Francesca sighed and opened her eyes. She was Katie and Dot’s mother. It was such a terrible tragedy, for everyone—for the two little girls and for Mary, who on all accounts seemed to have been a wonderful person. Anger at the unknown killer suddenly swelled within Francesca, not for the first time. Why had he done this?
“Thank you,” Bragg said, and he hung up the receiver. “Francesca?”
She tried to smile and failed. “Hello, Bragg.” She felt like walking into his arms and laying her cheek upon his solid chest, but that would not do.
“I’m sorry you saw that.” He seemed grim. “Please tell me you are not still blaming yourself for her death?”
“I am trying not to. Mary was young and pretty and she has two beautiful daughters who are now orphans. We have to find the madman who did this,” Francesca said passionately. It was an outburst she could not contain.
He walked slowly out from behind his desk. “We? You are not on this investigation, Francesca. And how do you know that she has two daughters?” His golden regard was calm but intense, and infinitely patient as he waited for an answer.
She sighed. “Maggie Kennedy came calling this morning—and she was grief-stricken.”
“Maggie Kennedy? Is she by chance related to the little hoodlum you are so fond of?”
“She is his mother, Bragg. And Mary O’Shaunessy was her dear friend,” Francesca said bluntly. There was no point in telling him that she had been very involved in the case from the moment she had found Mary dead.
His eyes widened fractionally. “Please, do not tell me that Mrs. Kennedy has retained your services!”
“She has,” Francesca said with an upward tilt of her chin. “Oh, Bragg. From what I have learned, Mary was a ray of sunshine, a wonderful mother, a devout Catholic! She did not deserve this, and now her two small girls are orphans.” She knew she was angling for his consent in allowing the girls to remain in his home temporarily, but she also meant her every word.
He came closer and lifted up her chin with one fingertip. His fingers were long and strong and their eyes met and locked. “What have you been up to, Francesca?” His gaze was searching. She no longer feared him, not at all, and a tingle went from her head to her toes.
Somewhat breathlessly she said, “After I consoled Maggie, Joel showed me to the apartment Mary shared. I believe the police have already spoken with the Jadvics.”
He dropped his hand and stared. “I will not have you involved, not in a case involving a deranged killer.”
“Is that what you have concluded?” she asked—far too eagerly.
“No comment.”
“Bragg!” she cried. “I am not the press.”
“As I well know. By the by, are you not treading a thin line? You are supposed to be devoting yourself to your studies, and yet you have that new client, Mrs. Stuart. How is that case progressing, Francesca?” His gaze was narrowed.
“You think to divert me, and it will not work,” she said sweetly.
“What shall I do with you?”
“Do you have any leads?” she returned swiftly.
“Yes, but I shall not share them with you.” He was firm. Determination glimmered golden in his eyes.
She felt a thrill then and said slyly, “I was crucial to the conclusion of the Randall Murder.”
He did not answer.
“Not to mention the Burton Abduction.”
“No,” he said. Then, “Have you come to badger me? If so, I have work to do.”
“Bragg!” She was truly shocked. “Am I badgering you?”
Suddenly he seemed tired. He sat down on the edge of his desk. Softly he said, “You could never badger me. I am frustrated. That is all.”
“Over this case?” she asked sympathetically, taking the seat in front of his desk.
“That and the appointment I have made. It was announced at City Hall an hour ago. At the last moment, I decided against Shea; I have appointed Inspector Farr instead. I do not think you have met him. His is a royal annoyance, too smart for his own good, and as crooked as Front Street. But he seems eager to please, now, in fact, he is eager to please me, and I think I shall be able to control him.”
Francesca winced. “I do hope so.”
“He is run by Tammany Hall through and through,” Bragg added.
“Well, just be on guard. Make sure he is working for you—and not against you.”
Bragg smiled at her, and it was filled with affection. “However did you come to be so intelligent?”
She flushed with pleasure. “My father encouraged my freethinking.”
“I am glad.”
She fell silent, smiling.
Then, “I invited your brother and Miss Channing for tomorrow night’s musical. And supper afterward. I hope that is all right.”
“Of course it is.” Her gaze locked with his.
He seemed to flush. “I felt it was more appropriate.”
She nodded. “I know.” She had begun thinking about the two little girls when he said, “So what did you find out from the Jadvics?”
“Not much. Have your men been to the tailor shop where Mary worked before the Jansons’?”
“Newman is there now with a detail.”
She nodded, smiling—he was discussing the case with her.
And suddenly he must have realized it, because he stood. “Francesca—”
“I’m sorry. I could not help myself.” She wanted to ask him about the Jansons but did not dare. He did not fill in the brief, focused silence. Finally she said, meekly, “Do you have a suspect?”
“If I did, I would not tell you.”
“Bragg!” She was truly frustrated.
“I apologize, but my mind is made up.” He turned and picked up Mary’s photograph, but in a way so Francesca could not see it. And Francesca thought about Katie and Dot.
“Bragg?” she asked, now nervous.
He glanced up.
She stood and shifted her weight. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
His gaze widened and he put the photograph down. “I can tell already—this is not fair.”
