by Brenda Joyce
Joel glanced up at her grimly. He started to move forward, thinking, of course, that she intended to follow him to Gordino for a repeat of the previous night. Francesca gripped his shoulder. “I have to go back outside,” she said, her voice thick and harsh with her fear.
“What!” he exclaimed.
She gave him no time to object, pulling him with her as she rushed out onto the sidewalk, somewhat relieved that everything had happened so quickly and that she had not had to suffer the same indignities as she previously had. She was already wrenching off her glove. She waved her hand wildly in the air.
“What are you doing?” Joel cried. “That bastard is inside. I thought you wanted to—” He stopped. “What are you doing?” And it was a suspicious demand.
But it was too late. Bragg had emerged from the shadows across the street and was already running toward them. Half a dozen men were following him, and as Bragg rushed past, Francesca saw that he was holding the gun. Her fear increased.
“Spots,” Joel shouted at her.
Francesca grabbed him by both arms before he could bolt, crying, “Do not say another word!”
He fought to break free.
She fought to hold him, watching as the police ran into the saloon. Shouts filled the night. “Please, Joel, this isn’t about you. This is about another boy, one who is missing!”
“You lied to me,” Joel shouted at her, finally breaking free. “You lied to me, damn it!”
“I didn’t want to,” Francesca said, as a dozen patrolmen in their blue uniforms and leather helmets suddenly began converging on the saloon. It sounded as if a fight had broken out inside; she could hear wood splintering amidst the shouting and cursing. She prayed Bragg would capture Gordino, and she also prayed that no one would get hurt.
“Miss Cahill.”
Francesca turned, recognizing the driver of the hansom. He was a big, bald man in his middle years with very bright blue eyes. She thought his name was Peter.
“I am to take you home now, miss.”
Francesca was about to protest when she saw Gordino running across Broadway. And Bragg was ten feet behind him. Obviously they had left the saloon from a back door. Five other policemen, dressed as civilians, were following the pair. The policemen were waving their clubs.
“Miss Cahill, I have my orders.”
Francesca didn’t hear him, watching, paralyzed, as Bragg suddenly dove after Gordino. He succeeded in tackling him from behind, and the pair went down in the middle of the street.
A carriage veered around them, the pair of horses just missing the two men.
The driver shouted down at them furiously; Francesca cried out.
They did not hear. Bragg and Gordino were rolling around like boys wrestling in a schoolyard. And suddenly Gordino was on his feet. But so was Bragg, and he could only take one step before Bragg caught him by the shoulder, whirling him around, landing a vicious punch in his face. Gordino staggered backward but did not fall.
Bragg had to be stopped, Francesca managed to think, horrified.
Bragg leapt on him, and the two went down to the ground, hard.
“Someone should stop them,” Francesca cried, lifting her skirts and running down the block toward the pair. The other policemen had formed a circle around the two men by the time she had reached them, but no one made any move to stop the fight.
Gordino landed a punch on Bragg’s jaw. His head snapped backward and he almost fell, but he ducked the next oncoming blow. Francesca hardly saw what happened next. Bragg kicked with one leg, striking Gordino’s knee. Gordino went down in a heap.
“Please, stop them,” Francesca cried frantically, but no one seemed to hear her.
And Bragg jumped on top of Gordino and landed three blows to his face, each one more brutal than the one before.
Francesca was more than horrified, she was frightened, too. She turned to yank on Peter’s sleeve. “Stop them!” she shouted. “Stop them before someone gets hurt! Please!”
The hansom driver who was really a policeman glanced oddly at her, his arms folded across his chest. He did not reply and he did not move.
Stunned, Francesca looked all around at the policemen watching the fight. Everyone seemed keenly interested in the outcome, and no one, apparently, had any intention of breaking it up. They seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.
Bragg was on top of Gordino, straddling him, about to deal another blow. “Where is the boy?” he demanded. Blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Gordino sneered at him.
Bragg punched him in the nose. Blood gushed. “Where is the boy? You have had it, Gordino. I promise you that. One way or another, I will make you talk. Where is the boy, and who the fuck is behind this? Who?” he roared.
“Fuck you, cocksucker,” Gordino said.
Bragg hit him again and again.
Francesca had the horrible realization that he was not just enraged, he was out of control—and uncontrollable. It was as if he had become the maniac, the madman, himself. “Bragg! Please, stop!” she cried. But she knew that neither he nor anyone else heard her.
“I will kill you, but slowly, do you hear me? Where is the boy?” Bragg shouted, lifting Gordino up by his collar, his fist inches from one eye.
“Fuck off, asshole.”
Francesca started forward without thinking, determined to stop Bragg before he killed Gordino. But someone seized her arm hard, detaining her. She looked up. Peter stared down at her.
“Want to lose an eye?” Bragg said very calmly.
“No!” Francesca screamed. “No!”
Gordino suddenly paled.
“You have one second,” Bragg said.
“I don’t know! I don’t know where the boy is and I don’t know who planned the thing,” Gordino cried.
Bragg hit him. Gordino screamed. So did Francesca.
And then Bragg was on his feet, holding up the bleeding, battered Gordino, and he was shaking him. “Where is my son?” he screamed.
