Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (35 page)

Terror adrenalized her. She shot up, gripping the backboard, in order to jump out.

He struck her across the face, sending her flying against the side railing, head first. Pain made her see stars.

Her wrists were seized and tied as Joel was thrown into the wagon beside her. He landed on his belly, unmoving, maybe dead. Bridget just glimpsed his awfully pale face before her ankles were seized and tied, and then she was jerked down onto her back. Her captor grinned at her and
she could only stare back, mute now with terror. And then he shoved the sack back over her head. The wagon tilted as the two men climbed into the front seat, and it rolled off.

Alone in darkness, the boy dead beside her, Bridget prayed for help.

Francesca grimly faced the handsome mansion that housed the Jewel. She was sick inside, but she refused to think about the failure of her relationship with Calder Hart. Instead, she had a case to solve, children to save. Nevertheless, Calder loomed beside her like a dark and torturous shadow. Breaking up hurt beyond belief.

Still, she had just come from his house. Not that she had wanted to see him, as she had not; in fact, she hoped to never set eyes upon him again. She had gone to visit Dot and Katie. However, the children had been taken to the hospital to visit Leigh Anne at Bragg’s request and she had discerned that he had yet to leave Leigh Anne’s side. And fortunately, Hart had not been in the residence; he had left for his offices at the crack of dawn that day.

She almost hated him.

Francesca inhaled and started up the three wide front steps of the elegant brick house. It was on the corner of 19th Street and Fifth Avenue; once, it had been a gentleman’s home. She had gotten the address from Daisy as well as a small vial of a sleeping potion that she could slip into a drink. And Rose had loaned her the dress she was wearing. It was the color of its mistress’s name, with a revealing neckline and black lace-trimmed sleeves and a matching hemline. Francesca had heavily rouged her cheeks and lips and had used kohl on her eyes. She had become amazingly exotic—Francesca Cahill no longer seemed to exist.

The door was answered by a butler who took her card, showed her to an elegant salon, closed both doors, and told her to wait. Extremely curious, finally escaping her thoughts of Calder Hart and the viselike hold he seemed to
have on her heart, Francesca gazed openly at her surroundings.

The salon was a pleasant shade of pale green with a huge crystal chandelier and several works of art upon the walls in gilded frames. They seemed French and late-eighteenth-century. The furniture was worn, but the upholstery had once been quite fine, and Francesca suspected that at night one would not notice how tired-looking the furnishings were. She wondered what this room was used for. Did the gentlemen await their escorts here? As she had first come into the house, she had noticed a dining room, as well as a piano in the reception hall. She was simply fascinated, imagining this salon at night, filled with gentlemen, prostitutes, laughter, and conversation.

The double doors swept open.

Francesca turned. A very elegant and very beautiful platinum blond woman stood between both doors, clad in a remarkably simple pale blue dress. Francesca knew it had been costly, that the silk was the finest made. Her heart began to sink. Francesca suspected that Solange Marceaux was only six or seven years older than herself, and she was incredibly elegant and very beautiful. Sick once again, Francesca dropped her gaze from Solange’s fine, classic features to her hands. They were milk white. She wore only two rings, a small garnet flanked by two smaller diamonds and a large turquoise stone set in gold. She also wore small diamond earrings shaped like flowers and Francesca knew they were from Asprey.

There was so much dismay, and there was so much hurt. Last night she had experienced joy and ecstasy in Calder Hart’s arms. Today he no longer wanted her. And the other night he had sparred with this regal woman, in this illicit and dangerous place, in the darkest hours of the night
.

Francesca knew he had found Solange Marceaux attractive. Of that she had no doubt.

“Miss Baron?”

She smiled firmly. “Madame Marceaux?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that while you seem to know me, I do
not know you.” She closed both doors, coming gracefully forward. She had the figure of a woman twenty years old.

“I am a friend of Rose. She knows I am currently unoccupied, and the other day she suggested that I call upon you, as she recommends your establishment highly.” Francesca smiled more pleasantly now. She had work to do, a mission to accomplish.

