Francesca stood, staring at Bragg, who stared back. "Darling," she said, clasping Bridget's shoulder, "you think your father is here, in the city?"

"I swear I saw him!" Bridget was in tears. "But if Mama finds out, she will be more afraid than she is now!"

Francesca knelt before the child, clasping both of her hands. "Why do you think your father hates you? Why was he in jail? And why would your mother be afraid if your father were here in the city?"

She bit her lip. Finally she whispered, "Mama says I am not allowed to speak of it."

"This is a police matter," Francesca said gently. "You cannot withhold information from the police. It is against the law."

"I can go to jail?" she gasped.

"No one is sending you to jail," Francesca said firmly. "But surely you wish to obey the law?"

Bridget nodded glumly. Then, in a rush, she spoke. "Papa tried to murder Lord Randolph!"

Francesca stood. She didn't have to ask. Bragg said, "Who is Lord Randolph?"

Bridget covered her face in her hands. "The man Mama loves."

As he took the steps in the narrow stairwell two at a time, Evan Cahill was well aware that his heart was racing. He could not shake the conversation he had just had with Francesca from his mind. But his leaping pulse had nothing to do with romantic matters. He felt sure of it. He was very fond of Maggie and the children, but his adrenaline was the result of fear and determination, nothing more.

Still, he had not visited her and the children in some time and he was eager to see them all.

He was equally aware of that.

He paused before her door, noticing that it was freshly painted a cheerful shade of blue. As he finger-combed some pieces of hair back into place, he wondered if she had painted the door herself. He hoped that Joel had done it for her. She worked herself to the bone as it was. The last time he had been there, the brown paint on the door had been flaking and peeling away from the wood.

He straightened his tie and knocked. As he waited for a response, his heart tightened unmistakably, and then he heard Maggie's voice on the other side of the door. He felt himself smile.

"Paddy, stop. You know we do not open doors until we know who is on the other side," she scolded.

Paddy was five and a mischievous handful. He looked just like Maggie, except that his red hair was far brighter. "It's Joel," Paddy cried in protest.

"Probably," she said. "Who is it?" she then called.

He felt his smile increasing. "Evan Cahill." An image of her pretty blue eyes filled his mind and he could imagine Paddy pressed against her skirts.

And he felt her surprise and could almost see her hesitate. A moment later the door opened and she stood there in a simple dove-gray skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair swept back into a bun, her eyes wide with surprise. She appeared breathless.

"h.e.l.lo," he said. And even as distressed as he was with the circ.u.mstance of the Slasher striking two doors down, he held a paper bag filled with cakes and cookies in his arms. He knew Maggie would refuse a sack of groceries.

Her mouth trembled. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Cahill. I...I'm sorry, we were not expecting company. The flat

is a mess!" And as she spoke, Paddy cried out in delight and tackled him about the knees, hugging him there.

"Mrs. Kennedy, please do not stand on formality with me. I was in the neighborhood and I thought to bring the children some treats." He made no move to step inside but he could see from the corner of his eye that the flat was as clean as a whistle and as tidy as always. He did not know how she fed and housed her four children so properly. His admiration for her knew no bounds. "Paddy, my boy, if you do not loosen up I may keel over." He was joking and he winked at Maggie.

But she did not smile now. "Please, come in," she whispered nervously.

As he did, Mathew whooped and barreled over to hug him, too. Evan set the bag down on the kitchen table, draped in a blue-check tablecloth, and he slapped the seven-year-old on the back. "How are you, buddy?" he asked with a grin.

"Great," Mathew grinned. "I got an A in arithmetic!"

"That's wonderful," Evan said, meaning it and feeling oddly proud of the child. "And what grades did you receive in reading and writing?"

"Bs," Mathew said earnestly, eyes wide. Like Joel, he had midnight-black hair and the dark eyes to match.

"Good job," Evan said softly, pulling him close for a moment. Then he felt Maggie come to stand behind him and his entire body tensed. Slowly, he released the boy and turned, uncertain now of why he reacted to her so. He felt somewhat breathless.

