Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (27 page)

Why? The doorman had accepted the bribe but had then had to ask permission to allow him in. He had used his real name, considering it an asset in this particular instance, and while he was engaged to the woman investigating the missing girls, he highly doubted that news would have reached the ears of the management of this club. Not yet, anyway.
He smiled charmingly at the woman and took her hand. “Madame?” He spoke the word as the French did—he found the anglicized version too harsh and ugly. “I am Calder Hart, at your service.” He bowed over her hand. Her gaze did not flicker. “Thank you for allowing me entrance into your establishment.”

She inclined her head, the slight gesture quite regal. “Mr. Hart. I do believe your reputation precedes you. I am flattered to have you with us tonight.” She smiled as charmingly back at him. “I am Solange Marceaux, and you may call me Madame Marceaux. Until we are better acquainted.”

He knew her first words were false. Why? She should be thrilled to have a man of his wealth in her club. And what did that last statement mean? “The Jewel’s reputation is quite well known as well.” He smiled and glanced around. “I am impressed.”

Her smile slipped easily back on. “That is difficult to believe; nevertheless, I am pleased. Would you like a drink? A cigar? A bite of supper, perhaps? Our chef is from Paris. He is superb and he is serving a wild duck in a peach brandy sauce tonight.”

“I am afraid I have already dined, but a scotch would be nice.”

She turned and a beautiful young woman of about eighteen appeared, her dark eyes sultry and inviting, a pleased smile on her lips. She had dark milky skin, suggesting some African-American heritage, and she wore a magenta gown that revealed a good portion of her small breasts.

“Linda, please get Mr. Hart a glass of our finest Scotch whiskey.”

Linda smiled seductively at him and left to obey. As he turned back to his hostess, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face, and his heart skipped. He did not, however, look back again at Rose.

But as he calmed, he thought about the fact that his mistress’s lover was present at the club. And while he had stopped seeing Daisy the moment he had become engaged
to Francesca last month, he had allowed her to remain in the house he had bought for her until the end of the term they had agreed upon for their affair—which would be in another four and a half months. Hart had discovered Daisy on the street one day and had mistaken her for a lady. He had soon realized she was a prostitute, and, rather taken with her unusual beauty, he had gone to visit her at the brothel where she worked. There he had met her lover, Rose. One thing had led to another, and before long he was in bed with them both. The fact that Rose was present now was a problem. She had been furious with him for his setting Daisy up as his mistress. And undoubtedly Rose also knew about his engagement to Francesca, as Daisy had surely told her. She hated Hart with a vengeance and he did not trust her for an instant.

“So what brings you to the Jewel, Mr. Hart?”

“Boredom,” he said with a smile.

Both of her pale brows lifted—she was hardly impressed. “I can hardly imagine a man like you being bored. But I am sure we can remedy that.”

“I have little doubt. Which is why I am here,” Hart said easily. He now felt eyes upon his back and knew Rose was staring at him.

“Shall we adjourn to my office? We can discuss the matter of your boredom there.” Solange Marceaux smiled at him.

Hart agreed and followed her past the two salons and into a lavish sitting room. The door to the adjoining bedroom was open, and he glimpsed an elegant bedroom with gold wainscoting on the ceiling, jade-green fabric walls, and matching brocade draperies. The furniture in both rooms was antique.

He turned back to his hostess, who had been watching him, and took the seat she gestured at. “Your rooms are quite elegant.”

She sat in a facing chair, the sofa and a small table between them. “I have heard the same about your home, Mr. Hart. Now, how may I help you?”

At that moment, there was a knock and Linda appeared with his scotch and another drink, which looked like ice water. She smiled at Hart as she handed him his drink, then looked inquiringly at Solange. “You may go,” Solange said. “Please make certain that we have no interruptions.”

When Linda was gone, Solange set her glass untouched on the table between them. “What is your pleasure, Mr. Hart?”

“I am looking for innocence,” he said. “And beauty, of course.”

She did not bat an eye. “And the age preference?”

“Fourteen perhaps. Thirteen might do. But no older than fourteen.”

