by Brenda Joyce
Their eyes locked. Francesca prayed that time would stand still; she prayed that he would reach down and lift her skirts and touch her and ease the terrible longing of her tortured body.
He kissed her instead.
Long and hard, sucking on her lips, their bodies locked and rocking again.
There was a knock on the door.
Francesca vaguely heard it through the haze of heat and hardness and desire, and then the knock sounded again, more insistently, a hard rapping. Bragg, in the act of exploring her mouth with his tongue, froze. And she somehow thought, My God, someone is at the door, and then, Thank God the door is closed!
Bragg leapt to his feet.
Francesca blinked and opened her eyes and saw him standing there absolutely disheveled, his shirt open and hanging out of his trousers, his face flushed with passion. And then she looked past the sofa, confused, because the door had never been closed, and she was right. It was open, and Peter was standing there.
Francesca suddenly looked down at herself—her skirts were twisted well above her gartered knees—and she sat up as if struck by a lightning bolt. Her hair fell down in a wild mass over her shoulders.
If Peter was stunned to find her on his employer’s sofa, if he had any clue as to what they had been about, he gave no sign. “Commissioner, sir,” he said. “I think you had better come directly.”
Francesca tugged down her skirts, aware of flushing feverishly, the ramifications of what had just happened beginning to sink in.
Bragg finished tucking in his shirt and he zipped up his trousers, his back to her. The fever in her cheeks increased. “What is it?” he asked grimly.
“Detectives Murphy and Benson, sir. There has been a fifth note.”
Chapter 15
Francesca rushed after Bragg as he strode down the short corridor. Two detectives whom she recognized stood in the foyer by the front door. Francesca saw Bragg take the note. She saw him grow pale.
She knew better than to demand the note’s contents. Bragg asked grimly, “Where the hell was this found? And when?”
She had reached his side and she peered over his arm at the note he held. It read:
E is for Eternity
Francesca cried out, grabbing Bragg’s arm.
“Mrs. Burton found the note under her pillow this morning when she woke up,” one of the detectives said. The larger one with the handlebar mustache.
“Under her pillow?” Bragg echoed, having turned as white as a ghost. “As in, under the pillow she slept on all night?”
Both detectives nodded, grimly.
E is for Eternity. Death. Oh, God, no. Francesca’s mind raced in tandem with her heart. “Bragg. I think this means Jonny is still alive!” She was now aware of the two detectives casting frequent and interested if not highly speculative glances at her.
He glanced at her, then grew impossibly grim. “Peter, please show Miss Cahill to the powder room.”
Instantly, Francesca realized why the detectives were regarding her almost lewdly. Her hair was down and undoubtedly a mess. It was probably obvious how it had gotten that way. She felt herself flush.
But she did not move. How could she? And if she was not right? Why, it was an unbearable notion. She said, “Bragg! Please!”
He moved aside so they could speak privately. Before she could begin, he said, “I know what you are thinking. You think he is alive because this note is a death threat. But this note may simply be another act of torture.” His tone was so level and calm. Francesca could guess what the effort cost him. Yet there was nothing calm about his amber eyes. Anger vied there with fear and anguish.
It was so hard not to touch him. “I think he is alive,” she said stubbornly. “Dear God, it is a feeling I have, Bragg.”
He regarded her for a moment. Then he said, as if they were discussing a scientific experiment, “What interests me is just where this note was found. And how it was found.” He turned away, then paused. “I will drive you uptown as I am heading to the Burtons‘. But I suggest you make a few repairs before we go.”
She nodded reluctantly. She wished to discuss the case. But Peter was waiting for her, in order to escort her out. Francesca turned.
“Francesca.”
Her name was spoken so softly she almost did not hear it. She faced him, and their gazes locked.
And as they stared at one another, Bragg clearly hesitating, the astonishing kiss replayed itself in her mind. Francesca felt her tension renew itself, and now, it had little to do with the last note and the abduction.
“We will speak about what happened later,” he said, and he flushed.
She nodded, her heart suddenly singing, at once elated and terrified and oh, so excited, and she smiled, but he did not see, for he had turned away.
Peter led her to the powder room, not batting an eye. His expression could have been written in stone, Francesca thought. Once inside, Francesca found that she was a far worse sight than she could have ever expected.
She stared at her own reflection, wide-eyed. She looked like a tart from the Bowery. Her hair was a wild, tangled darkly golden mane. Her lips were swollen from kissing. She was flushed—but in a spectacular manner. I am probably ruined, she thought grimly, recalling the way both detectives had eyed her. Then, never mind.
It was but one more worry to add to her ever-growing list.
She wondered what Bragg would say when they had the chance to speak privately. And she smiled. What if he declared his affections openly? Her heart skipped and raced at the thought.
Then she grew grim as she began to make some badly needed repairs to her hair. That note had been found under Eliza’s pillow. Eliza had to be the madman’s target. Not Bragg and not Burton. Someone wanted to destroy Eliza and drive her insane.
Francesca gripped the vanity, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The madman was getting very confident, indeed.
Confident enough to walk right into Eliza’s bedroom and leave the note under her pillow.
