by Brenda Joyce
Her gaze flew open. He had leaned close and his knees bumped hers. "I hope you are wrong, Calder. I desperately do."
He hesitated. "There are worse fates."
Her alarm skyrocketed. "Such as?"
"Please." He gestured with only a slight nod toward the street. His gaze never left hers.
Francesca stepped out with Raoul's aid, thanking the swarthy, short driver, whom she had always suspected was actually a bodyguard. A moment later she and Hart were following Joel into a dark and soiled brick building and up two flights of narrow, dark stairs. He knocked on Apartment Seven, and the door was instantly opened by a bleary-eyed older man whom Francesca assumed to be Emily's father.
He was in overalls and a tattered sweater. "Joel?" The man appeared to have been sleeping. However, he did smell of beer.
"Mr. O'Hare, sir. I brought you Miz Cahill, a very famous crime-solver."
O'Hare blinked. He had dark hair and long sideburns and a very big belly.
"To find Emily," Joel added urgently.
Francesca swiftly pressed her calling card into his hand. It read:
Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small
He blinked at it. "What's this?"
From somewhere in the flat a woman called out, eagerly asking who was there, hope in her tone.
"Mr. O'Hare, sir. My name is Francesca Cahill, and I am a sleuth. I am here to ask you some questions about Emily's disappearance," Francesca said firmly.
The sleepy look left his eyes, which began to fill with tears. "Is this a prank, boy?" he demanded of Joel. "You may not have a daddy, but I don't mind givin' you a good whipping!"
Francesca shoved Joel behind her skirts. "Mr. O'Hare. May I come in? I do wish to speak with you and your wife—if you want to find your daughter."
"Brian!" A chubby woman with strikingly black hair and vivid blue eyes hurried forward, and instantly her gaze locked with Francesca's. Never looking away, she said to her husband, "Maggie told me about Miss Cahill. She is a sleuth, Brian. She finds murderers, scoundrels, every kind of crook. Even missing children. Please, let her in!"
Brian started while Francesca stared at Emily's mother with real despair. If Emily looked like her mother, then she was more than pretty, she was beautiful, and Hart was probably, terribly, right.
"I lost my manners," Brian said gruffly, stepping aside and opening the door. "I truly lost my manners. I am sorry, Miss Cahill."
Francesca gripped his arm. "You are frightened and in grief. Do not apologize." She looked back at Hart, smiling, as she stepped swiftly into a small but neat apartment. On one wall was a sink and stove; on another, a bed where two small children peeped at her from beneath their covers. A curtain cordoned off another section of the room, where Francesca assumed Emily's parents slept. In the kitchen area was a large wooden table with five chairs. Another area contained a washtub. "Mr. O'Hare, this is my friend Mr. Hart."
O'Hare nodded at Hart. "Come in, do sit down. Kathy, see if we got something to offer our guests."
Kathy smiled grimly and did not move.
Hart said smoothly, "We have just eaten, Mr. O'Hare. But a glass of water would be welcome."
Kathy looked relieved, and she turned to the sink to comply.
Francesca was oddly proud of Hart as they sat down at the pine table. She smiled her thanks at Kathy for her glass of water, then leaned toward O'Hare, who had sat at the table's head.
"When was Emily last seen, Mr. O'Hare, and by whom?"
Brian O'Hare opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His face turned red, as did his eyes and nose, and he began to cry. He covered his face with his hands while Kathy ran around to stand beside him, her hand on his broad shoulder. "I'll tell you," she said, ashen. "On Monday she came home from the factory, as happy as can be. I was going to go out to buy a loaf of bread, but I was so very tired, and she said she'd go for me." Her face crumbled. "She went out and never came back. I remember looking at the clock in the window across the street and wondering where she was. It was five then. At six I began to really worry. At seven Brian came home and went looking for her." Tears trickled down her face.
Francesca said, "What time do you think she left the house?"
"Four, maybe half past," Kathy whispered, stricken.
"Did she go into the grocery?"
