by Brenda Joyce
But she would only cry again.
“Why don’t we send supper upstairs to your room?” Connie asked.
Francesca was acutely conscious of Montrose walking deliberately around the table and pausing beside his wife. His wife; her sister. She saw his hand briefly touch the small of her back.
It was an intimate gesture, perhaps even an affectionate one; he had no right to make it. Not now, not ever again. Francesca felt like barging between them and slapping his hand away.
She felt like shouting out the truth about his rotten affair to everyone present.
“I think I will retire,” Francesca said. She finally forced a small smile at Sarah and Mrs. Channing. “I am sorry. I am not well. I have forgotten my manners. Good evening.”
“Oh, that is quite all right,” Sarah’s mother said quickly. “You must go to bed if you are ill. We truly understand.”
Francesca looked at Sarah. Sarah smiled slightly but did not speak; however, there was a question in her eyes, and Francesca realized that of all the people in the room, Sarah, a stranger, comprehended that something was distressing Francesca and it was not the flu or another physical illness.
Francesca bade everyone good night, this time refusing to look at Montrose. When she had left the dining room, she began to breathe too rapidly, as if she had just run a long distance. By the time she reached the top of the stairs tears had risen in her eyes and she felt so exhausted she did not know if she could make it to her room. She lay down on her bed, hugging her pillow.
She had just washed her face, removing all traces of her tears, when there were two soft raps on her door—a sound Francesca recognized. She stepped from the bathroom as Connie opened the door and came into her room. She shut the door behind her.
“Let me help you undress,” Connie said with a smile.
“Not right now,” Francesca said, walking over to the moss-green sofa in front of the fireplace and plopping down heavily upon it.
Connie sat down in an adjacent chair. She reached out and pushed a tendril of Francesca’s hair away from her face, back over her shoulder. She smiled. “Whatever you have been up to, clearly it is affecting your health.”
Francesca smiled ruefully. “I just need a good night’s sleep.”
“I hope so.” Connie smiled again, studying her. She had taken a pillow from the couch and was holding it in her lap. “Is anything wrong? Other than your catching a touch of the flu?”
“Well,” Francesca said, her pulse racing now, “this Burton affair is haunting me.” She was well aware of the double entendre in her words.
Connie grimaced. “I feel so terrible for Eliza. She must be sick with grief and fear.” Briefly she closed her eyes.
She doesn’t know. Francesca stared at her sister and realized that Connie had no clue that Eliza was Montrose’s lover. Automatically, Francesca reached out and took her sister’s hand and held it tightly. Connie opened her eyes, perplexed. “What is it?”
Francesca smiled back a little, feeling a fresh urge to weep. She fought it. “I went to see Eliza today.” She was aware of approaching treacherous territory. Should she tell Connie that Neil had called, as well?
“How is she?”
“She was ... indisposed at the time I called. Have you called recently?”
“No, I haven’t. I did on Monday, of course, to express my concern, but I thought it best to leave her alone, given the circumstances. If I were in her shoes, I would not want to be bothered with my neighbors, no matter how well-meaning they might be. I would want no one about but my family.” Connie held the pillow more tightly.
“Yes, I think I would feel the same way,” Francesca said. “You would want to be alone with Neil, waiting for news.”
Connie glanced at her. “This is a terribly morbid conversation!”
No luck there, Francesca thought. “Con, Eliza seems to have a good marriage, doesn’t she?”
Connie looked at her. “That’s an odd question.”
“Well, would you answer it?”
Connie stiffened. “I cannot imagine where you are leading, Fran. But yes, she does seem to have a solid marriage.”
Francesca was disappointed. Until Connie said, “Fran. Appearances mean nothing.”
Francesca stared at her sister.
Connie flushed and looked away. “I do hate to disillusion you, but you know the saying.” She looked up again. “No one hangs out their dirty laundry.”
“Of course not,” Francesca said. Did that include her sister? And then she had an idea of how to proceed. “Is Burton a good father? You know, like Neil?”
Connie blinked. “I do not have a clue, Fran.”
“Well, Neil is a wonderful father,” Francesca stated emphatically. And it was true.
Connie smiled slightly, studying the pillow, toying with its tassels. “He is a wonderful father,” she said softly.
Francesca despised him then. She heard herself say, “He so admires you, Con. The other night at your dinner party he was teasing by claiming that you are imperfect; I could see he meant the very opposite.” She was trembling. She hated manipulating her sister, but she wanted to draw her out and find out if Connie suspected that anything was wrong in their marriage.
It was a moment before Connie looked up. “Please. He was being a gentleman, that is all.”
Francesca stared at her sister, whose tone remained calm and level. Then she said, shrugging, “He does admire you! He is in love.” And she expected Connie to react by either agreeing with her—in which case she had not a clue about Montrose’s sordid affair—or denying it. But Connie neither agreed nor disagreed.
Instead, her expression changed. She stood up. “What are you about? What are all these questions about? Is there something you wish to know about Neil?”
Francesca was also standing. Again, her heartbeat seemed deafening. And she thought, I should not say another word, not now, not tonight. Bragg’s wisdom came to mind. It has taken me twenty-eight years to learn that words once spoken can never be taken back.