"I'll put up some tea. Lizzie just went to sleep and Joel is out," Maggie said, her eyes wide and riveted on him.

He gave up. There was something so pretty about her, and why deny it? That meant nothing, of course, as he was very involved with Bartolla, whom he would probably one day marry.

And Bartolla was the kind of woman he was insanely attracted to-gorgeous, bold and far from innocent. But Maggie was lovely and he had always had an eye for attractive women, so of course he would notice her. But there was something else about her, something he could not put his finger on. In a way, she was like a ray of the purest light.

However, Maggie and he were from different worlds. They both knew it. The gulf of cla.s.s and economy that separated them was as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. So even if Francesca was right-which she was not-any feelings on his part, other than the n.o.ble ones of admiration, respect and friendship, were entirely inappropriate.

"Thank you," he said very quietly. He was uncharacteristically shaken.

"Joel and your sister are on a case," Maggie said, hovering over the kettle she had just set to boil.

He stared for a moment at her slim back. Most women who had had four children had long since gone to fat. Maggie remained slender. Not for the first time, he thought her a touch too thin. But then, he knew her rather well now and he knew she gave the best of everything, including their meals, to her children. He saw a pot on the stove. Now curious, he wandered over.

She whirled and they were face-to-face, mere inches separating them, her back to the stove.

For one moment, he did not move, impossibly aware of her, realizing that she wore the faintest scent, floral and sweet. Then he stepped aside. "I beg your pardon," he murmured, glancing into the pot. She was making a stew, a few potatoes and onions simmering with some bones. There was no meat to be seen.

Maggie had scurried to the kitchen table and grasped the back of a chair. "Have you had supper?" she said very breathlessly. "I mean, we do not have much, but you are welcome to dine with us."

He knew he had made her nervous and he hated that she was so skittish around him.

Maybe she sensed his admiration could have been something more, if the circ.u.mstances had been different. Suddenly, he wished that the circ.u.mstances were different.

Confusion stunned him.

"Mr. Cahill?" she asked. He leaped away from the stove, smiling. But he remained shaken. "I'd like to take you andthe children to supper," he said. Her eyes widened. Now that he had spoken, he liked the idea. He'd put a huge meal into them all. "You want to take us to supper? You mean, to a restaurant?" "Yes, that is what I mean. We should wait for Joel," he decided Maggie hugged herself. "Ican't accept." His smile vanished. "Mag-Mrs. Kennedy, please. I'm hungry, and not in the mood for soup.A nice beef roast would do." He smiled encouragingly now and could almost feel her mouthwater. "Surely you did not come all this way to take my family to dinner?" He became sober. "Francesca told me about your neighbor." Then he glanced at thechildren. "I'd like to find a private moment to discuss this with you." She bit her lip, also glancing at the two boys, who were playing with some toy soldiers, all inConfederate gray. "It is very unsettling," she whispered. He walked directly to her and took her hand. He also lowered his voice. "Two doors down,Maggie? It's not acceptable. I must insist that you take my sister up on her offer." A mulish expression appeared on Maggie's face. "I know that Francesca means well, as doyou, but we are not a case for charity." Her tone rose with some anger. And he was as angry. Still, he fought to keep his voice down. "This is not about charity. Thisis about the safety of your children and your own safety, too." "I have thought about it. On Monday we will stay with my brother-in-law." He started, surprised. And while he would prefer her to be safe and sound in the Cahillhome uptown, this was better than nothing. "Where does he live?" "A bit farther uptown, right on the East River at Twentieth Street. He won't mind. Since myhusband died, he is the only family we have here in the city. He's a good man and very fondof the children," she added. "You would be safer uptown," he said, and by that he meant Fifth Avenue and Sixty-firstStreet where the Cahill mansion and his own home, now abandoned, were. "I heard that all of the victims lived between Tenth and Twelfth Streets. My brother-in-law'sflat is far from this vicinity," she said stubbornly. He sighed. "I can hardly twist your arm." "No, you cannot." And then she softened. "Do not misunderstand. I truly appreciate yourconcern. Really." "I will surrender-but only if you agree to have supper with me," he said. The moment herealized how flirtatious his tone had become, he tensed. "With the children," he addedquickly. She stared. "I...I don't know," she said helplessly. He had been chasing and seducing women his entire adult life. Taking her hand was sheerinstinct. "It's only supper, Mrs. Kennedy. One you and your children shall thoroughly enjoy."The same instinct widened his smile and intensified his persuasive stare. Her cheeks turning red, she tore her glance away. "While we wait for Joel," she said, low, "I'dlike to tidy up the children." He had won. Grinning, he realized he held her hand and almost lifted it to his lips. Instead, hereleased it. "I'll go see if I can find Joel," he said, still smiling. Maggie nodded, slipped past him and called for the two boys.

