Sunday, April 27, 1902.

5:00 p.m.

Francesca followed Hart into his library, still consumed with dread. He closed both doors behind her. "I am sorry," he said gravely. "This is not your fault!" she cried. He went to her and took her into his arms. "Isn't it? And isn't Rick right? If this portrait finds its way into a public gallery, I will be the reason you can never hold your head up again. I will be the reason you are scorned. I will be the reason you are hurt." She gripped his lapels. "I agreed to pose nude. I agreed freely. There was no gun pointed at my head." He cupped her face in his hands. "I had thought, until now, that I would begin a new life, and even acquire a new reputation with you. Suddenly the opposite seems to be the case. Rick is right. Eventually I taint everything I touch." "That is not true! Do not abandon me now!" she said fiercely. Their gazes met. "I would never abandon you. I don't want to ever be without you. In fact, I miss you terribly." She started. "What do you mean?" "I hate being at odds," he said vehemently. "These past few days, my rife has felt so utterly cold and devoid of all meaning. The way it was once, before I met you, before you became my loyal and true friend." She leaned close, laying her cheek against his chest, her heart pounding now. "Calder, I miss you, too. I miss you terribly! I have come to count on my days being filled with you." "Really?" he asked softly, tilting up her chin so that their eyes met. And the look there was so warm that it stole her breath away. Desperately, she wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wet her lips. "I cannot imagine life the way it was before we became engaged to one another. I cannot imagine life without you," she said quietly. He started, his gaze flying wide. "Do you mean it?" he demanded, as if stunned, his hands on her shoulders. "Did I just hear you say that you could not live without me?" Had she said that? But it was the truth-she could not live without him. Without Calder Hart,her life would never be the same. She bit her lip even as she somehow smiled. "Yes, Calder,I mean it. I mean it with all of my heart. I cannot live without you." He stared at her with sheer incredulity. She swallowed. "You are an enigma-a very difficult enigma-but you are the enigma I wantto be with," she said roughly. He pulled her into his arms, his mouth finding hers, the urgency stunning. Thrilled by hisfierce response, Francesca felt the urgency not just in his lips, but in every muscle andtendon of his body and she was desperately relieved. Nothing had changed, dear G.o.d, hadit? And then she recalled the fact that her father was now dead-set against them. "Calder?" He lifted his head, his eyes ash-gray with desire. "I want to make love to you," he said. She froze. And every single time he had declared that he did not believe in love filled her mind. b.u.t.there was more. He had said he had never made love to a woman, not once in his entire life.She pressed against his shoulders. "What did you just say?" Staring intensely at her, he repeated, "I want to make love to you." It was impossible to breathe, nearly impossible to think. "You told me once that you havenever made love to a woman." "I haven't." What did this mean? Was he telling her that he loved her? "Calder?" "I want to show you how I feel," he said roughly, stroking his thumb over her jaw. "I want tomake you feel the same way." She was ready to swoon. Every inch of her body had turned to fire. She was ready; she hadnever been more ready. "Please," she whispered, a plea. He smiled a little at her. "Your wish is my command," he murmured, and with dexterousfingers he unb.u.t.toned her jacket, sliding it from her shoulders and tossing it to the floor. Ashe unb.u.t.toned her shirtwaist, her heart had never beat more swiftly. She had difficultycontinuing to stand. He watched her, dropping the shirt and reaching behind her to unfasten her corset. "Don'tfaint now, darling," he said, pressing his thigh between hers. "We have hardly begun." She gasped, holding tightly on to him for support as her undergarments. .h.i.t the floor as well."I am so excited," she managed to say, "and you haven't even touched me." He smiled. "I can rectify that," he said softly, and he touched his forefinger to her hard,distended nipple, then began to rub it. She cried out, waves of pleasure engulfing her,making her dizzy. He bent and laid his tongue over the hot, hard tip. Somehow, her skirtsand petticoat dropped to the floor, pooling at her feet. He sucked on her, hard. Francesca moaned shamelessly, filled now with desire. Hart lifted his head, his tone thick but surprised. "Darling, are you peaking?" "Hurry," she gasped, barely able to open her eyes and meet his smoking gaze. Before she knew it, he had laid her on the rug, their mouths instantly fusing, his hand nowbetween her thighs, inside her drawers. The moment he touched her s.e.x, she screamed,racked by a violent climax. When she was floating somewhere in time, she felt him kissing her throat and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s,his hands stroking over belly, her thighs, her s.e.x. Her drawers were, miraculously, gone. She struggled to open her eyes and look at him. "I want to give you so much pleasure," he said, his eyes hot He bent over her and laid histongue between the thick folds of her s.e.x. Instantly, Francesca collapsed back on the floor,moaning. He spread her wide and continued to caress her with his tongue. She spiraled out of controlso quickly that there was no time to protest and disrobe him. Reaching down, clinging to hisshoulders, she wept in pleasure and pain and more pleasure again.