Solange smiled politely at him as she stood. She paced slowly to the fireplace behind where they sat and paused, one hand on the white marble mantel there. She faced Hart. “I am afraid you are in the wrong establishment. While we offer various types of entertainment for you patrons, we do not offer children.”

Hart settled back in the chair, crossing his legs, taking a sip of his scotch. “This is excellent,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Can we possibly amuse you with mere beauty? We have many beautiful young women here, Mr. Hart. I have a magnificent redhead who is only sixteen.”

He shrugged with elaborate indifference. “My dear Madame Marceaux, I have had many mistresses of that age. I am looking for unspoiled innocence in the extreme. And I will pay handsomely to attain it.”

She stared. Then, “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

He stood. “Then you are right, I am in the wrong place tonight.” But he smiled warmly at her.

She approached and touched him for the first time, her hand lying lightly on his forearm. “I hate for you to leave unsated tonight. It is late. Perhaps you might wish to briefly amuse yourself. It is on the house.” She met his gaze.

Her eyes were pale gray and simply impossible to read. She did not remove her hand. He wondered if she was
offering herself—he sensed that—yet she was undoubtedly a master of the game and could probably beat him in a poker game, or come damned close to it. If she was offering herself, it was very hard to say.

He thought about Rose. She hated him, but she had to be thrilled that he was no longer sleeping with Daisy. And he did not know whether Solange Marceaux was telling him the truth. If she did traffic in child whores, she probably wished to test him. Had he not been engaged to Francesca, it would be so very easy to bed her and get the information he wanted from her. However, he would have to find a different way to achieve his ends.

He smiled at her. “Perhaps you are right.”

She held his gaze with her lovely yet remarkably cool gray eyes for one more moment and dropped her hand. She smiled, inclining her head.

“I saw a magnificent woman when I first walked in, dark skin, dark hair, sloe eyes. I know her from Madam Pinke’s. Her name is Rose. Perhaps she is available?”

If Solange Marceaux was surprised, if she was disappointed, it was impossible to see. She did not even blink. “A good choice,” she said. “Rose is magnificent, as you have said, and she is the kind of woman capable of sating a man like yourself. I believe she is free tonight. Excuse me,” she said, and she smiled.

He was alarmed, as he had no wish for Rose and Solange Marceaux to speak about him with his not being there. Rose might say too much; in fact, he rather thought she would. “Madame Marceaux, excuse me, you did not let me finish,” he said smoothly.

She turned back to him, and for the very first time that night, he thought, her expression changed—he thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I am sorry.”

He smiled and said, “I do not want Rose for myself.”

She seemed to stiffen. “Oh.”

He had finally won, and he smiled even more, thrilling
now before the final blow. “I would like to amuse myself by watching Rose with another woman,” he said.

She knew. Her smile was gone.

“And that woman would be you,” he said.

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
30, 1902—9:00
A.M
.

F
RANCESCA HAD BEEN TOLD
she could use the carriage as long as she was home by noon. She had taken that to mean that her parents needed the coach back at noon, not herself, so she intended to send Jennings back with it after he dropped her off downtown. Now, having told him to wait, she paused before the rusted iron gate in front of the St. James Cemetery.

It was a dreary morning, cold and windy and threatening rain. Francesca wore a heavy wool coat, and as she stared through the iron bars at the small churchyard cemetery, a centuries-old stone church not far from where the coach was parked, she shivered, but not from the cold. It was an awful day to meander among the small, plain headstones and grave markers, looking for a twelve-year-old girl’s grave. Nor did she look forward to setting up shop on the corner of 10th Street in order to interview the forty-one
people claiming to have information about Emily O’Hare’s disappearance.

She wondered what Hart had found out last night.

Francesca sighed and pushed open the gate, its hinges squeaking loudly. It must have rained in the night or dawn, as the grass underfoot was very damp, while the stone path in the center of the graveyard was mostly overgrown with weeds. Francesca vaguely disliked cemeteries and this one was no exception—it felt dismal, sad. She scanned the headstone at her right—the person buried there had died twenty years ago. She moved forward, past markers dated in the two previous decades. Her heart was not in this. She fervently hoped that John Cooper had lied and his daughter was alive and well. Claiming that she was dead was, after all, the perfect excuse to cover up her disappearance. Francesca dreaded finding out otherwise.

