|
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, January 31, 1902-9 P.M.
Stanford White was having a party, and for the first time in her life, Francesca had practically begged her mother to be allowed to attend, in an abrupt reversal of character and inclination. Indeed, ever since turning sixteen four years ago and being informally introduced to society, Francesca had determinedly avoided all such events.
Now, she paused with her mother, Julia Van Wyck Cahill, and her brother, Evan, inside the doorway of Madison Square's Rooftop Garden, which White had not only designed, as he was one of the city's most brilliant architects, but which he had also taken over for the evening's soiree. Guests in tuxedos and evening gowns continued to move past them as they arrived, filing around numerous gold-swaged tables, all with exotic floral arrangements and set about a large dance floor. Francesca was oddly breathless, but she told herself it was due to the rush, and she had to try hard, indeed, not to keep glancing repeatedly over her shoulder.
Still, the doorway remained just within in the line of her vision.
"You are behaving most oddly, Francesca," Julia murmured, elegantly clad in a pale green evening gown and more diamond jewelry than most women would ever set their eyes upon, much less wear. "First, you insist upon attending the White fete, and now, you cannot keep your eyes in your head. And you are fidgeting. What is this about?"
Francesca managed to smile at her mother, the arriving guests a blur in the corner of her vision. "Mother, perhaps I am finally maturing? After all, I am twenty now. I have finally seen the error of my ways. It is really quite simple. You have been right and I have been wrong; a young lady should be social and charming, and neither a recluse nor a blue-stocking."
Her brother, who knew she secretly attended Barnard College and often stayed up most of the night to study, began to choke.
Julia, who had been gazing at the crowd, remarking all those whom she knew-and she did know everybody-whipped her regard back to her daughter, her eyes wide with suspicion. Evan, tall, dark and handsome, especially in his tuxedo, finally gave in to his laughter. Francesca gave him a very cross and dangerous look. It said, 'keep quiet or you shall suffer the consequences'.
"You are up to something," Julia stated firmly. "Of that, I have no doubt. I am only hoping it is as simple as wanting to gawk at White. We have had enough drama and mystery these past few weeks to last a lifetime, I dare say."
Francesca smiled angelically at her mother, and as she was blond and blue-eyed, the effect was one of utter innocence. Her mother, she knew, referred to the terrible crime which had happened right under their very noses two weeks ago-their neighbor's child had been abducted out of his bed by a madman. Her mother was also referring to the fact that Francesca had been up to her own nose in the criminal affair-but on the side of law and order and justice.
"I am not up to anything, Mother," she murmured now, a tiny white lie. It was no easy task keeping her mother ignorant of all that she did these days. "But of course, as White is quite notorious for his personal affairs and his rather lavish if not self-indulgent lifestyle, it will be most interesting to meet him." The truth was, Francesca could not care less about greeting their infamous host. Perhaps, before the events of the past few weeks, she might have sought such an opportunity. Now, she could not care less. White was not the reason she had come to the overly ostentatious party.
"And you will be polite but discreet when you do meet him," Julia advised. "I will not have him, in his unorthodox views, encouraging you in yours."
Evan chuckled again. "I fear you have made a vast mistake, Mother, and this is one event Fran should not be attending. I fear she and White just might get along-too well. What if he should decide to become her mentor?"
Francesca scowled at him. "Isn't your fiancee somewhere about, Evan?" She asked sweetly. "Shouldn't you attend Sarah Channing?" Evan had recently become engaged.
But Evan was not to be dissuaded. "Perhaps I will chaperone you, Fran. God forbid White should affect and even increase your independent thinking and ways. Then what would the world do!"
Had he been closer, she would have stepped upon his foot with her pointy heel. Just then, she felt sorry that he knew the first but not the last of her secrets, even though she did adore him. "Thank you, Evan, for your loyalty." Then she realized another guest was arriving, and she whirled to stare-only to be disappointed, as it was a gentleman she did not know.
Evan leaned close as Julia stepped away to speak with a couple who lived just down the avenue from the Cahill mansion. "Careful, Fran. You will give yourself away."
"I do not know what you mean." She batted her eyes at him.
"I think you do." He grinned and winked. "Mother will discern whom you are waiting for in all of two seconds if you continue to carry on so. And I do believe she has forbidden any interest on your part in our new police commissioner."
