Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (10 page)

She stared at his handsome face. “You never cease to surprise me, Calder.”

“Good.” That apparently pleased him no end. “And now we are back to Calder?”

She flushed. “Apparently so.” She hesitated. “My sister loves her husband very much.”

He eyed her. “I am not in the mood for a lecture, Francesca.”

“But you shall receive one anyway.”

He sighed, as if an adolescent in no mood for a parental scolding.

“Calder! She loves Montrose. She has loved him from the moment she set eyes upon him five years ago.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, gazing out of his window.

“Can you not chase someone else?”

He turned to meet her eyes. “She accepted my invitation to lunch, Francesca.”

Francesca hesitated. It would not do to tell Calder too much about Connie’s private affairs, and she had the unfortunate feeling that he would use that knowledge, should he have it, to his own perverse advantage. “As your friend, if I ask you to cease and desist, will you?”

“No.”

She gaped, in shock.

“Your sister is an adult. I do believe she can manage her life very well without your interference.”

Francesca folded her arms, trying not to become infuriated. “She has been through a difficult time recently!”

“Hmm. How difficult?”

“As if I shall tell you,” she snapped.

“You are so protective of Lady Montrose. I wonder why.”

“She is my sister!” she cried.

“Temper,” he chided.

“So you will not do me this one favor? After all I have done for you?”

He stared. Then, dangerously, “Be careful of the marker you think to call in. You might wish to use it at another time. Once it is gone, why . . .” He shrugged and did not have to say any more.

“You are truly unscrupulous,” she said, eyes wide.

“So it is said.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are. But that does not change my true nature. Remember? I am selfish, not selfless.”

“Oh, please,” Francesca said, annoyed. “I know you better than you think. You are not completely selfish, and that is that.”

His mouth quirked as the coach rolled to a stop before
the grand entrance of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. “I shall debate that point at another time.” He waited patiently for Raoul to climb down from the driver’s seat and open his door. He turned before alighting. “Where shall Raoul drop you and the rowdy?”

Joel scowled. Francesca touched his arm. “Police headquarters,” she said sweetly.

Somehow she had known she would get a reaction. His eyes blackened. But his face remained impassive as he said to Raoul, “Three hundred Mulberry.”

The olive-skinned driver nodded.

Hart glanced at her, still dispassionate. “So you are off to visit my esteemed and oh, so reputable brother. Are you back to your crime-solving ways? Or is this a social call?”

She lifted both brows. “Perhaps it is a bit of both.”

His smile was somehow mocking and cool as he inclined his head, allowing Raoul to slam the door closed. Francesca watched Hart turn and stride up the street. She was still annoyed, and wondered at herself for it.

F
RIDAY
, F
EBRUARY
7, 1902—4:00
P.M.

Bragg was standing with his back to the door when Francesca paused on the threshold of his office. He was on the telephone, listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the line, and he did not seem to be aware of her. Francesca was about to knock when she saw the photograph on his desk. It was face up, but even from this distance, she knew who it was. She hesitated.

And before she could reprimand herself, she hurried across the small room as Bragg turned, seeing her. On his cluttered desk was one of the photographs he had requested; Mary O’Shaunessy lay in the snow face up, with her hands clasped in prayer on her chest, the ugly cross carved into her throat.

Francesca must have made a sound, because Bragg flipped the photograph over and the look he gave her was a dark one. But it was too late; in the light of day and his office Mary’s expression in death of fear was all too vivid and all too clear. Francesca closed her eyes, instantly recalling a similar expression of fear when she had been alive. Why had she changed her mind and run away from Francesca?

Francesca sighed and opened her eyes. She was Katie and Dot’s mother. It was such a terrible tragedy, for everyone—for the two little girls and for Mary, who on all accounts seemed to have been a wonderful person. Anger at the unknown killer suddenly swelled within Francesca, not for the first time. Why had he done this?

“Thank you,” Bragg said, and he hung up the receiver. “Francesca?”

She tried to smile and failed. “Hello, Bragg.” She felt like walking into his arms and laying her cheek upon his solid chest, but that would not do.

