He shrugged helplessly, turning away. Francesca ran to him. "What is happening?" she demanded, grasping him by the arms.

He met her gaze, his haunted with sadness. "I don't know."

Francesca pulled him into her arms. He laid his cheek against her shoulder and his arms went lightly around her. She held him close, aching for him. "Rick, I am so sorry," she whispered.

"I don't know what to do," he said, choked.

Francesca held him hard. "Neither do I," she answered, and lay her cheek against his.

He knew just how clever and bold Francesca Cahill was, for he had read all about her exploits in the newspapers. He had admired her terribly for her courage and daring, for helping the police bring killers to their just deserts. But now he stared in absolute shock. She was in Rick Bragg's arms and engaged to another. She was a faithless b.i.t.c.h just like all the rest.

His fingers itched.

His heart raced.

He fondled the knife, barely aware of it.

How could this be? How? How could she be a wh.o.r.e like the others?

He did not know what to do. He had made his plans. He knew the b.i.t.c.hes he must punish.

Now he began to consider the question burning in him. Just what should he do about her?

And when she lay her cheek on Bragg's, he knew.

Chapter 20.

Sat.u.r.day, April 26, 1902.

6:00 p.m.

"Mr. Hart, sir?" a very cautious female voice said.

Hart was in his library, at his desk, his jacket gone, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.

He was recalculating the expenses he would incur from his upcoming Hong Kong venture and he was so engrossed it was a moment before he realized that Maggie Kennedy stood in the doorway. He looked up, startled.

She was blushing. "I can see I am interrupting," she said. "I'll come back at another time."

Hart leaped to his feet. "No, please!" He smiled, quickly rolling down his sleeves and reaching for the gold and ruby cuff links on his desk. "How may I help you, Mrs. Kennedy? Is everything to your satisfaction?"

She became somewhat wide of eye. "Yes, sir, Mr. Hart, your hospitality has been wonderful-if not somewhat overwhelming." She continued to stand in the doorway and he saw that she toyed with her skirts with one hand anxiously.

"Please, come in," he said, having managed to insert one cuff link in his sleeve.

She took two steps forward. "How may I repay you for your generosity, sir?" she asked, avoiding looking at what he was doing.

For a moment, surprised, he did not respond. Then, as he began to protest, Joel came

skidding into the room, grinning and flushed. "Hey, Mr. Hart," he said. "Ma, I'm home." Maggie laid a restraining hand on her son's shoulder. "This is hardly your home," she chided softly. "Where have you been all afternoon?" Hart had been about to ask that very question, as he knew that Joel had been with Francesca, sleuthing about the city. He stepped out from behind his desk, giving up on the left cuff of his shirtsleeve, although his arm was now covered. "Did you and Miss Cahill just get in?" he asked, knowing very well that as it was already six and he had to pick her up at seven, she would be late. It was her only flaw and he did not mind, not at all, as the cause was her pursuit of justice and not the vain primping other women indulged in before their mirrors. "Yes, sir." Joel grinned. He turned to his mother. And just as Hart was going to ask if the afternoon had been a productive one from the point of view of Francesca's investigation, Joel said, "We spent the afternoon in the park, having a picnic. I taught Katie how to fish!" Then he sobered. "But we didn't catch nuthin'." Hart felt himself still. In fact, the entire room became motionless, terribly so, and he felt a burn begin deep inside of him. He hardly had to be a genius to know that Katie was Bragg's fostering child. He reminded himself not to overreact; no one worked more diligently than his half brother and undoubtedly Bragg had spent the afternoon at headquarters. Out of kindness, Francesca had somehow gone to picnic with his wife, he told himself. No one was kinder than his fiancee. "You and Miss Cahill enjoyed a picnic with Mrs. Bragg and the children?" he asked casually. But he did not feel casual at all. "Yes, sir," Joel said eagerly. Then, "I mean, Mrs. Bragg didn't stay for very long. Mr. Bragg came an' joined us an' she went home. I ain't never had a picnic like this before! He tried to help me and Katie catch a fish and he taught Miz Cahill how to fish, too." He grinned. "Miz Cahill caught a fish-her very first!" Calder was in disbelief. He could only stare.