Rick Bragg had recently been appointed Commissioner of Police. The appointment was a controversial one, as their new mayor was a man of principle, having been elected on the platform of reform, determined to right the ills inflicted upon the city by Tamany Hall. As Seth Lowe's appointee, Bragg was expected to reform the notoriously corrupt police department, no easy task, indeed. He also hailed from the Texas Braggs, a fine and wealthy family, although he had been born in New York City in rather unfortunate and improper circumstances; that is, on the wrong side of the blanket. The tall, tawny-haired, darkly handsome and very determined police commissioner had been educated at Columbia University and Harvard Law School, and he had, until recently, resided in Washington DC, where he had been in private practice. Francesca had met Bragg exactly two weeks ago when she had discovered the first of a series of extremely bizarre 'ransom' notes left by the madman who had abducted Jonny Burton.
"I am hardly carrying on," she said, low, vastly irritated now. Evan knew her too well, but then, she was not adept at hiding her feelings-she had never had to do so before.
For she had never had feelings like this before.
"You are acting like all of the marriage-mad, love-struck females you so disdain," he said, giving her a direct glance, one filled with more mirth. "You are a woman after all, Fran."
She stared, wanting to protest that it was not true. But she could not deny being a woman, of course. Still, she had so prided herself on being different from the marriage mad females her own age. Now, she remained mute. Because in the matter of a few days, in the course of one fantastic criminal investigation, her entire life had been turned upside down.
He patted her shoulder, which was bare, as she wore a peach chiffon gown with tiny cap sleeves that fell upon her upper arms. "You are cute, this way," he said, his tone rather patronizing. "It's nice, for a change, not to listen to you sermonizing about sweat shops and temperance, about the poor and the indigent, about Tamany Hall and everything else you can think of! Perhaps you are normal after all, Fran," he said, laughter in his dark blue eyes.
"I am not cute and I am not 'normal' and I am not being any way," Francesca huffed. "And nothing has changed," she declared, wishing that she meant it.
He grinned and walked away.
Francesca took a deep breath and glanced around, somewhat shaken-because Evan was right, no matter how she might pretend that he was not. And it was almost inexplicable. How had this happened? Francesca had spent most of her life avoiding the hobbies and pastimes enjoyed by other young women her age. She had discovered books at a very tender age-she was six when she began to read, and her love affair with the written word and all that it entailed had never ended. For Francesca Cahill was a blue-stocking through and through-enrolling at Barnard College had hardly been a whim. In fact, knowing how her mother would react should she ever learn of her pursuit of a higher education, made it a very serious act, indeed. But attaining her degree was only the beginning. Francesca was a reformer with a capitol R. it ran in the family, her father, Andrew Cahill, a self-made millionaire, also championed dozens of charities and supported political candidates like Lowe, not just in New York City, but all over the state and the country. . She was proud of her intellect and her passion for reform. She had no time for or interest in parties, shopping or marriage; she could barely understand why every other young woman she knew did. She actively belonged to five societies, all dedicated to fighting injustice and easing the poverty rampant in the city, and she had founded one society herself-The Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements. In many ways, her young life knew few bounds.
Once, she had thought to follow in the famous journalist's, Jacob Riis', footsteps. She had intended to write articles and books about the city's worst side of life, in order to enlighten the ladies and gentlemen living so blithely and elegantly uptown. But her ambitions had, suddenly and drastically, changed. Two weeks ago. For Francesca had discovered her true calling in life.
Crime-solving.
It had been a most unfortunate yet fortuitous accident, stumbling upon that first 'ransom' note. From that moment on, she had taken it upon herself to help the city's new police commissioner solve the ghastly crime of the small boy's abduction. Together, she and Rick Bragg had faced the gravest dangers, uncovering clue after clue, each one pointing to the likelihood that the boy was dead, but in the end, against all odds, little Jonny Burton had been found alive and safely returned home, to his waiting mother's arms.
Bragg could not have done it without her. He had even said so.
Francesca smiled at the thought and found herself openly regarding the doorway, through which more guests continued to arrive. Her father had said he would be at the White party tonight.
Of course, they were only friends. They had only just met. But soon there would be another crime for them to solve-together. How could there not be, in this city of hooks and crooks? In fact, yesterday Francesca had picked up the new calling cards she had ordered at Tiffany's, and she had already begun handing them out. They read:
Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire, No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City. All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small.
"Where is your father? He promised me that he would stop at his club briefly. He is late," Julia said, frowning, having returned to Francesca's side.
