Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (20 page)

When she did not speak, he said, “Has Evan been threatened again?”

There was so much relief in sharing this burden. “No.” She swallowed. “God, Calder, I am so afraid for him!”

He hurried to her and this time he took her gently into his arms. “You need not fear for him now. Let me take this to LeFarge myself. He will not dare go after your brother again; I promise you that,” he added grimly, a dangerous light in his eyes.

She swallowed, trying not to think about being held by this man, against his broad, muscular chest. Oddly, along with the terrible attraction she felt for him, now she also felt safe. “You would do this for me—I mean, for Evan?” she whispered, moved almost to tears again.

“I am doing this for you,” he said softly. “Let us be clear on that point.”

She smiled and sniffled again.

“Come.” He strode around his desk, taking her arm. “Enough maudlin humor. I have a meeting uptown. Can I give you a lift? I also wish to discuss Friday evening with you.”

She nodded, smiling a little. “That would be very nice, Calder. And what is Friday evening?”

“I would like to take you to a new exhibition at the Gallery Duval, followed by dinner at my favorite restaurant. Rourke will chaperon us,” he added with obvious amusement at the thought.

She stiffened as they left his huge office. And then she thought,
Why not
? The evening would be an enjoyable one, and if she did not accept, she would wind up going to someone’s dinner party with her parents. And that would be, as always, uninteresting and dull. “I gladly accept,” Francesca said with a real smile. In fact, she looked forward to the evening.

Mr. Edwards came rushing forward with her coat and gloves. Hart lifted a brow. “That was surprisingly easy,” he said.

“You see,” she flirted. “I shall always keep you on your toes.”

He laughed, taking her coat from Edwards and wrapping it around her himself. “That is a part of my calculations,” he murmured softly.

“I do have one small favor to ask of you,” Francesca said, as Joel joined them. “May we stop briefly at Number Two-oh-two East Tenth Street? It will save me a trip downtown later tonight.”

“Of course.” But his gaze narrowed now as he accepted his own black wool coat from Edwards. “And whom are we calling on?”

“A vagrant, Hart. A drunken vagrant who I hope was a witness to Grace Conway’s murder.”

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY 20, 1902—7:00 P.M.

“. . .
BABY WILL FALL, CRADLE
and all, ha ha ha!”

“Francesca, this woman is too drunk to have seen anything. Not only that, she is mad!” Hart exclaimed, at once grim and exasperated.

The gray-haired woman sat on the very same stoop adjacent to Number 202 that she had occupied on Tuesday night when Grace Conway’s body had first been found. She was a heavy woman of indeterminate age, with unkempt and dirty gray hair that stuck out from her filthy brown wool cap. Her overcoat had large holes, and beneath it Francesca glimpsed a thin cotton shift. Now the woman’s chubby cheeks were brilliantly red, undoubtedly because the bucket of beer was already half-empty. She continued to sing “Rock a Bye Baby,” frequently making up the words, and every so often breaking into laughter.

“We should go,” Hart said, annoyed. He was the epitome of elegance in his black coat, fine black gloves, and highly
polished French calf shoes. He did not wear a hat. Francesca had never seen him with his head covered.

“No,” she said, sitting down beside the drunken woman. “Hello,” she tried with a smile.

The drunk ignored her—or maybe she hadn’t heard her—or, as she did not even look at her, maybe she didn’t even know that someone had sat beside her. She swilled from her bucket. Quite a bit of beer sloshed down the front of her coat. She smelled sour, but it was more than beer.

“Don’t sit there,” Hart said, reaching for Francesca’s arm. “She may be diseased, for God’s sake! And the lice! She hasn’t had a bath in a year, I think.”

“Hart,” Francesca protested. “Give me a moment.”

The woman looked up suddenly. “Bugger off, asshole,” she said directly to Hart.

He froze.

So did Francesca.

The woman grumbled, “Had a bath mebbe a month ago. Willits Bath House.” She started singing again.

Francesca took her arm, ignoring Hart’s disapproving groan. “What is your name? I am Francesca Cahill, and I do wish to speak with you!”

“Rockabye baby, rockabye baby, ha ha ha!” she crowed.

“This is a waste of time.”

Francesca glared at Hart. “You have become a sulky child! Next time, I will not bring you along!”

He glared in return. “I cannot believe my brother allows you to participate in these investigations.”