She said, “Does Neil love you?”
Connie went rigid. Her face paled and her eyes widened. She said, “Of course he loves me.”
Francesca swallowed, hard. Clearly she had trespassed, clearly she had gone too far.
“What is going on?” Connie was flushing now with anger. “What are you after? Why are you prying into my private life?”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Francesca said quickly, but of course she had.
“It is not your business,” Connie said, and now she tossed the pillow to the chair. “But Neil and I happen to be very happy.” She stared, her small face pinched, her nostrils flared.
“I am sorry,” Francesca whispered.
Connie gave her an angry look and crossed the room. At the door she paused and turned. And when she spoke, she was calm once more. “Don’t pry into my affairs, Fran.”
Francesca hugged herself. “I am sorry. I won’t.”
Connie stared and finally nodded, softening. Then she left the room.
But not before Francesca thought she saw an anxious look in her eyes.
Bragg had wanted to ask her father’s permission for her participation in the work at hand that night. Francesca had quickly convinced him that such permission would never be forthcoming. He had not been happy at the prospect of using her in a police operation without Cahill’s consent.
Conveniently, her parents had just retired. Francesca had overheard the good-byes being said perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, opening her window to do so. The house had since fallen silent; Francesca did not know if Evan was in or out. He was the only one she was worried about. If he caught her now, sneaking out all wrapped up in her coat and hat, he would insist on knowing where she was going—and with whom.
She hurried silently downstairs, into the kitchen, and stepped out of the back door, closing it and leaving it unlocked as she did so. The night was filled with thousands of stars and it was extremely cold; Francesca
’s breath hung heavily in the air. She traversed the back yard, staying close to the house in case someone might go to a window and look down and see her. When she reached the driveway she saw a hansom standing on Fifth Avenue. Here she had no choice and she dashed to the street.
The door swung open before she had even reached the curb. Francesca stepped up; Bragg caught her hand and helped her in. She settled down beside him as he reached over her to close the door. He knocked on the partition, and the driver moved the horse off.
The driver was a policeman in disguise as a cabby.
Francesca faced Bragg, unable to see him clearly because of the darkness of the hansom’s interior. “Any trouble?” he asked. He looked odd in his shabby jacket and an even shabbier cap.
“No. Everyone retired twenty minutes ago. The timing could not have been better,” Francesca said, noticing the worn, dirty boots he was wearing, as well.
“Good.” He sank back in his seat. His knee touched hers, briefly.
Francesca quickly put a wider space between them. She stole a glance at him in the dark and suddenly she thought about Eliza. It was a relief that he was not her lover after all.
Should she tell him about Montrose?
She knew that she should. Montrose could not be the madman, but he rightly fell into the category of suspect. If only he had never uttered such incriminating words.
But what if she was the only one who knew of the affair?
She had thought about her conversation with Connie all evening and had not been able to draw any conclusions one way or the other. Sometimes she felt that Connie suspected something was amiss with Montrose, at other times she thought her sister oblivious, and as fond of her husband as she had ever been. But then she wondered if her sister’s anger had been a crack in a nearly flawless facade. A facade that housed the truth.
Francesca had never felt more overwhelmed in her life. A little boy’s life might well be at stake. But so too might her sister’s marriage. For if Connie did not know, shouldn’t she, Francesca, forever hold her peace?
Francesca closed her eyes tightly, acutely aware of Bragg seated just inches away from her. Besides, Montrose was not insane. He was not a madman. He might be insanely jealous where Eliza was concerned, but that did not mean that he was capable of the criminal acts that had thus far taken place.
She felt Bragg shift restlessly on the seat beside her.
Francesca glanced over at him. She told herself that any woman in her shoes would be filled with both trepidation and excitement at the prospect of facing Gordino again, with Bragg at her side. Yet was she being absolutely honest with herself?
She turned away from Bragg to stare out at the passing street. They were almost at Grand Army Plaza, at the southern tip of Central Park. Now was not the time to notice that it was becoming warm, almost uncomfortably so, within the confines of the cab, or that Bragg, even though tired and preoccupied, had an undeniable charisma and appeal. She must focus on the task at hand.
“Francesca? You are very quiet tonight.” Bragg’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts.
Francesca turned to face him and their gazes met. His eyes gleamed a bit in the slight illumination provided within the hansom by the stars and the streetlights. “It has been a very long day,” she said as softly, quite unable to turn away now.
“Yes, it has.” She thought he was thinking about the fact that she had paid a visit to Joel that afternoon, enlisting him to their cause that night. Of course, Joel had no idea that this time Bragg and a dozen handpicked men would trail him and Francesca. Francesca had come to terms with deceiving the boy. It no longer seemed to matter, not considering all of the turmoil that had suddenly appeared in the rest of her life.
“Hopefully, Gordino will be bagged tonight. I will give him the third degree, and he will lead us to the madman who has tried so hard to destroy the Burtons.” Bragg was grim.
She took a moment to consider his words. If she were Gordino, she would be very afraid. “What does ‘bagged’ mean, Bragg?”