Francesca had to tear her gaze away from the doorway now, as she did not want her mother to become more suspicious of her than she already was. Stealing about the city-and into some of the worst wards-was no easy task in itself, but eluding Julia made it even more difficult. And she had learned that in order to be an effective sleuth, one must travel quite freely about town, dealing with every possible kind of person. But more importantly, Julia had noticed Francesca's interest in Bragg, and she had told her daughter in no uncertain terms that a bastard was not acceptable as a suitor, never mind that he was educated, a gentleman, the Police Commissioner and a Bragg.
Still, she was as anxious as a schoolgirl on her first date. And it was absurd. She was no marriage-mad ninny-she was a college student and a crime-solver. She must get a grip-and fast. By tomorrow at noon, in fact, when he came calling for her.
Yesterday, he had invited her for a drive in the country. Francesca smiled to herself. Clearly, he wished to now court her.
"Francesca, do look. There's White. I think I will wait for your father to greet him." Julian Van Wyck Cahill gripped her arm, not even looking at Francesca, moving away from the doorway.
They paused behind several ladies and gentlemen, all surrounding Stanford White. He was a tall, heavyset man with a booming voice, somewhere in his middle years. Julia studied the group surrounding White. Two of the women were clearly not from their social circle. "Oh, dear," Julia said. "Are those women what I think they are?"
Francesca wanted to say yes. The two gorgeous women were probably very well-kept mistresses. "I wonder if they are White's?" She murmured. "I have heard he keeps an apartment not far from here for his dalliances."
"Chase all such thoughts from your mind!" Julia cried. Then, "And just where did you hear such a thing?"
"Evan," Francesca said sweetly. Her brother deserved a little nick.
"I shall certainly have a word with him. And what else did he say?" Julia demanded.
"Oh, here is Papa," Francesca cried, turning away from her mother's speculative regard.
But Julia said, softly now, "I know you are up to something, dear, and we both know that sooner or later the truth will out."
Her cheeks warmed. Francesca waved gaily at her portly father. She was always pleased to see him.
Andrew Cahill had been raised on a farm in Illinois; he had made his fortune in meat-packing in Chicago. He had moved his family to New York when Francesca was eight. Now, he beamed at his youngest child and kissed her cheek. "In the nick of time, eh, Fran?"
"Your timing is impeccable, as always, Papa," she returned. Then, in a whisper, "I cannot believe Mother wished to come to a party given by White."
Andrew Cahill had plump cheeks and heavy, gray-white sideburns. "Curiosity kills most cats, but it won't kill Mother." He turned to Julia. "Dear." He kissed her warmly. "That is quite the dress. I don't believe I've seen it before."
"If you think I shall forgive you for being late, you are wrong," Julia said, as warmly. "And yes, Andrew, the dress is brand-new."
"I like it."
Julia smiled. "I'm glad."
Francesca saw the look they exchanged and she turned away. Andrew spoke. "Ran into the Commissioner on the way out of the club, and had to speak with him."
Francesca stiffened instantly. She was all ears.
"No politics, tonight," Julia warned.
"What news, Papa?" It was hard not to speak Bragg's name.
'The rumor is true. Unbelievable!" Andrew exclaimed.
Her heart raced. "What rumor?" What could she have missed? She had seen Bragg yesterday, deciding to call on him at Police Headquarters-where she was now somewhat known-after picking up her new calling cards at Tiffany's.
"Rumor has it he demoted all three hundred of the departments' wardsmen. It's true!" Andrew exclaimed. His eyes were bright with excitement and he faced only his daughter. "Can you believe the nerve of that man?"
Francesca stared, feeling faint and giddy at the same time. Police reform was one of the burning issues facing the city. It had been for years, ever since Theodore Roosevelt had held the post of commissioner and had begun to make a few inroads on the existing system of graft and corruption. The entire city-well, all reformers like herself, as well as liberals, clerics and journalists-were waiting with bated breath to see if Bragg would bring to heel the notorious institution. Francesca thought he might succeed. If anyone could reform the city police department, she thought it was Bragg, a man of true moral fiber and character, a man capable of swift, unremitting action. "How could he demote three hundred wardsmen?" She asked.
"We really did not speak. He said it would be in the papers on the morrow. He is here, by the way. We came up together," Andrew said.