"Can I give you a lift home?" Bragg asked as they paused before his motorcar. Night had fallen, a pleasant warm evening filled with winking stars and the remnants of last night's full moon.

"Actually, I have to stop at Sarah's." Her friend, the artist Sarah Channing, had sent a note that morning asking Francesca to come by at her earliest convenience.

"I'll drop you there, then," Bragg said with a smile. He walked around the car and held open the pa.s.senger door for her. Francesca got in, picking up the spare pair of goggles. He closed the door, cranked the motor and then got in beside her. Their interview of Bridget had not produced any further clues. The child had not seen or heard anything Monday afternoon, which was frankly a blessing. They did not need Bridget to have any knowledge of the murder that might put her in danger. Gwen had arrived home shortly after their talk with her daughter. As Bragg turned onto Tenth Street, she turned toward him. "I feel sorry for Gwen O'Neil." "Why? Because she fell foolishly in love with a man she should have never looked twice at?" They had spoken with Gwen, as well. "Lord Randolph was her employer! Any attraction on his part was as faulty as any on hers. But now I know why she does not have references," she said. Still, it had been apparent from Gwen's expression and tone that she had fallen in love with the Irish aristocrat and that she loved him still. Francesca felt certain that he was a cad. She had quickly sensed that they had been lovers. No wonder her husband, David Hanrahan, had tried to kill Randolph. Gwen had been using her maiden name since leaving her husband. But was he still incarcerated in Limerick, or was he now in the city? If he had arrived in New York, then he was on her exceedingly short list of suspects. "Why are you concerned about her lack of references?" "I intend to find her better employment, as a lady's maid," she said. Bragg smiled. "Will you become involved with each victim or near victim on every single case we work on?" She faced him fully and his smile faded. Softly, she said, "You are implying that there will be more cases for us, Rick." He finally glanced at her. "I doubt you will give up your newfound profession. And while I am currently police commissioner, I will not turn my back on you should you ever need my aid." Francesca stared, touched. But what was he implying? "You sound as if you are not certain of your future." "I'm not," he said. "You are aware of the politics surrounding my job. I may be out of my position far sooner than I would choose, before I can really make the changes this department needs." Francesca forgot about their investigation for a moment. The press had begun to note the increase in activity of the city's saloons and so-called hotels on Sundays. One of the hottest debates in the city since Bragg's appointment was whether or not to enforce the blue laws against serving liquor on the Sabbath. That issue was constantly fueled by the clergy and the goo-goos-the good government reform movement. Early in his term Bragg had closed a number of establishments violating those laws; recently, the police department seemed to be looking the other way at those infractions. "Is it true? Have the police begun to ignore the Sunday saloon openings?" He sighed heavily. "We have been selectively enforcing the law, Francesca, and only closing the worst offenders. Low asked me to ease up." She gripped his arm. "Why?" He glanced at her. "The mayor is worried about reelection, as well he should be. Every time we close a saloon on Sunday, he loses votes to Tammany Hall. Which is the greater goal? Reforming the corrupt police or reelecting a great reform mayor?" "But he appointed you to uphold the law!" she cried, frustrated for the dilemma in which he found himself. "Yes, he did. But there is so much of an outcry by the working community against the closings that he has asked me to exercise the arm of the law with caution and care." He was grim. "I am torn, Francesca. If I do my job as I wish to do, Low will lose the next election. It has become very clear." "And you are loyal to Low, instead of to the people who believe in you and