She sighed, ignoring him. “Miss, please! I do need your help! Please tell me your name,” Francesca begged now.

The woman did not look at her. It was as if she had not heard her, but Francesca knew now that she had. She started to mumble to herself. “Why don’t they help? What did I do! Oh, God, It’s cold tonight! Damn leatherheads! Not fair . . . Not fair at all. I want it back, I do! My good Sunday dress, that pretty blue hat . . .”

“She’s mad,” Hart said, quietly now.

Francesca stood, hoping that was not the case. “I need to clean her up, get coffee and food into her.”

His eyes popped. Hart was a master of self-control, and she had never seen him so unmasked and so stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Please give us a ride home.”

“You . . . and her?” He was disbelieving, his eyes wide. Then, “Absolutely not!”

“What if the killer comes back for Sarah?” Francesca cried, grabbing his arm. Their gazes locked. “I know she is drunk and unclean, but I suspect she sees and knows more than she lets on. And we do not know that she is mad! I also suspect she is here frequently. Please, Hart! All I ask is that you help me get her into your coach and that you drop us at my home.”

“Your mother will murder you—and never allow me in your door again,” he said darkly.

“Mama adores you and you know it. She will be thrilled if you ever tell her you seek to marry me. Now do help.” She turned and began to lift the old woman to her feet, slinging one arm over her shoulder and heaving her bulk up with all of her might.

The woman cried out. Then, “Help me! Help me! Agh, help me! Murders and monsters!” she screamed.

The woman sagged, resisting and almost bringing Francesca down to the ground. Francesca stared at her. “Murders and monsters?” she cried.

“Helppp!” the woman screamed.

“Oh, God,” Hart snapped. He effortlessly heaved the screaming old woman over his shoulder, upside down, much to Francesca’s amazement. Not looking at her, he started for the gleaming elegant barouche parked with his driver, Raoul, standing by the first of the six horses. The blacks in the traces were magnificent, the entire rig as out of place in the neighborhood as Calder Hart himself. “You can clean her up in my kitchen,” he said, sounding furious. “But do not tell your mother that I have participated in this madness.”

Francesca grinned. Calder was afraid of Julia, too, and she intended not to forget it. The knowledge would most definitely come in handy one day.

And then the woman who was screaming, “Help! Murder! Monsters!” as she was toted to Hart’s coach on his shoulder, ceased her noise. She looked up from her contorted position, met Francesca’s gaze, grinned, and winked.

Francesca blinked.

A crowd had gathered in Calder Hart’s enormous kitchen.

The woman sat at the table where the servants dined, now completely bathed, her hair washed and pinned up, and wearing one of the housemaid’s uniforms—a plain black dress with a starched white collar. She was drinking her third cup of coffee and eating from her second plate of beef and potatoes. She was ravenous, and now that she was clean and clothed, she looked like anyone’s kindhearted, chubby-cheeked grandmother.

Francesca was the only one seated at the table, just opposite her. Grace Bragg, stepmother to Rick and foster mother to Calder, stood beside her, as did her daughter, Lucy Savage. Both women were beautiful, tall and voluptuous with slender waists and brilliant red hair. Grace was dressed for an evening out—she wore a green evening gown with diamond jewelry. Lucy wore a blue day dress. The only difference between mother and daughter other than their years and the length of their hair—as Lucy’s was very long—was the fact that Grace wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that kept slipping down her nose.

Rourke and his father, Grace’s husband, Rathe, stood in the doorway, arms folded across their chests. Both men were dressed for an evening on the town as well. As they thoroughly resembled one another, being golden-eyed, dark blond, and very handsome, any observer would instantly realize that they were father and son.

A dozen servants observed the interloper from their respective stations in the huge kitchen, which boasted several
ovens and three stoves, two fireplaces, and two long work tables.

“I would have never believed it,” Lucy said. “You have done an admirable job, Francesca. She could be in Hart’s employ.”

Before Francesca could respond, the woman paused with fork lifted and said, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to talk about a soul when she can hear?”

Lucy flushed, coming forward. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

Francesca leaned toward the woman. “Can we start over?” She smiled. “I am Francesca Cahill. The gentleman who brought us here is Calder Hart, and this is his home. Do you have a name?”

“Your gentleman friend is as rich as Hades,” the woman said, “and a jackass.”

