evan’s engagement had been announced. So that now left Francesca. She had little doubt that she would be the featured topic of most of their remaining conversations, and it would only get worse once Evan was married.

“Do we have to discuss the police department tonight?” Julia said firmly. “Andrew, I must meet White. Francesca, on second thought, you stay here.”

Francesca stiffened. “Mama, that is not fair.”

Julia ignored her. “I am afraid she might get even more unusual ideas from White, Andrew. In fact, having seen some of the crowd present, I am not sure allowing her to come has been a good idea.”

“Papa?” Francesca protested.

“For once I am in agreement with your mother,” Andrew said, taking Julia’s arm. “I did not like the idea of bringing you here tonight to begin with. We will be back shortly.”

Francesca stared after them as they moved toward the distinguished but flamboyantly clad gentleman with the head of white hair who was holding court on the center of the dance floor. The two women who were not quite genteel remained in the crowd, and now Francesca saw a very severely dressed woman with hair cropped short also in the crowd—the woman looked rather mannish and very intelligent, too. Francesca wondered who she was.

Francesca suddenly squinted. A dark-haired gentleman clad in a black tuxedo stood beside White, speaking to a lady, his very white teeth flashing. The tall, swarthy gentleman was more than familiar, she realized with a start, staring openly. Wasn’t that Bragg’s half brother, Calder Hart?

“You took that extremely well,” a voice said behind her.

Francesca no longer saw Calder Hart. Bragg’s breath feathered her bare nape, sending chills up and down her spine. She turned and looked into a pair of darkly golden eyes.

He bowed, hiding a smile. “Good evening, Miss Cahill.”

“Bragg.” She tried to sound casual and she also tried to hide her own answering smile.

“Cahill.” Rick Bragg nodded at Evan, who had suddenly materialized beside Francesca. She felt like kicking him—his timing was impeccably rotten. She gave him an annoyed look, but Evan ignored it.

“So what brings you here, Bragg?” Evan asked, somewhat coolly.

Bragg smiled. “The usual—an invitation.” His gaze turned to Francesca. And it slid warmly over her face.

She knew she flushed as she smiled at him. Bragg wore a white dinner jacket and black evening trousers. His tawny hair, a blend of copper, gold, and blond, glinted from the light cast by the huge overhead chandeliers. All last week he had seemed exhausted during the investigation into the Burton Abduction. Tonight he radiated masculinity, virility, and good health.

He also seemed pleased to see her. Amusement flickered briefly in his eyes. “So what is the plan?”

“The plan?” she managed.

“Surely you have a plan. With which to thwart your mother and go and meet White?” More amusement made him smile slightly, briefly.

“There is no plan.” She took a breath, amazed with herself for being so easily flustered. “I shall meekly accept my fate this night.”

He laughed. “Meekly? I doubt that.”

“You shall see a new side of me, I fear.”

He chuckled again. “But perhaps I like the old side?”

She stopped smiling. Their gazes held. His smile faded.

Evan coughed. “No police business tonight?”

“Unfortunately, there is always police business to attend to,” Bragg said, not even glancing at Evan.

Francesca wet her lips. “I was surprised to hear that you would be here tonight. This is the last place I would expect you to be.”

“It is one of the very last places I wish to be.” His gaze was direct. He spoke now as if her brother were not present.

“Then why?” Francesca asked with real curiosity. She knew how hard—and how late—Bragg worked. “I am surprised you are not at police headquarters.”

He shrugged slightly. “Public relations.”

“Public relations?” she murmured while her mind sped.

“I must hobnob with the city’s finest,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug.

And she understood. He had so much to do—and so little time in which to do it, for there was rarely longevity in a controversial appointment like his. Already the press had dragged him through hell and back. Just a week ago, he had been accused of incompetence for failing to find Jonny Burton’s abductor. Yesterday he had been hailed a hero. She wondered how the press would treat his first real attempt to fight corruption within the police by demoting 300 detectives. “Did you really demote three hundred of your men?”

His mouth quirked. “No comment.”

“Bragg!” She was smiling. “I am not employed by the
Tribune.”

So was he. “Thank God, and yes, I did.”

She realized he had been teasing her, and it felt glorious. “And what do you think to accomplish? Oh ho, they must fear their leader now!”

He chuckled at her exuberance. “They have been reassigned—to foot patrol—in different precincts. It is a long story, Francesca. Hopefully a few good men will emerge from the current circumstance.”

Suddenly Francesca realized most of the police department must hate him now as well as fear him. She shivered. “Be careful, Bragg.” And suddenly she did not like this newest development at all.

His eyes widened fractionally with surprise when Evan stepped somewhat between them. “Shall we get something to drink, Fran?”

She felt like kicking his shin or pinching his hand. “Why don’t you get me a glass of champagne?” She smiled sweetly but gave him a dark look of annoyance.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Evan returned, not budging, but staring at her.

Why did he think to protect her from Bragg? “Perhaps I am enjoying a conversation with the police commissioner,” she returned.

“I must move on, in any case,” Bragg said. He hesitated. “Francesca? May I have a private word with you?”

She was surprised, and any elation quickly vanished as she realized that his expression was grim. “Of course.” She ignored her disapproving brother now and stepped aside with Bragg.

He sighed. “I was going to send a note.”

Dread overcame her. “A … note?”

“I am afraid police affairs dictate my life these days. I must cancel our outing tomorrow.”

She looked at him and felt as if someone had just ripped the rug out from under her feet.
“What?”

“I am sorry. Perhaps another time.” He smiled at her, but his gaze was searching and very somber.

Francesca pasted what felt like a stupendous and stupid grin upon her face—as she mustn’t let him see her real feelings. “Of course. Of course affairs of the city would keep you preoccupied. Think nothing of it, Bragg.”