Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (41 page)

Francesca winced a little. “Don’t ask.” She turned to Joel and Bridget. “What are you both doing here?” she cried. “Are you all right?” And then she looked at Evan. “How are you involved?”

“A police officer found me at my hotel,” he began, flushing and avoiding looking at her legs. “I am afraid to ask you what you are doing in a garment like that.”

“I can explain,” Francesca began quickly.

He waved at her. “Another time.” He patted Joel’s shoulder. “Your assistant is a hero, Fran.”

Francesca swelled with pride. “Whatever happened?”

Joel grinned at her. “The police threw me in the cooler when I tried to git help fer Bridget,” he said. “A fly went up to Mr. Cahill an’ he come down to tell ’em I was on the up-’n’-up.”

“What?” Francesca cried. She remarked now that Bridget appeared somewhat distraught, but she was also casting wide, worshipful glances at Joel. He grinned baldly at everyone. “She got caught by them thugs and I got caught trying to save her.”

“Joel!” Francesca cried one more time, now aghast. “When did this happen?”

“This mornin’,” he said. “But ye don’t got to worry. I escaped an’ went to the police. They didn’t believe me, not at first, that’s why I sent ’em to your house, an’ why your brother came and witnessed me,” he said proudly.

Francesca put her arms around both children. “Thank God you are both all right,” she managed, glancing now at Bragg. He and Hart were having a hushed conversation, neither one of them smiling. Then both men glanced at her.

Francesca knew they were speaking about her, undoubtedly about her part in the events at the Jewel. She turned back to the children, not liking both brothers’ talking together about her behind her back. In fact, it worried her no end. “We have to get you both home, and Deborah and Bonnie as well.” She glanced at the two beautiful girls. They were both wide-eyed and holding hands tightly.

And both children had been listening, because one said, “I don’t want to go home. He’ll just sell me off again.”

Francesca started, her heart breaking. She glanced at Evan. He said, “I’ll take Joel and Bridget home.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, rushing over to the girls. “Are you Bonnie?” she asked the honey-blonde who had just spoken.

“I’m not going home,” the girl breathed. She had bright green eyes and thick, dark lashes. “Yes, I’m Bonnie.”

“All right,” Francesca said. After all, Bonnie’s father had claimed she was dead and someone had filled her coffin
with stones. She faced Deborah Smith. “Your mother misses you terribly.”

Deborah’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss her, too. But if I go home, my papa will beat me, or worse.”

Francesca pulled her close. “No, he won’t. Your father isn’t at home, Deborah, and he’s not coming back.”

Deborah stiffened and looked up, hope in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

Francesca wasn’t about to tell her that her father was dead. “I’m sure,” she said.

Bragg walked over to them. “We’ll take everyone to headquarters and find them a comfortable place to sleep. We’ll have Eliza Smith and Mrs. Cooper brought to the girls.” He gave Francesca a look and she understood. John Cooper was going to be arrested for his part in selling his daughter into slavery, whatever part that was. He had also lied about her death, and that was an obstruction of justice. “I’m also having an officer notify the O’Hares that Emily is at Bellevue,” he said. “Rachael will also stay in police custody until we can rest assured it’s safe for her to return home.”

Francesca nodded. “Good. And is she the one behind all this?” She glanced toward the middle-aged woman in the navy blue suit.

“We don’t know yet,” he said. “But her name is Elspeth Browne—or so she claims.” For a moment he was silent. “The bald thug cannot stop talking. He’s already confessed to killing Tom Smith, but said he was only following orders.”

“Whose orders?” Francesca asked quickly.

“We don’t know yet.”

Francesca hesitated, searching his gaze. He appeared exhausted and was both unshaven and unkempt. He also looked haggard, drawn, and too thin. “How are you?” she asked softly, reaching for his hand.

For one moment he let her hold it before he pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he said, looking away from her.

She tensed, knowing he lied and wishing he would not
put another wall between them. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He faced her, softening. “You have helped by solving this crime,” he said.

Francesca didn’t hesitate. “This time, it was a team effort. I couldn’t have done it without Joel and Calder.”

Bragg’s jaw hardened, but he nodded. “I’ll need full statements from you both,” he said, turning away.