He moved beside her when she was done and she drifted back into his arms. Toying with her breast, he whispered, "Perhaps we should argue more often." She was still floating; she managed to look at him. Still breathless, she took his hand. "I hate arguing with you, but for some reason, your every look, word, touch is making me insane with more desire." She moved his hand down her belly and lower still. He smiled, smug and pleased. He found her mouth and kissed her slowly, deeply, for a long, long time. This time his dangerous hand moved down her b.u.t.tocks, playing there in a terribly sensual, suggestive manner. From behind, he prodded and caressed, toyed and searched. She tore her mouth from his, gasping in violent need. "You said you wanted to make love to me," she cried, reaching for his trousers. "I think this moment is highly appropriate." He smiled at her. "I am making love to you, darling. I am making love to every inch of you that I can." His smile faded and he turned her onto her stomach. Her hair had long since come down and he moved it aside, kissing her nape and then slowly working his way down her spine. He had straddled her, and when he moved over her b.u.t.tocks, she finally felt him and her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Beyond weak, beyond hollow, she arched upward, seeking to feel him again. "Yes, darling, I know what you want and what you need," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely in her ear. And she felt every inch of his manhood, hard as steel, encased in fine wool, pressing against her b.u.t.tocks. She cried out. Holding her tightly now, his breathing harsh, he moved against her, thrusting long and slow. "One day," he said, "you will know what this really feels like." She was sobbing but soundlessly now. "One day?" she wept. "You said you are making love to me tonight!" It suddenly crossed her mind that they had a serious miscommunication. She tensed, torn between fury and despair, and she felt his mouth on the corner of her lips. "I never said I was intending to break the vow I made to wait until our wedding night," he murmured. "You are a complete b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she cried. "So much pa.s.sion in one tiny woman," he murmured, kissing her shoulder, and then she felt the naked length of him as he unfastened his trousers and sprang firmly against her b.u.t.tocks. He surged deep and low, between her thighs, directly against her s.e.x. She rode him as he thrust, her swollen wet s.e.x on his hard determined length, and the explosion was cataclysmic, throwing her far away into a black star-spangled universe. She wept and wept as he thrust with increasing urgency, and at some point, lost in time and s.p.a.ce, she was vaguely aware of his climax joining her own. And then she was in the circle of his arms. He was panting hard, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her ear. "That was too soon," he whispered. "I want to give you so much pleasure tonight." She found his hand and held it tightly, her composure slowly returning. Being with this man was like nothing she had ever dreamed of. She had never imagined that so much pa.s.sion and desire could exist, that it could be so raw, so urgent, so consuming. Dazed, she spooned into him and he kissed the swell of her breast. Amazingly, her body was eager to respond to his again. And bemused, she realized that once again she was completely naked in his arms, and he was fully clothed. She could not form any coherent words just yet. He raised her hand and kissed it. "We need to be in my bed," he murmured. "Because I am hardly through with you, darling." She twisted to look up at him, smiling, while hot need shafted inside her. He smiled with real amus.e.m.e.nt at her. "Cat got your tongue, darling?" She had never felt more relaxed or more languid. Yet her s.e.x had begun to ache in the most insistent manner. She closed her eyes and kissed his shirt and as she sighed, she guided his hand where it belonged. "Yes," she finally murmured. He laughed, sounding a bit too pleased with himself. "You are such a strumpet! You are so easy to set off!"

