And too late, she realized that they had not had a chance to discuss Sarah’s case.
The Plaza Hotel was one of the city’s most renowned and elegant hotels. Doormen in red livery rushed to intercept their brougham, and Francesca was assisted out. It had begun to snow, rather heavily, but the huge bronze canopy effectively shielded her and other guests from the inclement weather. The gaslights of the hotel and those on the street caught the snowflakes as they fell in their halo, and the snow seemed to be dancing in the air.
On the cab ride over, Francesca had told Evan what had happened to Sarah’s studio, and he had been concerned. He had been incredulous, though, at the notion that a young lady of his acquaintance might have been so hopeful at the prospect of becoming his bride that she had gone off on a rampage in Sarah’s studio. He thought Francesca’s theory of a jilted woman absurd.
Now, as Francesca walked up the stairs and into the lobby, with Evan by her side, she was acutely aware of being beset by an extremely nervous anticipation. She felt like checking her appearance in the cloakroom, as she had barely had fifteen minutes to change into an evening gown. Her hair had been hastily swept up and back; there had been no time to wave it with tongs. At the last moment she had seized a small pot of rouge, and she had used it on her lips in the coach. Evan had not been amused.
Now he whispered in her ear, “You are so tense—and so excited. You are worrying me, Fran.”
She smiled at him. “I am merely looking forward to what shall be an impossibly interesting evening.”
“No, you are looking forward to seeing the police commissioner, even though you know he is married. And the other night when Bartolla mentioned his wife, you were not surprised—you already knew! What are you thinking?” he demanded.
They had entered the lobby. It was a vast room, the ceiling high, huge columns forming a square around an atrium. To Francesca’s right were the registration and concierge counters, all gleaming mahogany inlaid with a pale, streaked marble. Directly ahead, but on the other side of the atrium, was the oh-so popular and elegant restaurant. The last time she had been within it had not been to dine. Hart had been pursuing her sister and she had dropped in on them to chaperon them and to prevent Connie from making a drastic mistake.
It felt like ages ago that he had set his sights on her sister. Still, the notion disturbed Francesca no end even if he had backed off—at her insistence.
“Fran? Have you heard a word I said?”
“Not really,” she said truthfully, smiling. “There they are.” She stopped in midstep.
They had taken a table in the atrium and were being served champagne. She saw Bragg first.
He wore a white dinner jacket and midnight-black trousers; he sat on a small love seat, beside Lucy, looking far too thoughtful and miles away. She knew he was thinking about police affairs or perhaps even the Channing Investigation. Light from the chandelier that was overhead fell upon him, highlighting the streaks in his dark golden hair and accentuating his high cheekbones. An impossibly warm feeling came over her. She so trusted this man.
But there was also a twinge of guilt. Of course, she had to tell him about Leigh Anne’s note. She should have told him the very day she had received it. It crossed her mind that if he took her home, she would have the private moment to do so tonight.
He shifted ever so slightly and he saw her and their eyes locked. His expression changed, becoming dark, intent.
And then he was on his feet, smiling. He moved toward her, his strides long and effortless. Francesca was vaguely aware of the rest of his family turning to look her way while she tried to appear calm and unmoved.
But it was a facade. She did not have a calm cell in her entire body.
He paused before her. “Cahill,” he murmured to Evan, giving him the barest and most cursory glance. “Francesca.” His eyes warmed. “I’ll take your coat,” he said, his golden gaze skimming over her.
She handed it to him, their hands brushing, touching. She knew at once that he was no longer distressed over her posing for Hart’s portrait. She knew he was happy to be spending the evening with her, too. “I thought we might be late, but I see that Sarah is not yet here,” she said lightly, hoping everyone would think their conversation innocent, should anyone be observing them, and somehow, everyone was.