Francesca increased her pace. If Bonnie was dead, hers had to be the newest grave in the cemetery—or one of them. At the far end, she saw some stones that were brightly white and one had freshly turned-up earth beside it. She hurried down the overgrown path, slipping once on the slick stones.

The first white stone read: “Mark Johnson, May He Rest In Peace, 1858-1902.” She was briefly relieved, and she turned to the even smaller marker beside it. She froze.

A bouquet of wildflowers lay beside it.

B
ONNIE
C
OOPER
D
EARLY
B
ELOVED
D
AUGHTER OF
J
OHN AND
R
ITA
C
OOPER
M
AY I
, I889–F
EBRUARY
27, 1902

Francesca inhaled, stunned. Bonnie Cooper was dead. Her father had been telling the truth.

Then she straightened.

But the date on the grave was wrong, wasn’t it?

Francesca stared at the fresh grave. Bonnie Cooper had disappeared February 10—Mrs. Hopper had said so.

Today was the thirtieth of March. Meaning that Bonnie had died a month ago—approximately two full weeks after she had disappeared.

“Hey, mister, wait yer turn!” Joel snapped.

Francesca had erected a small card table on the corner, along with a folding chair. She had laid out her notebook and several pens and pencils. She was now interviewing her tenth would-be informant. The previous nine men, all rather disreputable in appearance, all thug types, had been absolutely worthless. Their stories had been absurd.

The long line of men and women from the ward began in front of her small table and continued to the end of the block—ending in front of Schmitt’s Grocery. He had already come out of his shop three times to stare disapprovingly at her, his hands on his hips. The customers attempting to enter the grocery had to push their way through the crowd. Now the man Joel had just addressed, who looked as if he worked at the docks on Front Street, said angrily, “I been standing out here in the cold for an hour! I got better things to do on me day off than to freeze me arse out here waiting upon Her Highness!”

Francesca folded her hands in front of her and said calmly, “Then why don’t you leave?”

“You want information or not, lady?” he sneered.

“Only if it is sincere. And even if it is, you still must wait your turn.”

Maggie Kennedy appeared behind Francesca. “Mind your manners, Ralph Goodson.”

Surprised, Francesca glanced up at Maggie, whose blue eyes flashed. “Thank you,” she said.

Maggie smiled at her. “You are very brave, to be dealing with these roughs.”

Francesca glanced at the striking woman with Maggie, recognizing her from the other day. “Do I have a choice if I want to find those missing girls? Hello.” She smiled at
the woman with the auburn hair whom she had seen moving into Maggie’s building.

“Oh, Miss Cahill, this is Gwen O’Neil and her daughter, Bridget. They are my new neighbors,” Maggie said.

Gwen O’Neil smiled, then told her daughter she would be going downtown to look for work. “Behave yourself,” she said. “I’ll be home by five.”

“Yes, Mama,” Bridget said, staring at Francesca with wide eyes.

“I am a sleuth,” Francesca said with a smile, answering the child’s unspoken question. Little Bridget was too good-looking for her own good. “I am working on an investigation.”

Bridget, her green eyes huge, her dark red hair flowing to her waist, whispered, “What’s a sleuth?” Her Irish brogue was delightful.

Joel stepped forward. His face was beet-red. “Miss Cahill is my boss. She solves crimes. Real dangerous ones. I’m her assistant.”

Bridget gave him a scornful glance. “No, you’re not. You’re a boy!”

“Joel really is my assistant,” Francesca said. “He has provided me invaluable service, time and again. He has helped me solve every single crime I have worked on, in fact.” She smiled at the child. “How old are you, dear?”

“Eleven,” she said, now gaping at Joel. “Blimey, you’re not like the boys at home, then!”

Joel flushed even more. “No, I ain’t.”

Francesca was relieved. Bridget looked twelve or thirteen, but she was not—she was too young for the criminals forcing those young girls into a life of prostitution, if that was what was really happening.