Briefly she was aghast. It was as if she was now losing his friendship, too. Or was he too raw to be able to speak with her intimately and personally?

Suddenly he turned back and took both of her hands in his. “The girls are at Calder’s with my parents,” he said. “I took them to see Leigh Anne.” He stopped, clearly fighting for composure. He cleared his throat. “Katie is dismal, Francesca. And even Dot seemed to understand that Leigh Anne is ill.”

“I’ll see them tomorrow, first thing,” she said, her heart hurting her now for the two little girls. “In fact, maybe I can take them to the zoo and distract them from what is happening.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. Their gazes met. “I’d appreciate that a lot.”

Suddenly a familiar voice came from above. “Look at what I have found.”

Francesca glanced at the brownstone. Standing on the porch was the very rakish youth Nicholas D’Archand, and he was holding the collar of a very familiar man. Her eyes widened as she met a pair of terribly pale eyes.

“Well, well.” Hart moved to stand beside her. “If it isn’t a Tammany lapdog.”

Recognition came then. “Is that Tim Murphy?” He was the man she had met while having lunch with Grace!

“Yes, it is. He was commissioner of education in Van Wyck’s administration. I guess he enjoyed his tours of our city’s wonderful public schools,” Hart drawled.

Francesca felt ill. “What a crook,” she breathed.

Nick pushed Murphy down the stairs. “I found him attempting
to burn a big ledger book in a back office, Rick,” he said. He shoved Murphy at Bragg. “Why bother to arrest this scumbag? I vote we take him for a little jaunt in the countryside—a one-way tour, so to speak.” His smile was distinctly unpleasant and his own silvery gray eyes flashed.

Murphy straightened. “You will suffer for your maltreatment of me, young man. And you, Commissioner? I warn you, do not toy with me or you shall pay a heavy price indeed. My friends are in high places and terribly loyal.”

“Shut up,” Bragg said, seizing his arm. “Sergeant, gag him, shackle him, and put him where he belongs. In a cell in the Tombs.”

Murphy cried out, “I demand to speak with my lawyer and you cannot imprison me without a trial!”

Bragg smiled at him. “Imprison you? Who said anything about imprisoning you? The holding pen is full at headquarters; we are merely placing you in the next most convenient location, and can I help it if the prison is filled with murderers and cutthroats? You shall stay there until you are formally charged. That shouldn’t take too long, I think. Maybe a week . . . or two . . . or three.”

Murphy flushed, crying, “You are twisting the law, Bragg! You will pay for this!”

“Get him out of my sight,” Bragg said, turning his back on him.

Francesca watched as shackles were snapped on his wrists and he was shoved forcefully into the police wagon. As the back door was bolted and locked, the other prisoners were herded into a second wagon. The crowd on the sidewalk began to disperse. One of the horse-drawn wagons trotted away.

Bragg glanced at them. “I’ll need to see you both downtown. We can do it now or we can do it tomorrow,” he said without inflection.

“Tomorrow,” Hart returned firmly. “It’s time for me to take Francesca home.”

“I don’t mind,” she began, her gaze seeking but not finding Bragg’s. He stood staring into the night, looking terribly
lonely and terribly sad. She plucked Hart’s sleeve. She lowered her voice so Bragg wouldn’t hear and said, “If he is going back to the hospital we should go with him.”

“I am taking you home,” Hart said flatly. “It’s late and we’ve both had a hellish day.”

She hesitated; Bragg was now speaking to another policeman and she wanted to stay with him, at least for a while.

“I want to talk to you,” Hart said.

She started, meeting his eyes. The expression there remained different, disturbing. So much had happened and so quickly that it was only then that she became aware of a new anxiety. “Is something wrong?” she asked cautiously.

He took her arm, steering her toward his brougham. By now, the last police wagon was also leaving and most of the gawkers had dispersed. Bragg and Nicholas were walking back toward the brownstone, probably to go search Murphy’s office. Francesca took one last look over her shoulder and allowed Hart to help her up into the coach. He settled down beside her, ordered Raoul to drive them to her home, and turned to gaze directly at her.

She became uneasy. “You’re worrying me. This isn’t about tonight, is it?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?” She couldn’t help recalling how sure she had been that he wished to break off their engagement.