She felt slightly annoyed and she lifted her lashes to look at his impossibly attractive face.His eyes danced now. "And that is a problem?" The laughter died. He became thoughtful and his skilled fingers slipped low, stroking there."It is an interesting dilemma," he said. "I wonder if I might have a certain effect on you- say,from across a crowded ballroom or a supper table?" She understood and gaped. And his expression became self-deprecating. He sat up. "Yes, I am depraved to the veryend, it seems." His good humor was gone. She seized his hand. "Then I am depraved, too-and happily so. Because if you meant whatI thought you did, I should very much like to experiment and see what we can achieve." He looked at her. She stared back, aware of a blush on her cheeks. "Your very look has a certain power overme," she said softly. She cupped his cheek. "Am I being too naughty?" "No," he said, inhaling. He pulled her close, his eyes closing, and kissed her deeply. Then heshifted and stared at her. "I sensed this in you the moment we met." She was surprised. "Calder, I myself had no idea I was capable of so much pa.s.sion." He stroked her face, her shoulder. "I knew. I knew it right away. I knew the bluestocking andthe sleuth were but the outermost layer." He hesitated. "As much as I want to take youupstairs, I can't risk us getting caught." She understood. "What are we going to do about Papa?" she asked. He met her gaze, then slowly stood, adjusting his clothing. Francesca watched, making nomove to get up. He smiled a little. "Have I created a monster?" he asked softly and with atender smile. "I think so," she said, knowing that they had to talk but also wanting to be back in his arms ina wild frenzy of pa.s.sion. He handed over her drawers and chemise. "Please." As she put on the two garments, she thought about the way Calder had touched her andkissed her and held her. She had felt far more than pa.s.sion and l.u.s.t in his touch. Whatexactly had he meant when he said he wanted to make love to her? She thrilled just recallinghis words. "Calder? You said you would not break your vow to wait for our wedding night." He met her gaze, his expression utterly serious. "Your father has now refused us. Rick haspointed out the trouble I am causing you with the portrait stolen. And then there is Daisy." Her heart lurched with fear. She bent and stepped into her petticoat. Then she faced him. "Ifyou're asking me if I still want to marry you, the answer is yes." His jaw flexed. "What did Daisy and you speak about earlier today?" She trembled. "She told me why she went to your office. She told me what she said. And shetold me that she wants revenge." "Revenge? For what?" he exclaimed. "I think she is always the one to walk away, Calder, I do not think any man has ever been theone to walk away from her." He absorbed that. "Did she tell you exactly what she said at my office?" Francesca tensed with dread. Her ears began to ring and her cheeks to burn. "Yes." He stared at her. A bead of sweat had formed on his forehead. She desperately wanted to know what he was thinking. "Daisy approached me in the Lordand Taylor store," she said slowly. "Earlier in the week. Somehow, she knew exactly what tosay to me to disturb me to no end. I was incredibly distressed by her, enough to beginendlessly worrying about our engagement, our future and even your loyalty." "What did she say?" he asked abruptly, his gaze dark and intense. She stiffened. She did not want to be that honest with him, oh no. "Darling, if you intend for me to be honest with you on this matter, then you will have to do thesame." She walked away and sat down on an ottoman. Not looking at him, she said, "She told mewhat I already believe. That you will soon find me boring and stray to someone else." She dared not look up. He knelt before her. "Look at me," he exclaimed. She somehow managed to do so, shaking now. She hated Calder having even the briefestglimpse of her very real insecurity. He touched her face. "The one thing I am sure of is that I will never find you boring! And howmany times must I reiterate that if I wanted to pursue other women, I would not shacklemyself in marriage? I am sick of that life!" She met his steady gaze. "How sick of it are you, really?" His smile was derisive. He stood. "s.e.x has bored me for some time, Francesca. It hasbecome rather like a drug, I think, addictive, but with each dose, less intense. As a result,the addict must constantly find ways to make each act more exciting. That is why I strayed towomen like Daisy and Rose, among other less usual fare." She was wide-eyed. "You find s.e.x boring?" But it began to make some sense now. He smiled a little. "I have for a number of years, yes. But recently, that has changed." She continued to stare. Her eyebrows felt as if they had risen to join her hairline. "There is nothing boring about you," he said, kneeling again. "And I have never felt as.e.xcited as when I am with you." He smiled a little, but she thought he was blushing, for thetop of his cheekbones had become-tinged with pink. He hesitated and added, "I think it's thefact that I genuinely care about you. It seems to have changed everything." "Oh," she managed to say. She was stunned. He stood, looking very pensive now and not quite pleased. "So you do not need to listen