by Brenda Joyce
Ladies and gentlemen were stepping back to let them pass. Hart seemed to have become a man with a mission, and no one dared stand in his way. Francesca saw her brother and the countess as she passed, but they were a blur. She saw Mrs. Davies, who appeared annoyed and far less of a blur. She reminded herself to ask him about that. Then she saw her parents.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was a stunning blonde who had clearly passed her striking looks on to her daughters. She did a double take when she saw Francesca with Hart, and then she began to smile. Julia adored Hart and had been scheming for some time to match him up with her younger daughter.
Andrew Cahill had made his fortune in Chicago in meatpacking. He was short and stout, with a characteristic look of benevolence upon his whiskered cheeks. He also took a second look upon seeing Francesca towed along by Calder Hart, but then began to turn darkly red. Unlike his wife, he was not impressed by Hart's accomplishments and knew of his reputation as a ruthless womanizer.
Hart paused, whipping an empty flute from a passing tray. He tapped his nail upon it. "Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?"
The conversation dimmed and died in the hall. Everyone turned their way.
Francesca now stood by his side, feeling faint, thinking, This is it, oh, dear God, but given the fatal attraction she felt for this man, that and his charisma, there was simply no other choice.
"Miss Cahill has done me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife," he announced loudly to the crowd gathered around them. "But in fact, the honor is all mine."
There was one brief moment of surprised silence, and then the applause began—followed by some male shouts of congratulations and a few hurrahs.
Francesca trembled. She blinked and saw Julia beaming in delight, then glimpsed Mrs. Davies, looking shocked. She glanced around and saw that every single lady in the room wished to throw a dagger in her heart.
Hart chuckled, murmuring, "Yes, if looks could kill, you would be dead now, my darling," and he took Francesca's purse from her, extracting the ring. Francesca forgot all about the crowd. Everyone in the room seemed to vanish into thin air, every voice disappeared, and she was alone with Calder Hart. Their eyes met. His dark gaze was beyond tender. So much so that it was a blow to her heart. Francesca could not look away. What did that oddly gentle look mean? That, coupled with his soft smile, was enough to win any woman's heart, much less hers.
"Tonight calls for champagne," he said softly. "A celebration, the two of us, alone."
She inhaled, knowing what being alone with him would mean. He smiled and slid the eight-carat diamond onto her gloved finger. Francesca stared down at it, feeling blinded, but whether by the dazzling diamond or the magical moment, she did not know. Her heart was trying to tell her something, and she felt a tear leaking down her cheek.
"I won't hurt you," he said softly in her ear, and he kissed her cheek.
Francesca was somewhat blinded now as she looked up and met his gaze. "Is that a promise?"
"It is far more. It is a vow," he said. Then he turned her around and held up her hand.
The ladies exclaimed loudly. There were gasps of awe and admiration, male cheers, more hurrahs. Someone exclaimed at Hart that he had finally gone and done it. Hart agreed, and the men laughed. Francesca felt even more faint as the feeling in her breast intensified. It was as if a huge balloon were inflating inside of her chest. And she knew she could not manage it. Her knees began to give way.
He knew and put his arm around her, holding her up. "Do you need a glass of water?" he asked with concern.
She decided she would not faint, as she had never done so before, and certainly not upon the announcement of her engagement. And as she murmured, "No, I am fine," she saw her parents approaching.
Julia was clapping her hands in excitement and delight.
Francesca's father, however, was clearly furious.
"Are you certain you are fine?" Hart asked, a whisper in her ear, solicitous and concerned.
Francesca was about to affirm that she was when she saw Rick Bragg.
He was as pale as a ghost. He stared, disbelieving and incredulous.
She started forward instantly, forgetting about Hart. She had to explain.
Hart gripped her hand, yanking her back. "I'll be damned if I let you chase after him now! When we have just announced our engagement!" he said low and darkly.