Solange lifted both pale brows, as if not quite impressed, and she gestured to a seat. As Francesca sat, she asked, “Would you like some tea and sandwiches?”

“No, thank you.” Francesca smiled.

Solange now studied Francesca frankly, looking at her hair—which she had tonged and waved and swept loosely up, beneath the rose felt hat she wore—and then gazing at her darkly shadowed eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. Francesca told herself not to blush, but she was thoroughly discomfited. Worse, Solange looked directly at her breasts and then at her waist. Finally, she sat down opposite Fran-cesca. “You are quite beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you,” Francesca said, her cheeks feeling hot.

“Are you blushing?”

“Of course not. I am merely warm,” Francesca lied, her hands clasped in her lap.

“I prefer far less cosmetics. The girls here are elegant and underdone.”

Francesca was startled. Then she shrugged. “Whatever pleases you, madame.”

“I never accept anyone without a written reference,” she said calmly.

Francesca smiled, reaching into her bag. She was prepared for this, oh yes. “I have several references,” she said, pleased with being so clever. She handed them to Solange.

The minutes now ticked slowly by as Solange read the three letters, clearly word for word. Francesca began to worry a bit and to fidget. The first was a brief note from Rose. The other two were fabrications written by Francesca herself. Surely Madame Marceaux could not tell that the last two were sheer lies. Francesca had made up two fictional
madams and was claiming to have worked for the past four years in London. That was a reference that could not be easily checked.

Solange Marceaux finally looked up. “So you have been in London until last monh,” she said, studying her closely. “I adore London.”

Francesca smiled, hoping she was not about to be outwitted. “So do I.”

“Then why return to the United States? Clearly you are American,” she added.

Francesca did not hesitate. “One of my clients fell in love with me—unfortunately.”

“Really? Only one?”

“Oh, I have had dozens of men beg me to marry them,” Francesca continued baldly, “but this was different. This man was very prominent in public affairs, and our liaison could only hurt him. You see, I liked him. He was a gentleman. I left so he could enjoy his reputation, unsullied and untarnished.” And at that moment, she thought about Rick Bragg with a small, sad pang.

“How noble of you. And what was this gentleman’s name?”

Francesca raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon. That is information I will not reveal.”

“I see.” Solange did not bat an eye—it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Then she said, “I have spent several years in London. In fact, I believe we were there at the same time—in 1899. While I have never heard of Madame Tiffany, Mrs. Stanton was a good friend,” she said.

Francesca had made up Mrs. Stanton, and she almost fainted. But she quickly recovered, smiling. She had not provided any details with her supposed reference—no address, no establishment name, nothing. “What a small world we are in.”

“Yes. In ’99 she was operating from a fine townhouse in Belgravia. Is her club still there?”

Francesca continued to smile, her mind racing. She decided to go for broke. “Actually, as you probably know,
there was quite a stir in the neighborhood and a bit of police interference, so Mrs. Stanton decided to move to Knightsbridge.”

“Really?” Her pale brows rose again.

Francesca wondered if her smile had turned to plaster. “The new establishment is actually nicer than the first.”

“Knightsbridge is a pleasant suburb,” was all that Solange Marceaux said.

Did she know? Did she know that Francesca was an impostor? Was there really a madam named Mrs. Stanton? Her brother traveled frequently—had he made an offhand reference that Francesca had somehow subconsciously retained? Or was this a game?

As Hart had said, this woman was undoubtedly a master poker player.

Solange broke the silence just as it became strained. “You seem very well educated, Miss Baron. May I ask if that is the case?”

Francesca did not hesitate. “Yes.”

Solange looked questioningly at her.

Francesca shrugged. “My family was genteel. However, it is not my nature to marry, and I was disowned.”

“I see. I have heard this story before. You are not bitter?”

Francesca smiled, looking away. “No. I like relations,” she added. And images from the night before invaded her mind.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” Francesca lied.

Solange stood. “You are an interesting woman. And your references are impeccable.”

Francesca also rose to her feet. Clearly the interview was at an end. Was Solange Marceaux being sarcastic? One could not tell, as her face never changed expression.