the cause of reform?" She felt despair, for she was one of those people who so believed in the law, the cause of reform-and in him. "I am focusing on the corruption within the department now. I have an internal investigation inprogress. When it is concluded, a number of officers will be dishonorably discharged." She blinked. Then, filled with admiration for him, she touched his arm. "I am proud of you,"she said. He smiled at her then. Traffic had become heavy as they had turned onto Fourth Avenue, where a huge excavationwas in process for the new railroad line that would terminate in the Grand Central Station. Atrolley crept slowly forward just ahead of them, while several carriages and a hansompenned them in. Francesca suddenly realized that Bragg's home wasn't far from where theynow waited, ensnarled in traffic, and that his wife had come home as scheduled but he wasnot there to greet her. She looked at him. "Please, Rick. You should not be driving me all the way across town. Youshould be at home with Leigh Anne." His jaw tightened. It was a moment before he spoke. "You will never catch a hansom at thishour. I am happy to drive you to the Channings and I am sure they will send you home in oneof their coaches." His reply was not satisfactory. "I know you well, Rick. Why didn't you take Leigh Anne homefrom the hospital? I am starting to think that you are avoiding going home." She stared at hishandsome profile, which now seemed cast in stone. He stared at the back of the trolley and finally said, "You are right." She was stunned. "I am right?" He sighed and, not looking at her, replied, "I am avoiding going home." "What?" He was grim. "Leigh Anne did not want to leave the hospital today." Francesca blinked. "She did not want to come home?" But everyone wanted to leave thehospital as soon as they could! "I don't blame her." And finally he glanced at her, his eyes filled with anger. "What does that mean? And why didn't she want to leave the hospital?" The trolley moved. Bragg took a moment to shift gears and the Daimler crept forward. "Shedidn't want to come home because I am there." "What?" That was nonsense, Francesca was certain. He faced her, his eyes wide with anger and anguish. "Cease all pretense, Francesca. Weboth know that this is entirely my fault." "What are you talking about?" she cried. "The accident," he spat. "The accident?" She was thoroughly bewildered. "You mean, Leigh Anne's accident?" "Yes, of course, her accident, what other accident would I mean?" She could only stare. "She would not be in this predicament-a cripple for life- if not for me." He slammed hishands on the wheel. Francesca jumped in her seat. Then she seized his wrist "Dear G.o.d! You had nothing to dowith the accident. It was just that-an accident. You speak as if you were driving thatrunaway coach that ran her down!" "I might as well have been the driver," he said savagely. "Why are you doing this? Why are you blaming yourself?" she gasped, horrified. "Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away fromme!" He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. "A witness sawthe entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was sodistraught she never saw or heard the runaway carriage until it was too late. And we bothknow why she was crying," he added darkly. A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. "Even if she was crying, you do notknow why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd." "I wished her dead," he said suddenly, his tone raw. "I did, Francesca, I did, and my wishwas almost granted." The horn blared repeatedly now. Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. "It doesn't matter whatyou wished. It doesn't matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to yourfeelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not!You must stop blaming yourself." "I can't," he whispered. "And do you know what makes matters even worse?" She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes. He inhaled harshly. "What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I stilllove her."

Chapter 6.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902.

6:00 p.m.

