by Brenda Joyce
"Games?" Francesca repeated, as if a dummy who did not understand the meaning of the word.
Leigh Anne turned, continuing to smile in a pleasant manner. "He loves you. He told me so—and I can see it in his eyes when he speaks of you. I suppose I understand. The two of you have a great deal in common. I have heard you are a very active woman politically. I have also heard that you are an accomplished sleuth. I understand why Rick so admires you." Her expression was serious and grave.
How had this woman learned so much about her? Who had been giving her information? "Bragg and I have worked together on several ghastly crimes," she said stiffly. "We are friends."
Leigh Anne's smile was tearful. "Well, he certainly does not consider you a friend, Miss Cahill. I suppose that in a way, this is entirely my fault, for not being with him, at his side, the way a wife should be. I am so sorry that this has happened, Miss Cahill. I really am," she ended softly.
Francesca folded her arms across her chest. The speech was such a perfect one—had she rehearsed it? Surely she did not mean a single word! "Let's dispense with games," she said abruptly, and was pleased to see Leigh Anne start. "You have lived apart from Bragg for four years. Why have you so suddenly returned?"
"Cecelia Thornton," Leigh Anne said simply, no longer smiling, her gaze uncomfortably direct.
"Cecelia Thornton?" Francesca fought to recover a memory on the edge of her recollection.
"She saw you and my husband at the theater and presumed you were both intimate. She lives in Boston and came to me instantly, to warn me of what was happening."
Francesca became even more uncomfortable. Oh, she did remember that moment now, when she and Bragg had been having drinks before the show. They had turned around to find Mrs. Thornton of the Boston Thorntons—a friend of her mother—watching them ever so closely.
"Are you his mistress?" Leigh Anne asked.
Francesca managed to withhold her reflexive urge to gasp. She hesitated, as stiff as any oak board now. Should she lie? If she said yes, would it somehow be to her advantage and to this woman's disadvantage? Should she be honest? Would honesty make Leigh Anne Bragg disappear from their lives?
Francesca did not think that anything she did or said would make the other woman vanish.
"I see," Leigh Anne said coolly. "I do see."
Francesca realized she had taken her silence for acquiescence but did not correct her mistaken assumption. She could always do so at another time. "Why have you returned, Leigh Anne?" She could not utter the words Mrs. Bragg, even though a familiar form of address was incorrect now.
Her gaze narrowed. "He is my husband. My husband has fallen in love with another woman. Surely you did not think I would sit by and allow the two of you to carry on here, for all the world to see?"
"You have nothing to gain by remaining in New York," Francesca said firmly. "Bragg does not love you and a marital separation will hurt him politically."
For a moment Leigh Anne did not speak. She finally smiled. "Bragg claims he loves you. I think he does. But, my dear, he still loves me, as well—he simply refuses to admit it to anyone, much less himself."
Francesca flinched. Her heart beat so hard now. Because she suspected as much and she had for some time.
"You see, we have a bond that can never be severed, Miss Cahill, not by you or anyone. It is hard to explain. Even living apart from him for four years, in a way he was always with me, each and every day. I have never been able to escape that bond, and seeing him today, I know he feels it, too."
Francesca felt her cheeks heat. She believed Leigh Anne's every word. In fact, had she not seen, time and again, Bragg's extreme reaction to her mere name? "What are you going to do?" she managed roughly. She had to know.
"I must ask you the same thing," Leigh Anne returned evenly.
Francesca realized she was still hugging herself. She managed to drop her arms, but her fists clenched automatically. "I don't know."
Leigh Anne absorbed that. "What I will not do is allow Rick to attain a divorce and thus destroy himself, his career, and me."
Francesca jerked and met her gaze.
Leigh Anne stared back for a long moment, her gaze uncompromising now. "But then, he would not be the one destroying himself, now would he?"
She felt herself pale. This was a clever little woman indeed.
"You are the problem here, Miss Cahill, you, not I. In fact, should anyone ever see what Mrs. Thornton has seen, should the newsmen of this city ever learn that you and my husband are lovers, he will be finished politically. And I do believe you are intelligent enough to know that."