toanything Daisy has to say. What a troublemaker! The least of our problems will be mywandering the town in pursuit of other women." Francesca stood, continuing to reel from Calder's confession. "So why did she upset you somuch? She is the reason you almost broke off our engagement Friday night, isn't she?" He turned to face her. "Yes." "Why? You forced me to be utterly honest with you. You can at least do the same with me,"Francesca said. "She knows me too well," he said flatly. "I don't understand," she began, and there was more dread, again. "Daisy's entirely accurate point was I am by nature a cad, and I will never be able to changethat, not for you, not for any woman. And she is right. I can never reform," he said harshly. "Iam s.e.xually depraved. Inside, I am black and hollow, and we can both pretend I am n.o.bleand good, but the truth is, I am not that man." "No! Stop!" She took his hand very firmly. "The one thing I do know is that you are a goodman, Calder Hart." "That is what you are determined to believe, and that is why I-" He stopped. And he flushedfrom ear to ear. "That is why you are so sweet," he said hoa.r.s.ely. She could only stare, amazed. Every instinct told her that he had been about to tell her thatwas why he loved her. "I will not lie now, Calder. I am afraid you will wander one day, but Iknow that there is nothing black inside of you. I know it." He took her in his arms. "Don't you see? Daisy, your father and Rick are right. I am simplynot worthy of you. I do not want to taint you. I do not want my depravity to rub off on you, not inany way." "What are you saying?" she cried, trembling. "This is the time for us to say goodbye-if that is what you want. Your father is against usand he is right. That portrait is missing and it is my fault. I suggested you pose nude,because of who I am. You deserve someone far better than I, Francesca. Admit it." She clasped his face in her hands. "There is no one better. I will admit nothing of the kind.Yes, you have a dark s.e.xual side. But you also have a good side, and don't you dare deny it.I have seen as much n.o.bility in you as I have in your half brother." "I will never believe that," he said softly, "but oddly, I think that you really do." He had seemed almost sad as he spoke. She knew that she would never convince him that he was good enough for her. "That s.e.xual side Daisy tried to seduce? Frankly, it is as alluring to me as your n.o.bility, yourintellect, and all the power you have ama.s.sed when you were born in a ghetto." His eyeswidened. "Of course I know about your dark side. When I met you, your alibi for your father'smurder involved sleeping with two women at once. I have known all about you from the verymoment we met. I was investigating you. I had heard every rumor and every fact before Iever fell in love with you." His eyes went even wider. His coloring vanished. "What? What did you just say?" She released him, backing up. "I, er...I..." She stammered. He seized her. "Like h.e.l.l! You just said you love me! Do you love me? But how can you? Youlove Rick! You gave your heart to him first, and you told me yourself, when we first met, thatyou were a woman to give her heart away once and only one time." She swallowed, trembling. "I thought I loved him," she whispered, "but now I have true loveand I can feel the difference. I respected him, I admired him, I cared for him-and it was aninfatuation. Calder, it was nothing like this. I have never felt this way about anyone, ever, inmy life." She felt tears rolling down her cheeks. She had not wanted to tell him the real extent of her feelings. She knew this confessionwould give him so much power, but as afraid as she was, she was also relieved. "I am inlove with you," she whispered. "Head over heels in love with you." "Oh G.o.d," was all he said, as white as a ghost. He held her face and kissed her, hard anddeep. And abruptly he released her, stepping back. "You can't stay," he said, pointing at her. His hand trembled. He saw, and slipped it into hispocket. "I have a very serious loss of control," he added more calmly. She could only gape. His eyes were black. "Francesca, if you don't turn around and walk out that door, I am goingto more than make love to you, and I know I will regret ruining our wedding night for the restof my life." He was shaking. She had never seen him at such a loss. She nodded, biting her lip. "Thenyou had better go while I get dressed," she said. He raked his hair with his hand. "Yes. Yes, that is a good idea." But he did not move. Hestared. "Did you mean it? How could you mean it?" he demanded. She began to glimpse the small, abandoned boy who had never grown up, a boy who wasfrightened and vulnerable and who lived still inside the powerful, arrogant man. "I meant it."And suddenly she realized that she had not just handed Calder the keys to their kingdom.He needed her as much as she needed him. And he needed not just her genuine love, buther genuine faith. "I mean it." He inhaled harshly and suddenly whirled and walked out of the room. She stared at the closed doors. And then she began to smile, sitting down, clasping hercorset and shirt to her chest. Life with Calder Hart would never be easy, she thought, but itwould always be interesting. Her smile grew. And clearly, the wedding was on.