He eyed her. “Imprisoned.”
“And ‘boarding school’?”
He folded his arms and she saw amusement flicker across his face. “Just a street term for ‘jailhouse’ or ‘prison.’ ”
“I see.” Poor Joel. Apparently he had been in jail.
“Your little friend?” Bragg asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go over the plan one more time,” Bragg said. Like her, he was keeping his tone low, even though there was no reason for it.
Francesca nodded, her gaze riveted on his face, which remained cast in shadow and eerily sculpted because of it.
“You go in and locate Gordino. You leave instantly upon doing so. You raise your hand, no glove, as if to flag a hansom. That is the signal that will tell me and my men to enter the premises.”
Francesca nodded again. “And if he is not there, I leave immediately, as well, but do nothing when I reach the street.”
“Exactly.” He turned his head away to stare out of his window. Then he faced her again. “I hate bringing you into this,” he said with surprising vehemence.
She did not move. His words flustered her and pleased her immeasurably. “I will be fine,” she whispered.
“Yes, you will. I shall make certain of it.” He turned back to the window again.
Francesca huddled in her seat, knowing he intended to protect her from any harm from Gordino or any of his ilk at all cost. It was a thrilling comprehension.
She turned to study his hard profile and the strong line of his jaw. Even in his immigrant’s clothes, he looked wealthy and powerful, she thought. He would not fool anyone dressed as he was, not for very long.
Then it occurred to her that if he was a bastard he might not be wealthy at all.
Of course, his background did not matter. Not to her, not anymore, not now, after all that they had thus far shared. Francesca felt herself shiver; yet she was perspiring. What had they shared thus far?
She wondered how he and Eliza had fallen into a love affair.
She had to wonder what it would be like to have this man hold her or even kiss her.
And she was appalled at herself. For goodness’ sake, she was on a criminal investigation! Now was hardly the time to imagine Bragg as a... as a what?
In a way, they had become friends of a sort. But there was more than that to their relationship, wasn’t there? Francesca would be the first to admit that when it came to this kind of thing, she was in way over her head. Bragg had once cared about Eliza; perhaps he had even loved her. His type of woman would be someone striking and intellectual. Francesca suddenly wondered if she might also be his type.
The hansom slowed and stopped.
“Are we here?” Francesca started, suddenly anxious. For now the night would truly begin.
“I am getting out. We are five blocks from the Kennedys‘. I don’t want to take a chance on Joel’s seeing me. The kid is sharp.” His tone was terse but it also washed over her like warmed honey.
Francesca nodded, filled with new tension, as he opened his door. But before he leapt out he faced her again. “Everything will be fine,” he said reassuringly. “Trust me, Francesca.”
Her heart leapt. “I know,” Francesca said, but now she had butterflies, and she wasn’t sure she meant her words.
His gaze slid over her face. “Do not worry. Just do as I have told you. This time I am here, Francesca. Let me do all of the worrying.” He smiled a little at that, but the smile did not reach his eyes.
“All right.” She managed a breathless smile in return, recalling what he had said. Trust me. How could two mere words be so sensual?
He swung away, and as he did so, his jacket opened and she saw the gun. And then the door slammed closed and he was disappearing into the shadows of the street. The hansom rolled forward.
He had a gun.
Of course he had a gun. It was just a precaution!
But Francesca remained immobilized, becau
se she had never seen a gun like that before. It wasn’t a hunting rifle. It wasn’t a small, pearl-handled revolver, the kind that fit into a lady’s palm. It was a big, deadly-looking handgun. It was a weapon designed to kill another human being.
It was only a precaution.
The hansom had stopped again. The driver, who was really a detective in the force, turned. “We’re here.”
“Please wait,” Francesca managed, just as the door swung open and Joel hopped in. “Hello,” she began, but all she could think about was the gun. Why was he carrying a gun? She had never noticed him carrying one before. Did he think he might have to use it?
Joel did not smile or greet her. “Are you sure you want to do this again?”
Francesca nodded, suddenly frightened. “Driver, Twenty-third off Broadway.” The hansom moved forward.
“Don’t know why you got to be involved,” Joel muttered. He did not sit down. He was on his knees, facing backward—looking behind them to see if they were being followed.
“What are you doing?” Francesca asked uneasily, terrified he would espy Bragg or the other policemen and the entire operation would fail, then and there. If only Bragg had not felt it necessary to bring a gun. Clearly he expected the night to be one filled with jeopardy.
Joel did not answer, staring suspiciously down the street behind them. Then he scooted off the seat and went to the side windows, each one in turn, to stare out of them as well. Finally, he sat down.
Francesca almost said, “We are not being followed,” but they were, and wisely, she held her tongue. Her heart continued to pound.
Finally Joel spoke. He was grim. “I got a real bad feeling about this,” he said.
Silently Francesca agreed—completely.
Chapter 13
Wednesday, January 22, 1902—Midnight
Francesca saw Gordino the moment she stepped inside the saloon. In fact, he was sitting at the exact same table that he had occupied the evening before, and like the other night, he was immersed in a game of cards with four other players, each and every man as hard and disreputable looking as he was.