Touché. She lifted her chin. She said nothing, because Leigh Anne was right.
Connie's words echoed now, loudly, hurtfully. You are his Achilles' heel, Francesca. ... You are the one who can destroy him. If you love him, you must let him go!
"If you really love him you would never think to put him in such a dangerous position," Leigh Anne said softly.
And Francesca thought, with utter despair, I have lost. She did not speak.
Leigh Anne came forward and laid her hand on France-sea's back, the gesture one of compassion. "I am sorry," she said softly. "I understand what it's like to love my husband. You see, I have never stopped loving him, not even after all of these years."
Francesca fought not to allow a single tear to moisten her eyes. She shifted so Leigh Anne's hand dropped away from her body. "You want him back."
"I hadn't really understood that, not until I saw him this morning. I only came here to prevent you from destroying him, and us. But when I came face-to-face with him, my real feelings became inescapable," she said. "I married a boy with dreams; today, I have seen a great man. How could I not love him?"
"So you are staying," Francesca whispered. And she heard how thick with tears her own tone was.
"I am staying." Leigh Anne's smile was grim. "And I am going to help Rick achieve all of his dreams, Miss Cahill." Their gazes locked. "Every single one."
Chapter Nineteen
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902 — 4:00 P.M.
Francesca walked Leigh Anne to the door, feeling very much removed from herself, as if she were not even in her own body. Avoiding thought—and feelings—now seemed like a priority. Yet it was so terribly difficult to do.
Because beneath the surface veneer there was turmoil and heartbreak and oh so much sickness.
As Leigh Anne was helped on with her chinchilla-and-fox coat, Francesca smiled. How brittle it felt. Leigh Anne slipped on her gloves. "Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Cahill
," she said sweetly as Francis opened the front door for her. And unfortunately, there was nothing saccharine about her. In fact, compassion seemed to lurk in her green eyes.
How Francesca hated her. Francesca nodded, the smile plastered in place, as Joel Kennedy burst into the foyer, stomping snow off his boots. "Miz Cahill, do I got news!" he cried excitedly.
Leigh Anne looked at the small boy in the ragged coat, patched pants, and leather gloves with surprise.
"Have a good day," Francesca said quickly, sick at heart that she felt physically ill. She closed the door in Leigh Anne's face, having taken the task over from Francis. She turned, inhaling hard, shaking. "Joel?"
He grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the doorman. "I found me a bloke who wanted that reward we been askin' for," he said in a stage whisper. "Craddock's been in a heavy card game for two hours now. Saloon's on Thirty-second; we gotta go!"
"What?" she gasped, instantly diverted from the horrid drama that was her own life. Francesca stared, her mind doing cartwheels. "We have found Craddock?"
"Yep, but how long will he stay put? Where's the fly you like so much?" Joel demanded, glancing around as if expecting Bragg to materialize from the thin air in the foyer.
Where was Bragg? She, of course, had no idea. "It will take twenty minutes, at least, to get downtown," she said quickly. "If we go to Hart's, it will take another ten."
"Or more!" Jo
e cried impatiently.
"We cannot lose Craddock," she decided. She raced over to a side table and quickly wrote Bragg a note. "Jonathan! Have this sent over to Calder Hart's at Nine-seventy-three Fifth Avenue this instant! It is a matter of life and death!" she cried, opening a closet herself and dragging out her coat. "Joel, run upstairs and get my purse; you know which one!" She gave him a significant look. Excitement filled her now. They had found Craddock!
"The one with ... ?"
"Yes, that one," she said, knowing he referred to her gun.
Joel took off.
"Bring Jenson about," Francesca said. There was no time for cabs now. They would have to use the Cahill coach.
Jonathan was galvanized into action, while Francesca started to calculate the difference between her time of arrival at the saloon and Bragg's, beginning to perspire. She paced. If she was very lucky, he would only be twenty minutes behind her. But in all likelihood, it would be more than that, as he might not even be back at Hart's yet. It did not matter. They would stick to Craddock like fleas to a dog, until he led them to Chrissy Savage.
