by Brenda Joyce
Julia made a sound. "That sounds exactly like my foolishly independent daughter! I must confess, Calder, Andrew is very taken aback by you not coming to him, first. And now I see this is entirely Francesca's fault. But why should I be surprised when she is—" She halted in midsentence, beginning to flush.
He took her arm. "But I encouraged Francesca to think about it, as marriage is a very serious step," he smoothly lied, not wanting Francesca to be blamed. Instantly Julia's face relaxed. "My dearest Julia," he added, "I admire your daughter for her independent and headstrong ways, and have no fear, there is little you can say that will dissuade me from my plans. She may be a handful, but it is an intriguing handful, after all."
Julia sighed with relief. "Which is why you are so perfect for her. Most men would be terrified of such a wife!"
"Francesca would run roughshod over most men."
"We are in agreement, then," Julia said, leading the way down the hall once again. She gave him a significant look. It warned him to succeed in the upcoming interview. "We agree that this match is a perfect one."
"Have no fear," he murmured. "I have analyzed this match from every conceivable angle, and I have no doubt that we suit. Andrew will soon agree with me."
"I do hope so," Julia said with visible worry. "I fear for the ensuing hour. It shall be a battle of the titans! Do reassure him, please." She met his gaze.
Hart understood. "That is why I am here," he murmured. Then he glanced inside. The door to Andrew Cahill's study was open. A fire roared in the hearth beneath a gleaming mahogany mantel, and with the moss-green fabric walls, the wood paneling below, and stained-glass windows, the effect was cheerful and inviting. Andrew was on the emerald-green leather sofa with the day's New York Times. Upon seeing Hart and his wife, he dropped the paper upon the small table beside the couch and stood. He was in a paisley and velvet-trimmed smoking jacket, his trousers, and monogrammed black velvet slippers.
"Good evening, Hart," Andrew said. Then, a dismissal, "Thank you, Julia."
Julia smiled grimly and stepped out, closing the solid door behind her.
"Drink?" Andrew asked.
"Please," Hart said. He was more than aware of how much this man distrusted him and knew that he also disliked him. But then, most men did not like him, simply because women were so attracted to him. His job that day was not just to convince Andrew Cahill of his sincerity when it came to Francesca, but to begin the task of melting the man's dislike as well. Otherwise, given Francesca's attachment to her family, their marriage would be reduced to strife and conflict, and frankly, he did not need the aggravation.
"Scotch?"
"Yes."
Andrew went to a handsome glass-and-brass bar cart, pouring two scotches from a decanter and adding ice from the sterling ice bucket there. He handed Hart his drink. Hart sipped and was pleasantly surprised by a well-aged, superbly smooth scotch. He thought about how Francesca now enjoyed his favorite beverage, and he reminded himself to tell her what her father kept in his study.
"Shall we get to business, then?" Andrew asked, not sitting.
"By all means." Hart smiled, watching his opponent carefully.
"I am very disturbed by the announcement you made last night."
"I cannot think clearly where your daughter is concerned," Hart said smoothly, and it was a glib reply but not quite a lie.
"A man of your accomplishments? I hardly think so."
Hart smiled. He knew that Andrew referred to his notorious reputation with women. "My accomplishments are in the past," he said.
"Really?" Andrew raised both brows. "I find that impossible to believe."
Hart set his glass down. "Has it ever occurred to you that I have changed since meeting your daughter?"
"Unlike others in society, no, it has not," Andrew said.
Touché, Hart thought grimly, silently liking Cahill's frank manner. "I was a confirmed bachelor until I met your daughter. It is public knowledge that I mocked marriage and that my intention was to never wed. Surely you are as aware of that as the rest of society?"
Andrew nodded gruffly. "My wife has assured me that was the case. So has my eldest daughter. They have both come out strongly in favor of this match."
Hart was pleased. "It is also a matter of record that I have never, not once in my entire life, courted an available and innocent young lady. As every mother in society knows, I have avoided young ladies like Francesca like the plague."
