Deadly Promise

by Brenda Joyce

  He was alarmed, as he had no wish for Rose and Solange Marceaux to speak about him with his not being there. Rose might say too much; in fact, he rather thought she would. "Madame Marceaux, excuse me, you did not let me finish," he said smoothly.

  She turned back to him, and for the very first time that night, he thought, her expression changed—he thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "I am sorry."

  He smiled and said, "I do not want Rose for myself."

  She seemed to stiffen. "Oh."

  He had finally won, and he smiled even more, thrilling now before the final blow. "I would like to amuse myself by watching Rose with another woman," he said.

  She knew. Her smile was gone.

  "And that woman would be you," he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sunday, March 30, 1902—9:00 A.M.

  Francesca had been told she could use the carriage as long as she was home by noon. She had taken that to mean that her parents needed the coach back at noon, not herself, so she intended to send Jennings back with it after he dropped her off downtown. Now, having told him to wait, she paused before the rusted iron gate in front of the St. James Cemetery.

  It was a dreary morning, cold and windy and threatening rain. Francesca wore a heavy wool coat, and as she stared through the iron bars at the small churchyard cemetery, a centuries-old stone church not far from where the coach was parked, she shivered, but not from the cold. It was an awful day to meander among the small, plain headstones and grave markers, looking for a twelve-year-old girl's grave. Nor did she look forward to setting up shop on the corner of 10th Street in order to interview the forty-one people claiming to have information about Emily O'Hare's disappearance.

  She wondered what Hart had found out last night.

  Francesca sighed and pushed open the gate, its hinges squeaking loudly. It must have rained in the night or dawn, as the grass underfoot was very damp, while the stone path in the center of the graveyard was mostly overgrown with weeds. Francesca vaguely disliked cemeteries and this one was no exception—it felt dismal, sad. She scanned the headstone at her right—the person buried there had died twenty years ago. She moved forward, past markers dated in the two previous decades. Her heart was not in this. She fervently hoped that John Cooper had lied and his daughter was alive and well. Claiming that she was dead was, after all, the perfect excuse to cover up her disappearance. Francesca dreaded finding out otherwise.

  Francesca increased her pace. If Bonnie was dead, hers had to be the newest grave in the cemetery—or one of them. At the far end, she saw some stones that were brightly white and one had freshly turned-up earth beside it. She hurried down the overgrown path, slipping once on the slick stones.

  The first white stone read: "Mark Johnson, May He Rest In Peace, 1858-1902." She was briefly relieved, and she turned to the even smaller marker beside it. She froze.

  A bouquet of wildflowers lay beside it.

  Bonnie Cooper

  Dearly Beloved Daughter of John and Rita Cooper

  May 1, 1889-February 27,1902

  Francesca inhaled, stunned. Bonnie Cooper was dead. Her father had been telling the truth.

  Then she straightened.

  But the date on the grave was wrong, wasn't it?

  Francesca stared at the fresh grave. Bonnie Cooper had disappeared February 10—Mrs. Hopper had said so.

  Today was the thirtieth of March. Meaning that Bonnie had died a month ago—approximately two full weeks after she had disappeared.

  "Hey, mister, wait yer turn!" Joel snapped.

  Francesca had erected a small card table on the corner, along with a folding chair. She had laid out her notebook and several pens and pencils. She was now interviewing her tenth would-be informant. The previous nine men, all rather disreputable in appearance, all thug types, had been absolutely worthless. Their stories had been absurd.

  The long line of men and women from the ward began in front of her small table and continued to the end of the block—ending in front of Schmitt's Grocery. He had already come out of his shop three times to stare disapprovingly at her, his hands on his hips. The customers attempting to enter the grocery had to push their way through the crowd. Now the man Joel had just addressed, who looked as if he worked at the docks on Front Street, said angrily, "I been standing out here in the cold for an hour! I got better things to do on me day off than to freeze me arse out here waiting upon Her Highness!"

  Francesca folded her hands in front of her and said calmly, "Then why don't you leave?"

  "You want information or not, lady?" he sneered.