He was right—he was also wrong. Francesca was miserable as she watched Bragg mutter something to his wife, turn on his heel, and stride with stiff, set shoulders from the reception room. He was clearly leaving the ball. And Francesca desperately needed to speak with him now. He must not accuse her of treachery; after all, his wife had returned to his life and, as Hart had said, even to his bed.
Francesca closed her eyes, anguished. Then she opened them and saw Leigh Anne staring at them—at her. Their gazes met. She seemed as surprised as everyone else, but if she was pleased, she hid it well. Then Leigh Anne hurried after Bragg, who was waiting for her at the front door.
"Mr. Cahill, sir," Hart was saying.
Francesca was pulled into her mother's embrace. "My darling girl, this is a dream come true!" Julia cried. "I am so happy for you!"
"Thank you, Mama," Francesca managed, glancing at Hart and her father. They were having a terse exchange, and she gathered Hart was to present himself the next day to discuss the matter of an engagement. Then she caught her sister's eye.
Connie grinned at her widely, like a happy and well-fed Cheshire cat.
Francesca gave in and smiled back. She was engaged to the man who had been the city's most eligible bachelor, but the magic of the moment had vanished, leaving something sordid and worrisome in its place. Then she saw young Joel Kennedy stepping past the departing Braggs into the front hall.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Joel was far more than a downtown street urchin—until recently he had been a cut-purse and a thief, or rather, he had resorted to such desperate measures to aid in the support of his fatherless family. He was a small boy with jet-black hair in an ill-fitting and shabby wool coat, a felt cap atop his head. Patches were on the knees of his corduroy pants. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He looked terribly uncomfortable and out of place. And when their gazes met, he signaled at her urgently, mouthing something at her. She thought it might be, Trouble, and her body stiffened with alarm and keen interest.
She had recently hired him as an assistant, and now she wondered if he had a new case.
"Kennedy?" Hart intoned with mild surprise. Then he said wryly, "Well, I suppose I should have anticipated this moment, although hardly so soon."
"I'll be right back," Francesca said, not hearing him at all. Only something dire would bring Joel into a society function. And whatever that something was, it clearly involved her—or needed her attention. Francesca hurried across the room. "Joel! It's so good to see you!" she cried, embracing him.
"Miz Cahill! Thank the lord you are back!" he said in return, appearing stricken.
She clasped his shoulder warmly. "What has happened?"
"Me mom's friend's daughter been missing fer three whole days," he said urgently. "Poor Mrs. O'Hare been over every day, cryin' like a storm. We all been prayin' you would come home!"
Francesca stared, every single concern, worry, and aspect of her personal life vanishing from her mind. This was frightful news indeed. "A child is missing? She has been missing for three entire days?" she asked briskly, her mind racing.
Joel nodded grimly. "Little Emily O'Hare. I known her me entire life," he added.
This was dire. Francesca did not have a good feeling about the child's fate, not if she had been missing for three entire days. "We must interview the child's parents immediately," she decided. "It's still early. I doubt it is past nine o'clock. We can do so right now," she added impulsively.
"I'll go flag down a cab!" Joel cried, rushing away.
"So you are on another case?" Hart breathed from behind her.<
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She whirled, barely meeting his inquiring gaze, as she needed her coat. Then, to a passing servant, "My red cloak, please." And to Hart, "I am afraid so. A young girl has been missing for three days. Time is of the essence, Hart, so do not argue with me. The night is young—I wish to interview the child's family tonight." Impatience ruled— she had to get downtown immediately.
Hart sighed, shook his head, and said to another valet, "Sir. My coat and gloves, please."
Francesca started. "What are you doing?"
"Do you really think I would allow you to sleuth about the city tonight, in that dress, undoubtedly in some very unsavory wards, with only Kennedy for protection?"
She felt herself blink and it took her a moment to understand. "You don't mean—what are you saying?"
"I am coming with you, my dear." He smiled at her.
She was amazed. "You are accompanying me on my investigation?"
"Indeed, it appears that I am."
