Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  "Because someone might think you decided to get rid of your unwanted mistress, Evan!"

  He understood and blanched.

  Francesca faced Bragg with hands on her hips. "Which we both know he would never do," she said defensively.

  "You and I do know that," Bragg said. "But the world does not."

  "Bragg, Evan was attacked by LaFarge's thugs on Monday afternoon. Grace Conway was murdered Tuesday evening. So let the world leap to erroneous conclusions if it will!"

  Bragg said slowly, "Actually, the coroner has stated that Miss Conway has been dead for some time."

  At first she didn't understand. "What?"

  "In case you did not notice, Miss Neville's apartment was frigidly cold."

  For a moment she couldn't speak. Then, "When does he think Miss Conway was murdered?"

  "Twenty-four to thirty-six hours before her body was found by Mr. Bennett."

  Her mind raced. "Bennett found her at half past seven on Tuesday night."

  "That's correct," Bragg said, and they stared at each other.

  It was Evan who spoke up from the bed. "Which means I could have murdered her before I was attacked on Monday afternoon."

  Bragg turned. "Yes. Miss Conway was apparently murdered sometime between Monday morning and Monday night."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wednesday, February 19, 1902—noon

  There had been a time when it had been easy to get up in the morning, to bathe, eat a slice of toast, take some tea, dress. It felt like it had been years ago, the life of another, different woman. Now, her morning routine had become a vast, tiring chore, one difficult to accomplish and complete. As Connie started downstairs in the home that had been a wedding present from her father, she was stunned to realize that it had only been a month ago that she had been a happily married woman. Now, the hurt she carried with her night and day continued to weigh her down and remind her that she should have never trusted Neil.

  He was the last person she would have ever dreamed would hurt her.

  Neil. His handsome face filled her mind, but his turquoise eyes were accusing. Panicked, she shoved his image aside. He was the traitor to their marriage, he was the one who had lied and committed adultery, and she was the one suffering now.

  Connie did not know what to do. Other women would look graciously the other way, pretend all was well, and continue on as if nothing dire had happened. That was her mother's advice. Connie knew she must continue on, somehow, yet she knew she simply wasn't strong enough to do so. And that left her in a terrible dilemma, because divorce was simply not a part of her vocabulary.

  She continued downstairs, clad in a dusky blue skirt that she had never liked, clasping the smooth wood banister. Their home was a magnificent one, just around the block from her parents' mansion, on Madison Avenue and 62d Street. It had four stories, vaulted ceilings, marble fireplaces, and two guest suites. It had been built during the year of their engagement, an engagement that had happened within weeks of their first meeting and Neil's whirlwind courtship. Connie no longer knew what to think of her memories. Once, she had treasured each and every one. Once, she had known that Neil had fallen in love with her just as she had with him. Now, she wondered. Their marriage was a typical one; he was an impoverished British lord, she a wealthy American heiress. Perhaps he had never loved her at all. Perhaps he had married her for her money and she had been so foolish as to think his gallantry was love.

  Connie brushed several tears aside as she crossed the ground floor. She felt fairly certain that she had a luncheon that day, but she intended to cancel it. She knew she must continue on with her girlfriends and the wives of Neil's associates—she knew it as surely as if Julia had insisted she do so. But how could she? The whole city knew of Neil's affair. She simply could not smile over grilled sea bass at the Hotel Astor, and pretend that nothing was wrong. And she was tired of the almost gleeful looks on the other ladies' faces. Fran had once told Connie that her marriage was the envy of society; she had already known that quite a few of her friends adored her husband. She knew that if, God forbid, anything had ever happened to her, Neil would not remain a bachelor for long.

  She heard the girls then. Charlotte was laughing and Lucinda was howling in protest. Connie smiled. Her heart warmed. And for one moment, as she listened to the girls, she forgot about Neil, and the pain of his betrayal faded; for one instant, she was Connie Cahill Montrose again, a vibrant, beautiful happy woman with a perfect husband, a perfect marriage, a perfect life.

  Connie hurried into the family room, a small, cozy parlor where she often read to the girls while Neil listened and browsed through a newspaper.