  "Only if it is sincere. And even if it is, you still must wait your turn."

  Maggie Kennedy appeared behind Francesca. "Mind your manners, Ralph Goodson."

  Surprised, Francesca glanced up at Maggie, whose blue eyes flashed. "Thank you," she said.

  Maggie smiled at her. "You are very brave, to be dealing with these roughs."

  Francesca glanced at the striking woman with Maggie, recognizing her from the other day. "Do I have a choice if I want to find those missing girls? Hello." She smiled at the woman with the auburn hair whom she had seen moving into Maggie's building.

  "Oh, Miss Cahill, this is Gwen O'Neil and her daughter, Bridget. They are my new neighbors," Maggie said.

  Gwen O'Neil smiled, then told her daughter she would be going downtown to look for work. "Behave yourself," she said. "I'll be home by five."

  "Yes, Mama," Bridget said, staring at Francesca with wide eyes.

  "I am a sleuth," Francesca said with a smile, answering the child's unspoken question. Little Bridget was too good-looking for her own good. "I am working on an investigation."

  Bridget, her green eyes huge, her dark red hair flowing to her waist, whispered, "What's a sleuth?" Her Irish brogue was delightful.

  Joel stepped forward. His face was beet-red. "Miss Cahill is my boss. She solves crimes. Real dangerous ones. I'm her assistant."

  Bridget gave him a scornful glance. "No, you're not. You're a boy!"

  "Joel really is my assistant," Francesca said. "He has provided me invaluable service, time and again. He has helped me solve every single crime I have worked on, in fact." She smiled at the child. "How old are you, dear?"

  "Eleven," she said, now gaping at Joel. "Blimey, you're not like the boys at home, then!"

  Joel flushed even more. "No, I ain't."

  Francesca was relieved. Bridget looked twelve or thirteen, but she was not—she was too young for the criminals forcing those young girls into a life of prostitution, if that was what was really happening.

  "Hey, Miz Cahill! You goin' to talk to me, or not?" Ralph called out, spitting tobacco on the curb.

  "Yeah, yeah, what's the deal?" a chorus of impatient voices sounded.

  "One minute," Francesca said sternly. She already had a headache from dealing with the monstrous claims of this riffraff. "How have you been, Maggie?"

  "Very well," Maggie said, smiling softly. "Joel missed you while you were gone, Miss Cahill."

  Francesca was pleased. "I missed him, as well." Suddenly she started, recognizing not one but two coaches coming down the block, approaching. One belonged to her brother; the other, extravagant, loud and lavish, belonged to Hart. Her heart did speed.

  Maggie turned to follow her regard and her cheeks seemed to color. "Mr. Cahill is taking the children for a picnic in the park," she said. "It seems to have become a habit of his on the Sabbath."

  Francesca knew how fond her brother was of Maggie's children. Still, he was, she had heard, so busy with Bartolla Benevente. "How wonderful," she said, meaning it, but now quite curious.

  Evan's carriage halted first, the passenger door quickly opening. Maggie turned to watch him alight. Evan came strolling up the block, a handsome, dark-haired figure, tall and lean. His black greatcoat whipped about him, hanging carelessly open. He was whistling. He smiled at Francesca, shaking his head. "I am afraid, Fran, to ask you what in God's name you are doing."


  Francesca smiled sweetly back. "I am on a case. I have posted a reward for information, and as you can see, I am interviewing everyone who lives in the ward."

  He laughed and turned his bright blue eyes on Maggie. "Mrs. Kennedy, good day."

  She glanced away. "Mr. Cahill. The children are ready. They are very excited. I'll go get them."

  Evan had his hand on Joel's shoulder. "I'll come with you," he said, his glance moving over her. She, of course, did not see.

  Maggie was already moving away, and she appeared flustered, at least as far as Francesca could tell. "No, that's fine. I will bring them down in a moment."

  He smiled at Maggie. "Would you care to join us? That is, if you do not have other plans?"

  She stumbled and faced him abruptly. "What?"