She wet her lips. “Please, just hear me out.”
He folded his arms. “I am steeling myself to say no.”
“Do you like children?” she asked quickly.
“What?!”
“You heard me. Do you like children?”
“Of course I do. What is this about?” he asked suspiciously.
She inhaled. “Katie and Dot have lost their mother. Mrs. Jadvic cannot keep them. The authorities may well separate them. I could not see that happening! I have brought them to your house,” she finished in a rush.
It took him a moment to understand. “You what?!” he roared.
She backed up. “Please! You have room, they are so adorable, they have lost their mother—”
“Absolutely not!” he cried.
“But you said that you like children!” she cried in return.
“I do! But I am a very busy man, with one servant—and I cannot take care of two children!” He was shouting. His face was red.
“Please,” she managed. “I will hire a nanny. You only have one servant?” She was shocked. She had assumed he also had a cook who doubled as a laundress.
“The only servant in my employ is Peter,” he said rigidly.
She realized why. Because his moderate income was eaten up by his spoiled wife, who lived in Europe as if her husband were a prince, and he could not afford a second servant in his employ due to her outrageous expenses. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“What?” he shot.
“I mean, I will hire a nanny and it is only for a few weeks,” Francesca pleaded.
“No.”
“Bragg. You must meet them at least!”
“Says who?” he asked coldly.
She wondered if she had gone too far. And his coldness stunned her. “But they are two lost little girls,” she whispered. “And it is only for a week or two, until I can find the
m a truly good foster home. I will help—”
“How? With all of your sleuthing, you are about to fail your studies at Barnard,” he said, not giving an inch.
“I cannot believe this,” Francesca whispered. “I thought you cared. This is so important to me. And we are fighting.” She was aghast.
“I do care,” he said, flushing. “But you do not seem to understand the pressure I am under. Mayor Low has told me in no uncertain terms I shall not close the saloons on Sundays. But I am morally committed to upholding the law, Francesca. I am about to battle my own mayor—a man I personally admire, respect, and believe in.”
“I am sorry,” she said, meaning it. “But two little girls have so little to do with the blue laws.”
“When the press gets wind of Mary O’Shaunessy’s murder, when they link it to Kathleen O’Donnell’s, they will attempt to terrify this city with their words and fan the fires of hysteria.”
She hugged herself. She had never really asked him for a favor before. She was hurt.
He sighed and moved to her and took her by her shoulders. “Don’t make me feel guilty for refusing a burden I cannot now bear.”
“I am sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I wish to be the last person to add to your worries, and if I could, I would have taken the girls home with me. Of course, I cannot do so—not without lying to my parents—and that I refuse to do.” She almost felt like crying.
He was staring, and she looked up. His gaze slipped over her features, slowly, one by one. His jaw tightened and he pulled her close and suddenly she was in his arms, her cheek upon his chest. Her heart thrummed with anticipation. And she sighed.
He felt so perfect, so strong and powerful, so right.
His hand slid into the hair coiled at her nape. “I am clay in your hands,” he whispered.
She somehow glanced up. “No. It’s all right. I will find someone else to take the girls—”
He feathered her mouth with a sudden kiss, clearly on impulse, and then his eyes widened in surprise and he stepped quickly away from her. She could not move. The brief sensation of his mouth on hers had done terrible things to her body. Her blood seemed to be racing wildly through her veins, but it was no longer blood; rather, it had become a roaring, rushing river, one filled with whirlpools.
He walked away from her, lifted his shades, which had been down, and gazed out at the brown town houses lining Mulberry Street. All were brothels and saloons except for one, which was a run-down brick building that was a tenement. His beautiful Daimler motorcar was parked below, Francesca knew, for she had seen it as she had come in, guarded by two leatherheads.
Suddenly she straightened as something he had said registered in her befuddled brain. “O’Donnell?”
He did not turn. “The first victim. Her name was Kathleen O’Donnell.”
“Oh, God! Bragg!” she cried, dashing to him and whirling him about by his lapels.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know that Mary O’Shaunessy has a brother and his name is Mike O’Donnell?”
As her brougham turned into the very short driveway of her home, which was on the corner of Madison Avenue and 61st Street, and moved through the vaulted archway into an interior courtyard that had been swept free of snow and salted, Connie did not move. Neil’s carriage, slightly smaller and several years older than the one he liked her to use, was parked in front of their home, and a groom was leading two bays around the back to the stable. Panic filled her.
An image of her large, muscular, handsome husband competed with Calder Hart’s darkly disturbing one. In her mind’s eye, Hart was smiling, the look in his eyes so suggestive there could be no mistaking his meaning, while Neil’s turquoise eyes were hard with anger. Her heart lurched with dread, with fear.
What was she doing?
Why had she had lunch with Calder Hart, a notorious seducer of women?
And why, oh why, was she there now, in front of this lovely house—which no longer felt like her own?
But it was her home, Connie reminded herself, the panic growing. What Neil had done could never change that.
“Lady Montrose?”