Francesca actually ran into the front hall of the house, breathless and dismayed. It was just past six and Hart was taking her to supper at 7:00 p.m. After their crisis of the night before, she wanted to look her very best. She intended to wear a new gown, a pale green silk he had yet to see, with jewelry she had borrowed from Connie. She knew she barely had time to tong her hair. "I need Bette," she cried, asking for the maid as she spotted her mother entering the hall at the far end. Julia came forward and did not reply. And even as Francesca raced forward, she was haunted by the terrible afternoon she had spent. In the end, she had not been able to leave Bragg alone with the girls in the park. Far too acutely aware of his anguish, she had stayed as he had eaten a sandwich, changing the subject to that of their investigation. They had spent several hours rehashing every clue and a.n.a.lyzing every suspect. They had not come to any new conclusions, but the light in Bragg's eyes had changed by the time they had begun to pack up their picnic basket. Before she had left with Raoul, he had taken her hand and squeezed it. "Thank you." Francesca had smiled as brightly as possible, not wanting to send him back into the dark tunnel of his marriage. "You have nothing to thank me for," she had said. Now, Francesca reached her mother, vaguely noting that Julia looked distinctly somber. She simply could not bear any more bad news. "Mama! I need Bette! I have to bathe and do my hair and dress, all in an hour! I refuse to keep Hart waiting tonight." "Your father wishes to see you in his study, Francesca," Julia said quietly. Francesca had been about to hike her skirts and run up the stairs. She faltered and looked directly at her mother. And suddenly she recalled the fact that Hart had intended to visit her father to request an earlier June wedding. But would he have done so after the fiasco of last night? She felt certain he would not, but then, Hart was so unpredictable that she simply could not know. "Mama? You look worried," she said with the utmost wariness. Julia suddenly hugged her. "You know how much I love you and how much I want you to be happy," she cried. Francesca jerked away, knowing that such an expression and statement on the part of hermother could only bode ill, indeed. "What is it?" she asked sharply. "What has happened? Ifeel certain that no one has died." "Your father is waiting," Julia said abruptly. "Mama!" Francesca protested in real alarm. "Very well. Andrew has called off the wedding." Francesca gasped, shocked, barely able to comprehend what her mother was saying. "We were both so upset to see the two of you at odds last night," Julia said. "I tried to calmAndrew down, but then Roberta Hind told us about his mistress. Dear G.o.d, Francesca, evenI cannot support your engagement if he is carrying on openly with such a woman." Francesca cried out in horror as the words sank in. She managed to say, "But he isn't. Thisisn't what you think." Her father had called off their engagement. She remained dazed, andtried to summon up a coherent thought. "The whole of society knows he keeps that Jones woman in the house he just bought forher!" Julia cried. "How could he do this to you? How? I had truly believed that he cared." Francesca stared, aghast, knowing Julia would never believe her if she explained thematter. But Papa could not do this-not without her consent, not without her opinion, notwithout her feelings being considered. And then she lifted her skirts and ran down the halland into her father's study. She did not knock, but the doors were wide open. Andrew was reclining on the sofa in asmoking jacket and slippers, reading the Sun. A fire blazed in the hearth and a gla.s.s of redwine was on the occasional table. He looked up over his newspaper as she halted beforehim. "You cannot have possibly broken my engagement without speaking to me first," she said,beginning to shake. This could not be happening-she would not allow it to happen. Calmly, Andrew set the paper aside. "Come sit with me, Francesca," he said, patting thesofa beside him as he sat upright. She refused. "I love him. I am going to marry him. And it is not what you think-he isn't withDaisy Jones!" "I am thinking as I always have," her father said, standing. "He is a self-serving cad. He iscurrently somewhat fascinated by you-and it is nothing more. Last night he was far moreinterested in another woman than he was in you, his fiancee. Last night you were hurt by hisbehavior-I saw it on your face, so do not deny it. The two of you have barely begun a lifetogether and already he is showing his true colors. Is this the kind of life you want to have?By G.o.d, Francesca, I will not allow it. This man isn't good enough to sweep the floors youwalk on." She was trembling almost convulsively and shamelessly close to tears. "Papa, don't do this.Hart is good, I know him as no one else does, and you are wrong about last night." "I have broken off the engagement," Andrew said firmly. "I know that right now you aresmitten, but in time, you will recover. In time, you will find someone else." "No," Francesca cried. "Papa, please-" He cut her off. "My word is final. And Francesca, consider this-when I told him theengagement was off, he did not object."

Still shaken, Francesca rang Hart's bell several times. She knew she should not be at his door in such a state of fear and panic, for her sister's words advising her never to pursue him were somewhere in the shadowy background of her mind. But she had to know what was happening. He had not objected to the breaking of their engagement. She did not believe it.

Surely he had protested. Surely they had recovered from the awful tension of the night before. Surely Hart would greet her warmly and hold her and kiss her and, in his usual arrogant manner, remind her that nothing would come between them, as his mind was made