  He approached her, smiling, intent. "Please join us, Mrs. Kennedy. I know it's a rotten day for a picnic, so I have arranged a surprise for the children. I think you'd enjoy it, too."

  She blinked at him. "I couldn't possibly...."

  "Whyever not?"

  "I... I do have other plans, I'm afraid," she said.

  Evan continued to smile, but Francesca knew him very well, and he was disappointed. She saw it in his eyes, for they instantly sobered, darkening. And as for Maggie, well, she was definitely not telling the truth. That much was clear to Francesca.

  She stared. This was not the first time she had witnessed an exchange between her brother and Maggie Kennedy, one that confounded her. Her brother was a gentleman. He would never casually dally with a good honest woman like Maggie Kennedy.

  Besides, she was not his type. Not at all. He'd had a mistress, a famous stage actress, a beautiful and flamboyant woman. He preferred women of that type and nature— women like the widowed Countess Benevente.

  And now he was head over heels in love with the countess. Wasn't he?

  Maggie was quiet, sincere, pretty enough, but she was a widowed seamstress raising four children alone in poverty. She was simply not the kind of woman his brother was interested in, and even if he were, as he would never dally with her, he certainly would not bring her home. Even Francesca, a true liberal, knew that Evan could never bring a simple seamstress home.

  On the other hand, he had disowned his home and his father, quitting the family business, taking employment in a middling lawyer's firm. And he had been disowned as well, in turn. She was very proud of her brother for doing what he felt he must do. But what was this? What was going on?

  Francesca felt certain that something was afoot. She had witnessed one too many interesting interactions between her dashing brother and the oh-so-reticent and good-hearted Maggie Kennedy.

  Evan had nodded, accepting Maggie's avowal that she was occupied that day, while she had disappeared like a frightened schoolgirl. "Evan?" Francesca began curiously.

  But Evan had gripped Joel's shoulder. "I have taken over an exhibition at the Museum of Natural History. We shall have our picnic there. I think your mother would enjoy herself. What do you think?"

  Joel smiled fiercely at him. "I'll get her to come," he said. And he looked questioningly at Francesca. "Miz Cahill?"

  She smiled at him. "Go do your best," she said.

  He ran off.

  Francesca looked at Evan. "And what is the countess up to today?"

  "She likes to sleep late," he said, unperturbed. "This is not what you are thinking."

  "And what am I thinking?"

  "Mrs. Kennedy is a noble woman, Fran. A noble, kind, and industrious woman. I adore her children. She could use an amusing day."

  Francesca simply gaped. And then she saw Hart approaching. Her heart seemed to quicken. How glad she was to see him.

  "Hello, darling," Calder Hart said. He was smiling, and he bent and kissed her cheek. "Good morning."

  She smiled at him widely. "Thank God you are here! Bonnie Cooper is dead. I found her grave this morning."

  His smile vanished. In fact, he looked very solemn indeed. "That is sober news," he said.

  She studied him and felt a frisson of unease. "Is anything wrong?" she asked.

  "We need to speak," he said, unsmiling. "Privately."

  Francesca did not like the sound of that.

  * * *

  When they had settled in his coach, she on one seat, with him facing her, he smiled at her. "What is on your mind?" she asked warily. "You look odd."

  He sighed. "Hold your temper, darling."

  She blinked and stiffened. She could practically hear alarm bells shrieking. "What is it?"

  "I went to a very disreputable establishment last night, as I said I would."

  Francesca sat up straighter. "Which establishment?"

  "You are the last person I would tell the name to," he said soberly. "As it is not a place you should ever set foot in."

  Blurry half-formed images of some dim, dark smoky room filled her mind, and in them lush, half-naked, beautiful women pranced around. "What did you find out? What happened?" She had a bad feeling. She could not take her gaze from Hart.

  But his attention was riveted on her, too. His brief smile was oddly derisive. "Usually I can read people, Francesca, like a book. The madam of this club, Solange Marceaux, is undoubtedly a master poker player. Madame Marceaux wasn't thrilled to have me in her place of business, which was odd; she also told me she could not fulfill my desires to be with a beautiful and innocent child of thirteen or fourteen."