Kathy shook her head. "The grocer is Will Schmitt. He never saw her."
Francesca was silent for a moment, but she looked at Hart as she thought, in case he had anything to add. He understood and said, "Has she ever disappeared for a day or two—or even a few hours—before last Monday?"
"Never!" It was Brian who now spoke. "My daughter is a good girl, and she knows her duty, she does."
"Mr. Hart meant no harm," Francesca said, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. "But there are many questions we must ask, some of which are personal."
Brian nodded grimly. "Go on, then."
"Do you think she ran away?" Francesca asked.
Brian snorted. "No."
Francesca looked at Kathy, who shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I am certain of it, Miss Cahill."
Francesca glanced at Hart. He inclined his head imperceptibly toward her, and she knew he wished for her to continue. "Did she have a boyfriend?"
"No!" Brian shot to his feet, trembling. "Just what are you trying to say?"
Francesca also stood. "I am trying to make certain she did not run off with a handsome young man whom we might easily find."
"Emily wasn't that way," Kathy said tremulously. "She's very young for her age and she's shy where the lads are concerned."
Francesca was at a loss. "Where is Schmitt's Grocery? I'll have to speak with him first thing tomorrow."
"It's on the corner of Eleventh Street," Kathy said.
"What can you learn from him? He knows nothing!" Brian cried.
"Every investigation has to start somewhere. After I speak with Schmitt, I may interview every person who lives and works on this block. Someone saw something," Francesca said firmly, meaning it.
"God, we got nothing, not even a single clue," Brian said, his nose turning red again.
Francesca stood. "No, Mr. O'Hare, we have more than nothing. Your daughter left here between four and half past four last Monday. She did not make it to the grocery store. It takes mere minutes to walk a single block. So sometime between four and four-thirty she disappeared—on this very block, between your door and that of Schmitt's. That is hardly nothing. There is a witness out there who saw what happened to Emily. Of that I assure you."
Hart also stood.
Kathy looked at her eagerly, hope flaring in her eyes. "You think so?"
"I know so," Francesca said, and she added, as the idea occurred to her, "We shall post a reward for information. Joel, I'll make some flyers by hand tonight. You can post them first thing tomorrow, the rest I'll print up, and we'll post them in a four-block square by tomorrow evening. That," she added with satisfaction, "should bring us a result or two."
Brian blinked at her, and for the first time that evening a light appeared in his eyes. "That's a grand idea," he said in wonder. "Why didn't we think of it?"
"Do not fret," Francesca said. "I have one more question. Joel said you went to the police. Was any investigation undertaken?"
Brian cursed the police roundly, then said, "No. If the Democrats had won the election, we wouldn't be in this mess. Tammany takes care of its own, it does."
Francesca bristled. "If you are so certain of that, why don't you go ask Boss Croker for his help?"
Brian stood, flushing.
Hart took her arm. "I think we have learned all that we can tonight. Mr. O'Hare, Mrs. O'Hare, Miss Cahill is a clever sleuth, and if anyone can locate your daughter, it is she. She is your best hope."
The O'Hares walked them to the door, Brian grim, Ka-thy anxious. Once there, Kathy gripped her hand.
"Please find her, Miss Cahill. Please find my darling girl."
"I will," Francesca said. "I will do my best and I shall not let you down."
Kathy nodded, then said, "You will return tomorrow? Post the rewards?"
"Not only that, I shall keep you informed of the status of the investigation," Francesca said. Then, impulsively, she hugged the other woman. "Do not lose hope," she said.
She and Hart followed Joel down the narrow, dark stairs in thoughtful silence. On the first level they paused before the Kennedy flat. "I will see you first thing tomorrow," Francesca said to Joel.
"How early?" he asked.
"Half past seven," she returned.
He beamed at her. "I'll be there, Miz Cahill." Then he turned to Hart. "G'night, sir."
Hart chucked his jaw. "Get some sleep. I can see you shall have a busy day tomorrow."