up. Alfred opened the door and when he saw her, his calm demeanor vanished. He almost gaped. Francesca tried to smile as she gazed past him, but no one was in the s.p.a.cious foyer. "I must see Hart," she said tersely. "Good evening, Alfred." "Miss Cahill, please, come in," Alfred said, his eyes remaining wide as he let her inside. "Can I get you some tea, perhaps, while I tell Mr. Hart that you are here? He is not expecting you," he added, and while she had often called impulsively in the past, the butler's statement seemed to be a reprimand. He had noted her dishabille. But Francesca did not really care that her hair was coming loose or that her jacket was askew, that she wore no rouge and was undoubtedly as white as a ghost. She faced him, folding her arms across her chest. "Alfred, you do not have to be formal with me. Yes, I am distraught. Yes, I should go home and compose myself. However, I have just learned that Hart and my fattier have had a terrible falling-out and that my father has broken our engagement!" Alfred started. Francesca continued in a rush, "And surely Hart has not accepted the sudden demise of our engagement! I am not going home, Alfred, oh no. I must see Hart." "Oh dear," Alfred said, his tone hushed. "Mr. Hart is in a drawing room with some of his family. Miss Cahill, please, why don't you sit down in the gold room. I shall bring you some tea and sweets-it will calm you, I think-and then I shall tell Mr. Hart that you are here." "Nothing will calm me and especially not chocolate and tea," she said, looking him right in the eye. "Alfred, I must see Hart now. What is his mood? How is he? Has he indicated anything to you?" "He seemed fine when he came in a bit earlier, Miss Cahill," Alfred said reluctantly. "Miss Cahill, I respect you so. Would you mind very much if I dared to be terribly bold with you?" he asked, leading her across the huge entry hall. Francesca and Alfred had reached a silent and mutually agreeable understanding some time ago. Alfred wholeheartedly wished for her to marry his employer and he had made it clear he thought that nothing could be better for Hart. "Of course," she said. "I feel certain that Mr. Hart will not appreciate a scene," Alfred said, glancing at her with real worry. "I have seen him tolerate unhappy ladies in the past. One scene and they were never to be seen or heard from again." A bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Francesca touched his arm. "Thank you, Alfred, for your concern, and I shall keep that in mind," she said. Even as panicked as she was, she was sane enough to know that Alfred was right. Hart would despise a scene, and if he had the same doubts he had last night, she might even put the final nails in the coffin of their union by carrying on recklessly. Still, their future was at stake and she had to know what he intended to do about it. "But let me remind you, he was not engaged to any of these other ladies." Alfred inclined his head slightly. "That is true." Francesca swallowed, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hat was crooked and she attempted to right it, but she dropped the two hairpins. As if she cared about her hat. She smoothed down her jacket hem and nodded at Alfred. He opened the double door. "Mr. Hart, sir? Miss Cahill is here to see you." Francesca began to tremble. She glanced into the drawing room and saw Hart seated with a scotch, grimly staring at his drink. Clearly, his humor was black. That was a good sign, was it not? For surely it indicated that he was as upset with what Andrew had done as she was. And he slowly looked up. For one moment, she stared back, aware of an incredible tension in him. And then he rose, setting his drink aside. Francesca became vaguely aware of the others in the room. Grace and Rathe Bragg sat on the sofa near his chair. Rourke was in another chair and Maggie was on a love seat with Joel, an open book between them. Although she knew Maggie continued to stay at Hart's house, she had not expected to see her just then. All eyes were trained on her now. Clearly, everyone was remarking her unkempt appearance-or was it her nearly-hysterical state? But Hart's eyes were the worst. They seemed cold and very black and somehow menacing,indeed. Francesca forgot everyone else, staring at Hart, thoroughly taken aback. Hart approached, his expression impossible to read. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, shesaid, "I would like a word with you, please." His jaw flexed. "We will step into the library," he said without formality and he watched her soclosely that she shivered. Something was not right. Just like last night. He turned to his family and Maggie. "Excuse us." No one said a word. Francesca could not look at anyone, even knowing that later she would have to apologize toeveryone, and she quickly turned and rushed ahead of him down the hall. He followed herand she could hear his strides, long, hard and controlled. The library was a s.p.a.cious affairwith pale green walls, dark wood and gilded furniture, not to mention many stacks...o...b..okcases. She whirled, facing him. He closed both doors behind him and turned to her. "Whyever are you so distraught?" She was silenced, but only for a moment. "Are you going to tell me what happened today?" "I was wondering exactly that, myself," he said, walking past her to a bar cart. She did not hesitate. She raced after him and seized his wrist, preventing him from lifting thedecanter of scotch. "I have no clue what you mean. Papa ended our engagement and hesaid you made not a single objection!" Hart faced her, his jaw hard, and the storm clouds were there in his eyes. "Yes, he did." She made a disbelieving sound. "And you did not object?" His expression tightened. "I did not." He hesitated and added, "But not for the reason youare thinking." "For what reason, then?" she cried. "Timing," he said flatly. "Timing?" She could not believe her ears. "Timing, my dear, is everything in this life, but that, apparently, is a lesson you have notlearned." He was cold, almost cruel, and he turned away from her, pouring a scotch. One, not two, she saw miserably. "Does this mean the day will come when you will object?" He did not answer, his back to her, lifting the gla.s.s to his lips. As he drank, she saw how rigid his shoulders were. He was angry, and it felt as if he wantedto be mean and nasty, too. She was sick. Why was he angry with her? What had she done?And would he now seize Andrew's behavior as the excuse he needed to end theirengagement? "So we are over, then?" He set the gla.s.s down so hard that the bar cart jumped. He turned. "We will never be over,Francesca," he said harshly. It was perhaps the most romantic thing anyone could say to her, and it was certainly themost romantic thing he had ever said. But the meaning was ruined by his black glare and hisangry tone. Her spirits fell with sickening force. "I do not understand you, not at all," shesomehow whispered, consumed with dread. He gave her a mocking look. "Why not be realistic, Francesca? Your father has not changedhis low opinion of me- and if I were him, I would think the same way." "You want him to break this off, don't you?" she asked in despair. His jaw flexed, a muscle rippling there. "Actually, I did not. Actually, I do not like explainingmyself and justifying my behavior to anyone," he said with vast warning. If he wanted to use this as an excuse to end their engagement, it was truly over then. "I amaware of that," she said miserably. "And if it is over, if we are over, then I am the fool Bragghas said I was." She swallowed down a lump of tears. He made a mocking sound and it was ugly. "I heard you had a picnic today."