“I’m sorry you saw that.” He seemed grim. “Please tell me you are not still blaming yourself for her death?”

“I am trying not to. Mary was young and pretty and she has two beautiful daughters who are now orphans. We have to find the madman who did this,” Francesca said passionately. It was an outburst she could not contain.

He walked slowly out from behind his desk. “We? You are not on this investigation, Francesca. And how do you know that she has two daughters?” His golden regard was calm but intense, and infinitely patient as he waited for an answer.

She sighed. “Maggie Kennedy came calling this morning—and she was grief-stricken.”

“Maggie Kennedy? Is she by chance related to the little hoodlum you are so fond of?”

“She is his mother, Bragg. And Mary O’Shaunessy was her dear friend,” Francesca said bluntly. There was no point in telling him that she had been very involved in the case from the moment she had found Mary dead.

His eyes widened fractionally. “Please, do not tell me that Mrs. Kennedy has retained your services!”

“She has,” Francesca said with an upward tilt of her chin. “Oh, Bragg. From what I have learned, Mary was a ray of sunshine, a wonderful mother, a devout Catholic! She did not deserve this, and now her two small girls are orphans.” She knew she was angling for his consent in allowing the girls to remain in his home temporarily, but she also meant her every word.

He came closer and lifted up her chin with one fingertip. His fingers were long and strong and their eyes met and locked. “What have you been up to, Francesca?” His gaze
was searching. She no longer feared him, not at all, and a tingle went from her head to her toes.

Somewhat breathlessly she said, “After I consoled Maggie, Joel showed me to the apartment Mary shared. I believe the police have already spoken with the Jadvics.”

He dropped his hand and stared. “I will not have you involved, not in a case involving a deranged killer.”

“Is that what you have concluded?” she asked—far too eagerly.

“No comment.”

“Bragg!” she cried. “I am not the press.”

“As I well know. By the by, are you not treading a thin line? You are supposed to be devoting yourself to your studies, and yet you have that new client, Mrs. Stuart. How is that case progressing, Francesca?” His gaze was narrowed.

“You think to divert me, and it will not work,” she said sweetly.

“What shall I do with you?”

“Do you have any leads?” she returned swiftly.

“Yes, but I shall not share them with you.” He was firm. Determination glimmered golden in his eyes.

She felt a thrill then and said slyly, “I was crucial to the conclusion of the Randall Murder.”

He did not answer.

“Not to mention the Burton Abduction.”

“No,” he said. Then, “Have you come to badger me? If so, I have work to do.”

“Bragg!” She was truly shocked. “Am I badgering you?”

Suddenly he seemed tired. He sat down on the edge of his desk. Softly he said, “You could never badger me. I am frustrated. That is all.”

“Over this case?” she asked sympathetically, taking the seat in front of his desk.

“That and the appointment I have made. It was announced at City Hall an hour ago. At the last moment, I
decided against Shea; I have appointed Inspector Farr instead. I do not think you have met him. His is a royal annoyance, too smart for his own good, and as crooked as Front Street. But he seems eager to please, now, in fact, he is eager to please
me,
and I think I shall be able to control him.”

Francesca winced. “I do hope so.”

“He is run by Tammany Hall through and through,” Bragg added.

“Well, just be on guard. Make sure he is working for you—and not against you.”

Bragg smiled at her, and it was filled with affection. “However did you come to be so intelligent?”

She flushed with pleasure. “My father encouraged my freethinking.”

“I am glad.”

She fell silent, smiling.

Then, “I invited your brother and Miss Channing for tomorrow night’s musical. And supper afterward. I hope that is all right.”

“Of course it is.” Her gaze locked with his.

He seemed to flush. “I felt it was more appropriate.”

She nodded. “I know.” She had begun thinking about the two little girls when he said, “So what did you find out from the Jadvics?”

“Not much. Have your men been to the tailor shop where Mary worked before the Jansons’?”

“Newman is there now with a detail.”

She nodded, smiling—he was discussing the case with her.