Francesca was praying that she was unhurt, that she was alive.
Joel skidded down the stairs and across the entry hall's marble floor. "Got it!" he cried triumphantly.
Francesca took the purse. "Let's go."
As Joel had said, Craddock was immersed in a serious game of cards. The saloon had a closed sign on the front door. It was not locked, however, and after peeking in first to make sure no one was about—and not even the proprietor was in sight—they slipped inside. Joel led her to a closed door on the barroom's other side. It was ajar; and peering around it, Francesca quickly saw a single table filled with six men, each and every one smoking a cigar, drinking whiskey, and silently engrossed in stud poker. One of the six men wore the blue serge uniform of a policeman, which sickened her. Of course a police officer was entitled to a game of cards, but not while on duty, and not with ruffians and crooks. And Craddock sat at an angle to the door—to see her and Joel, he would merely have to turn his head an inch or so to his right.
He was studying his hand. The scar on his cheek was livid in the garish pool of light.
And he had a gun tucked into his belt.
They backed away and looked breathlessly at each other with wide eyes. Francesca wished she had not seen Craddock's gun.
"Now what?" Joel whispered.
"We sit and wait outside for Bragg and his family and perhaps the police," Francesca said, the mere idea of waiting anathema to her. "Or we can try to find and rescue Chrissy," she added on impulse.
Joel grinned at her.
Francesca smiled grimly back, then glanced at the narrow stairs that led upstairs. "We have work to do. Come."
"Women," Joel said. "Harlots up them stairs," he added unnecessarily.
"Let's go," Francesca decided.
He followed her as they hurried up the stairs, which creaked and groaned with every step. They glanced down into the barroom several times, but none of the poker players came running out, demanding to know what they were doing. Upstairs they halted, listening for sounds of activity. There were a few breathy moans and masculine groans coming from behind a door at the end of the hall, but other than that, they heard nothing.
Then they heard a child's laughter.
Francesca and Joel gazed at each other; the sound had come from the first door on their right. Thank God!
Francesca moved. She laid her ear against the rough wood door and heard more laughter and a woman's soft singing. Then, "What a pretty baby you are," the woman said with a smile.
Francesca removed her gun from her purse. She now wished it were an average-sized weapon, which looked far more threatening and not like a toy. Holding it in her left hand was simply not to be borne. Suddenly she tucked the gun in her coat pocket and tore the bandage off her right hand. Her palm was pink and a bit raw, her fingers in a similar condition, but it did not matter now. Clearly she was healing and well on the way to recovery. She retrieved the gun, glad to have it securely in her right hand. She nodded at Joel and made a knocking gesture. Then she flattened herself against the wall. Joel nodded and grinned. He was enjoying himself.
He knocked twice, softly, on the door.
The woman stopped speaking. Chrissy stopped laughing.
Joel knocked again once.
Chrissy said, "Door."
Francesca heard a spring on the bed creak. She heard a floor plank groan. She felt sweat pooling in her cleavage, acutely aware of the woman crossing the room and hesitating before the door.
"Joe?"
Joel glanced at Francesca; she grimaced. He said, "Got a dollar?"
Suddenly the door opened. A woman in a short wrapper and curly blond hair with a tired, worn face appeared. "Go away, boy," she began.
Francesca jammed her gun against the woman's head. "Don't move," she said. "Or I shall blow your head off of your body."
The woman was as frozen as a block of ice. "Don't hurt me! I didn't do nothing! I only followed orders! It's Craddock you want!"
"Joel, grab Chrissy," Francesca ordered, suddenly aware that this was far too easy—and equally aware that Craddock was downstairs and far too close for comfort.
Joel rushed inside and grabbed the beaming little girl. At least she was happy and unhurt. "Let's get out of here," Francesca said. She dashed down the hall, Joel on her heels, saw Craddock, and stopped.
He was coming up the stairs.