“I am willing to try you. I warn you, however, that our customers are demanding.”

Francesca also stood, breathless and giddy with delight.
She had won
. “How demanding?” she breathed.

Solange looked at her. “I see this excites you. That is very good.” She smiled then, a smile that finally brightened her pale blue eyes.

“How demanding?” Francesca asked again.

“The gentlemen who come to this establishment are looking for pleasure denied them in more conservative brothels. We cater to every need. You will have to be very daring, Miss Baron. The only thing we do not allow is extreme physical punishment. I prefer my ladies alive,” she added.

Francesca thought that a good idea. “What should I prepare myself for?”

She did not hesitate. “Costumes, whips and chains, several gentlemen at once, several ladies, orgies, lower-level brutality, bestiality, opium, heroin, cocaine.”

Orgies, brutality, bestiality
. . . Francesca nodded seriously, hoping she hadn’t paled. Dear God, Hart had been right—this was a very sordid place.

And what if something happened tonight, something she could not get out of?

Francesca dismissed the thought, but for the first time, she was alarmed and anxious, even though she carried Daisy’s potion in her purse.

“You will enjoy yourself, I think. Of course, some of our clients prefer straight sex or to merely watch their friends carry on wildly.” Solange Marceaux shrugged, as if she could not comprehend it. “When can you start?”

“Tonight,” Francesca said, hoping it did not sound like an eager question.

Solange nodded. “You receive ten percent of what I charge for you. I always charge exorbitant amounts for the new ladies. Very few retain that pricing. Right now I am pricing you at three hundred dollars an hour—or a thousand dollars for the entire evening. If you prove to me you are worth it, we will keep that price.”

Francesca blinked. That was a fortune! But she said arrogantly, “I am worth it.”

“I doubt it. Be here this afternoon at four. I will show
you to your room and you will have plenty of time to prepare yourself for the evening. We open at nine, but we do have some preferred customers who may arrive earlier.”

Francesca followed her into the reception hall, tingling over her good fortune. “Thank you, Madame Marceaux,” she said.

Solange nodded, amusement finally flickering in her eyes. “A word of advice,” she said. “You are new. You can expect to be busy for most of the evening. The new ones are always eagerly gobbled up.”

Her choice of words—and the look in her eyes—was odd. Francesca was suddenly afraid. But she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I am always in demand,” she said.

“I hope that is the case,” Solange Marceaux said.

“Adieu, Miss Baron.”

Francesca managed a bright smile. “A bientôt,” she said.

M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
31, 1902—3:00
P.M
.

“S
IR
? T
HIS CAME BY
messenger. The boy said it was urgent, but there is no name on the envelope.”

Hart had just concluded four business meetings, back to back. He was very pleased with the results of two of them—one would enable him to expand his shipping operation to Singapore and Hong Kong. In the other, he had acquired his first van Gogh. He had just begun to smoke a cigar, his intention to enjoy it and the moment of triumph immensely. But it was impossible. For, his day almost done, his thoughts instantly veered to Francesca.

He had done his best to avoid any thought or memory of her all day. Last night he had locked himself in his private den, reviewing the facts he would need to conduct his business the following day. He’d stayed up until four, and then, exhausted, he’d found himself unable to sleep in his bedroom—in the bed they had shared. He’d slept on a sofa in the adjacent sitting room instead.

He’d slept a single hour, washed and shaved, skipped breakfast, and been at his office at half past six. His first meeting had been over breakfast at a private club at eight. He hadn’t stopped to breathe—or think—all day.

He jumped to his feet. He did not want to think about her. He did not want to think about how ingenious and clever she was. He did not want to think about how sensual and sexy she was. He did not want to recall her eyes, her smile, her laughter, her touch.
Damn it
.

“Sir?”

He had forgotten his clerk was standing there on the threshold of his huge corner office. Beyond relief, Hart expelled the thick, rich Cuban smoke. “Did you get word from the hospital yet?” he heard himself ask. He’d sent a clerk over to Bellevue three times thus far that day. Leigh Anne had taken a turn for the worse.