Francesca wondered if Eliza was wrong. She wondered if Burton knew about the twins and hated his wife enough to use an innocent little boy to destroy her sanity and emotional well-being.
Montrose would also have access to that bedroom.
Francesca had known all along that she was coming to this conclusion. As a result, she was shaking, and badly, and she was also breathless. She had to close her eyes.
Eliza insisted that Burton did not know the truth about the twins. Eliza insisted that he loved the boys completely, believing himself to be their father.
A servant could have also put the note under the pillow, Francesca told herself grimly. A servant who hated his mistress, or who was working for Gordino.
She still did not think Gordino clever enough to mastermind this entire affair.
Montrose’s first wife had died under suspicious circumstances, after he had used her money to pay off a large portion of debt. But it had been an accident. Hadn’t it?
There was a knock on the door. “One moment, please,” Francesca called out, shaken to the core and so very ill now. She quickly tried to untangle her hair and pull it back into a bun. Fortunately, she kept a few spare pins in her purse, and she managed to make do. Poorly, but it was better than nothing.
It was not Montrose.
Bragg was waiting for her in a police carriage. Francesca climbed in beside him and they set off. He turned to her. “You might be useful, Francesca. I would like you to come over to the Burtons’ with me. You are a woman, and right now, I think Eliza will need you.”
Francesca’s heart sank. She had another, more important call to make, but it would have to wait. She nodded.
But was she insane to be thinking of confronting Montrose?
“Bragg! It’s about time,” Burton cried angrily when Bragg, Francesca, and the two detectives entered the house.
Francesca had to stare. Burton was far more disheveled than Bragg had been earlier. Not only was his clothing rumpled, his shirts
leeves rolled up, his tie completely undone and hanging about his shoulders like a ladies’ scarf, but he too appeared to have had a sleepless night. He was gaunt, unshaven, and unspeakably pale.
“I came as soon as I heard. I’d like to speak with you privately, Burton,” Bragg said calmly.
“Privately! Why the hell do you want to speak to me?” Burton was shouting. “There’s a goddamn madman on the loose, one who has my son! Why the hell aren’t you out there finding my son? That’s your job, isn’t it?” He was gesturing wildly, too. If he noticed Francesca, he gave no sign.
Bragg touched his arm, but Burton shrugged him off. “We are all distraught,” he said quietly. “But becoming undone now will not help anything or anyone, and it will not help us find the boy.”
“The boy? He is not ‘the boy.’ Jonny is my son, and he has a name!” Tears abruptly filled Burton’s eyes. He was shaking, Francesca realized.
“I know. I am sorry,” Bragg said. “Please, I must ask you a few questions. Is your wife upstairs?”
“Yes! And you can imagine the condition she is in! Whoever did this, I swear, I will kill him myself once he is found!” Burton glared furiously at Bragg. “Maybe you are in over your head, Bragg. Are you capable of finding my son? Are you capable of running the police department? I seriously doubt you will keep this job if you do not solve this case and find my son.”
“Time will tell whether I am competent or not,” Bragg said without inflection. He firmly took Burton’s arm, this time not allowing the other man to shake him off. “As I am in charge of this investigation, I expect your complete cooperation.” He began leading Burton, who remained livid, actually resisting Bragg, across the hall. Bragg glanced back at Francesca. “Find someone to take you up to see Eliza. Sit with her until I come. Do what you can to calm her.”
Francesca nodded. She understood Burton’s anger, but was angry in spite of herself. Bragg did not need to be shouted at and accused of incompetence now. Bragg and Burton disappeared into the withdrawing room, Burton raising his voice and shouting at Bragg again. Francesca was rigid. Burton was hysterical with his fear and anger; clearly, Burton had lost the last of his composure and perhaps his dignity, as well. Burton could not be the one responsible for Jonny’s abduction and the cruel, taunting notes. Not unless he was an actor worthy of the London stage. Francesca was certain he was not acting. Francesca would bet her life on it.
And as she crossed the hall, about to go upstairs, her heart already sinking to a profound low, she heard Burton sobbing in the other room. “I want my son back,” he wept.
She could imagine Bragg speaking quietly, in a vain attempt to comfort the distraught man.
She went upstairs, following a houseman. She had never been this shaken.
It was not Burton.
The list of suspects was getting narrower and narrower. But it could not be Montrose. His motive just was not strong enough.
Unless he was insane and they had all been fooled from the moment they had first met him.
Had he killed his first wife?
Francesca was shown into an upstairs sitting room that was pleasantly but simply furnished, while the servant went to inform Eliza that she had a caller. Francesca did not move.
At the far end of the room was a desk. On the desk was a typewriter.
And even from this distance, the machine looked bulky and odd. It seemed out-of-date and old-fashioned.
She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath. Now she began to breathe, but harshly, with excitement and dread. She glanced around, then quickly closed the door. She rushed across the room.
It was an older Remington machine, but Francesca did not know precisely how old it was. But it was also a shift-key machine.
Had the note been typed on this machine? Where was the model number?