They waited as Joel knocked lightly on his door. A moment later Maggie Kennedy opened it, clad in a flannel wrapper, her red hair in a long braid. Her blue eyes widened when she saw Francesca and Hart. "Miss Cahill! I mean, Francesca! This is a surprise."
Francesca smiled warmly at her. "Maggie, we wanted to see Joel safely home. We have taken on the Emily O'Hare case," she added.
"Thank the lord," Maggie whispered, her gaze tearing. "I am so glad, for I know you shall find her safe and sound."
Francesca wasn't certain of that last part, not at all, but she smiled anyway. Hart nodded politely and then went out to the waiting coach. As he handed her in, he murmured, "I am impressed."
His hand was large and warm on her bare elbow as she carried her coat. She was thrilled, and she smiled at him as she took her seat. "That was hardly an unusual interview," she said, trying to appear indifferent to his praise. It occurred to her that they were now alone and it was a long ride uptown.
He settled down beside her and Raoul slammed the carriage door shut behind them. "You gave them hope." He leaned back against the plush squabs, rather indolently. Only Hart could make such a simple position seem utterly decadent.
She tried not to think about his virility and said, with worry, "And I do hope it wasn't wrong of me to do so. I do hope it wasn't false hope that I gave them."
"I have little doubt you will locate Emily, Francesca." His gaze was warm, enough so to melt a frigid block of ice.
She started, surprised by the extent of his confidence but very pleased indeed.
"You may grin like a sated fat cat," he chuckled.
She beamed. "You will give me a very big swollen head, Hart, if you keep on flattering me so. And somehow, I do not think you would find a vain woman attractive."
He laughed. "I know you are not vain enough, my dear, and I find confidence in you charming." His smile faded. He gave her a long and thoughtful look.
It went right through her heart to her loins. Francesca sat up.
"I find you charming, Francesca, and I suppose the fact that you are unpredictable will keep me on my toes," he added, more to himself than to her.
"I am so sorry about that ridiculous note," Francesca said, then, in a rush, "Calder, I didn't know what to write! I should have spoken with you before leaving."
"Please don't ever lie to me again," he said simply. "I have never lied to you, and I expect to be repaid in kind."
She nodded, somehow undone and very flustered now.
He smiled a little at her and turned away. They were traveling up Fourth Avenue now, alongside the excavation for a new railroad tunnel. She seized the opportunity to stare at him, enjoying his strong profile. And finally, the events of the entire evening washed over her. Her arrival at the ball, her brief exchange with Bragg, her encounter with Hart in the servants' hall, and his ensuing announcement of their engagement. Tension stabbed her. An image of Bragg's shocked expression assailed her mind. All sense of well-being vanished.
She had hurt him. She hadn't meant to. How could they have made the announcement in such an untimely manner?
He continued to gaze out at the passing buildings. Traffic on the avenue was less than light—a lone hansom accompanied them, the bay's hooves clopping loudly in unison with Hart's team in the night. He was more than dangerously seductive—he was dangerous, period. Hart had been the one to make the announcement. It had been his decision—the timing had been his and his alone.
He glanced languidly at her. "I would be careful with those reward posters."
She felt ill now. "Why?"
"Every Tom, Dick, and Harry will claim to have seen something. You will have a hundred supposed witnesses to Emily's disappearance, I think."
She hadn't considered that possibility. "You are right. Well, we will have to carefully winnow through all the false claims. I really believe that someone had to have seen what happened to Emily. Someone is out there with information that I need."
"You are probably right. What's wrong?"
She looked up and met his midnight gaze. "What we have just done has finally sunk in."
"And that is?" He watched her carefully now, like a hawk.
She held up her hand. Even in the cab, the big diamond glittered, catching the light. "I think our timing might have been better."
His jaw seemed to flex. The interior of the coach was softly lit, so it was hard to say. "Let me guess. You are worried about my poor half brother's feelings."
"Yes, I am." She sat up straighter, defensively. "It wasn't right. I saw his face. He was disbelieving. And he was hurt."
Hart leaned toward her, his eyes black now. "He has no right to be hurt, Francesca, and we both know it—only you will never admit it."