And suddenly he must have realized it, because he stood. “Francesca—”

“I’m sorry. I could not help myself.” She wanted to ask him about the Jansons but did not dare. He did not fill in the brief, focused silence. Finally she said, meekly, “Do you have a suspect?”

“If I did, I would not tell you.”

“Bragg!” She was truly frustrated.

“I apologize, but my mind is made up.” He turned and picked up Mary’s photograph, but in a way so Francesca could not see it. And Francesca thought about Katie and Dot.

“Bragg?” she asked, now nervous.

He glanced up.

She stood and shifted her weight. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

His gaze widened and he put the photograph down. “I can tell already—this is not fair.”

She wet her lips. “Please, just hear me out.”

He folded his arms. “I am steeling myself to say no.”

“Do you like children?” she asked quickly.

“What?!”

“You heard me. Do you like children?”

“Of course I do. What is this about?” he asked suspiciously.

She inhaled. “Katie and Dot have lost their mother. Mrs. Jadvic cannot keep them. The authorities may well separate them. I could not see that happening! I have brought them to your house,” she finished in a rush.

It took him a moment to understand. “You
what
?!” he roared.

She backed up. “Please! You have room, they are so adorable, they have lost their mother—”

“Absolutely not!” he cried.

“But you said that you like children!” she cried in return.

“I do! But I am a very busy man, with one servant—and I cannot take care of two children!” He was shouting. His face was red.

“Please,” she managed. “I will hire a nanny. You only have one servant?” She was shocked. She had assumed he also had a cook who doubled as a laundress.

“The only servant in my employ is Peter,” he said rigidly.

She realized why. Because his moderate income was eaten up by his spoiled wife, who lived in Europe as if her husband were a prince, and he could not afford a second servant in his employ due to her outrageous expenses. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

“What?” he shot.

“I mean, I will hire a nanny and it is only for a few weeks,” Francesca pleaded.

“No.”

“Bragg. You must meet them at least!”

“Says who?” he asked coldly.

She wondered if she had gone too far. And his coldness stunned her. “But they are two lost little girls,” she whispered. “And it is only for a week or two, until I can find them a truly good foster home. I will help—”

“How? With all of your sleuthing, you are about to fail your studies at Barnard,” he said, not giving an inch.

“I cannot believe this,” Francesca whispered. “I thought you cared. This is so important to me. And we are fighting.” She was aghast.

“I do care,” he said, flushing. “But you do not seem to understand the pressure I am under. Mayor Low has told me in no uncertain terms I shall not close the saloons on Sundays. But I am morally committed to upholding the law, Francesca. I am about to battle my own mayor—a man I personally admire, respect, and believe in.”

“I am sorry,” she said, meaning it. “But two little girls have so little to do with the blue laws.”

“When the press gets wind of Mary O’Shaunessy’s murder, when they link it to Kathleen O’Donnell’s, they will attempt to terrify this city with their words and fan the fires of hysteria.”

She hugged herself. She had never really asked him for a favor before. She was hurt.

He sighed and moved to her and took her by her shoulders. “Don’t make me feel guilty for refusing a burden I cannot now bear.”

“I am sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I wish to be the last person to add to your worries, and if I could, I would have taken the girls home with me. Of course, I cannot do so—not without lying to my parents—and that I refuse to do.” She almost felt like crying.

He was staring, and she looked up. His gaze slipped over her features, slowly, one by one. His jaw tightened and he pulled her close and suddenly she was in his arms, her cheek upon his chest. Her heart thrummed with anticipation. And she sighed.

He felt so perfect, so strong and powerful, so right.

His hand slid into the hair coiled at her nape. “I am clay in your hands,” he whispered.

She somehow glanced up. “No. It’s all right. I will find someone else to take the girls—”

He feathered her mouth with a sudden kiss, clearly on impulse, and then his eyes widened in surprise and he stepped quickly away from her. She could not move. The brief sensation of his mouth on hers had done terrible things to her body. Her blood seemed to be racing wildly through her veins, but it was no longer blood; rather, it had become a roaring, rushing river, one filled with whirlpools.