She was the most faithless b.i.t.c.h of them all. He stood at the window, staring into Calder Hart's library, watching Francesca Cahill smiling like the wh.o.r.e she was as she dressed.

His fingers gripped the hilt of the small penknife so hard that they ached.

And the little b.i.t.c.h dared to call herself a sleuth, dared to think she could outwit him.

She would have to go, he thought. But not yet. Eventually, but not yet.

Clearly, she wanted to play games.

He smiled, unhinged the three-inch blade and touched it with his thumb.

Blood spurted. He had honed the blade last night, and it was no longer dull.

Let the games begin, he thought with real relish. For he knew who to strike next, oh yes, and his next victim would make Miss Cahill weep.

He could barely wait.

Chapter 25.

Monday, April 28, 1902.

11:00 a.m.

Evan stood at the window of his hotel suite, staring down at Fifth Avenue. From where he stood he could glimpse most of Madison Square. It was the beginning of the week, and even though it was midmorning, pedestrian traffic was heavy. Gentlemen in their business attire were hurrying down the street, attending to urgent affairs. The street was also congested with vehicular traffic. Numerous drays were heading downtown, loaded with wares, causing hansoms and coaches to fight for the right to pa.s.s and move on more swiftly. His temples drummed painfully as he watched. How had his life come to this-estranged from his family, lacking sufficient funds and on the verge of wedlock to a woman he did not really care for? And then he saw a woman with pale reddish-blond hair alighting from a hansom. His heart skipped erratically. Evan leaned on the sill, thinking it was Maggie Kennedy, his pulse now racing swiftly with excitement. He quickly realized that the woman was a very elegant lady and he straightened, the tension in his body instantly vanishing. Watching her disappear into the hotel, he was disappointed. He closed his eyes. Bartolla was having his child and they had agreed to elope at the end of the week. He could hear the roll of the die, the spinning of the roulette wheel, the shuffle of cards, the hushed, intense conversation, the tinkle of fine gla.s.sware. Sweat trickled from his forehead. He desperately needed to go down the block and to the club, but he still owed his creditors well over fifty thousand dollars. On the other hand, the entire world knew Hart had paid off almost half of his debt, so maybe his credit was good. It would be good, he decided stubbornly, if he made the right case for himself with the proprietor of the establishment. His blood heated and rushed. He only needed one game, he thought, one more game and then he would quit, this time forever. But he knew it was a lie. If he went back to the tables, he would play until he was incarcerated by his creditors. Bartolla would then bear his child alone. Maggie smiled at him, but her blue eyes were so sad. "Of course you have to marry her. She is having your child. One day, you will look back and realize this was the best thing that ever happened to you." How in h.e.l.l had this happened? he thought, at once furious and despairing. He had used protection, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, but that had failed, and now he was going to have to marry Bartolla. He had tried to convince himself that it was a good match-she was a wealthy widow, after all, and he would never go crawling back to his father-but he had long since given up. He dreaded the day they would tie the knot. He did not want to marry her and while he knew he would love their child, he wished desperately that another woman carried it. "d.a.m.n it," he cursed, livid with himself. He couldn't take it anymore, and if he wanted to gamble his life away, he had every right. He whirled and stormed across the suite, shrugging on his jacket. He found his hat and cane and was on his way out when Bartolla Benevente walked in. "Darling!" She smiled widely at him, dressed in some ruby-red ensemble that was hardly appropriate for day, as it left no doubt as to the extent of her charms. But he was immune now to her lush, exposed bosom, her narrow waist, her extraordinary eyes and lips. "Are you on your way out? Have you forgotten? You promised to buy me a ring!" She laid her gloved hands on his shoulders, her rouged lips seeking his. He stiffened, pulling away. d.a.m.n it, he had to get her a ring. She stiffened, too, her eyes wide and wary. "Evan? What is wrong?"

"Nothing." He was rude and abrupt but could not help himself. "I have to go out."

"But...but we have a noon appointment at Harry Winston."

"I'm afraid you will have to reschedule," he said coldly. He knew he was being a boor, but he could not prevent himself. He bowed. "I am sorry, but I have a pressing matter that I must attend." He turned and strode out.

She ran after him. "What pressing matter?"

He did not answer, sweating now. The roll of the die, the shuffle of cards, the spinning wheel were a symphony in his mind. One game, he told himself, it would be just one game and he would escape the misery of his life.

But Maggie's blue eyes filled his mind, not accusing, merely sad.

"Francesca! You are on your way out? I heard the news and I was hoping to talk to you,"Connie cried. Francesca was in the front hall, about to pull on her gloves. Joel had walked in a momentahead of her sister, as he was to accompany her downtown. She beamed at her sister, whowas lovely in a rose hued skirt and jacket. "Good morning!" Her hearty greeting was followedby a bear like embrace that left Connie blinking. Connie shrugged off her lightweight mauve coat. "My! You are in quite a good mood. Eitheryou and Calder have made up, or Papa has changed his mind about the wedding." Shesmiled at Joel. "h.e.l.lo there." He blushed wildly. "Miz Montrose," he murmured, looking away. Francesca smiled at Joel's vivid reaction to her very beautiful sister. Even her father'sdisapproval could not shake her current state of happiness. "I have yet to sit down with Papaand explain to him that I am marrying Calder Hart no matter what," she said. Then shegripped Connie's arm, lowering her voice, even though Joel could certainly hear. "I think heloves me!" Connie began to smile, amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. "Francesca, a man is usually in love whenhe asks a woman he barely knows to marry him, and on the spur of the moment at that." "Calder asked me to marry him because I am his best and only friend," Francesca said. "b.u.t.that has changed, I think." Connie slipped her arm around her. "Fran, did you really believe that lame excuse? No manmarries a woman for friendship." Francesca suddenly realized that her sister was right. "But he has insisted all along that weare simply well suited, that he is tired of his womanizing life and merely wishes to settledown with me." Connie raised an eyebrow. "I doubt Hart could ever get down on one knee and profess tohaving fallen in love like the rest of us mere mortals." Francesca had to stare. "You think he has been in love with me from the moment heproposed?" "Of course I do. I just a.s.sume he refuses to admit it-to you, to anyone and especially tohimself." "He almost admitted it last night," Francesca said with a blush. Could her sister possibly beright? "In a way he did admit it, but of course, indirectly." "And what will you do about Papa?" Connie asked bluntly. Francesca sighed, glancing at Joel, who was, of course, all ears, while pretending with poorresults, not to hear. "I need your help. In fact, the entire family must form a united front andconvince him to change his mind," Francesca said firmly. "I will gladly help," Connie said. "Where are you off to? Are you sleuthing today?" Francesca nodded. "I must speak with one of the suspects again-Sam Wilson. It turns outthe alibi his fiancee gave was a lie. I also want to speak somewhat further with KateSullivan's brother and other family members." She grew thoughtful. "How odd it is tosuddenly learn that Kate came from a wealthy background. And her brother hardly seems tobe grieving."

