by Brenda Joyce
Whoever had stolen it in the first place hadn’t done so because it was valuable enough to fence. They had meant to use it to blackmail him—or destroy her with it.
And he could not stand by and allow that to happen.
Hart seized his suit jacket, shrugging it on and hurrying from the office. Two minutes later he hailed a cab. She had said the gallery was on Waverly Place. He ordered the driver there, at full speed, offering him a double fare.
The gallery was easy to find. Two police officers were guarding the establishment, which was barricaded from the public. Hart stepped down from the cab, ordering the driver to wait. His senses were warning him now that everything was wrong. But as he took in the neighborhood and the gallery, remarking every detail that might be useful, he could not decide what was bothering him.
As he started forward to investigate, one of the policemen came his way, barring his path abruptly.
Hart didn’t even wait for him to speak—he shoved a ten-dollar bill in the man’s hand and pushed past him. A moment later he was staring at the empty space where a painting had once hung. He could see from the holes in a section of plywood that it had been ripped from the wall, where it had been nailed.
“Did Commissioner Bragg take that painting down?” he demanded.
“No, sir.”
When no more information was forthcoming, Hart turned and gave the officer another bill. The roundsman smiled at him. “I heard the chief talking last night. A painting was stolen, sir.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sunday, June 29, 1902
9:00 a.m.
FRANCESCA GRIPPED THE banister for support as she started downstairs, expecting the worst. Her mother never left her apartments before noon, but she was certain this morning would be an exception.
The moment she started down the stairs, Julia appeared in the huge hall below.
Francesca inwardly cringed. Julia was already elegantly dressed for the day. The implication of that was dire. “Good morning, Mama.”
Julia was unsmiling. “It is hardly a good morning. Your father gave me some jumbled explanation as to why you failed to marry Calder yesterday.”
Francesca came down the rest of the stairway. “Someone clearly wished to stop the wedding.”
Julia was not sympathetic. “There are reporters on our front lawn, Francesca, a half dozen of them.”
Francesca groaned and rushed past her mother, across the spectacular black-and-white marble floors. She peered out the closest window, not far from the front door, where the doorman stood. Julia had not exaggerated—six newsmen were milling about the front lawn. All wore rumpled suit coats. Some wore fedoras. She recognized that cur from the Sun, Arthur Kurland, who knew far too much about her private affairs than a newsman should, as well as Isaacson, from the Tribune. How would she ever leave the house?
“I hope you are pleased with yourself,” Julia said curtly from behind her.
Francesca whirled. Her sister appeared at the far end of the hall, hurrying toward them. “I am not pleased at all! I love Calder, and I wanted nothing more than to wake up this morning as his wife,” she said, meaning it.
“Then maybe you should have thought twice about recklessly and impulsively responding to some vague request for help,” Julia said flatly.
Francesca cringed again. Connie came up to her, her expression worried. Her sister took her hand and squeezed it, her blue eyes searching. Francesca couldn’t smile at her. She had said she would visit Sarah first thing, but she had decided she must speak with Hart before she did anything else. She prayed he had forgiven her. Surely, in the light of a new day, he had realized how much she loved him and that she had been deliberately prevented from attending her own wedding. Surely they would wind up in one another’s arms. “I have made a terrible mess of things.”
“Yes, you have. Were you really gallivanting about the city last night—sleuthing—with Rick Bragg?” Julia asked incredulously.
“Mama, yesterday I was lured downtown—and locked inside an art gallery. Someone wished for me to miss my wed ding. Of course I asked Bragg to help me find and apprehend the person responsible.” Francesca looked at Connie for support.
Julia said, “I fail to understand why you weren’t with your fiancé last night. Bragg can apprehend that rowdy by himself.”
Francesca trembled. She did not want to discuss Hart with Julia.
Connie put her arm around her, finally coming to the rescue. “Mother, Fran did not try to wreck her own wedding. Someone knew her well enough to bait her and destroy it for her. You know that Fran cannot refuse anyone in need—not ever!”