Her heart stopped. Then she saw her father studying her, and she ducked her head. As much as she adored Papa-and he was always on her side-he and Mama talked. It was sometimes hard to believe that they did have such private conversations, usually before bed, but she knew they did, and too frequently, the subject they discussed was their children. Connie, Francesca's sister, had married Lord Neil Montrose four years ago, and recently, Evan's engagement had been announced. So that now left Francesca. She had little doubt that she would be the featured topic of most of their remaining conversations, and it would only get worse once Evan was married.
"Do we have to discuss the police department tonight?" Julia said firmly. "Andrew, I must meet White. Francesca, on second thought, you stay here."
Francesca stiffened. "Mama, that is not fair."
Julia ignored her. "I am afraid she might get even more unusual ideas from White, Andrew. In fact, having seen some of the crowd present, I am not sure allowing her to come has been a good idea."
"Papa?" Francesca protested.
"For once I am in agreement with your mother,' Andrew said, taking Julia's arm. "I did not like the idea of bringing you here tonight to begin with. We will be back shortly."
Francesca stared after them as they moved towards the distinguished but flamboyantly clad gentleman with the head of white hair who was holding court on the center of the dance floor. The two women who were not quite genteel remained in the crowd, and now she saw a very severely dressed woman with hair cropped short also in the crowd-the woman looked rather mannish and very intelligent, too. Francesca wondered whom she was.
Francesca suddenly squinted. A gentleman glad in a black tuxedo stood besides White, speaking to a dark-haired lady, his very white teeth flashing. He was more than familiar, she realized with a start, staring openly. Wasn't that Bragg's half brother, Calder Hart?
There was something about the brothers that was so similar-perhaps it was their height and build, as they were both tall, muscular men. Or maybe it was their utter masculinity-Hart, like Bragg, had the kind of appeal that made women stop, gawk and stare. Like Bragg, he was very handsome, but unlike Brag, it was somehow in a dark, dangerous way. His skin was olive-hued, his hair jet-black. She suspected his eyes were black, as well. Hadn't Francesca heard somewhere that he had a rather notorious reputation himself?
"You took that extremely well," a voice said behind her.
Francesca no longer saw Calder Hart. Bragg's breath feathered her bare nape, sending chills up and down her spine. She turned and looked into a pair of darkly golden eyes.
He bowed, hiding a smile. "Good evening, Miss Cahill."
"Bragg." She tried to sound casual and she also tried to hide her own answering smile, as well.
"Cahill." Rick Bragg nodded at Evan, who had suddenly materialized besides Francesca. She felt like kicking him-his timing was impeccably rotten. She gave him an annoyed look but Evan ignored it.
"So what brings you here, Bragg?" Evan asked, somewhat coolly.
Bragg smiled. "The usual-an invitation." His gaze turned to Francesca. And it slid warmly over her face.
She knew she flushed as she smiled at him. Bragg wore a white dinner jacket and black evening trousers. His tawny hair, a blend of copper, gold and blond, glinted from the light cast by the huge, overhead chandeliers. All last week he had seemed exhausted during the investigation into the Burton Abduction. Tonight he radiated masculinity, virility and good health.
He also seemed pleased to see her. Amusement flickered briefly in his eyes. "So what is the plan?"
'The plan?" She managed.
"Surely you have a plan. With which to thwart your mother and go and meet White?" More amusement made him smile slightly, briefly.
"There is no plan." She took a breath, amazed with herself for being so easily flustered. "I shall meekly accept my fate this night."
He laughed. "Meekly? I doubt that."
"You shall see a new side of me, I fear."
He chuckled again. "But perhaps I like the old side?"
She stopped smiling. Their gazes held. His smile also faded.
Evan coughed. "No police business tonight?"
"Unfortunately, there is always police business to attend," Bragg said, not even glancing at Evan.
Francesca wet her lips. "I was surprised to hear that you would be here tonight. This is the last place I would expect you to be."
"It is one of the very last places I wish to be," His gaze was direct. He spoke now as if her brother was not present.
'Then why?" Francesca asked with real curiosity. She knew how hard-and how late-he worked. "I am surprised you are not at Police Headquarters."
He shrugged slightly. "Public relations."
"Public relations?" She murmured, while her mind sped.
"I must hobnob with the city's finest," he said with a self-deprecating shrug.
And she understood. He had so much to do-and so little time in which to do it, for there was rarely longevity in a controversial appointment like his. Already the press had dragged him through hell and back. Just a week ago, he had been accused of incompetence for failing to find Jonny Burton's abductor. Yesterday he had been hailed a hero. She wondered how the press would treat his demotion of three hundred detectives. "Did you really demote three hundred of your men?"