  Her two daughters, the one three and precocious, the other just eight months old, were both on the floor. Charlotte was playing with her dolls and mercilessly teasing the howling Lucinda. Mrs. Partridge, their nanny, was scolding Charlotte, but she was ignoring the tall governess. She was as stubborn as her Aunt Fran.

  "Charlotte, that isn't fair," Connie said swiftly, hurrying forward. "You must share your dolls with your sister." She knelt beside them both.

  Charlotte leaped up to wrap her arms tightly around Connie's neck. "Mommy, Mommy! Mommy, Mommy!" she cried.

  Connie hugged her back and thought, aghast, Dear God, in my grief I have been neglecting my daughters! It was one thing to cancel luncheons and teas, to beg off evening affairs, to avoid her husband, and quite another to have become careless with her own children, whom she treasured more than life itself. "Darling, you are squeezing every drop of air from my lungs; I can hardly breathe," she said gently.

  Charlotte released her. "How beautiful you look!" she cried, as if surprised. "How pretty your dress is! Mommy, you aren't sick anymore? Daddy said you were sick. He said we must allow you to sleep, that we must be very quiet. That we mustn't disturb you!"

  Connie bit her lip, filled with guilt and moved to tears. The pain returned—she could imagine Neil softly telling the girls how to behave for their mother's sake. He would have Charlotte on his lap, explaining very seriously what she must and must not do. Then he would address Lucinda as if she understood his every word, which of course she did not. But Lucinda would have gurgled happily anyway. Both girls adored their father.

  How had it come to this? Their life had been so perfect, once!

  "Mommy? Don't cry," Charlotte whispered, tugging at her skirts.

  Connie sat fully down on the floor, Charlotte crawling quickly onto her lap. "Darling, I am not crying; I merely have dust in my eye." She smiled brightly. "What shall we do today, sweetheart?"

  "Will you take us to the park, then? Or can we go shopping? Can you buy me a new doll? Or a bonnet with a red ribbon?" Charlotte asked eagerly.

  Connie laughed and it felt good. Although Charlotte resembled Connie exactly, with her perfect oval face, fine features, and bright blue eyes, and she was platinum blond, a shade or two lighter than her mother, she was so much like Francesca in character. Charlotte's nature was a demanding and curious one. It had never ceased to amaze Connie that she had such a bold and clever daughter.

  "I will take both of you shopping," Connie decided, as it was too cold to play in the park. The idea of dressing up the girls and taking them to Lord & Taylor became distinctly appealing. However, the evening that loomed ahead worried her—they always had plans; they always went out. Recently Connie had been begging off with a migraine. "Mrs. Partridge? Do you have any idea what plans my husband has made for this evening?"

  "I think he said something about a birthday ball," the nanny responded, smiling at her. And Connie realized she saw relief in the governess's eyes.

  Connie stood, dismayed. A ball was an endless affair. She did not want to go—she had no intention of going-Neil could attend without her. He had been attending most functions these days alone. The birthday must be Letitia Hardwick's. Letitia was a good friend, and once upon a time Connie had adored balls. Now she paused. Letitia was a very sultry brunette who frankly admired Neil. She had told
Connie many times how lucky she was to be married to such a man. Letitia's husband was older, unattractive, and severe. Connie was suddenly afraid.

  She was afraid that Letitia would try to seduce Neil behind her back.

  She told herself not to be absurd. Letitia was her friend. On the other hand, her only real friend was Fran, and Connie suspected but did not know for a fact that Letitia already had had several affairs.

  "Connie," Neil said from behind her, surprise in his tone.

  She stiffened. All of the joy she had been feeling vanished. There was dread and dismay, but there was also hope.

  She turned and intended to smile, but her frozen facial muscles would not respond. Yet her heart quickened treacherously. She would always find him handsome. No one was more attractive than he.

  But he was not noble. He had only pretended to be.

  Neil was smiling at her, but his expression was strained and there was worry and anxiety in his gaze. "You look wonderful," he said.

  "Good morning," Connie said evenly. "I hadn't realized you were home."