  "And?" she breathed, visualizing an orange-haired older woman with garish makeup as the brothel's keeper.

  "Well," he said dryly, "I could not determine if she was being truthful or not. She may not have trusted me; she may have wished to test me. In any case, even if she does not traffic in children, I would be surprised if she could not direct me to a brothel that did. But her club has the strongest reputation for catering to the needs—any needs—of its patrons."

  Francesca had crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it that you really wish to say, Calder?"

  He grimaced. "She offered me more standard entertainment," he said.

  She sat up as if shot with a bullet. "Oh, no!" And instantly she could see Calder, naked, powerful, aroused, in some faceless woman's bed.

  He held up a hand. "Francesca, surely you don't think I spent an hour or so in bed with a whore? That isn't what I wish to tell you."

  She relaxed, hugely relieved. "Go on."

  "Rose was there."

  Francesca gasped. Rose hated Calder passionately, as she was terribly in love with his mistress, Daisy. Calder was still keeping Daisy until the term they had agreed upon expired, even if he wasn't seeing her. Francesca knew both Daisy and Rose; in fact, she liked Daisy very much and sympathized with Rose's plight. But the fact that Rose had been at this club could not be good, oh no. "Did she expose you as my fiancé?"

  "No." He sighed. "I was on the spot. I was hoping to get Rose aside, alone, to speak with her—as she was in the underworld, I thought she might know something. When Madame Marceaux offered me a woman, I told her I knew Rose and would accept her offer if Rose was free."

  "What did Rose say?" Francesca cried, straining forward eagerly.

  He reached for her hand and clasped it. "Madame Marceaux is very clever. She instructed me to wait while she went for Rose. I could not let that happen. I don't trust Rose and I did not want the two of them speaking privately about me. I had an instant in which to think of a way in which to circumvent a tête-à-tête."

  Francesca did not like this. She tugged her hand free, staring. What was he about to tell her? Maybe sending Hart off into an illicit establishment hadn't been the best idea after all, and certainly not one that had women like the terribly seductive Rose. "What did you do?" she whispered.

  "I told her that the entertainment I had in mind was to watch Rose with another woman, with Madame Marceaux, in fact." He smiled slightly then, as if something had amused him, but he never took his watchful gaze from Francesca's face.

  Alarm bells went off. Calder Hart w
as the most seductive man she knew—Francesca had never met a woman immune to his charm, his looks, his power. "While you have been telling me this story, I have been imagining a fat old woman with orange hair. But that isn't what Madame Marceaux is like, is it?" she cried.

  "No." His brows raised in surprise. "She is rather an ice queen, Francesca, pale blond, regal, elegant."

  "Wonderful," Francesca said, trembling. Hart had met a woman he could not read, a blond ice queen, a woman she just knew was beautiful, a rare woman who could outwit him at his game. How amused he must have been. How enthralled. Jealousy was a cloak shrouding her, and as it did, more images tumbled through her mind—Hart, aroused, intent, standing over a bed where two women, one pale, one dark, were passionately entwined. Her heart beat now like a drum. She should have accompanied him last night. She knew his dark past included Rose, but she also knew that was over—or so she had thought. But the thought of him now, sexually attracted to Solange Marceaux, sparring with her, drawn to her, was terribly hurtful. It was also terribly disturbing—in a shocking way.

  "Last night, while I was sleeping, you were amusing yourself watching Rose and Madame Marceaux making love," she said huskily. And had he really been able to do nothing but watch? No one was more virile and sexual than Hart.

  He started. "Madame Marceaux declined, as I knew she would. The request was an adversarial tactic, Francesca, a strike designed to shake her up and put her off balance, that is all. And it worked—for a moment."

  She stared at him. The compartment had become airless, while those darkly seductive images continued to dance in her head.

  "This was a test," he said softly, reaching for her hand again, and this time she did not—could not—pull it away, "and the only reason I had to pass it was because I am helping you solve your case."

  "So you watched Rose and some woman in bed," she breathed.

  He started again. "Yes, I did."