"Yes, instead, you have carried on with divorcees and widows, not to mention actresses and opera singers," Andrew said.
"That is correct," Hart said flatly. "I made myself from nothing, Andrew; in fact, I do believe we have that in common. I am now a wealthy man. Wealthy enough to do as I please and not give a damn what anyone thinks about it. You are more than correct. Until a month or so ago, I lived very much like a hedonist. However, that has all changed."
Andrew stared. "Do you really think I would believe such a claim? Last night you had Mrs. Davies on your arm."
Hart smiled. "I did. And once, years ago, we were lovers. She is a friend, Andrew, nothing more. Although she has made it clear repeatedly that she would like far more."
"I do not trust you. I find you glib," Andrew stated.
"Sir, haven't you wondered why, a man like myself, a man who could have any woman he wants, a man sworn to forever avoid marriage, would so suddenly about-face?" he asked casually.
Andrew seemed taken aback. "Are you going to tell me that you have somehow fallen in love with my daughter? Because I find it very difficult to understand how my daughter, an intellectual, a reformer, and yes, a sleuth, could captivate you. Francesca may be beautiful, but she is a crusader, Hart. The women you are seen with are, frankly, a different type."
Hart smiled. "No one is like Francesca." The words slipped out, his first spontaneous utterance of the evening. Then he recovered. "I am not going to lie to you and tell you that I am madly in love."
"Then this conversation is over."
"I'm afraid not. Because I am determined to marry your daughter, and I beg you to consider the question I previously posed."
"As to why you have had this change of heart? Frankly, I cannot begin to comprehend it. Francesca is very eccentric. Why have you set your cap on her? She would hardly suit you, surely you can see that!" He had become flushed.
Hart knew when the enemy was unraveling. Calmly he raised both brows. "I beg to differ. She suits me very well, as I am as unconventional."
Andrew started, his eyes widening, and Hart knew he had finally scored.
"Do you really see Francesca in a state of matrimony like her sister or your wife? Can you see her married to some gentleman, a lawyer or a doctor, or even a senator or judge? Is Francesca's lot in life to be hosting teas for the wives of her husband's associates, shopping the Ladies' Mile, supervising the household, bearing and raising children?"
Andrew's color was very high now. "She will settle down with the right man," he muttered.
"You know as well as I do that Francesca is unique, and that she would die of unhappiness in a conventional union. For you love her for her eccentric ways, sir. Andrew, I can offer her a life of perpetual education. I can offer her a life in which she will never become bored or complacent. If she wishes to gaze upon the pyramids in Egypt, I can take her there. If she wishes to adventure in China, to view the Great Wall, we can go. Not only can we go, we can bring a retinue of servants with us—as well as the children."
Andrew stared. A long silence ensued, in which Hart refused to smile. But he smelled victory; it was that near. "Other wealthy men can also show her the world."
"Yes, they can. But other men will seek to clip her wings and control her."
"She needs control."
"I beg to differ. She needs someone standing beside her to make sure that she, in her desire to help others, doesn't wind up jeopardizing herself. But she does not need to be controlled. Horses are controlled. Dogs are controlled. Francesca is a woman meant to fly."
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br /> Andrew stared, becoming thoughtful. "Your case is a good one, Hart. I'll hand that to you."
Hart finally smiled when Andrew said, "Have you seduced her?"
"No!" He felt the anger rise up, swift and hard, and he tamped it back down, but with a great effort. And now he could not smile smoothly. "If your daughter were a merry widow, I can guarantee that by now she would have been in my bed. I have never, and will never, seduce fragile innocence."
"So you have some morals after all," Andrew started.
"Hardly," he said coolly, still angry in spite of his efforts to be otherwise. "My motives are purely selfish ones. I have no wish to be bothered by the consequences of such a seduction."
Andrew made a harsh sound. "And this is why you do not suit my daughter, sir! No woman is more noble of mind than she."
"Of mind and heart. And yes, I do agree. In this one area, we are opposite, as I could not care less about nobility."