He smiled a little, grimly, not at her, but at himself. “I have something to ask you,” he said.

Her alarm grew. “Very well,” she said with even more caution.

He didn’t look at her. “I have been thinking,” he said. “And my conclusion is that we should elope.”

She gaped.

M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
31, 1902—
MIDNIGHT

H
ART SEEMED INCREDIBLY GRIM
and now he gazed out at the passing buildings as his brougham rolled by.

“What did you say?” Francesca whispered, her ears ringing as if she’d been the victim of a blow.

He faced her. Shadows flickered over his face. “I’ve been thinking and you are right. A year is far too long to wait.”

Images of the few hours they had shared on Sunday in his bed assaulted her then. They were followed by an image of her in a white wedding dress with Hart behind her, undoing her gown. She could barely breathe. “Did you just suggest that we
elope?”

He smiled slightly—and it was strained. “Yes, I did.” Now he watched her carefully, unblinkingly.

She sat up impossibly straighter. He wanted to
elope?

But he was right. Wasn’t he? Waiting a year to be together was absurd. It was that simple.
But elope?

Why not?

She stared excitedly at him. He stared back, intent and intense. She began to frown. But Calder Hart was the most patient and controlled man that she knew. What was going on?

In fact, his behavior had been odd recently. First his lovemaking on Sunday, then his suggestion that she reconsider their engagement, and now this stunning proposal. Was something going on that she did not know about?

Francesca tried to think clearly, rationally, logically. It felt impossible. “Calder, Mama would kill me. She’d kill you. She’d kill us! She is planning some kind of ridiculous event, I overheard Papa ordering her to make certain her guest list is under six hundred, and I know she is booking the Waldorf Astoria for the wedding and the reception.” She stared at him with huge eyes, trembling. Would this man ever be predictable?

“We won’t tell her.”

She was speechless.

“No one has to know that we are married,” he said.

She simply stared as her mind raced once more. They would elope—and keep the fact secret. So Mama could have her grand affair and never mind when their public wedding day came; they would already be married.
Oh, my God. Did she dare do such a thing?

He reached for her hand and said nothing.

She tried to study his face, but it was hard to make out his expression in the dim light of the carriage. What was going on? Why this sudden about-face? Why the urgency? Hadn’t he told her to reconsider their engagement yesterday? Because he wished for her to follow her heart?

A terrible pang followed and she thought about Bragg, wrapped up in his grief, unable to leave his wife’s side. She still wished she had remained behind with him at the brownstone, looking for more evidence with which to convict Elspeth Browne and Tim Murphy and their lackeys. Bragg had never needed her more—as a friend. Because
clearly, when his wife recovered, things would be very different for them. If not, Francesca intended to hit him over the head several times with a solid object, as it was so terribly clear that he was in love with Leigh Anne.

Francesca smiled a little at Hart. “Yesterday you wanted me to reconsider our engagement.”

“I changed my mind.” His smile was as brief as before. His grip on her hand tightened.

She moved closer to him, felt his body tighten in response, and laid her palm on his shoulder. Oddly, he seemed to flinch. “Calder? Is this because of the other night?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” He took her shoulders in his palms. “I have a good friend who is a judge. I happen to know he is in town. We can be wed by noon tomorrow, Francesca,” he said.

“Tomorrow!” she cried, stunned.

“Francesca,” he suddenly said, his tone turning rough, and he pulled her close and kissed her mouth once, hard. “Think about it. We’ll speak first thing in the morning.”

T
UESDAY
, A
PRIL
I,1902—10:00 A.M.

Francesca paused in the doorway of Bragg’s office. She hadn’t slept all night, but she was too nervous to be tired. She had gone directly to Hart’s upon arising that morning, but Hart had already been gone—apparently he had left for his downtown offices at six. She had had breakfast with Katie and Dot, and they had been joined by Rathe and Grace. As much as she needed to finish her discussion with Hart—she found it almost impossible to believe that last night’s suggestion had even happened—she had yet to give her statement to the police. She would continue on downtown after doing so. Sanity had returned—somewhat—and she did wish to know the latest developments on the case.
So now she knocked gently on the open door. Bragg was with the chief of police, Brendan Farr, and as Farr turned, he looked up.