Connie realized that Clark had been standing at the carriage door, which he had opened, for a few minutes. She suddenly saw the look in his eyes and thought it was one of pity. She flushed, realizing he must know about the discord that was unraveling her family. But wait—there was no discord now! She had passed a most pleasant week. She and Neil had attended a supper and a charity ball; they had chatted most amicably; they had even danced at the ball, as if nothing were wrong, as if nothing had ever happened. And her sources had told her that Eliza Burton, the woman he had taken for a lover, was booked with her boys for a winter passage to France. She was leaving next week. Her home was up for sale.
She surely had no time to dally with another woman’s husband now, and Neil had promised her it would never happen again. The one thing she knew about her husband was that his word of honor was inviolable.
Something wrenched inside of her.
“Lady Montrose?”
Connie started. His voice had sounded far away. “Yes, Clark? I have been daydreaming,” she said too brightly, and she smiled at the coachman she had hired shortly before her wedding, and as she was assisted from the coach, he smiled back.
But the pity remained in his eyes. Now there was no mistaking it.
Connie held her head high and sailed across the short distance between the coach and her front doorstep. She did not worry about the snow or any ice—as a child she had been taught how to walk, as if on water, with grace and poise, no matter what.
Suddenly a memory of Francesca stomping across the ballroom in abject defiance of their instructor made her smile. She, Connie, had mastered the art of a noble walk within a day, while her sister still had a tendency to march about like a man.
As Connie reached the front door, it opened. “Thank you, Marsters,” she began, and she faltered, her air catching in her throat and choking her.
Neil had opened the door for her, instead of the doorman. His vivid turquoise gaze held hers, steady and unwavering. He did not smile.
He knows, she thought, panicked. He knows I have been flirting with Calder Hart!
Then his lips turned into a slight smile. “I have just got in,” he said, taking her arm. “Did you have a pleasant lunch?”
She could not move and she could not smile; for one moment, she could only stare, incapable of speech.
“Connie?” His grip tightened. He was a big man, six-foot-four and well over two hundred pounds, but there was no flab on his large, muscular body. And in spite of his size, there was no mistaking that he was an aristocrat—other men this large would look like dockworkers. Perhaps it was his perfectly chiseled features—the straight nose, the stunning eyes, the wide jaw and high cheekbones that pegged him for a nobleman. Perhaps it was his carriage—he moved with innate pride and grace. Or maybe it was the air of authority he never shed—other men looked to him for answers and leadership.
He had been married once before. His wife had died in the first year of their marriage in a carriage accident.
To this day, Connie did not know whether he had loved his first wife or not. She had never asked. The question would not have been seemly; it would have been intrusive, an invasion of his privacy. But she wondered, often, if he had loved his first wife.
“Are you ill?” he asked. “You are so pale.”
She brightened and somehow slipped free. For his touch did contradictory things to her—his touch thrilled her and frightened her both.
“I am fine. How was your day?” She moved past him, handing off her coat and hat, her back to him now. Did he know?
“My day has been a good one. Our Midland Rails stocks continue to climb, as they have just incorporated an important way station, Basalt. And Fontana Ironworks is going right through the roof. Today I added to the children’s trusts.”
Connie did no
t turn back to him. “I am glad,” she said breathlessly. Then she glanced across the entry hall. A large and formal salon, both double mahogany doors wide open, was on her right. The room was mostly shades of gold, with emerald accents. On one ebonized table was a bronze clock—it was almost five. “I must dress for the Waldorf affair. I do believe we are to arrive at seven.”
Neil did not speak. Connie wanted to peek at him in order to judge his mood—and if he knew about her luncheon with Hart—but somehow, she did not dare. She had told Francesca that the past was finished and that only the present and the future mattered now. But it was hard not to recall the past—she did so every time Neil came near.
He had promised that he would never stray again. He had only done so because he had needs, and he claimed she did not enjoy that part of their relationship. He had gone to another woman because Connie had failed him and their marriage. She hadn’t meant to, but she hadn’t kept count of the times they shared a bed the way that, apparently, he had.
She moved too quickly across the hall. Then she heard him falling into step behind her and she started, turning to look back at him in surprise.
His smile was soft, but it did not reach his eyes. “You have two hours . . . more. I know it does not take you that long. Let’s sit in the parlor and take a glass of sherry.” His gaze was searching.
She wet her lips. It was on the tip of her tongue to accept, but of course, one never imbibed before an evening affair—otherwise one might become inebriated before the evening was done. “I have a migraine. I was thinking to lie down for a half hour, and I do want to check on the girls.”
“The girls are fine. Charlotte is in the kitchen, making a mess of her dinner; there are peas and jelly all over the table. Lucy is sound asleep.” His gaze did not waver.
“I . . . ” she started and faltered.
“Let’s have a glass of sherry,” he said, more firmly—and she knew it was a husbandly command.
Connie had never refused him before. An image of him with another woman came to mind, and with it the knowledge that it was all her fault. A good wife saw to her husband’s needs, all of them, circumventing any chance of betrayal, disappointment, and grief.
“I have a migraine,” she whispered—a blatant lie. And she did not even know herself anymore, for she did not mean to lie and she did not mean to avoid him.
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