She froze. What was this? He knew she had been in the park? And suddenly everything became clear. She thought about how she had been alone with Bragg in the park after Leigh Anne had left, how she had comforted him-and how it must have looked to any pa.s.serby.

Hart confronted her. "What? Can you not admit to such a pleasant afternoon?"

"Yes," she breathed, her heart lurching with dread. "But it is not what you are thinking." "Ah, and you do know what I am thinking?" he mocked. She swallowed hard. "Their marriage is in trouble, Calder. They are both in so much miseryand I only wanted to help." "By spending the afternoon with Rick." "You said Raoul was my driver, my bodyguard. Clearly he is your spy!" she cried, tears finallyblurring her vision. How much had Raoul told him? She prayed he had not said that she hadbeen in Rick's embrace, because Hart would never believe it had been an act of comfortand friendship and nothing more. "Raoul said nothing. Joel is the one who raved about his afternoon." Hart's black gaze boredinto hers. "Of course, I then summoned Raoul and interviewed him at length." He knew. He knew she had held Bragg in her arms. "I was comforting him," she said,trembling. "I have done nothing wrong." "Yes, of course, for that is what you do best-comfort my half brother. Do you still love him?" She cried out. Hart seemed to shake. "Now is the time for real honesty, Francesca. I need to know. Idemand it!" She knew she must choose her words with care. "This is not what you are thinking." "Do you love him?" he ground out. "Yes-but not the way that you mean," she cried. Hart turned away, his hands shaking. "I love him as a friend," she said firmly-desperately. "And that is my right." He downed some of the scotch with a harsh, guttural laugh. "Yes, the friend you spent anentire night on that train with- the friend whose bed you warmed before you ever were inmine." "That's not fair." He stared. She was, amazingly, afraid of him now. But she touched his arm and he flinched. "You arethe man I have chosen. You are the man I want to wed." A moment pa.s.sed. "Do you still love him?" She recoiled. Her mind raced and she felt tears come. "No," she whispered. Yes, shewanted to say. But as a friend, d.a.m.n it, as if I were his sister, not as a lover, not as a wife. He suddenly flung the scotch gla.s.s with all of his strength, across the entire room, no easyfeat. It fell short of the far wall and miraculously did not shatter when it hit the floor. Francescaflinched. "You were in his arms," Hart shouted. "Yes, I interviewed Raoul, at length. You werein his arms. I went to your father to fight for our engagement and you were in his arms." "I was comforting him," she tried, the tears falling freely now. "I know all about his marital problems," he said savagely. "It is the talk of this family. So nowwhat? Your father disapproves of us, but he loves Rick! Will you wait for Rick to divorce hiswife? Will you marry him on the grave of a divorce made to his invalid wife? Shall his brokenmarriage be the altar upon which you make your eternal pledges of love?" She tried to say no, but could not speak. Instead, she shook her head, more tears falling. He turned his back on her, starting from the room. "It wasn't romantic," she gasped. He did not pause. "It wasn't romantic and it wasn't pa.s.sionate! But you would not understand, as you do not understand friendship or loyalty!" He whirled so rapidly that she flinched, even with half of the room separating them. And thenhe was striding back. "You were my friend," he said. "And I have been nothing but loyal toyou. I have not looked, even once, at another woman s.e.xually since I asked you to marry me!When Daisy came to my office the other day, I was more than loyal to you!" He was towering over her now. She tried to take his hand but he flung it away. "I am still yourfriend," she said, and realized how pathetic the declaration sounded. She wanted to tell himthat she loved him and always would, but she was afraid that he would not care, not now, notanymore. "You don't have to compete with Rick," she begged. "There is no reason tocompete with him!" He laughed disparagingly. "I have been competing with him my entire life." "Then stop! And trust me. My feelings haven't changed. You're the man I want to marry,Calder. Not him." His expression remained black, but she could see he had a grip on his anger and that it wasunder control. But she could also see something even worse-disbelief. "You don't believe me?" she managed to say, aghast. "I know this much." His smile was brief, mirthless and twisted. "If he were free, we would notbe together." "That's not true," she cried, seizing him. He shook her off, turning away. And as he started from the library, she raced after him. "Yousaid we would never be over." He made a mocking sound. "Are we over?" she demanded. "You tell me," he said darkly. She couldn't speak. They were standing on the edge of a terrible precipice and one falsestep would finish them, she was sure of it Somehow, between her father and Rick Bragg, theodds had been stacked against them. "I see you are simply speechless," Hart said cruelly. "No," she whispered. "I am not speechless, I am merely terrified." He walked out.