"You suspect her brother?" Connie wondered.

"I have three suspects, but yes, that includes Mr. Pierson, although he has some rather convincing alibis. Con, the killer has struck on subsequent Mondays and I am very afraid he will strike again today or tonight."

Connie appeared uneasy. "I am not comfortable with you running around today, not if the killer is out and about looking for another target, Fran."

Francesca smiled at her. "Don't worry. I not only have Joel, but Hart gave me Raoul as a bodyguard. And Bragg is joining me. In fact, I am running late-I am supposed to meet him at headquarters at noon."

"Then I won't keep you," Connie said. She smiled. "I am so glad you and Hart have made up."

Francesca drew on her gloves. "So am I," she murmured, and she blushed, thinking about last night.

"Miss Cahill?" Goodwin, the doorman, spoke. "An envelope was dropped off for you after you finished your breakfast. Do you want it before you leave or shall I send it up to you rooms?"

"I'll take it now, thank you." Francesca came forward, hardly surprised by the missive. She received notes every day, mostly from Sarah, who disliked using the telephone. In that moment, she realized that she had not told Connie that her portrait had been stolen. But the moment she saw her name scripted on the envelope's creamy vellum, she knew the note was not from Sarah and she decided she did not want to broach the distasteful subject of the missing painting. Curious, she slit the envelope with her nail and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

Miss Cahill, I know who the Slasher is.

Meet me in front of the Sherry Netherland at noon.

Francesca gasped. "What is it?" Connie asked quickly as Joel ran over, trying to peer over her arm at the note. "Someone claims to know the ident.i.ty of the Slasher," Francesca said, racing away from thefront door and down the corridor to her father's study. Had the killer just contacted her? Wasit Francis O'Leary, referring to Sam? But why would Francis not identify herself? Or was itsomeone else, someone who had somehow stumbled onto the Slasher's real ident.i.ty? Connie ran after her. "Oh, G.o.d, this is too dangerous, I am certain!" Francesca picked up the telephone, Joel at her elbow. "We had better git downtown, MizCahill," he said. She gestured at him to be silent. "Yes, Miss Cahill?" the operator asked. "Beatrice, please ring up Mr. Hart at his Bridge Street office." Her pulse was racing withexcitement now. This was most definitely a new development and she prayed it would breakthe case. "Certainly, Miss Cahill. You sound very excited. Is everything all right?" "Everything is fine," Francesca said, tapping her foot impatiently. She should have calledBragg first, but it was too late now. "Mr. Hart, your fiancee is on the line," Beatrice said cheerfully. "Thank you, Beatrice," Hart said firmly, his tone indicating that he wished for her not toeavesdrop on their call. "You're welcome, Mr. Hart," Beatrice murmured as if she was rather smitten with him. "Francesca? What's wrong?" Hart asked. "I have just received a note from someone claiming to know who the Slasher is," Francescacried. "The note is not signed and he or she wants me to meet him at the Sherry Netherlandhotel at noon." "It's a trap," Hart said flatly. "You are not going-Bragg can handle this."

"Of course I am going," Francesca cried. "The note was explicitly addressed to me.

Whoever wrote it wants to confide in roe."

"I don't care who they want to confide in. Has it occurred to you that the note might be from the Slasher himself?" Hart said tersely.

She ignored him. "Hart, I mustn't be late-call Bragg, I am heading downtown. Just make sure he is discreet when he arrives. Thank you!"

"Francesca!" he began furiously, but she hung up.

She realized Connie was pale and wide-eyed. She handed her sister the note. "Keep that safe. Now, don't worry, I will be fine." She pecked her sister's cheek. "I am going to the Sherry Netherland."

"Francesca, you can't," Connie protested, ashen.

But Francesca was on her way out. "Don't worry, I have Joel, Raoul-and I have a gun."

Connie cried, "Now I am really worried!"

She paced, feeling terribly alone.

It was a pleasant spring day, the sun warm and bright, the sky blue, the overhead clouds puffy and white. If Bragg had come, she could not tell, as there was no sign of him or any detectives anywhere in sight. Joel was a bit farther down the block, begging for coins and in general, appearing absolutely unremarkable. Hart had arrived by a cab, and he had disappeared into the hotel, looking madder than h.e.l.l, but he had, somehow, refrained from even looking at her once. Francesca wished his temper was not so easily ignited but she would worry about mending that fence later.