  Disappointment covered his features. She stiffened, because she knew him so well and she knew her cold manner was hurting him. But this was what he deserved. Wasn't it? "This is a wonderful surprise," he said huskily. "How glad I am to see you. Are you feeling better?" he asked. He had shoved his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, as if he did not know what to do with them.

  "Actually, I do feel better." She smiled grimly, fortifying herself against him.

  "That is wonderful," he said, clearly meaning it. He smiled at her, but uncertainly. "Did you have breakfast yet? Can I order you some toast and tea?"

  "I'm not hungry," Connie said flatly. And she looked her husband in the eye, daring him to dispute her.

  A silence fell.

  "Mommy, we had pancakes this morning! They were so delicious!" Charlotte cried, tugging on Connie's hand but glancing anxiously back and forth between her parents.

  Connie bit her lip, realizing that her daughter was fully aware of the tension between her and Neil. She bent down. "You know what, darling? I would love some of Cook's pancakes—with maple syrup, too."

  "I'll tell Cook to make you a fine breakfast, Lady Montrose," Mrs. Partridge said with a smile.

  "Thank you," Neil told her.

  Charlotte now ran to Neil. "Daddy will have a second breakfast with you, Mommy," she announced.

  Connie tensed. "I'm sure your father has business affairs to attend to."

  Charlotte's expression became mulish. "No, he doesn't. He's having breakfast with you. Isn't that right, Daddy?" She turned and gave her father an amazingly significant look for a child of three.

  Connie could hardly believe it, but her little daughter was playing matchmaker.

  "We will all keep your mother company while she dines," Neil said firmly. Then his turquoise gaze found Connie's.

  Their eyes held.

  Connie felt herself flush and she looked away first.

  "I have missed you, Connie," Neil said quietly.

  She started, dismayed, and if the children hadn't been present, she would have run away. Instead, she faced him with a brittle smile. "I've hardly been away, Neil."

  "They miss you, too," he said, referring to the girls.

  She could hardly breathe. "Don't do this."

  "Don't do what? Tell you the truth? That I love you and I miss you?" he asked, his brilliant gaze intense.

  Connie stared, her hands clenched. How dare he talk about the truth when he had lied to her! In fact, she wanted him out of the house!

  But there was another part of her that wanted her marriage back. That wanted Neil back.

  Neil's resolute expression crumbled. "I see I am talking to a brick wall," he said, turning away.

  "Mommy isn't a brick wall," Charlotte said in confusion. "Mommy still loves you, Daddy. I know it!"

  Neil whirled, aghast.

  Connie was as stricken. She raced to her daughter. "Of course I love your father," she cried, and although the words were reflexive, she closed her eyes, horrified. Because she had spoken the truth.

  Somehow, impossibly, she still loved her husband. In spite of what he had done.

  But hadn't she been the one to chase him into the arms of another woman?

  Connie knew the rules of a good marriage. They had been instilled within her as a part of her education while she was growing up. It was the wife who always admitted that she was wrong, whether it was the truth or not. It was the wife who always gracefully took the blame, if there was blame to be had. Wives did not argue with their spouses. If one's husband wished to tell you that he had just climbed Mount Rainier, one must agree—cheerfully. Wives were elegant, genteel, well dressed, and well coiffed. And a wife never refused her husband's sexual advances.

  But Connie had done just that.

  She had made it clear to Neil after Lucinda's birth that she did not want him to touch her. She had made it clear that she did not want to share her favors. She found love-making shameful. Or rather, she was ashamed of what happened to her in bed. No one had to tell her that ladies simply did not behave like whores, as she certainly did.

  Charlotte raced to Neil, beaming. "See? I told you, Daddy. You don't have to be so sad anymore."

  Connie clasped her hand over her mouth to hide a gasp.

  In return, Neil gave her a very angry look, one that said, This is what you are doing to the children! But ever the gentleman, at least on the surface, he said, strained, "May I take you and the girls for a carriage ride in Central Park? It is a beautiful day."

  "I am taking them shopping," Connie said. "I promised Charlotte."