"Then you are not for my daughter, and this conversation is over."
He paused, regrouping, and smiled slightly—tightly. And when he spoke, he was calm, composed—in control. "I do not care about nobility, but I do care about your daughter. I have never met anyone, man or woman, that I admire and respect more."
Andrew had been turning away; he now whirled to face Hart, wide-eyed with surprise.
He was direct. "I also treasure her friendship. And we both know that friendship, admiration, and respect are a far better foundation for a marriage than love, a passing romantic illusion, or lust." This was his premeditated coup de grace.
"I happen to agree with you," Andrew said, flushing again and looking very grim. Hart knew he was on the verge of capitulation then. But his adversary had one last move to make, the one Hart had been waiting for—the one that would give Hart victory. "Do you wish to know what my real objection to this union is?"
"Please." But he already knew.
"Francesca may be a bluestocking, but she is also a romantic. Clearly she is in love with you, and as clearly, you will break her heart one day."
He didn't smile now. "I have no intention of straying from my wife's bed. I am a very disciplined man, Andrew. And furthermore, I do not see the point of marrying if I am going to be living as I have been my entire life, flitting from lover to lover. Why shackle myself with a wife if I wish to live as a rake? No, those days are over, and it is good riddance."
Andrew started to speak, but Hart forestalled him by raising his hand, knowing he would win this battle here and now. "Besides," he said. "Francesca isn't in love with me."
"But... she has accepted your suit!"
"I am her second choice. Or have you forgotten?" His smile was cool and mocking. "She is in love with a married man—she is in love with Rick Bragg."
It was a knife that he held to her throat. She felt the sharp metal stinging as it cut her skin, and fear paralyzed her. Was he going to slit her throat? And if this wasn't Arthur Kurland, then who was it?
Was this the prelude to an act of thievery? Or was this something more?
"You forget about the little girls, bitch," he hissed in her ear. And the knife went deeper.
As pain stabbed through her throat, as fear became terror, blinding her, she had the answer to her question, and she had one single horrifying thought. First Tom Smith— and now, she would be next.
She cried out, her hands finding his hand as it held the knife. His grip tightened and she felt moisture trickling down her neck. She was panting uselessly—for she could no longer breathe, as if the earth no longer had an atmosphere of air.
"Next time you're dead, you got that?" he sneered in her ear. His breath was hot on her neck, and it stank.
Francesca did not move. She could not. She wanted to beg him to spare her life. But she couldn't speak, she didn't dare, for fear that the blade would sever her artery if she did.
"Forget the girls," he warned. "They ain't none of your concern." And suddenly the knife was gone—and the man had vanished.
Francesca fell to the ground the moment he let her go, gasping for air and choking upon it—or her sobs. Her fingers dug deep into cold earth and mud. She dug up pebbles, rocks. She felt the world spinning around her, wildly, precariously.
Dear, dear God. She had just been in the hands of Tom Smith's killer.
The land continued to tilt up and down beneath her hands and knees. Her pulse was madly racing, alarming her with its speed and strength, and she tried to slow her breathing, to compose herself, so she would not pass out, not now. And finally the odd rotations of the ground began to slow and then subside, just as her breathing evened. She sank back on her haunches, gasping now, and was met by a sky filled with stars and a crescent moon. How normal it was.
She began to think.
This man had cut her throat, but she was fine, wasn't she? She started to inspect her neck, but her gloves were filthy, so she tore them off. When she touched the wound, she felt the blood, and when she tried to look at her fingers, she saw the dark moisture there. She was alive, she told herself, trying to be rational now. If he had wanted it, she would be dead.
Like Tom Smith.
Whoever was responsible for the abduction of the children had committed murder to conceal the crimes.
And how badly was she hurt? Surely—and it was a prayer—the cut was superficial, skin-deep.
She heard a door and she shifted and gazed at the house. How could she go inside, now, like this? And then a shadow detached itself from the house, going down the front steps—a form she instantly recognized. Relief flooded her, and with it, utter, sheer gladness. "Calder!"