Traffic was heavy in front of the hotel, with many hansoms and coaches pausing before the gold-and-cream-colored canvas canopy to discharge the various gentlemen arriving for lunch, as well as pairs of handsomely attired ladies, mostly middle-aged matrons.

Francesca loitered by the lamppost, just a few steps from the hotel's entrance, watching every pa.s.serby and every hotel guest. No one bothered to look her way, other than the occasional single gentleman who hoped for some sign of interest from her. Of course, she gave none.

She paced, dismayed. Today was Monday and even though the Slasher had broken the pattern by murdering Kate Sullivan Thursday-and probably murdering her husband as well-Francesca felt certain that he would strike again that day. Every victim thus far had been female, poor and pretty. All had been Irish except for Margaret Cooper, but she had been Irish by descent on her mother's side. Everyone except for Margaret Cooper had attended Father Culhane's church- Margaret had been Baptist. Francesca could not help but go back to her original theory that Margaret had been a mistake- the killer had intended to strike at Gwen, but had mixed up his victims.

If that were the case, would he strike at Gwen again? But Gwen had police protection-and that would keep her safe.

Francesca tensed, an alarm going off inside of her mind, one warning her now that she had just missed an important clue. She felt strongly that Margaret had been mistaken for Gwen, but Gwen was now safe. So what was she missing?

In frustration, she paced. Francesca did not feel like going over the list of suspects in her head, but she did. She knew she should not dismiss David Hanrahan as a suspect. He hated his wife, who had betrayed and left him, and he had the motive to start killing women like her. And he had not one alibi for any of the murders or attacks. Not only did he not have a single alibi, he had been in the country-in the city-when the Slasher had first struck.

How easily he could be the killer. Francesca simply felt certain he was not their man. Their man was a real gentleman-and he was clever, oh yes. She would bet her life that Hanrahan was not their man.

Which led her right to Harry de Warenne. Lord Randolph she could not dismiss-like her

husband, he had followed Gwen, his lover, to America and that was more than extreme. He was an Irish Protestant landlord, she was a housemaid and she had jilted him. Surely he felt betrayed. But was he insane? Insane enough to act out his grief, rage and frustration on a series of women who reminded him of Gwen? And if he was their man, would he eventually go after Gwen? Yet how could he? Gwen was being guarded night and day by the police. Francesca knew she was missing something-and it screamed at her now. Francesca paused besides the tall iron lamppost once again, this time hardly seeing the group of chattering ladies entering the hotel. She rubbed her temples, turning her thoughts away from Gwen. It was indeed striking that Kate had come from a genteel background, that her family had disowned her, that her brother had come to her funeral, but not to grieve, and that he was a gentleman with a rock-solid alibi for every attack and every murder in question. Frank Pierson could certainly be the killer, she thought. He remained at odds with his sister for what she had done, and even now, with Kate dead and buried, he was not forgiving her, oh no. Finally, there was Sam Wilson. He had no motive that Francesca could discern, but he also had no alibi for any of the nights in question-and he had let Francis lie for him to create an alibi for last Thursday, too. Francesca rubbed her temples. The killer had to be one of the three gentlemen. But which one? And who had sent her that note? And what, dear G.o.d, was she missing? She glanced around, a very strong image of Kate's funeral coming to mind. It did not seem that the person who had sent the note was coming after all-surely she had been waiting for a full half an hour. Hart had said it was a trap, but he had been wrong. It was a diversion. She tensed. Her mind was seared with images of the funeral now. Everyone had been there. She and Hart, Bragg and Farr, Francis and Sam, Gwen and her daughter, both David Hanrahan and Lord Randolph, Kate's brother and Maggie. The images and faces tumbled through her mind until they were spinning and blurred. Father Culhane stood at the pulpit, giving his emotional eulogy, his blue eyes brilliant with pa.s.sion and righteous anger. Everyone had been at Kate's funeral. Every victim, except for Margaret, had attended Culhane's church. They had all been in his parish. If her theory were correct, Margaret was a mistake. Francesca shook her head hard as if to clear it. But she could not. Father Culhane knew each and every victim. He knew each and every victim well. Her heart began to race. She tried to tell herself to slow down, but now, she thought about how tall he was, that he came from a fine old Irish family, and he had remarkable blue eyes- eyes that blazed, eyes that were brilliant, remarkable blue eyes-eyes a woman would not forget, not even if she b.u.mped into him a single time by chance on the street. Her mind raced. Everyone had police protection now-so the killer could not go after Gwen. Everyone except for Maggie. Maggie, who also belonged to Culhane's parish. And she reeled. If the Slasher was Culhane, if he thought to strike again, today, Maggie was the perfect victim, never mind that she was at Hart's. Praying she was wrong, Francesca rushed into the street, waving wildly at Raoul, who was atop the driver's seat of Hart's coach, farther down the block. He saw her and released the brakes, lifting the reins, driving the team of black Andalusians forward. Hart stepped out of the hotel lobby and Bragg appeared at a side entrance. As they rushed to her, she cried, "I think it's Culhane, I think Father Culhane is the killer and I am afraid he will go after Maggie next!"