Chapter 21.

Sat.u.r.day, April 26, 1902.

7:00 p.m.

Francesca stood in the doorway, staring after Hart as he strode away. She was in shock.

She continued to tremble and felt as if she had to sit down. She could no longer breathe and a huge knot had formed in her heart, causing so much pain. She turned and went back into the library, sitting on the closest suitable piece of furniture, an ottoman. She tried not to cry.

We will never be over, he had said.

She wiped her eyes. He had been in a jealous rage-he had gone to her father to fight for their engagement. He had used that very word. That had only been earlier today. Surely, in a few more hours, he would be filled with regret.

How could she live this way?

Francesca was so afraid of the question that she refused to entertain it.

"Are you all right?" Rourke asked.

She looked up, knowing she must appear as ill as she felt Rourke stood in the doorway, compa.s.sion written all over his face. Francesca tried to force a smile and gave up. She stood. "No."

He hesitated. "If it is any consolation, he looks even worse than you do. Perhaps tomorrow the two of you will manage to sort things out."

She stared, wishing that were true and thinking of a lifetime spent with a man p.r.o.ne to such jealous rage. "He is furious because I spent the afternoon with Rick, not investigating, but having a picnic in the park."

Rourke was mildly surprised. "Francesca, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you need to be less of a friend to Rick if you are to succeed with Calder? I might even be jealous if I were in Calder's shoes." Rourke was so levelheaded and so objective that she highly doubted that. "Rick will always be a dear friend, and he needs all of his friends and family now," she said emphatically. "Yes, he does. But you may have to make a clear choice between them. Calder and Rick have been at odds as long as I can remember. I don't think the rivalry they share is ever going to change." He then smiled kindly at her. "I am going out to supper. Would you like to join me?" "No, thank you," she said, knowing she could never make such a terrible choice, especially not now, when Rick needed her so desperately as a friend. He waited for her and she left the library with him. As she was approaching the front hall, she tried not to wonder where Calder was, but she was painfully aware that he was somewhere in the house-unless, of course, he had gone out. Why couldn't he trust her? she wondered miserably. But the answer was obvious. He had been her friend, holding her hand, when she had first fallen in love with Rick Bragg. Apparently he was never going to recover from that bygone era; apparently he was never going to believe that he had somehow secured her heart. He had accused her of such disloyalty, she thought in anguish. It wasn't fair. She hadn't been disloyal to him, not once since she had realized that he was the one she truly loved. Suddenly she faltered. Rourke reached out to steady her but she wasn't even aware of him. What had Calder said? That he had been loyal to her even when Daisy had come to his office? When had Daisy gone to his office? No mistress, or ex-mistress, would ever dare to go to her lover's place of business! What did this mean? "Francesca, you look as if you have just seen a ghost." She blinked and saw Rourke gazing at her with concern. Behind him, she saw Maggie and Joel, both as riveted by her demeanor. Her mind raced. She must speak with Daisy and find out why she had called on Hart at his office. However, while she and Hart were most definitely in a crisis, a killer was on the loose. Her personal life must not interfere with her investigation. And apparently she no longer had plans for the evening. "Maggie!" She smiled firmly now. Maggie came forward hesitantly. "h.e.l.lo, Francesca." Her gaze was searching. "How are you? Are you all right?" She shoved all thoughts of Hart far aside. "I am fine. I am so glad to run into you this way. Maggie, I need your help, and I think there is no time like the present, as it is rather early yet." Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Of course I will help. But what can I do?" "Can Joel stay here with the children? You and I must go downtown. It is time we paid a friendly call on Lord Randolph, my dear," she said, and she smiled broadly. Maggie was bewildered. "Lord Randolph? I am afraid I don't know any gentleman of that name." "Ah, but you may have met him once-on the street, outside of Kate Sullivan's building the evening of her murder, within an hour of her demise." Maggie was wide-eyed. Francesca felt much better. There was nothing like sinking her teeth into an investigation to get her mind off the terrible ache in her heart. She turned to Rourke with a smile. "Would you like to join us for an evening of investigative work?" she asked. "If you are not too hungry, that is."