He also froze, his expression one of comical disbelief.
"Joel, the other way!" Francesca shouted as her gaze locked with Craddock's.
His eyes had been wide; now he leaped forward looking ready to tear her head off as Francesca turned to flee without even knowing if there was another way out of the saloon. She prayed that there was. She took two steps when he grabbed her coat by the back of the collar. She was yanked backward, and then she was in his viselike grip.
"Joel, run!" she screamed as Craddock's breath feathered her ear, her cheek.
"Now what do I got here? It ain't a Bragg; now look at that. Anyone ever tell you you are one pain in the ass, lady?" he asked roughly.
By craning her neck she was able to just meet his angry blue eyes. His scar stood out in a white arc now on his crimson cheek. He jerked on her harder, enough so, she thought, to crack her ribs. "Drop that fucking gun," he said.
She dropped it.
And saw that Joel had disappeared down a back stairwell. Relief filled her, but when she felt cold steel against her temple it vanished. "You have ruined everything," Craddock said. "Hmm. Wonder what I should do now?"
She twisted and looked him in the eye again.
Cruel pleasure was there. He laughed.
He had never been so angry, but he put his anger far away, beneath resolve and determination. Why did she always have to go off half-cocked on her own? But that was what made her unique and different from every other woman he had ever met, he thought, and it was one of the reasons he loved her.
The coach careened around the corner of Forty-second Street and onto Second Avenue.
"At least we have located Craddock," his father said. Rathe laid his hand on his knee. "And I am certain Francesca and this boy will be all right. She seems like a strong, resourceful, and clever young woman, Rick."
Bragg intended to smile; he felt himself grimace instead. It was clear to him that his entire family knew the depth of his feelings for Francesca.
There was simply no excuse for her to go after Craddock alone. When the case was resolved, with Chrissy safely back in her mother's arms and Craddock behind bars, he would throttle her—and then make love to her.
Which was what he should have done last night.
An image of Leigh Anne crept into his mind; furious, he tried to shove it away to some dusty, forgotten place. Her smiling face simply would not go.
"There is simply no excuse for allowing her to assist in any criminal investigation," Hart said coolly. "She has you twis
ted around her little finger." His black gaze was simmering with fury. It was clear to Bragg that his half brother had not recovered from the fact that Francesca had spent the night with him alone on a train.
Bragg looked at Hart as coldly, wishing he might find another city to go live in. "I think you are the one she has wrapped around her little finger, Calder."
A gun was cocked, the snapping metallic sound harsh and jarring. It was Rourke, and he jammed the revolver in his belt. "This might be a good time for the two of you to lay your differences aside," he said flatly.
A silence greeted his words. The coach was full. Hart, Shoz, and Nicholas D'Archand sat on the rear-facing seat, Shoz with one of Hart's hunting rifles wrapped in an oilskin raincoat. Bragg, Rathe, and Rourke faced them, facing forward. Nicholas, who was eighteen and in his first year at Columbia University, finally spoke. "She is an amazing woman. I have never met a woman so brave and fearless," he said, his silver eyes filled with distinctly male admiration.
Bragg sighed. "She is too old for you."
"Says who?" Nicholas gave him a lazy look.
Bragg decided to ignore his cousin. They were a block from their destination. He rapped on the window and Raoul, Hart's disreputable-looking driver who served more as a bodyguard than anything else, twisted to glance at him. He was joined there by Peter, his own man. Both men were armed. "Sir?"
"Drive slowly past the saloon," Bragg ordered.
Raoul braked and the carriage slowed.
Nicholas and Rourke were seated on the side of the carriage closest to the saloon, which was on the west side of Second Avenue. Everyone strained to peer out the window as they passed. There was a closed sign on the door, and the saloon appeared empty. Bragg glanced out of his own window, at the east side of the avenue. A few other saloons, a grocery store, a milliner, and a tenement were all crammed there. "Raoul, go around the block, quickly now. We will go out on the corner of Thirty-second, between Second and Third," he said.
"What's the plan?" Rourke asked calmly.