She was thrilled. There was simply no denying it. Hart would sleuth with her tonight. He would accompany her on a new adventure. But very nonchalantly she shrugged. "Very well, if you really think it is necessary. I do think I have proven that I can take care of myself." She accepted her red cloak from the valet.
"I do think it is necessary, so humor me, my dear." He accepted and shrugged on his black coat.
"There is one thing," Francesca said as they went to the door.
"Pray tell."
"You are an amateur when it comes to criminal investigative work, and you must keep out of my way." She knew she was being very tart, but there was a line in the sand, and he must keep to his side of it.
"Whatever you say, darling," he said contritely.
He was far too meek, but she would worry about it later.
They followed Kennedy outside, into the chill and moonless night.
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, March 27, 1902 — 10:00 P.M.
Hart's coach was a lavish affair, a six-in-hand with elegant velvet and leather appointments. As the carriage sped through the night-darkened city, Francesca began asking Joel about Emily O'Hare: "Do you know anything about her disappearance?"
Joel shook his head, a negative. He sat beside her in the forward-facing seat, Hart having settled on the opposite squabs where he lounged far too comfortably. Francesca kept her regard where it belonged. "Only that she went out on Monday with a nickel for a fresh loaf. An' she ain't niver come back."
Joel had already given Francesca the missing child's home address—the O'Hares lived in the same tenement as his own family, on Avenue A and 10th Street. It was a grim neighborhood, where gangs of kids ran wild amidst a strong criminal element. However, hard-working and honest folk such as Joel's mother, Maggie Kennedy, also lived there, doing their very best to raise their children in the most genteel manner possible. Francesca sighed. "Does Mrs. O'Hare have any clues whatsoever?"
"Don't think so. Didn't know what to ask her, Miz Ca-hill, with you bein' gone and all," Joel said.
"Has she gone to the police?" Hart interjected calmly.
Joel nodded. "Them flies told her people disappear in this city all the time, that's what they said."
Francesca simmered with anger. Thank God she had come home. She finally looked at Hart, whose presence in the coach was actually a distraction. They shared a knowing glance. Had little Emily's home address been Fifth Avenue, her disappearance would have been attended to within hours. Francesca knew this for a fact, having worked on a child abduction case before.
Abruptly she looked away from him, recalling the many times she and Bragg had worked so closely together. They had been far more than a professional investigative team. She finally wrapped her arms across her chest, suddenly saddened. It was odd, Hart being with her now.
She stared outside at the passing buildings. Winter was abandoning the city. When she had last been home, dirty ice had covered the streets, muddy snow patches on the sidewalks. Now the gaslight cast by the tall wrought-iron street lamps revealed clear walks and cobbled streets marred only by an occasional puddle. The coach had turned off Fifth Avenue and was passing Madison Square—where Bragg let a pleasant older house. A homeless man in a potato sack had decided to spend the night on an iron park bench. She glanced past the square, at Bragg's Victorian brick house. The lights were on in the upstairs window, which she knew from her own experience was the master bedroom. Was he making love to Leigh Anne?
"Perhaps you should solicit my brother's help on this case," Hart cut into her brooding.
She jerked and saw he had been watching her and knew where she had been gazing. She opened her mouth to tell him that she had been considering just that, but then she refused to lie, even whitely, to him. She faced him grimly. "He will certainly assign a detective to the case."
"Yes, he will," Hart agreed. "As he would never refuse you."
She shifted uneasily, then tried a smile out on him.
He did not smile back.
"He would never refuse to pursue justice, Hart," she said softly.
Hart made a sound. "Of course not."
Francesca glanced aside. The one thing Bragg was, was a man of the most honorable inclinations. A reformer at heart, just as she was, he had been appointed to carry out the unpleasant task of reforming the city's notoriously corrupt police department, an on-again and off-again affair— dependent upon which party was in power. Bragg's brick home was left behind as the coach bumped down Broadway, passing an electric trolley that was empty. Hart remarked, "The police are right; people disappear every single day in this city. Even children."