“No.” His gaze slid over her new turquoise dress again. The vee over her breasts was low, tiny cap sleeves clung to her shoulders, and the gown fell closely over her hips, finally swelling in a pool of lace around her calves and ankles. The dress showed off the best curves of her body, accentuating them, when, in truth, she was a touch too thin. At the very last moment, she had thought to add a necklace with a pearl cameo. “Mrs. Kennedy’s work?” he asked with a soft smile.
Francesca nodded, pleased because he clearly liked it. “Any news on the vandal who struck at Sarah’s studio?” she asked. From the corner of her eye she glanced at his family. Grace remained calmly seated, as if sipping champagne, but her gaze was steadily upon them. Rathe was standing politely, as was another man whom Francesca had never seen before. As he was almost Bragg’s twin, he had to be Rathe’s son as well. Like his father and his mother, he was watching them, but unlike the other two, his gaze was hooded and hard to comprehend.
Francesca wondered if Bragg’s family cared at all for his wife.
“There has been no other instance of such vandalism in the city in the past three months,” Bragg was saying. “But Inspector O’Connor is checking further back.”
“If such an attack were not reported to the police, then he will never learn of it.”
“That’s true,” he said with a slight smile. “And a single act of vandalism might not have ever been reported.”
She absorbed that. “Have you or your men interviewed Bartolla?”
“She has been elusive,” he said, meeting her gaze. “She clearly is amused by the entire event. And I do believe O’Connor is smitten with her.” He rolled his eyes. “He has been newly promoted,” he added.
Francesca laughed but sobered quickly. “I spoke with her briefly. She had nothing of importance to say and she did seem unperturbed by the entire event.”
“I think I will call on her tomorrow myself,” he said. “Press her a bit.”
Francesca touched his hand. His skin was smooth but not silken or soft. His eyes touched hers. She said, “Let me join you.”
He hesitated. “You may join me, but I think I might have more success, in this one case, with Bartolla if I speak with her alone.”
She stared, not liking the implications of his comment. “What does that mean?” How terse her own tone sounded to her ears.
“You do not have to be dismayed, Francesca. The countess adores men. And while I have no intention of flirting with her, I think I can interview her more effectively if you are not present.”
She hated the idea.
“Don’t scowl,” he said with amusement. “When you are old, you shall have scowl lines.”
It wasn’t funny and she did not laugh, but she hated the extent of her jealousy.
“What is this about?” Evan asked, apparently having been listening to their conversation. “How is the countess involved?”
Francesca started, having forgotten that her brother was standing behind them. She glanced at Bragg. He said, “The single canvas destroyed in the attack upon Sarah’s studio was a portrait of Bartolla. Perhaps, and it is a mere perhaps, the vandal struck a blow at the countess and not at your fiancee.”
Evan’s eyes were wide. “Is she in danger?”
Bragg hesitated, and it was clear that he was uncertain as to which woman Evan referred to. Francesca knew that he referred to Bartolla, as she had previously assured him that Sarah was fine and did not seem to be in any danger. Her words had been automatic, however, as she had only to recall the use of so much dark red paint to shudder and have a terrible sense of foreboding. “Neither Sarah nor Bartolla appears to be in any imminent danger.”
&nb
sp; Evan was now concerned. Grim, he walked away. “You must be Mr. Bragg,” he said, extending his hand toward Rathe. As they shook hands, Lucy jumped up to make the introductions.
Francesca turned to Bragg. “So much has happened,” she said in a low voice, thinking about the horrendous falling-out between Evan and her father. “I have to talk to you.” And she was thinking about his wife’s note.
“Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “Offer to drive me home tonight, after supper,” she said. “It will give us a private moment to speak.”
His jaw flexed. “That is not a good idea,” he said flatly.
She faced him fully. “Please. We won’t have a single moment alone otherwise; I feel sure of it. Now that your family is in town, it will be harder than ever to have a decent conversation.”
He took her elbow and they stepped away from his family. “It is hard enough being with you when they are present,” he said, low. His eyes were dark. “But you are right. We do have to speak.”