The Channing home stood alone on a large lot, a huge affair of eclectic design. Three towers jutted out from the roof, and from the oddly placed parapets and balconies, gargoyles frowned viciously down. The mansion was partly gothic, partly neocla.s.sic, and Francesca could never quite decide why it had been so designed. But the entire Channing family was eccentric, which might explain it. Sarah's now-deceased father had studded the interior walls with animal heads and the floors with exotic skins, despite the gilded walls and European furniture, as he had been an avid trophy hunter. Mrs. Channing stood out from society for her very guileless and equally foolish manner, although she always meant well. Sarah, who had once, briefly, been engaged to Francesca's brother, was renowned as a recluse. She was also a brilliant artist. Having thanked Bragg for the ride, she was let inside the Channing home. Sarah materialized almost instantly. "Francesca!" she cried in delight. Francesca was as pleased to see the young woman who had become one of her best friends. Sarah was truly remarkable- in a way, she and Francesca were kindred souls. Sarah's pa.s.sion was her painting, and when she had been engaged to Evan, she had been miserable. Of course, the match, concocted by both families, had been truly ill conceived, as both parties had nothing in common. Sarah was small, plain and considered shy and timid, clearly not the kind of woman to catch Evan Cahill's eye. In fact, Sarah was thoroughly independent and unconventional. Unlike most young women of marriageable age, Sarah had no interest in shopping, dreaded social engagements and gave not one thought to romance or marriage. Her life was her art. Francesca empathized completely. Now, Sarah had smudges of paint and charcoal on her face, hands and the bodice of her green dress. The moss-hued garment might have been flattering on another woman, but Sarah had olive in her complexion and her hair was chocolate brown, so that the gown washed her out. Francesca had never, not even once, seen Sarah appropriately garbed. Sarah did not care what she wore and her choice of clothing-usually decided by her mother with the best of intentions-made that clear. The styles in her wardrobe, while expensive, overwhelmed her small stature and the colors usually dulled her coloring, her eyes and hair. "I am so glad you could come by," Sarah cried breathlessly. Francesca looped her arm in hers. "What has put that sparkle in your eye? I know it is not a man! Let me guess. Something to do with a painting?" she teased. "Hurry with me," Sarah said with a grin. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a loose ponytail, and some paint had gotten into the stray curls around her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes, long-lashed and round, positively sparkled. The more time Francesca spent with her, the more she changed her initial opinion of Sarah.

Sarah no longer seemed plain or timid at all. She was one of the most vibrant and interesting women Francesca had ever met. "Are we going to your studio?" Francesca guessed as they hurried down a long corridor leading to the back of the house. "Of course," Sarah said with a grin. The door was open. The large room was filled with canvases, some finished, others in various stages of execution. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, although two landscapes were also present. She had clearly, at one time, been influenced by the romantics, and later by the impressionists. Her work now was bright and bold-she clearly adored color-but her strokes were far more realistic than one would expect. "I have finished your portrait," Sarah said, pausing before an easel that was draped with cloth. Francesca's heart leaped with excitement. Hart had commissioned her portrait some time ago, when she had thought herself in love with Bragg. He had only done so because he had wanted to annoy her, and he had done just that. Francesca had no time for any sittings at the beginning, but as their relationship had changed, sitting for a portrait he wished to hang in his private rooms had become thoroughly exciting. A month ago he had asked Sarah to make the portrait a nude. Francesca had agreed, and every sitting had become exhilarating. Now, on pins and needles, she asked, "How is it?" Shamelessly, she could not wait for Hart to hang her nude likeness in his rooms. Sarah laughed with happiness. "Why don't you decide for yourself?" And she swept the cloth from the canvas. Francesca started in surprise. The naked woman who sat with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder, was stunning. Francesca knew she was no beauty, yet the woman in that portrait most definitely had her face. Her features were cla.s.sic, her lips full, her nose tiny. But there was nothing ordinary about her face. Somehow, Sarah had made her captivating. Francesca simply gaped. In the portrait, her gleaming, honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed, as if for a ball, and she wore a pearl choker about her throat. The fact that it was all she wore was infinitely seductive as well. Francesca realized her cheeks had grown warm. She finally found the courage to look at the rest of the portrait. Her body was as alluring as her face. Francesca was amazed. The line of her back was long and elegant, but her b.u.t.tocks were sensually full. The intriguing profile of one breast escaped her arm, and not far from where she sat, a red ball gown lay in a puddle of opulent fabric, clearly abandoned in haste. The portrait was suggestive, terribly so. Francesca tugged at her shirt collar. The humming became a drumming in her ears. Was that really how she looked? Was this what Hart saw when he looked at her? Surely Sarah, being so fond of her, had exaggerated all of her features. "What do you think?" Sarah whispered. Francesca bit her lip. She still could not quite speak. The portrait was an amazing feat-to take a sensible, professional woman like herself and put her features together in the manner that Sarah had. It was her face, but the expression did not belong to an innocent woman, or a skilled sleuth-it belonged to a pa.s.sionate lover, a creature of the bedroom and the night. "Don't you like it?" Sarah asked tersely now. Francesca whirled. She thought she might be crimson. "I love it," she cried. "But Sarah, how did you do it? That's not me-yet it is! In that portrait, I am almost as alluring as Daisy." Sarah smiled in relief. "For a moment, I thought you did not like it," she exclaimed. "And painting your likeness was easy enough. It's what I do," she added. "Do you think Hart will be pleased? Have I gone too far? The theme is frankly sensual. It might be too risque, considering you will one day be his wife."