Francesca knew she had misheard.
“Where is my son, you son of a bitch?!”
Francesca stood on the sidewalk, shivering, vaguely aware that Joel had not left after all, and that he stood beside her.
Four police wagons had parked along Broadway where it intersected Twenty-third Street, and Gordino was inside one of them, his hands cuffed behind his back. He had been almost unconscious when he had been placed inside the cell in the back of the wagon; two officers had had to half drag and half carry him there and then physically push him inside.
Most of the occupants of the neighboring saloons and brothels had gathered on the street to watch the night’s big event. Bragg was speaking with several of his men, standing only a few feet from the wagon containing Gordino. He seemed oblivious to his own wounds—one of his eyes was turning black and blue and his lower lip was terribly swollen. Blood flecked his shirt and stained his jacket. His knuckles were, not surprisingly, raw.
But mostly it was not his blood. The thug had not broken. Bragg had beaten him up badly; Francesca could only hope that he would be taken to a hospital and not to jail.
She could stand it no more. She rushed to the curb and retched up her dinner.
Then she started to cry.
She wished she had never witnessed such violence. She wished she had never seen Bragg beating up the other man.
“Here.”
She was on her knees in the dirty snow, and the voice was kind and concerned. She looked up through her tears and accepted the ragged piece of handkerchief Joel was handing out to her. It was a scrap, but it was spanking clean. She could not get the words out to thank him, though.
Jonny Burton was Bragg’s son. It all made sense now. God, it did.
She hurt for Bragg. Oh, she did. But she was never going to forget what he had done to Gordino. No matter the circumstances, such brutality was inexcusable.
She wanted to go home and find oblivion in sleep.
She knew she would never
sleep a wink that night.
For she also wanted to go to Bragg and comfort him, desperately, if she could, and she also wanted to ask him half a dozen intimate and pointed questions.
How did he feel, having two sons whom he could not claim as his own? Did Burton know? Did anyone know? And dear God, should he even be the one to investigate the abduction, when he was so personally involved?
Her questions, if she ever dared ask them, would have to wait. She stood with Joel’s help. And then she realized that Bragg was walking with determination toward her; the police wagon containing Gordino was driving away. Other patrolmen were instructing the gawkers to disperse. Francesca stiffened. She could not look away from his ravaged face.
He paused in front of her, his expression impossible to read. “One of my men will take you home.” He turned away.
She grabbed his sleeve, forcing him to face her. She tried to search his eyes but he would not let her, for he looked aside. “Bragg.” She had so much to say. She did not know how to begin. Instead, softly, with compassion, she whispered, “Bragg.”
He flinched, his golden eyes wide, holding hers, filled briefly with surprise and anguish. And then he broke the moment, turning away. “Not now, Francesca. Not tonight.” His tone was impossibly weary.
She wet her lips. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
His jaw tightened. “So am I.”
He was leaving. But she had to know. She hurried abreast of him. “What are you going to do?”
“Not tonight,” he said firmly.
She moved in front of him, blocking his way. And tears filled her eyes. “Tonight you almost killed a man. Don’t you think if he knew something he would have told you?”
“This is not your affair,” he said coldly. And then he barked, “Peter! I told you to take Miss Cahill home, now.”
Francesca stared at him, and it felt as if her heart were breaking. She felt a firm grip on her arm, knew it was Peter. She did not budge. “Don’t hurt him, Bragg. Not anymore. You have done enough. I beg you.”
His eyes grew dark, and he walked away from her, not saying a word.
Francesca let Peter escort her to the hansom. On the running board she turned before getting inside. But the street where he had been standing was empty; Bragg was already gone.
Francesca entered the house the way she had left it, through the back door, which led into the kitchen. No lights were on in that room, of course, and as she was hardly familiar with it, she had to proceed cautiously, groping her way past the center aisle, the sinks and icebox, to the door leading to the main part of the house. In the process, she bumped into a pot, left on the edge of the counter. It fell to the floor with a ringing crash.
The noise was enough to wake the dead.
She waited for her father, her mother, her brother, or Mrs. Ryan to come barging into the kitchen, flicking on the lights, demanding to know who was there. No one came.
She breathed easier.
And as she silently left the kitchen, she thought, The twins are Bragg’s sons.
It was astounding. She was finally recovering from the shock. She wondered who else knew other than Eliza. She wondered again if Burton knew.
She had seen him with the twins too many times to count and he had appeared to be a doting father; she did not think he knew the truth.
And as she crept up the hall, it struck her weary brain that Bragg might be the monster’s target, not Burton.
Oh, God. Was Bragg the maniac’s intended mark? Did the madman want revenge on Bragg? Was Bragg the reason the little boy had been abducted, and maybe killed?
Her heart twisted and it was painful. She could only imagine that these suspicions had already occurred to Bragg, and that he was tortured by them and the guilt accompanying them. How helpless he must feel.
Francesca felt quite certain that Bragg was not a man accustomed to helplessness. That would, she thought, explain his uncontrollable rage.
She did not want to recall the way he had assaulted Gordino, not now, not ever again. She dismissed the memory from her mind and wondered when the affair between Bragg and Eliza had ended. It hardly mattered. It could have been seven years ago; it could have been days ago. There was no way of ever telling.