Julia harrumphed. “Andrew said you saw Hart.”
Francesca wet her lips. Her head ached. “He is upset with me, but he will come around.”
Julia’s gaze became intent and searching. “Has he ended it, Francesca?”
She hesitated, and it was answer enough. Julia blanched. “Didn’t you explain to him that you were locked up?” she cried.
“Yes, I did. He is very angry right now,” she tried, trembling. “But in a day or two, he will calm down, I am certain of it.” She did not want to think of his cruelty yesterday.
“This is simply unbearable—one scandal after another. It is all because of your sleuthing! Whatever did I do to deserve such an unconventional daughter? Well, Hart must come around. I won’t have you jilted!” With that, her blue eyes flashing, Julia strode for the stairs.
Francesca didn’t dare move, not until her mother was out of sight. Nor did she dare beg her not to intervene. She felt as if she had gotten off lightly. Julia was frightening when aroused.
Then she exhaled and faced her sister. “I don’t know if Hart will ever come around.”
“Well, he might certainly think twice about it if he learns you spent half of last night investigating this incident with his half brother,” Connie retorted. She took her arm. “Fran, what really happened? I was here, remember? I saw how terribly upset you were when you received that note. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am beginning to suspect that you were frightened.”
Francesca studied her sister grimly. They had almost no secrets. Connie knew that Hart had commissioned a portrait of her and that the painting had vanished in April. What she did not know was that it was so damn compromising.
Francesca didn’t want to worry Connie, but she desperately needed her sister’s help now. Not with the missing portrait—now that the thief had surfaced and had begun to reveal his or her hand, she felt certain she and Bragg would soon apprehend him—but she was at a loss where Hart was concerned. She simply could not lose him like this. “The note came from the thief who stole my portrait.”
Connie blinked. “I do not understand.”
“Connie, my portrait is a nude.”
Her sister stared at her. For one moment, her expression did not change. And then, shock and disbelief covered her features. “What!”
“My nude portrait is in the thief’s hands, and clearly, he or she intends to use it against me.”
Connie cried out, “How could you!”
“Does it matter? I had to recover the portrait before it was publicly displayed,” Francesca cried in a rush.
Connie slowly shook her head, as if still dazed. “And Hart blames you for not showing up at the wedding? Is he mad? Doesn’t he realize what this means?”
Hart was too clever to not understand the danger she was in. Knowing that, Francesca was frightened—by the fact that he hadn’t rushed to her defense. “I think I have hurt him terribly, Con. Otherwise, he would surely be trying to recover the portrait and protect me.” She turned and walked back to the window, hiding behind a drapery as she peered out. Her heart was racing. “I am going to Sarah’s. It is going to be very unpleasant, trying to get out of the house.”
Connie came up behind her. “What about Hart?”
She realized she was so afraid to contact him that day. “I’ll telephone first, to see if he is in. If he is, I wil
l call on him and smooth things over.”
Connie took her hand. Francesca clung to it.
BUT HART HADN’T been in, so instead, Francesca decided to use the Cahill coach and driver to go across town to the city’s rather forsaken west side. Fortunately, Julia was not downstairs when she left. Andrew did not need the carriage until later, and Francesca promised to return it by noon. As for the newsmen, she ignored their questions. Everyone had wanted to know what had happened and if the wedding would be rescheduled.
“Have you changed your mind about marrying Calder Hart? Did you deliberately jilt him?” Arthur Kurland had cried, raising his voice above the din made by his peers.
Francesca had turned to look at him as Jennings closed her carriage door. “No, Mr. Kurland, I did not jilt my fiancé.”
“So the wedding is on?” he asked with a sly smile.
She hesitated as Jennings climbed into the carriage’s driver’s seat. “Of course the wedding is on,” she said as the carriage began to rumble away.