"I know."
"Three days is a long time. Do not get your hopes up, Francesca."
"It isn't me whom we must worry about. It is Emily— and her family."
"I will always worry about you, even if you can take care of yourself."
She felt her pulse leap in response to his words, as she was more than pleased, but she did not smile. "Most missing children are runaways, I think."
"I am inclined to agree."
She glanced out the carriage window and saw 14th Street ahead. Three hansoms were in the intersection, and Raoul, Hart's driver, slowed the coach. She faced Joel. "How old is Emily, Joel?"
"Thirteen. Her birthday was last week," he said promptly.
"Did she attend school?"
He gave her an incredulous look. "No. She worked with me mom and Mrs. O'Hare, sewing at Moe Levy's."
"Was she a happy child?" Francesca promptly asked. Working at such an age was common, never mind the education laws. And the Moe Levy sewing factory was actually a large room, not airy but not airless, the conditions quite bearable. Francesca had been there several months ago and had seen the premises for herself.
"I think so," Joel said, his brow screwing up. "Why d'you ask, Miz Cahill?"
"Do you think she has ran away?"
He was startled. "No, I don't. She fought a bit with her mom, but why would she ran away? Where would she go?"
Francesca had no idea, but Hart coolly said, "Was she pretty, Joel?"
Francesca whirled to look at him.
Joel nodded. "Real pretty. White skin an' black hair, all curly and long, and real blue eyes—like Miz Cahill."
Francesca stared at Hart, wanting to know what terrible thoughts he was having, but she refused to ask in front of Joel. Hart said, "Was there a young gentleman that she liked?"
Her heart sank. She looked at Joel.
"A gent? I dunno." He flushed now. "Gents were always lookin' at her when she walked down the street, Mr. Hart. An' the roughs would suggest things, if you know what I mean."
"Indeed I do," he said quietly.
"We are almost there!" Francesca cried, determined to stop the conversation.
"You don't think she ran off with one of them rowdies, do you?" Joel asked sharply.
"No, I don't," Hart said calmly.
Francesca wondered just what he did think. She could barely refrain from asking but di
d not want poor Joel further alarmed. He, however, asked shrewdly, "You think she been pimped by some fine dandy like yourself?"
Hart shrugged. "Perhaps a gentleman offered her something she had no wish to refuse."
Joel was blushing. "Mr. Hart, sir! I didn't mean no disrespect!"
"I know you didn't," he said, smiling finally, slightly.
"Hart! What do you mean, precisely?" Francesca demanded, no longer able to stand it.
He settled his gaze on her. "There are a sort out there, Francesca, who are on the prowl for young, beautiful, innocent girls. She may have been offered money, clothes, an apartment. If she was very pretty, that is my first guess as to the cause of her disappearance."
Francesca could not breathe. The coach had stopped. Raoul's weight above them shifted the chassis as he stepped down to the sidewalk. "She is a child. A child just turned thirteen."
"I am not condoning this kind of behavior," he said. "But it is a fact of life."
She stared.
He did not look away, not even as Raoul opened the door, not even as Hart said, "Thank you, Raoul."
A tug on her sleeve ensued. "He's right; he is, Miz Ca-hill. I heard of Tammie Browne. She used to live down the block. She was real pretty, with dark red hair and big blue eyes, an' when she was fifteen, she went away to live uptown with a gent. Her father disowned her, he did. He was only a butcher, but he was real honest, the godly sort, you know, an' t' this day, he cries whenever he hears her name."
Francesca briefly closed her eyes. It remained shocking, she thought, to step out of her glittering and lavish world into this other one, a world of darkness, despair, of hopelessness, a world people like Connie and Julia didn't even know existed—a world that made women such as Tammie Browne choose a life of depravity in order to survive.
He touched her elbow. "If you want to find Emily O'Hare, we should go up and interview her parents," Hart said.