She knew she was wrong not to tell him about Eliza and Montrose. Yet Montrose might seek to hurt Burton; he would have nothing against Bragg. God, could the mystery become any more complicated? She still did not know what to do about her sister.
Francesca heard voices and she stumbled.
Who in God’s name was up at this hour—other than Evan? She knew it was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
The voices rose in argument. They were coming from the library.
She had already recognized Evan’s voice, for he was shouting, in a fine temper, indeed. Francesca was confused as she approached the door, knowing she did not dare open it. And then she heard, as clear as a bell, her father saying, “I shall not change my mind, and that is final.”
Just what could they be arguing about—and at this hour?
“Fine.” This from Evan. The door began to open and Francesca jerked away from it, shrinking against the wall. And Evan said, his tone nasty, “How proud of yourself you must be. To be blackmailing your own son.”
Francesca somehow muffled her gasp.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Her father was now shouting.
“Oh, I suppose I should merrily walk down the aisle to the altar, pretending to love my bride, because that is what you have decided is best for me?” Evan shouted back.
“I will not discuss the merits of your marriage to Sarah Channing another time. My mind is made up. You are twenty-five and the most irresponsible of men. She is perfect for you. Should you wish to continue your irreverent lifestyle, so be it. But I will not pay another gambling debt, not one more, much less the thousands of dollars you currently owe. Good night, Evan.”
Francesca tried to make herself smaller as the door was flung open and her father stalked from the library. As she stood on the side of the doorway closer to the kitchen than the stairs, he did not even see her. But she had gotten a single glimpse of him. He was livid.
Andrew Cahill was never in a temper. He was one of the kindest men she knew. He was also one of the most compassionate. How could she have just heard what she had?
He could not be blackmailing Evan. He could not be blackmailing his own son. Into marriage, for God’s sake. It was an impossibility.
Francesca felt as if she were in the thick, foggy mists of an ever-worsening nightmare. She waited for Evan to leave the library, certain he, at least, would discover her. Minutes passed by, but he did not leave. Finally, she peeked quickly into the room, and saw him sitting on the sofa, a scotch in hand, his expression dark with his distress, and he was so immersed in his thoughts that he did not even see her.
She sucked in her breath and dashed past the doorway and down the hall and up into her room.
Once in bed, she threw the covers up over her head, and promised herself that she would sleep until noon.
She was up at six a.m.
* * *
She could hear her brother moving about his apartments. She had been up for an hour and a half, her mind spinning in turmoil, flitting from subject to subject—Bragg and his missing son, Connie and Montrose, Evan and Sarah Channing. She knocked lightly on his door.
Almost instantly, it was flung open. Evan’s eyes widened as he saw her standing there. His shirt was hanging out and completely open; he flushed and turned his back to her to button it up properly. Of course, she had seen him in his swimming costume too many times to count. “Fran! It’s half past seven. Do you have an early class?” He turned back to her.
“I don’t even know,” Francesca said truthfully. Classes were not on her mind now, and if she did not regroup and quickly, she would soon find herself expelled. She shook her head to clear it. She was so tired. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” His brows
furrowed together, expressing his bewilderment. “What is this about? Can’t it wait until breakfast?”
Francesca shut the door as she stepped into his bedroom, leaning against it. He had a huge room done up in various shades of blue and green with pale beige accents. It was a master bedroom. When their father had built the house, there had never been any question that one half of it would be a separate residence for Evan and his future family. Although Evan rarely used it, he had a separate entrance farther down Fifth Avenue.
The adjoining homes had been Julia’s idea. It was not unheard of.
“I prefer to speak to you privately,” Francesca said.
Evan sighed. “I hope this is not as grim as your expression tells me it will be. I have had a hellish night.”
Francesca hugged herself. “So have I.” There was a mistake, she knew. Evan did not understand. Their father would never stoop so low as to blackmail Evan into a loveless marriage. It just wasn’t possible. And if blackmail was at work here, Francesca had no doubt that Julia was the one responsible for it. “Evan, I heard you and Papa shouting last night.”
He looked at her and said nothing.
“You don’t love Sarah Channing?” Francesca asked.
“I see you heard quite a bit,” Evan said darkly. “Fran, this spying of yours has to stop.”
“I did not mean to spy,” she said, reaching for him. He spun away, pacing. “Evan, you are my brother and I adore you. I must help.”
He sat down hard on the emerald-green damask sofa. Francesca imagined that beneath his breath he was cursing. “Just what did you hear?” he asked cautiously.
“You accused Papa of blackmailing you. He would never do that, Evan.” Francesca came forward, never taking her eyes from his face.
He stood. “No? I know you adore Father. But he is blackmailing me, Fran. In no uncertain terms. If I do not marry Sarah, he will not pay my debts and I shall have to leave town.”
She could not believe it. “No. This is Mama’s doing, then.”
His gaze softened. “Poor Fran,” he said.
“Poor me!” She was startled and she rushed to him and took both of his hands in hers. “On Saturday they are announcing your engagement. And it is the worst possible match.”