Alarm filled her. “What does that mean?” she cried softly.
“Just as you wish to speak with me, I wish to speak with you.”
“About what?” She was more than alarmed now; she was afraid.
He knew Leigh Anne was on her way to New York. He knew that his wife wanted to meet her. He had heard about her encounter with Hart.
But he knew something, something dire, and she was afraid of what his reaction would be.
He seemed surprised. “Francesca, this is not the time or the place for a real conversation between us.”
She grabbed his hand, as he was about to leave. “Is this about us?” she asked in a very low voice.
“Yes,” he said. He tugged his hand free and stepped back to the others. But she could not move.
There was a thought in her mind, but it was too terrible to contemplate. Still, it refused to go away. Not too long ago he had claimed that being alone with her was simply too difficult a test of resolve and willpower. What if he had decided that it was impossible to be mere friends?
Once, he had suggested that maybe they should not see each other again. Because it was too dangerous being together.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” a male voice said, cutting into her worst fears.
She started and found herself looking at the man who might have been Rick Bragg’s twin. His hair was darker—more brown than blond—and his face was squarer. But the rest was the same—the amber eyes, the dark eyebrows, the high, high cheekbones, the dimples and cleft chin. “I’m Francesca Cahill,” she said, and she heard how tremulous her own tone was.
He smiled and it was a smile to melt female hearts. “The infamous sleuth. I’m Rourke, the eldest after my no-good policeman brother.” He extended his hand.
She shook it, trying to clear her head. “Rourke? What an unusual name.”
“It’s my middle name. But I got tired of being beaten up when I was six, trying to defend the worst name a child could have—Brian Bragg. So it’s been Rourke ever since.” His eyes were warm and kind and he grinned.
“Are you the one in medical school?” she asked with real curiosity. She realized he was probably several years older than she was, and just two years or so younger than Bragg.
“Yes. In Philadelphia. Third year. Excellent grades. My sister is enamored of you.”
Francesca smiled and was about to say that she truly liked Lucy as well. But he added, “And apparently, she is not the only one.”
She felt her smile vanish. She followed his gaze—and caught Bragg watching them both intently.
For once, she was entirely at a loss for words. She looked at Rourke and could not summon up a coherent reply.
His smile was compassionate. “I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. I have a bad habit; I tend to speak my mind.”
Francesca shook her head. “I don’t have a clue as to what you are talking about,” she said, intending to keep her tone light. But it came out terribly hoarse.
He patted her arm. “We’ll strike that ungentlemanly comment right off the record. Friends?” He grinned. But a huge question remained in his eyes.
“Friends,” she whispered. And then, beyond Rourke’s broad shoulder, she saw the thug who had been standing outside of police headquarters yesterday, who had been so intently watching Lucy.
Francesca felt herself stiffen, and she turned to find Lucy in order to gauge her reaction—and to see if she had remarked the burly man.
“What is it?” Rourke asked quickly.
Lucy had been sipping champagne. Now she turned white and set her flute down abruptly.
Francesca faced Rourke. “Nothing. So, what year are you in?”
“My third,” he said quietly, his regard intent and searching. “But I already said that.”
With one ear Francesca heard Lucy making an excuse that she must powder her nose. She smiled at Rourke and, out of the corner of her eye, watched Lucy cross the atrium, clearly wishing to hurry and, as clearly, trying not to. In the lobby, the thug had disappeared. Suddenly Bragg was standing beside them.
“I see you have met Miss Cahill,” he said to his younger brother, not looking particularly pleased.
“I have, and it is a pleasure indeed.” Rourke smiled.
“Do not let my brother’s profession delude you,” Bragg said. “He is an unrepentant ladies’ man.”
Rourke chuckled. “We can’t all be as noble as you.” He winked at Francesca.
“My nobility vanished some time ago,” Bragg said tersely, and he turned to Francesca and their gazes locked.