The drive through Central Park should have been lovely, with flowers in bloom everywhere and birds singing from the leafy treetops, a few ladies and gentlemen strolling arm in arm, a cyclist pedaling along the carriage path. Francesca hardly noticed. She must not think about those damn newsmen and tomorrow’s headlines. She tried to focus on the upcoming interview with her friend, Sarah Channing. Instead, she kept worrying about Hart.
Alfred had finally admitted to her that he hadn’t come home last night.
Eventually she arrived at the Channings’ gothic mansion. She would concentrate on the matter of the stolen portrait, at least for a few hours. Ignoring the house’s abundant turrets and towers, not to mention gargoyles, Francesca went to the front door, where she was greeted by a servant. She had barely asked for Sarah when the young brunette artist came rushing into the front hall. “Francesca! I have been so worried about you!”
Francesca allowed herself to be embraced. She had be come fond of Sarah in the past few months. When they had first met, she had assumed Sarah to be a rather unintelligent, very shy and boringly meek young woman. But she had quickly realized just how bohemian Sarah was and how much they had in common. During the course of posing for her portrait, they had become friends. Sarah was as eccentric as Francesca—she lived for her art—it was just not obvious at first sight. “Sarah, I found my portrait yesterday in a gallery off Washington Square.”
Sarah gasped. Before she could speak, Francesca clasped her shoulder, pulling her aside toward a huge Venetian mirror. “I was lured there and locked in. That is why I missed the wedding. When Bragg and I returned, several hours later, the portrait was gone.”
Sarah paled. “I wish I had never agreed to paint you unclothed.”
“Now you are blaming yourself?” Francesca was shocked.
“Francesca, that portrait was stolen from my studio, in my house.” Sarah paced, agitated. Her long, curly brown hair was casually pinned up, and chunks of it were falling down. She was simply clad in a shirtwaist and dark skirt, as was Francesca. She had obviously been in her studio, because there was a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She wore no jewelry. “Because of the damn portrait, you have missed your wedding!” She faced her, dark eyes ablaze.
“I wanted to pose provocatively and you know it.” Francesca went over to her. Several trophy heads—a lion, an elephant and an antelope—were above them now. The late Richard Wyeth Channing had been a world-renowned big-game hunter. “Bragg and I have become active in this investigation, Sarah. The thief has surfaced. He or she did not wish for me to marry, clearly. I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
“Of course,” Sarah said, her gaze attentive. “But, Francesca, do you think the thief a woman?”
“I am not sure, but Solange Marceaux escaped the police when we apprehended Murphy and dismantled his child prostitution ring. I crossed paths with her once, Sarah. She is a dangerous woman—and not particularly fond of me.”
Sarah hugged herself. “I recall you telling me all about it. You are lucky to be alive. But I don’t think that Solange would care about your wedding, Francesca. If she has the portrait, she means to destroy you with it.”
Francesca stared thoughtfully. Preventing her marriage to Hart might have been incidental to the greater motive of destroying her reputation. Sarah was right; Solange wouldn’t give a damn if Francesca married Hart. Her interest would be in the kind of vengeance that ruining Francesca could achieve.
“Do you have other suspects?” Sarah asked.
She smiled grimly. “We have a rather attenuated list,” she replied, thinking of Bill Randall and his mother. If time allowed, she would try to see Henrietta Randall later in the day. But it was a bit of a trek to Blackwell’s Island, where the woman was imprisoned, and she did not think much would come of the trip. She wondered how either of the Randalls would have ever learned of her portrait. Solange Marceaux’s knowledge, if she was their thief, was also a mystery.
“What does Hart think?”
It was hard to meet Sarah’s gaze now and she felt herself flush. “I’m not sure.”
“Francesca? What does that mean?”
She turned away. “It means that he isn’t speaking to me right now.”
Sarah cried out, rushing to face her. “Now I feel even worse than before. I should have kept my studio locked—I knew how compromising that portrait was. Oh, he must be so angry, to have been stood up at the altar.”