She inhaled, mentally preparing for an unpleasant battle. "Calder, I know he is married. I know he loves Leigh Anne, even if he refuses to admit it to anyone and not even to himself. But he is very fond of me. And you know that! His feelings are genuine, and he has every right to be hurt."
"Not in my opinion. In my opinion, he only seeks to keep you from allowing yourself to care genuinely for me."
"That is nonsense!" she cried, flushing.
"If he truly wanted you, Francesca, he would have slammed his front door—and his bedroom door—in little Leigh Anne's face."
How cruel he could be. She turned blindly away, trying not to think about Bragg and Leigh Anne sharing a bed together. And while she knew Hart was right, she said, "I encouraged him to stay with her. I begged him not to throw away his political future. With Leigh Anne at his side, I feel certain he will one day win the Senate seat. But if he were divorced, no such outcome is assured."
A dark silence greeted her words.
She dared to look his way.
His smile was twisted. "Darling, has it ever occurred to you that you encouraged him to continue his marriage for the sake of politics, when really you had another, ulterior, motive?"
She knew his blow was about to come. "What other motive could I possibly have?"
"His marriage has allowed you to be where you desperately yearn to be—in my arms ... and soon ... in my bed."
Had he been closer, she would have struck him. She wrenched at the ring to throw it back at him. He seized her hand. "I apologize. That was uncalled for."
"That was cruel," Francesca said breathlessly. "You asked me to be honest with you, as you are honest with me. I have never been anything but kind to you, and I ask you to treat me the same way!"
He was silent, and he did not release her hand. Then, "Did it never occur to you that your departure last month, with only that frivolous note for comfort, was an act of cruelty?"
"What?!"
He leaned close, his grip tightening. "Did it ever occur to you that the way you speak about him—to me—is cruelty?"
She stared into his eyes, then at his mouth, which was provocatively close. "But you don't love me."
"I don't believe in love, but I am damnably fond of you, and you know how I treasure you, Francesca," he said tersely. "And there are times—like now—when I feel like killing off Leigh Anne myself and tossing you and him toget
her to be done with it all, at last!"
"Please, don't speak that way," she begged.
He released her hand, moving back into the space he had previously occupied. "I am sorry if my emotions are not always noble ones. I am sorry I am not the epitome of virtue as he is."
"You are very virtuous," she whispered weakly, "when you wish to be. When you forget about competing with Bragg, when you forget about shocking pleasant company."
He made a rough sound, and it might have been one of acquiescence.
Francesca hugged herself. "What possessed you, Hart, to make that announcement tonight?"
"It is Calder, Francesca, not Hart, damn it."
"Please."
Hart stared without comment.
"We should have never made it public that way," Francesca whispered. "But I forgot he was there, my mind was so addled from lovemaking." When he remained silent, she added urgently, "Please, tell me you had also forgotten he was there."
He met her gaze. "I knew he was there."
She inhaled.
"But that doesn't mean I made the announcement to spite him, which is what you are thinking."
She wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. She hugged herself.
"I made that announcement to end your indecision, Francesca. I made that announcement because you accepted my proposal a month ago, and proved to me in the hall tonight that you had not changed your mind. Yes, my decision was a selfish one. But frankly, one of the reasons I am who I am today is because when I want something, I do what I have to in order to get it."
She swallowed. "I am not a painting." Hart was a world-renowned collector of art. "Nor am I a collectible."
"And I have always been opposed to marriage, in theory and in fact. But since meeting you, I have decided to undertake matrimony—with you as my wife. No, you are not a thing, Francesca, far from it. You are a unique—no, an amazing—creation of contradictions, wit, and will, not to mention beauty. I need not defend my desire to many you. I probably should have discussed making the announcement tonight." He suddenly hesitated. "I am used to doing what I want, when I want, Francesca. Most bachelors are. In my case, I fear I am worse that way than most. However, you did run away in a very unseemly manner—the trigger for my behavior tonight. All of it," he added with a rueful look.