She thought that he meant that he had lost his morals because of her. She stared, instantly dismayed. Surely he did not mean what he had appeared to mean?
Bragg turned back to Rourke, who seemed to be watching them both like a hawk. And he did not seem like the kind of man to miss a thing. “I doubt you have turned from a saint into a devil,” he said, but quietly. “However, on a more important note, what is wrong with Lucy?” And Rourke looked right at Francesca.
“I don’t know,” Bragg said. “But think I shall go find out.”
“I’ll go,” Rourke said. “You can escort Miss Cahill in to supper.” And the two brothers exchanged a potent look.
“The Channings haven’t arrived,” Bragg finally said, a slight flush upon his cheekbones.
“I’ll go,” Francesca interrupted, and before either one of them could engage her in a debate, she hurried across the atrium, lengthening her stride, as Lucy had turned the corner and vanished from sight.
But the ladies’ room was on the far side of the lobby and just around that corner. Of course, Francesca was certain that Lucy had no real interest in the ladies’ room and that it was not her destination. Turning the corner, she saw Lucy and darted behind a column so she could watch her.
It shielded her from view, just in case Lucy turned. The redhead had paused beside the ladies’ room door, looking back over her shoulder, clearly to see if anyone was watching—or following. As she was wearing a daring crimson gown, she stood out like a sore thumb—the several ladies and gentlemen in the hall were all turning to look at her, with either envy or admiration, as did every bellman and concierge who passed.
Lucy did not notice. She was pale with fear. Giving one last glance to make sure she was not being watched—and Francesca felt certain it was her family she was afraid of now—she hurried down another corridor.
Francesca followed.
She realized Lucy’s intention instantly. At the corridor’s farthest end were a small door and an EXIT sign. That door was closing behind the strange man. Lucy now hurried through it and outside.
Francesca reached inside her purse, and her left hand closed awkwardly over her tiny gun. Damn it, she thought. This was exactly what she had not wanted to happen. She did not want to confront a hoodlum without the use of her right hand.
But she had no choice, because Lucy was frightened and Francesca was certain that she was
in danger.
She slipped through the small door and outside. She was on the south side of Central Park. Carriages and a few motorcars were double- and triple-parked up and down the endless block. A few pedestrians were heading her way.
And Lucy stood a few doors down the block, near a service entryway. So did the hoodlum. Francesca stood stockstill, straining to hear them, as a pair of gentlemen walked past her, eyeing her in her bare evening gown as they went.
“Leave me alone!” Lucy cried.
“An’ why should I? When you got something I want?” he returned, and his tone was lewd and smug.
“You followed me to New York!”
“Damn right I did!” he laughed and suddenly he grabbed her. “You know what? Maybe we should start over.” And he started to kiss her.
Francesca rushed forward, removing the gun from her purse. “Get your hands off of her!” she cried.
The hoodlum froze, but he did not release Lucy. “What the hell?” And then he saw the gun she held and he laughed.
She pointed the gun at him. “Release her,” she said.
He laughed harder.
Seven
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1902 — 8:00 P.M.
Lucy turned incredulous eyes upon Francesca. As she did, the thug said with a grin, “What is that?”
“I think you know what it is. Let her go,” Francesca said, hoping that her hand was not shaking visibly. But her heart was certainly pounding now. What had Lucy gotten into?
He yanked on Lucy. “We got business to—”
Francesca did not give him a chance to finish. She pointed the gun at his feet and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out loudly in the night.
The thug yelped, releasing Lucy. Francesca thought that she had shot his foot although she had really aimed more at the pavement. He turned disbelieving eyes upon her and their gazes met. His eyes were blue and bloodshot. Then he turned and ran.
Lucy and Francesca looked at each other, stunned. The shot had been surprisingly loud—like the shot from any normally sized gun. Francesca glanced past Lucy. A number of elegant carriages were in the street, moving down it. Window latches were being clicked free, windows pushed out. Heads were popping into sight. Opera glasses were trained upon them.
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