Francesca and Maggie climbed into the back of Hart's handsome black coach and Francesca rapped smartly on the ceiling, indicating that Raoul could drive off. Rourke had declined her invitation, so when her door suddenly opened and he stepped up into the cab, she was very surprised. A moment later, as he took a seat facing them, the light of the interior lantern fell across him and she stiffened in shock. It was not Rourke, but Hart. He settled himself on the rearward-facing seat, dominating the interior of the coach and making it seem far too small and airless. "Raoul, proceed," he said, knocking once on the roof. And the six-in-hand rolled off. "What are you doing?" Francesca managed to say. "I am joining you," he said, unsmiling. She stared at him and he stared back. From his terse expression, she could surmise that little had changed in the past quarter hour. "Why?" "I suspect the evening will become a very late one. My feelings have not changed. I do not like you traipsing about the city in the midnight hours of the night, chasing the worst sort of criminals." Her heart raced with some trepidation and some small elation. How easy it would be to refute him. It was only seven o'clock and Lord Randolph was hardly a thug-although he might turn out to be the Slasher. And Raoul was her bodyguard. There was no reason for Hart to be present, other than the reason that he still cared, rather excessively, for her. She dared to smile just a little at him. He said, unsmiling, "I believe you are on a fool's errand." He turned and faced out the window, not saying another word. And from the hard-set look on his features, she thought that any attempt to draw him into a civil conversation would certainly fail. Nonetheless, her heart pounding now, she said, "We have a very tenuous list of suspects. David Hanrahan, Lord Randolph, Sam Wilson and John Sullivan. Hanrahan has no alibis, Randolph we have yet to question, Wilson has an alibi for last Thursday, but I am not quite sure whether to believe Francis or not, and Sullivan apparently went out drinking every night-including the night of his wife's murder. We still do not know if he committed suicide. If he did, he could very well be the Slasher." She forced another smile, but Hart continued to stare out of his window and did not see. She tried, "So what do you think?" He gave her a brief, dark look. "I have yet to leap to any conclusions, solid or otherwise," he said flatly, and he faced his window again. Francesca felt crushed; she gave up. She turned to look out of Maggie's window, as she did not want to be confronted with Hart. How perilously fragile her emotions were. Maggie gently patted her hand. Francesca smiled a little at her and no one said another word for the next half hour as Raoul proceeded downtown. The tension in the coach was thick enough to cut with a knife. The Holland House Hotel came into sight. It took up half of the block between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth Streets and was on the west side of Fifth Avenue. It was a handsome, square building of granite built several decades ago. Francesca forgot about Hart, staring at the canopied entrance where two liveried doormen stood. Their carriage slowed and her mind raced. She turned to Hart. "There is no need for subterfuge, I think. You can enquire after Randolph at the front desk. We will go inside with you, claiming to be a dinner party. If he is somewhere in the hotel, we can have you send a note to him to meet you in the lobby." She looked at him. "Would you mind, Calder?" His gaze flickered over her face rather studiously, and slowly he nodded. "Of course I do not mind." Raoul had alighted from the top seat where he drove and he opened the door for them. Francesca followed Maggie out onto the sidewalk, excitement rising within her, Hart behind her. He said in her ear, "And if he is out for the evening?" "So much the better," she said cheerfully. "There is only one public entrance to the hotel and we will sit in the lobby until he returns. He is not sociable," she reminded him, "so I doubt he will be out until the wee hours." Hart's expression appeared to be in danger of thawing. He shook his head, and took her arm. "As I said, the evening threatens to be a late one." He smiled at Maggie. "Shall we?"

As they entered the hotel it was briefly as if nothing was wrong. Francesca remained beside Hart, on his arm. They approached the front desk, a long gleaming teakwood counter where two clerks in dark suits stood, and Francesca eagerly scanned the lobby.

The room was large but not half as s.p.a.cious as that of the city's higher-end hotels. There were only three seating areas, all occupied by gentlemen and ladies. Francesca instantly surmised that Randolph was not present. She did not recognize anyone, in fact.

"How may I help you, sir?" a young clerk was asking.

"I believe a friend of mine is staying at your hotel," Hart said. "Lord Randolph. I should like to get a word to him. Do you know if he is in this evening?"

Francesca fidgeted as the clerk said that he believed Lord Randolph was in his rooms. It was the supper hour, but if he were as dour as Hart clamed, perhaps he was dining alone in his suite. She glanced past the crowd in the lobby, trying to peek into the dining room on the hall's other side. But from this distance, it was simply impossible to distinguish any of the guests inside. The elevator bell chimed.

Francesca glanced impatiently at the gilded arrow, indicating the elevator was arriving on the first floor. Hart was scribbling a note, which a bellman would deliver to Randolph's room.

She leaned close and said, "Invite him for a drink in the lobby."

"That is already done," he said, signing his name without any flourish. He eyed her closely.

"Are you a bit warm, Francesca?"

She was delighted because his tone seemed very normal, as did the light in his eyes. In fact, she knew he had caught a whiff of her excitement and was mildly amused. She was about to grin and ask him if she was forgiven, when the bra.s.s door of the elevator opened. Three people walked out and the gentleman in the rear was Harry de Warenne.