Lucy tittered.

Francesca smiled and said, “He can be a thorough pain, but he has his redeeming moments. This is his family. His parents, Rathe and Grace Bragg, his sister and brother, Lucy and Rourke.” There was no point in explaining that Hart wasn’t actually related to any of the Braggs at all.

The woman sat up straighter. “Braggs? Braggs are in the room?”

Francesca nodded curiously. “Indeed they are. So you know of the family?”

“There was a lawyer named Bragg. In Boston. He took care of my son.”

A hush fell upon the room. Francesca’s heart beat hard. She heard someone enter but did not look away. “That would be Rick Bragg. He is the commissioner of police in the city here.”

“My son was innocent. But everyone said he killed his wife.” Tears moistened her eyes but did not fall. “Bragg believed him. He was the only one who believed him, the only one who would take his case.”

Francesca’s heart swelled with what felt like love and with real pride. Spending the afternoon with Hart had almost made her forget the traits she truly admired in a man—selfless
charity and the strongest sense of justice, both personal and otherwise. She smiled. “He is a good friend of mine.”

“My name is Ellie,” the woman said suddenly, and she gazed now coldly across the room. “An’ I don’t like bein’ manhandled by a man, not even one as handsome as the Devil.”

Francesca turned and saw that Hart had entered the room, also in his tuxedo. Her heart stopped. He was going out. That was not unusual; still, she was dismayed, when she should not care. She told herself that he was probably going out with his family. She didn’t really believe it. He was going out with a beautiful woman; of that she had no doubt.

“I apologize,” Hart said, coming forward to stand with his hand on the back of Francesca’s chair. Her nape prickled in response to his nearness. “But I do think the bath and good meal have done wonders for you.”

Ellie’s eyes moistened precariously now, and she nodded, looking down. “Thank you for the hot bath and hot food,” she whispered roughly. “An’ the clean clothes.”

Francesca could not help herself—she reached out and covered Ellie’s hand. “You may keep the dress.” She didn’t hesitate. “I have need of a housemaid. Would you like to be employed at my home? We live a few blocks downtown.” She smiled warmly.

Ellie stared.

Hart said warningly, “Do you think that is a good idea, Francesca?”

Francesca ignored him.

“You really need a maid? I could do it—I worked in a factory, but I could learn. I’m smart, I am,” Ellie cried eagerly.

Francesca smiled. “You are now employed.”

“God bless you,” Ellie gasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Francesca? May I have a word with you . . . privately? Now,” Hart said. There was nothing about his tone that indicated he was asking her a question. He was very grim.

Francesca stood and said to Ellie, “Eat up. When you’re done, we will take a hansom home.”

Ellie wiped her eyes, nodding. And then, “Miss Cahill?”

Francesca paused. “Yes?”

“Why did you do this? Why did you seek me out?”

Francesca hesitated. “A very popular actress lived in Number Two-oh-two, the building next door to where I found you. She was murdered this last Monday. I had wondered if you might have seen something odd or unusual.”

Ellie paled. “I seen plenty,” she murmured.

Francesca rushed forward. “Did you know Miss Conway? Surely you don’t mean that you saw her murdered!”

“I knew her. How could I not? She was a beautiful redhead, like that lady over there.” She nodded at Lucy. “She always gave me a half dollar when she saw me. She was so kind. Everyone knew she was a real stage actress.”

Francesca grabbed her hands. “What did you see?”

“A monster,” Ellie whispered.

For one moment Francesca did not understand. And then she was disappointed, thoroughly so. “A monster?”

Ellie nodded, her eyes wide—frightened. “A big man with no eyes and no mouth,” she said.

“What?” Francesca gasped.

“I saw a monster. I saw him go into her building, I did. I don’t remember when, but he was a monster, no eyes, no mouth—I ain’t never seen anything like it!”

A silence fell over the room.

Francesca did not believe in monsters. She could only assume Ellie had been terribly drunk and hallucinating—or perhaps the monster she spoke of had been a result of a drunken dream.

“Francesca?” Hart grasped her elbow, his tone firm.

She met his gaze and tried to smile, so he would not know how absurdly disappointed she was, and followed him from the kitchen. In the hallway, her smile faded as she recalled that he had undoubtedly drawn her aside to chastise her for hiring Ellie. She prepared for an unpleasant battle.