"But I'm tired," Mathew complained, yawning comically.

Maggie bent over him, shaking her head. "Just pretend that this is the schoolroom. You needto finish spelling out the rest of the words I gave you. As soon as you are done, we will go tothe kitchen and have lunch." Mathew scowled but picked up his pencil and began laboriously writing. Maggie walked over to Paddy, who was reading a picture book on the floor, Lizzie besidehim, drawing with colored crayons. She bent and smiled. "What a pretty picture, Lizzie," shesaid, but she was distinctly aware that her smile was forced. It was terribly heavy and brittle,and it almost hurt to form the expression. But then, her chest was aching so. Maybe she wasconfusing her feelings; maybe it wasn't the smile that hurt her so, but her heart. She refused to think about Evan Cahill now. The beautiful countess was having his child andthey would soon be married and she wished them a lifetime of joy and happiness. It was awonderful match. She felt ill. She straightened, closing her eyes. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in lovewith a man so far above her station in life, a man she could never have and only dreamabout? She touched her lips, unable to forget the feel of his mouth, his hands and his body when hehad kissed her that one single time. "Mrs. Kennedy? You have a caller," Alfred said, standing in the doorway of the salon. Maggie started, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, and for one incredibly foolish moment,hope soared. Evan had returned. She smiled at her children, aware of her heart racing. "I will be right back," she said."Mathew, keep an eye on Paddy and Lizzie, please." She followed Alfred into the hall, her low heels clicking on Hart's white-and-gold marblefloors, and down the corridor, pa.s.sing numerous oil paintings, watercolors, sculptures andbusts. The front hall was the size of a ballroom and it wasn't until she was halfway across theexpanse that she realized whom her caller was. She faltered, surprised and thendisappointed. "Father?" Father Culhane turned. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Kennedy." She smiled at him, bewildered. "What a pleasant surprise." "You seemed very upset yesterday at Kate's funeral," he said softly. His gaze held hers. "Ihad heard you had moved in with Mr. Hart and I wanted to inquire after you." That was very kind of him, she thought. "How could I not be upset? Poor Kate," shewhispered. He held out his arm. "Shall we stroll in the gardens?" he asked, smiling. She nodded and took his arm.

He stood on the threshold of Hart's huge mansion, tugging nervously at his collar. There was no reason for him to be there, none, except for the most disturbing pair of blue eyes he had ever seen and could not forget. In the end, it was those eyes- Maggie's eyes-that had stopped him from walking into Jack's.

Hart's door suddenly opened.

Evan yanked down on his jacket.

"Mr. Cahill," Alfred intoned. "Good day, sir," he said, stepping aside so Evan could enter.

He did, finding it hard to breathe. He realized he was as nervous as a schoolboy thinking about how to steal his very first kiss. He closed his eyes, trembling. He should have never kissed Maggie Kennedy-it had been a terrible mistake. Ever since that foolish act, he had done nothing but think about it-about her.

And he d.a.m.n well knew he should not be calling now.

"Mr. Cahill, sir?"

Alfred cut into his indecision and he smiled grimly at the butler. "Is Mrs. Kennedy in?"

"She is walking in the gardens with Father Culhane," Alfred said.

It was such a pleasant day. Maggie tucked her hands beneath her arms, a shawl about her

shoulders, trying to enjoy the blooming gardens. Father Culhane walked with her, respecting her need for silence.

She paused and summoned up a smile. "I appreciate your concern, Father, but I am fine, really."

"You look terribly sad," he said seriously. His gaze searched hers. "You haven't been to confession in months, Mrs. Kennedy. I am very surprised." He was reproving.

She flushed. "I'll come soon," she whispered, but she didn't mean it. She didn't want anyone, not even a priest, to know that she had lost her heart to some society rake. Except Evan wasn't the rake he was made out to be; he was the kindest, most sincere and gentle man she had ever met.

"I hope so, Maggie," the priest said.

She looked up at him, startled by his use of her given name.

He smiled at her-oddly.

And she became alarmed. "Is something wrong?" she asked hesitantly.

"Why don't you tell me?"

She was suddenly nervous and wanted to end the encounter. "I am distraught over the murders," she said unsteadily. Then, shivering, she continued, "It's cold. I think we should go back inside." She turned.

He seized her before she could go. "Why don't you tell me about him?"

She gaped. "What?"

"The gentleman you allow into your flat. The one I keep seeing you with." And his eyes blazed.

And she felt him smile, his mouth against her cheek.

Chapter 26.

Monday, April 28, 1902.