She glanced frantically around the machine, looking for the model number. She lifted it up, but it was so dusty underneath that she would have to wipe it clean in order to find any engraved writing. She thought she heard footsteps approaching in the hall. She set it down, jumping away from the desk. She strained to hear.
She heard nothing.
Francesca hesitated, ran back to the door, and opened it. No one was in the hallway. It had been her imagination.
She shut the door and ran back to the machine. Where was paper? She would type the first note, “A is for Ants,” and take it with her. And then she would be able to compare notes once she got her hands on an original.
There was no stack of paper sitting on top of the desk. Francesca began to open up the drawers, one by one, ignoring her rising discomfort and even panic. She felt like a house thief. It was not a good feeling to have.
And very distinctly, she heard footsteps. Her hand was on a lower drawer, and as she pulled it open, she saw the neat stack of paper inside. The door swung open.
Francesca straightened, smiling brightly, her heart exploding like dynamite.
And the houseman looked at her. “I am afraid that Mrs. Burton is not receiving today, Miss Cahill. Another time, she said.”
Francesca continued to smile, aware of the houseman regarding her too closely—as if he were wondering why she was standing so rigidly there at the desk. With her knee, she pushed closed the drawer, as quietly as possible, keeping the rest of her body absolutely motionless. “What a beautiful old desk,” Francesca said, coming around it. “Chippendale, I think.”
“Mrs. Burton does most of her correspondence there,”
the young man said. “I believe the desk is Georgian.” He smiled at her.
She blinked at him, aware of perspiring now. How would a servant know?
“I beg your pardon, miss,” he added as she left the room.
“No, that is fine, I am glad to be corrected. What is your name?” Most servants would not converse with a guest, much less correct one.
“MacDougal,” he said.
She glanced at him as they went downstairs. He was a young man, and rather good-looking, actually, with thick, dark black hair and hazel eyes. In fact, some women might find him quite handsome. He had a slim, straight nose and fine, even features. She guessed him to be only a few years older than herself. He also had the slightest trace of a Scots accent.
He was not an average servant, she thought. He was outspoken and good-looking. Then she wondered if Eliza had found him attractive, as well.
She knew she was staring but she could not stop herself. He glanced at her repeatedly now, beginning to flush.
I have gone too far, she thought to herself. Wondering if Eliza would dally with a servant in her employ.
“Is something wrong, Miss Cahill?” he asked as they went downstairs.
Her heart leapt. He was not an average servant, no, indeed. What if he had found his mistress attractive—as all men seemed to do? What if he had fallen in love with Eliza? And had either been actually rejected—or only rejected in his own mind and fantasies?
She smiled at him, aware that she might be grasping at straws. “I have known the Burtons for years,” she said cheerfully. “But I do not recall seeing you here. Have you worked for them for very long?”
“About a year,” he said with an answering smile. “And I do recall seeing you here in this house, from time to time.”
He was very bold. And he had a good memory, as well. “This is a terrible tragedy,” Francesca said as they entered the hall.
He was immediately grave. “Yes, it is. Jonny is a wonderful boy. Whoever has done this should be shot.”
She glanced closely at him. He had spoken in the present tense. Did that mean he knew something no one else did? Because by now, Francesca felt certain that everyone believed the boy to be dead. “Poor Eliza,” Francesca said softly.
He nodded solemnly. “It is terrible, what this affair has done to her. She is a great woman who does not deserve this.”
Francesca could not get a reading on him. The only thing she could be certain of was that he was rather bold and not ver
y deferent to the upper classes. “Thank you,” she said at the front door while waiting for her coat, hat, and gloves.
“Shall I tell the commissioner that you are leaving?”
Francesca glanced toward the closed door at the far end of the front hall. They had not had their private conversation yet. Her heart leapt, with excitement, and with dread. What if he did not declare himself? What if he insisted that the kiss had been a mistake?
She wished she did not have such doubt. Francesca sighed, and faced MacDougal. “I don’t think we should interrupt him,” she said. And as she accepted her garments from another servant, a new and very different dread began to rise up in her. Did she really have to do this? she wondered.
There was only one possible answer.
The first thing she did upon arriving at her sister’s house was to inquire as to her sister’s whereabouts. She was informed that Connie had left for a luncheon appointment.
A further inquiry told her that Montrose was in the library with his secretary. It was as she had hoped.
As a frequent visitor at her sister’s house, she was allowed to find her own way to the library. She did so with growing trepidation. The door was open. Montrose sat with one hip on the edge of his desk in a dapper pin-striped suit. He was dictating to his secretary, a slim, middle-aged man with a bald pate and spectacles. Montrose saw her and halted in mid-sentence.
Francesca could not smile. She was trembling. Could she go through with this? How could she not?
Montrose stood up. “Francesca. What a pleasant surprise. I am afraid you have just missed Connie.” He finally smiled. It seemed grim. Or was it her imagination?
Francesca made no move to enter the room. She felt ill. “Hello.” She took a deep breath and said, “Actually, I had hoped for a word with you.”
He continued to smile, his gaze moving over her. Suddenly Francesca recalled that she had not really repaired the damage done to her appearance by Bragg’s heated kisses. It was too late now, however, to worry about her appearance. And who was he to call the kettle black?