His mouth quirked. "No comment." 'Bragg!" She was smiling. "I am not employed by the Tribune."
So was he. "Thank God, and yes, I did."
She realized he had been teasing her and it felt glorious. "And what do you think to accomplish? Oh ho, they must fear their leader now!"
He chuckled at her exuberance. "They have been reassigned-to foot patrol-in different precincts. It is a long story, Francesca. Hopefully a few good men will emerge from the current circumstance."
Suddenly Francesca realized most of the police department must hate him now as well as fear him. She shivered. "Be careful, Bragg." And suddenly she did not like this newest development at all.
His eyes widened fractionally with surprise when Evan stepped somewhat between them. "Shall we get something to drink, Fran?"
She felt like kicking his shin or pinching his hand. "Why don't you get me a glass of champagne?" She smiled sweetly but gave him a dark look of annoyance.
"Why don't you come with me?" Evan returned, not budging and staring at her.
Why did he think to protect her from Bragg? "Perhaps I am enjoying a conversation with the police commissioner," she returned.
"I must move on, in any case," Bragg said. He hesitated. "Francesca? May I have a private word with you?"
She was surprised, and any elation quickly vanished as she realized that his expression was grim. "Of course." She ignored her disapproving brother now and stepped aside with Bragg.
He sighed. "I was going to send a note."
Dread overcame her. "A…note?"
"I am afraid police affairs dictate my life these days. I must cancel our outing tomorrow."
She looked at him and felt as if someone had just ripped the rug out from under her feet. "What?"
"I am sorry. Perhaps another time." He smiled at her, but his gaze was searching and very somber.
Francesca pasted what felt like a stupendous and stupid grin upon her face-as she mustn't let him see her real feelings. "Of course. Of course affairs of the city would keep you preoccupied. Think nothing of it, Bragg."
"I thought you would understand," he said, his gaze holding onto hers.
"I am your biggest supporter," Francesca said firmly, "as you must know."
"And I appreciate it." He nodded at her and Evan both before turning to go.
Francesca watched him being greeted heartily by other guests, feeling as if a mule had just kicked her in the chest.
"So that is the lay of the land," Evan said accusingly. "I thought it was a silly flirtation, but it is not!"
Francesca hardly heard him. Bragg had canceled their outing. How could he? What did this mean?
It meant that he had police affairs to attend.
No. Clearly, clearly, it meant that their kiss had meant nothing to him at all.
Francesca closed her eyes tightly. She had been trying to forget their one single devastating kiss. They had both thought Jonny Burton to be dead at the time, they had both been grief-stricken, frightened and exhausted. Bragg had also been drinking.
Still, he had kissed her in a way that no gentleman would ever kiss a respectable lady, he had kissed her, and touched her, and held her, and she had done all of those things to him, as well. Had he forgotten?
Had the kiss meant anything at all?
"You are in love with Bragg!" Evan cried.
Francesca was saved from answering him by the lions.
****
Ladies screamed. A few gentlemen cried out. White laughed and with a microphone, began to greet his guests, as men in tights and gypsy shirts entered the "dance floor", using whips to urge four lions on ahead of them. A woman in garters, black hose, a few inches of skirt and a corset appeared, holding a large hoop. As she was mostly naked a few gasps sounded. A lion jumped through her hoop.
"I have promised you all an evening of entertainment," White was saying. "And by God, you shall have it!"
The lions were circling the perimeter of the stage at a faster pace, urged on by the four men; one by one, taking turns, each lion jumped through the woman's hoop. The guests began to applaud. Francesca hugged herself.
She was crushed. This would not do. They were only friends, after all.
God damn it.
"You are upset. Has he led you on?" Evan demanded. "That is who you were with the other night!"
Only a few days ago, when she had been out extremely late, Evan had found her out. He had not been certain whether to believe her or not when she had told him the truth-that she was working on the Burton Abduction. Francesca faced him angrily. "I am not upset. And no one has led me on. And don't you dare breathe a word of this to anyone!"
"Breathe a word of what?" Connie, her sister, appeared at their side, absolutely breathtaking in a pale orange gown and a choker of citrines. It was widely held that the Cahill sisters were as identical as twins, but it was not true. Francesca had always felt that her sister was by far the most beautiful of the pair. She was also stunningly elegant, no matter the time of day. "Now what are you up to, Fran?" Connie asked, but teasingly.