Just then, she didn’t have the will to tell Sarah that it wasn’t her fault. In a way, every single one of them had had a hand in the portrait’s theft. “I am hoping Hart will realize that I never meant to hurt or humiliate him.”
Sarah began shaking her head. “At least he truly loves you.”
Francesca prayed that was the case.
Sarah seized her hands, as if she sensed Francesca’s doubt. “Francesca, he adores you. And rightly so, as you are the most unique of women!”
Pain stabbed through her breast. She would corner him that evening when he came home, as she feared confronting him in his office during business hours. The evening felt as if it was a lifetime from now. “Can we discuss the weekend that the portrait vanished? I have to find that portrait, Sarah, and lock it up.”
“Of course we can. But I have already answered dozens of questions. And as much as I hate to admit it, Francesca, the portrait must be destroyed.”
Francesca said grimly, “You are undoubtedly right, and that is so generous of you. I know you spoke with Hart’s investigators, but I wasn’t present. When did you first realize that the portrait was gone?”
Sarah blinked. “Francesca, you were with Bragg at headquarters when I called the police. I discovered the portrait gone on Sunday afternoon, as you know. It was about one o’clock.”
The call had come in at 2:00 p.m. “And how did you learn that it was missing? Did you go to your studio and realize it was gone? What was the state of your studio when you went inside? Was anything else taken? Was anything askew? Was the door open or closed—and how did you last leave it?” She knew she must slow down, but her natural enthusiasm had surfaced. She was truly at her best when focused on a case.
Sarah recited patiently, “I always close the door, but it was wide-open. I was instantly alarmed. I only ask for the maids to clean the space perhaps every other month or so. As the studio had been cleaned the week before, I knew immediately that someone had gone inside. The first thing I saw was that the easel with your portrait was empty. I kept it front and center, Francesca, but covered with a cloth. The cloth was on the floor, the easel upright. Everything else seemed untouched.”
Francesca had taken a writing tablet from her purse and was making notes. Sarah continued. “Francesca, I have told Hart’s investigators and the police all this more than once.”
She froze. “You spoke to the police?”
Sarah started. “How could I not speak to the police, when Chief Farr came here personally to investigate?”
; Francesca gasped. Bragg had not notified the police of the theft. They had been afraid that a policeman would find and see the portrait, and that word of its existence would come to light. There was simply far too much corruption in the police department.
“Why are you standing there as if shocked?” Sarah asked, bewildered.
She inhaled. For some reason, ever since they had first met, Chief Farr had taken a terrible dislike to her, mostly because she was a woman who dared to investigate crimes both with and without the police. He considered her an intruder in a man’s world, and an intruder in police affairs. He had made it clear that his view of women and their place in society was antiquated and traditional; Francesca knew he also judged her relationship with Bragg and condemned it. He certainly disliked her influence upon him. With every passing investigation, his once-veiled hostility had become clearer and more obvious.
“Sarah, what did Farr say when he came here to question you?” How had Farr learned of the theft?
She seemed confused. “He said he was determined to find the portrait and apprehend the thief.”
She took Sarah’s arm. “Sarah—Bragg never assigned any police officers to this case. We deliberately kept it a very private matter. How did Farr know about it?”
Sarah seemed aghast. “I don’t know how he knew that your portrait was stolen. He appeared here the next day, I think, and then twice afterward, all within one week. He was terribly concerned and interested.”
Francesca released her, breathless. “Farr came to speak to you three times? He must have known it was my portrait. Did you tell him so?” Otherwise, he wouldn’t have given a damn about the theft.
Sarah was pale and silent.
If he had known it was her portrait, Francesca was not surprised that he had questioned Sarah three times. He would want to be involved—and possibly, make trouble for her. She slowly looked at Sarah, horror beginning. “Please tell me that he never learned that the portrait is a nude.”
Sarah blanched completely.
“Sarah!”