Francesca was so excited she poked Hart hard in the ribs, hard enough to make him utter a breath.

"Sir." The clerk had just espied Randolph as well. "There is Lord Randolph."

As Hart made some kind of reply, Francesca grabbed Maggie and dragged her away from Hart, toward a large wooden column. "That is Lord Randolph, the handsome gentleman with the ivory-headed cane. The one Hart is walking toward."

And indeed, Hart was leisurely approaching their quarry. Randolph saw him and stopped and the two men shook hands.

Francesca turned to Maggie. "Well?" she demanded.

Maggie was pale.

"Do you need a closer look?"

Maggie shook her head. "No. That's him, Francesca, that's the gentleman I b.u.mped into outside of Kate's building."

They were standing fifty feet away. Francesca was thrilled; still, she took Maggie's hand.

"Are you certain?" Hart was glancing at them. She knew he was about to signal them to come over and join them.

"I am positive," Maggie breathed, flushed now. She gazed at Francesca. "What does this mean? Is he the killer?"

Francesca shook her head at Hart and he gave her his back instantly. She pulled Maggie back around the column, ducking her head so she would not be remarked. "It doesn't quite mean anything yet."

Maggie seemed nervous, glancing toward the center of the lobby. "They are walking toward the front doors. I guess Randolph is on his way out. Hart seems to be joining him," she said rapidly.

Francesca looked their way as the two men disappeared onto the street. "Come on," she said, hurrying after them. She paused briefly before leaving the hotel, just in time to see Randolph getting into a cab and Hart nodding goodbye. As the horse-drawn hansom pulled away from the curb, she darted out onto the avenue and over to Hart. "It's him," she cried, pausing beside him and staring after the cab. She was out of breath. "Maggie has no doubt.

We have to follow him, Hart!"

Hart raised his hand. Raoul was standing beside Hart's brougham farther down the block and he instantly climbed onto the driver's seat, releasing the brake. And finally, Hart smiled at her. "After you, darling," he said.