Her cry was a croak. She somehow managed to get to her feet, stumbling, but realized he had heard her, because he had paused and was looking her way. As she was in the shadows by the hedges, she doubted he could see her. "Calder!" Her voice was louder now, her strength returning. She started forward at a run.
He heard her and hurried toward her. "Francesca?" Lights from the house illuminated him from behind, and while she would be clearly visible, he remained in some shadow. Still, he faltered and she saw his eyes widen in shock.
"I'm fine," she said, suddenly exhausted and unable to take another step. She halted, and her body seemed to sag.
He rushed to her and she was in his arms.
"How bad is it?" he demanded, ripping off his tie.
"I think it's just a cut," she said as he wrapped the silk tie swiftly about her wound, making a bandage from it.
He lifted her into his arms. "What happened?"
In his arms, she felt a huge tremor course through him. "Someone assaulted me near these hedges, just after I was dropped off at the house. Calder, I'm fine."
"Rourke is home for the weekend," he said, striding to his coach. "Raoul!"
But Raoul was already at the door to the barouche, and he opened it for them. Hart set Francesca on the backseat as gently as if she were a newborn baby, then climbed in beside her, saying, "I want to be at the house in two minutes. And I mean two minutes."
Raoul grunted, slamming the door closed.
Francesca took one look at Hart and could not help herself. She moved deep into his embrace. The look on his face—anger and anguish—was one she was never going to forget.
He held her tight, kissing her cheek. Francesca closed her eyes. She was safe now, and it felt so right.
His embrace briefly tightened. "Did you get a look at the assailant?"
"No." She met his dark gaze and saw how worried he was. "I am fine. My throat hurts, but it's only a cut."
"We shall let Rourke decide that."
Francesca realized that going to his house, only a few blocks uptown, was a far better idea than going to her own home. "There are more missing children, Calder. My investigation into Emily O'Hare's disappearance led me to a nearby school, where three other girls vanished, two on their way home, one on her way to classes. One of the children's fathers, Tom Smith, told us that he had sent his daughter to her aunt, but it was a lie. He
was murdered this afternoon." She looked up at Hart.
"What is it that you're not telling me?" he asked grimly.
"His throat was slit," she said. "And I have no doubt that I was just in the killer's grasp."
Hart's jaw flexed. His temples seemed to throb.
"Bragg feels certain we have uncovered a white slaver, Calder," she said.
He made a sound.
"They are abducting these innocent children and forcing them into a sweatshop. They have to be stopped!" Suddenly the burden of having to free the children became too much for her. She leaned against him, her cheek to his cashmere coat. "Those poor children need to go home," she whispered.
He took her hand and pressed it to her lips, silencing her and causing her to look up at him. "Calm down. There is nothing more that you can do tonight."
She analyzed that. Bragg was, by now, at the supper affair he had promised he would attend. And her neck was throbbing—she needed medical attention. She didn't want to alarm Hart, but she was afraid she might need stitches.
"Tell me about the other missing girls," he said quietly, cutting into her thoughts. He was stroking the hair at her nape, just below her hat.
She inhaled, the sound loud and harsh in the confines of the coach. "Rachael Wirkler disappeared more than a month ago. Bonnie Cooper was the next to vanish, and then Deborah Smith March second. They were all in the sixth grade."
"So they were all twelve or thirteen years old?"
"Rachael was fourteen, I think," Francesca said, uncertain only because she had amassed so many facts she could not get them all straight now without the use of her notes. Her purse was somewhere on the Cahill grounds, she realized, and in it were not just her notes but also her gun. She moaned.
"What is it?" he cried, moving closer to her.
"I dropped my purse. Someone will find it. Mama will know it's mine! If she sees my gun, I am finished!"
"God, Francesca, you frightened me," he said, gripping her hand. "I thought you were in pain."
She was in pain, but she decided not to tell him that. "It's better now," she lied.
He gave her an odd look—as if he knew exactly what she was up to. Then, "Were the girls half as pretty as Emily appears to be?"