"She is carrying on with Bragg!" Evan said grimly. He turned his back on them and pushed into the crowd.
Connie's elegant brows lifted briefly, and then she turned to Francesca. "That is good news as far as I am concerned. You know I like the Commissioner."
Francesca did not speak. Fortunately Julia and Andrew were a short distance away and out of earshot. They were speaking with two other couples, their eyes, however, on the show. Connie did like Bragg. She had been delighted that, finally, at the ripe old age of twenty, Francesca was finally somewhat romantically inclined toward a gentleman.
Francesca gazed at her sister and was painfully reminded of the secret she kept from her. Last week, she had discovered Connie's husband in the throes of passion with another woman.
She had not known what to do; she had not said a word to her sister of Neil's affair and treachery.
It was still unbelievable. Francesca had adored her handsome, aristocratic brother-in-law from the moment she had laid eyes upon him, five years ago. And until last week, she had thought that he adored his wife. Clearly, she had been wrong.
"Oh dear," Connie said, her eyes wide.
Francesca turned to look at the spectacle and saw the woman riding on the back of one of the lions in her scanty attire. "That looks dangerous," Francesca remarked tersely.
"It looks more than dangerous," Connie said. "So what is wrong, Fran?"
A few men whistled; the woman waved.
Francesca shoved her unhappy thoughts of Neil Montrose aside. "Bragg has canceled," Francesca said. Connie was the only one to know about their date.
"What?" Connie glanced at her quickly.
"I am a fool," Francesca said heavily. "And I am very disappointed." There, she had dared to admit it.
Suddenly the crowd was hushed. Francesca glanced at the stage. The woman was now hanging upside down on a trapeze, her knees locked over the bar. Her short skirts revealed most of her backside. Her breasts seemed about to be falling out of her very small, boned top. The lions were seated now placidly in a row, and the four men had formed a human pyramid behind them. Clearly the uppermost man was going to be plucked up by the woman acrobat.
"Oh Fran, I am sure he had a valid reason. These things happen," Connie began, not taking her eyes off of the show.
"You are prejudiced," Francesca grumbled.
"But so are you, " Connie exclaimed. The crowd cried out.
Francesca's eyes widened. The uppermost man of the human pyramid had caught not the woman's hands but the bar she hung from, and he threw his own legs over it, so he also hung down as they swung wildly over the crowd. But the man and woman had their legs locked together, and they were back to back and head to head.
"Oh my," Connie managed, her cheeks as pink as her dress.
Francesca stared, stunned. And suddenly they both reversed positions, and they were sitting on top of the trapeze-on top of one another's laps.
Someone whistled. A man shouted. Other's applauded.
They pumped the swing-and their bodies--harder.
It was almost as if they were lovers on top of that trapeze. Francesca managed, "You don't think…they wouldn't dare…White wouldn't let them!"
"I think this is not decent," Connie breathed, yet she did not look away. In fact, she seemed mesmerized.
"Very indecent," someone drawled behind them.
Francesca stiffened in surprise and she and her sister turned almost as one. Calder Hart smiled at her, and then he looked at Connie, his regard becoming speculative.
"You're Bragg's brother. We met the other day," Francesca managed, wanting to see what the trapeze artists were doing but almost afraid to peek. Connie had turned her wide-eyed attention back to the performers.
"Half brother," he said, with a nod. "Miss Cahill, I presume?"
Francesca nodded, extending her hand, when the crowd shouted. As he took it, she jerked around to see the two of them standing on the trapeze, facing one another now, swinging energetically back and forth.
Hart released her hand.
Francesca turned to face him, but he was staring at Connie, who still could not take her eyes away from the show.
Calder Hart laughed and shook his head, returning his gaze to Francesca. "You should be home, Miss Cahill. Home and in bed, where proper young ladies like you belong. And maybe you should take your sister-I presume she is your sister-with you."
"I am in shock," Francesca admitted.
"In shock-or titillated?" he asked, glancing sidelong at Connie again.
"I beg your pardon," Francesca finally stiffened. But she was titillated. How could she not be? She was thinking about Bragg. Was he as mesmerized as everyone else by the spectacle on the trapeze? Or was he annoyed, or angry, or even bored?
"Is this your sister?"
Francesca nodded. "I am sorry. Connie, Mr. Hart. My sister, Lady Montrose." Francesca pinched her arm.