  He kept his face rigid, but she knew him so well, and she saw more hurt and disappointment in his eyes. "Very well," he said softly. "I see mat I am intruding. That was not my intention. I mink it is a grand idea, a day of shopping for the ladies." He smiled down at Charlotte.

  "But you can come, too, Daddy," Charlotte said. "We can all go, together."

  Connie could not bear the idea. "Charlotte, your father has appointments to keep. It shall be a day just for us ladies. We shall have so much fun! Perhaps, as the weather is clement, we shall do the Ladies' Mile."

  Charlotte pouted, looking displeased.

  Neil said, without any emotion, "Your mother is right. I do have many business affairs to attend to. I will see you all later." With that, he swept Charlotte up for a hug, kissed Lucinda warmly, and strode out, not sparing Connie a single backward glance.

  She stared after him, stunned.

  And she was afraid. For it occurred to her that she was about to really lose her husband.

  The Channing residence was on the West Side, commonly referred to as "Dakota" by Manhattan's residents, as it was so far away from everything and everyone. Sarah's mother, Abigail Channing, had been widowed for the past few years, and she had built herself a huge and grotesquely ornate mansion with her dead husband's money. Ignoring the many gargoyles glaring at her and Bragg, Francesca paused on the front stone steps. A tall, round tower reminiscent of medieval times graced each corner of the house.

  Bragg spoke briefly to the uniformed roundsman standing on the paved walk not far from the front door. "Any trouble at all last night or this morning?"

  "No, sir," the young man said nervously. He smiled at Bragg.

  Bragg did not notice. "Anyone suspicious lurking about? Any odd visitors or deliveries?"

  "Not a single visitor, Commissioner, sir." The blond man almost saluted Bragg now as he spoke.

  Francesca bit back a smile and saw Newman huffing and puffing as he raced up the stone path toward them, having just alighted from a cab. She banged the door knocker twice. "You have instilled the fear of God in them," she murmured.

  "I doubt that, but there will be another round of demotions next week." He smiled at her.

  Francesca was surprised. "Why?" He had already demoted 300 wardsmen, reassigning many detectives to foot patrol. By breaking up unit after u
nit, he had hoped to stop the graft, corruption, and bribery rampant in the force.

  "There have been rumors of a series of shakedowns in Germantown. I suspect a showdown with Tammany Hall is imminent."

  Francesca did not like the sound of that, and her heart lurched with fear. It had been a miracle, really, that Seth Low, a Citizen's Union candidate, had won the mayor's office from the Democrats and Tammany Hall. In spite of being opposed by the likes of Odell and Platt, Tammany Hall was an extremely powerful political force—that is, they lured German factory workers to the polls with outright bribes of beer and cash. Bragg was but one man. She did not want to see him take on such a huge and significant battle, not alone.

  Understanding her completely, he said softly, "I will be fine, Francesca."

  She breathed hard. "I do hope so."

  Newman reached them, breathlessly greeting them both. "Sir? We got a lead on Miss Conway. Apparently a week ago—Bennett thinks it was the Monday or Tuesday before last—she had a huge row with a man. He could hear her shouting and all kinds of objects being thrown around her flat." Bragg avoided Francesca completely while she was grim and resigned. It had obviously been a terrible row, she thought.

  Bragg hesitated. "Do we know who that man was?"

  Newman was grim. He flushed, darting a glance at Francesca. "Er, seems she had a lover. Might have been someone, er, named, er, Evan, er, Cahill."

  Bragg sighed. Francesca clasped Newman's arm, deciding to take him off the hook. "I know she was my brother's mistress, Inspector, and I also know that he broke up with her last week. But he is not a murderer. He would never do such a thing."

  Newman was grim. "I got to tell the c'mish the facts, Miz Cahill. I am sorry," he added.

  "Let's keep this quiet, Newman," Bragg said. "As I do not want the newsmen of this city getting their hands on this and blowing it all out of proportion. It will only make finding the real killer that much harder."

  "Yes, sir. Didn't tell a soul. Except Hickey was with me, of course, when we interviewed Mr. Bennett again."