Gwen O'Neil smiled warmly as she pulled the covers up to her daughter's chin. "G'night, darlin'," she murmured, but Bridget was already soundly asleep. For one moment she stared at her beautiful daughter, filled with the warmth of love, but then her smile faded as she recalled her husband. Bridget had gone to work with her on Sat.u.r.day and David had been waiting for them at the day's end outside the candle factory. He had begged her to take him back and had threatened them both if she refused. She didn't believe for a moment that he was the Slasher, but she did believe that he would hurt her and her daughter terribly if he was not sent back to jail. He was a petty-minded and vengeful man and his new purpose in life was to make her miserable, she thought. And it was working. If only Harry had not dropped those charges against him. And as a painful image of Harry de Warenne came abruptly to mind, she leaped to her feet, more than disconcerted. A lump of anguish remained raw in her chest. It had been shocking to find him in New York, and his presence in the city had rekindled memories she had hoped to leave far behind in Ireland, where they belonged. He must have found her the same way David had, she thought as she vigorously cleaned the counter by the sink. Now she regretted leaving Father Culhane's name with her neighbor in case anyone had to contact her. She wondered if Harry remained in the city or if he had left. It was shocking that he had even bothered to look her up. Or was it? Gwen paused, the rag in her hand, swept back in time to a perfect spring day, the lawns the color of emeralds, the sky brilliantly blue, as she slipped out of the manor house with no small amount of guilt. But no one was home and the day simply beckoned. Before she knew it, she was running barefoot down the hill in a moment of sheer joy and real freedom. As she ran, her life with David did not exist. There was only the wet gra.s.s beneath her feet, the sun shining mildly upon her face, the faint chill of the air, the overwhelming scent of hyacinth. Then she fell. She tripped on a stone. Briefly, she rolled over, once, twice. And then, like a child, she rolled over again and again, all the way to the bottom of the hill, and laughing out loud, she stopped on her back and stared up at the pa.s.sing white clouds. She floated there in the gra.s.s, so wonderfully relaxed. Then, her laughter gone, she sobered and came back to reality. She had a job to return to and her black dress was wet and stained with dirt. Worse, her white ap.r.o.n was now blotched green. Gwen sat up, thinking to rebraid her hair. And the lord of the manor sat on his bay horse, his eyebrows raised, staring at her. She jumped to her feet in dread and dismay, her hands falling to her sides. "My lord, sir!" She bowed her head, her heart racing wildly. "I beg your pardon, sir, I...I," she faltered, for she did not know what to say and he was dismounting-he was approaching! She dared to look up, unable to breathe. Randolph walked closer, an impossibly handsome man, a man she had never seen smile, not even once. "You don't have to apologize for enjoying our first good day of spring, Mrs. Hanrahan." He bowed. She met his gaze and felt herself drowning in his remarkable blue eyes and in wave after wave of her own surprise. She knew her cheeks were hot. But it was impossible not to be aware of Harry de Warenne as a most attractive man, even if he was a n.o.bleman and her employer. Fortunately, she rarely glimpsed him more than once or twice a day. Unfortunately, she dreamed about those glimpses in the wee hours of the night. Now a dozen questions filled her mind. Why had he bowed? How terrible did she look? For how long had he been watching her? "How do you know my name?" she whispered. He did not smile. She knew all the rumors. He had lost his wife and children in a fire some time ago and continued to grieve for them, and she felt terribly sad for him. He was too young to spend the rest of his life in mourning. "You are in my employ," he said with a shrug. "I asked the steward." Alarm began. He must have asked about her because he intended to reprimand her-or worse. But before she could get a word out, he said, "Your foot is bleeding." She somehow tore her gaze from his face and looked down. He was right. She must have cut it on a stone. "I'm fine," she managed to say. She realized she must, somehow, escape back to the house and the duties awaiting her there. But he knelt, swiftly producing a crisp linen kerchief. Gwen gaped. "The wound is not deep, I think," he said, and she had to bite down not to cry out as he put the unfolded linen on her foot, tying it in place. His hands were stunningly gentle. What was he doing? Swiftly, he stood. And his cheeks were red as he said, "I don't think you should walk. You may ride Storm back to the house." She had become incoherent, wanting to protest, for surely this could not be. She was no lady, to be treated this way. But then, as the crimson stain on his cheeks darkened, he swept her into his arms before she could utter her protest. He set her in the saddle. She was staring at him, remaining more shocked than she had ever been in her life, and his gaze met hers. "I'll walk," he said. "Just hold on to the saddle." And he led the horse with her on its back up the hill and to the house. Now, Gwen had to sit down at her kitchen table. The tears began, tears she had thought finished a long time ago. That had been the first time she had ever been in Harry's arms. The first time they had ever exchanged words. After that, once or twice a day, he would pa.s.s her in the hall or study and inquire politely after her or her daughter. Eventually she and Bridget had run into him on the street of the village and he had bought Bridget a sweet. He began to appear outside their church on Sunday-David did not go to church and Lord Randolph was, of course, Protestant-and he would give them a ride home in his handsome carriage. Christmas came. His gift to the family was a huge basket filled with exotic coffees and teas, biscuits and chocolates. Buried in the midst of the gourmet refreshments was a vial of the most delicate, sweet and floral French perfume. She was wildly, hopelessly in love. She did not know what their strange relationship meant to him. She lived for the brief moments each day that they came face-to-face and those warm, sunny Sunday afternoons when he would drive her and Bridget home from church. She knew his reputation-and he did not dally with women of any cla.s.s, so he could not be flirting with her. And she had heard that he had vowed never to remarry. But they did have some kind of relationship, a very tense and formal one. Yet oddly, it was also a friendship. It had been a year since she had first glimpsed him, the day her employment had begun. And then she and David had another huge fight. He'd been missing for two days but Gwen knew that meant he was on a drunk. It was not the first time he'd disappeared and she knew it would not be the last. A part of her prayed he would never come back. When he did come home, he chose to pick a fight-accusing her of being less than a wife, a good-for-nothing lack wit-and his alcoholic rage had escalated until he began to beat her with his fist. Her face was badly bruised and Gwen knew she could not go up to the big house the next day. She sent a note to the housekeeper at Adare that she was ill and she would not be in for several days. The next day Randolph came. In a panic, she refused to answer the door, but he let himself in. And when he saw her face, she saw how much he cared. Before she even knew it she was in his arms-in his embrace-and he held her close and demanded she tell him who had done this so he might beat the man to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp. She begged him to leave it alone. And he kissed her, telling her he could not leave it alone, and it was like the cork exploding from a fine bottle of champagne-one kiss and pa.s.sion claimed them both.

Gwen wiped the tears from her face. She hated the memories, just as she cherished them, and she wished Randolph was not in the city, just as she wished he would come back, one more time. And when the knock sounded on her door, her wish was answered, because she somehow knew it was him.

Gwen stood slowly, stunned.

He knocked again.

Her heart filled her breast. Gwen hurried forward, unbolting the door, and not even inquiring as to who might be in her hall, she opened it.

Harry de Warenne stood there, staring intensely at her.

She felt as if she were back in Ireland, back in the little cottage she called home, as if time had gone backward, somehow retracing its steps, and she was a maid in his employ-a maid and his lover.

He reached out.

Gwen rushed into his arms.

"Oh G.o.d!" Francesca cried, seizing Hart's arm. They had followed Randolph's hansom across town and to Avenue A and then to Tenth Street. She watched as Randolph paid the cab-driver and turned to face the building where Gwen lived and where Margaret Cooper had died. And then she watched him as he went inside.

"Hart!" She faced him in horror. "He is going after Gwen. We must go up-we must stop him!"

Hart did not look very pleased. He faced Maggie. "Mrs. Kennedy, I think we are going to pay a call on Mrs. O'Neil. Please wait here."

Maggie blanched. She nodded, whispering, "Be careful."