Connie gasped and faced Calder Hart abruptly, clearly breathless and quite distracted. She gave him her hand while he looked her up and down, slowly and frankly. Francesca was simply stunned, but Connie didn't even notice. "I beg your pardon. I have never seen such a thing. I am speechless," Connie confessed rapidly.
He was wry. "That is obvious." He bowed over her hand. "Might I assume that any efforts on my part to extole your beauty would now be a sheer waste of my breath and time?"
Connie glanced briefly at him. "I beg your pardon?" She hadn't heard a word he'd said.
"I thought so," he said with some mockery. He touched his chest as if he had been wounded.
"He is Bragg's half brother,' Francesca offered.
"And a good friend of White's," Calder Hart added, staring at Connie as if awaiting her reaction to this bit of news. When she said nothing, he shrugged and grinned.
Francesca stared at him thoughtfully. If he was White's friend, clearly he was used to this kind of exhibition. "Why does White wish to shock society?"
He grinned at her. "You shall have to ask him that. It has been a pleasure, ladies. I do hope to have the pleasure again--soon."
Francesca found herself rather speechless, but it did not matter, as he bowed his head and disappeared into the crowd too quickly for her to have a chance to respond. Connie didn't even notice. The man on the trapeze had slipped beneath and through the woman's legs and now he stood behind her, pumping the trapeze. The crowd roared, while the woman on the bar seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy.
Francesca poked Connie with her elbow-a quite unladylike gesture. "You were rude!" She exclaimed.
"Was I?" Connie managed. She did not even look at Francesca.
"There you are!" It was Julia, and Andrew was on her heels. "We are leaving! I have seen quite enough. We are leaving this instant. White should be arrested for this!"
Francesca had had enough as it was. "That's fine." She glanced at Connie.
"I had better go find Neil," Connie whispered unsteadily.
Before she could leave, Francesca gripped her hand. "Con?" She was thinking about the way Calder Hart had kept staring at her sister. It was making her uneasy now-in retrospect.
Connie's breathing was shallow. "I'm fine. I'll see if Neil wants to stay or leave."
Francesca nodded. "All right."
Suddenly Connie squeezed her hand and leaned close. "And don't worry. The fat lady hasn't sang yet." She smiled. "Bragg will be back."
Francesca thought about Bragg and her heart sank. "Thank you," she said. But Connie was wrong. Francesca knew she had made a mistake.
****
Half of the crowd had decided to leave, and from the murmurs and whispers around her, it was clear that White's departing guests were shocked and scandalized. Some, like Julia, were very angry at being duped into attending such an immoral and lax display.
The elevators were full. Francesca found herself in one corner, her parents in another. Evan had decided to stay. Julia was very angry with him.
Francesca wondered if Connie and Neil would remain for the rest of the evening. As angry as she was with Neil for having taken a lover, she doubted he would be so disrespectful of Connie now as to spend the rest of the evening with her in the throes of such immoral entertainment. Francesca felt certain Neil would take his wife home.
As the elevator cage was opened, the crowd surged out. "Francesca?" Her father called.
"I'm fine, Papa," Francesca said, following the crowd through the exit doors. She couldn't see her parents, but knew they were somewhere on her left.
Outside, a blast of cold air enveloped her in spite of the fur-lined cape she wore. It hadn't snowed in days, it was too cold. The city was breaking its own record low temperatures. New York's streets had been turned into sheets of ice; it's trees, into icicles.
Horses and carriages lined Madison Avenue between 26th and 27th streets. The broughams and coaches were double-parked, along with a few motorcars. Cabs cruised the avenue, looking for or carrying fares. Pedestrians swarmed the sidewalk in front of the Garden, but the surrounding blocks were rather deserted, due to the cold. Francesca slipped on a patch of treacherous ice as people pushed past her, looking for either a cab or their coach or car; she did not see her parents in the crush. "Papa?" She righted herself carefully and gingerly made her way to the curb. The Cahill brougham was just ahead.
Someone grabbed her arm, hard.
Francesca whirled, knowing it wasn't either of her parents. A pair of black eyes met hers from beneath a huge fur-trimmed hood.
For one instant Francesca stood there, shocked that someone would grab her, and unable to determine whether the person was a man or a woman. She was about to demand that she be released, when the person said, "Miss Cahill?"
It was a woman. Francesca relaxed slightly. "Yes?"
"Please." The woman's single word was an emotionally distressed plea. "Please. Please help me," she said.
© Copyright 2002, Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
|