Francesca knew Hart would like the painting. But Daisy's image had loomed and her wordsechoed painfully. You know his reputation-you know it is not false. Do you really think to keep his attentionwhere it belongs-on you and only you? "Francesca?" Sarah interrupted her terrible memory of that afternoon. "It's not too risque for Hart, I am quite certain." There will be someone after you, Francesca. Sooner or later, his gaze will wander, his gazeand his interest, and we both know that when that happens, his promises will mean nothing. "If you like it, and you feel certain that he will like it, why do you look so distressed?" Sarahasked, plucking her sleeve. Her forehead was creased with worry. "You must be honest withme, Francesca." She did not really hear Sarah. Instead, she stood at the glove counter in the Lord and Taylorstore, facing Daisy, who was every bit as lovely and seductive as the woman in the portrait,but who, unlike the woman in the portrait, actually existed and had already warmed Hart'sbed. How could she compete with such a rival? And to make matters worse, there were hundredsof rivals just like Daisy Jones. The city was filled with lovely women with whom Hart haddallied. Her spirits, briefly so high, sank. Francesca looked at Sarah. "If I really looked like that, then maybe I would have a chance,"she said with some despair. Sarah searched her gaze. "What are you speaking of? Of course you look like that. It is youthat I painted, not some figment of my imagination. What do you mean, maybe you wouldhave a chance?" Francesca inhaled, the sound harsh, and looked at the portrait. In spite of her fear, she hadto admire the painting and the woman in it and she felt that tingle of excitement in her veins.Hart would like it, oh yes. "Sarah, I am a sleuth, a woman of common sense, a woman with abusiness, a woman of intellect. I am hardly that seductive creature." Sarah squared her shoulders and pursed her lips. "I beg to differ with you," she finally said. "What?" "When you sat for me, you were not the city's most infamous amateur sleuth. You werethinking about Hart, not some cold-blooded killer and all kinds of clues. And that was howyou looked," she added stubbornly. "I worked very hard to capture your expression asprecisely as I could." "Really?" She so wanted to believe Sarah. "You do not see yourself clearly, Francesca, perhaps because Hart has awakened a side ofyou that you are unfamiliar with. I have portrayed that side-that seductive creature you havespoken of-and because it is so new to you, you simply fail to recognize it." Francesca started. There was no question that Calder Hart had aroused her to a pa.s.sionshe had never before dreamed of. When she was in his arms, she quite frankly lost herself.There was no thinking, no present, no past, no future, there was only Hart's touch, his taste,his kiss and the side of heaven that awaited them both. What if Sarah was right? What if shedid appear that pa.s.sionate when the moment was right? Francesca touched her throbbing temples. But whom was she fooling? She was anintellectual, not a seductress. She knew that she was the first s.e.xually innocent woman Harthad ever pursued. "What's wrong?" Sarah asked quickly. Francesca sighed and walked over to the small table in one corner of the studio, sittingdown. "I saw Daisy today." "Oh." Sarah hurried to her and sat, taking her hands. "Clearly she upset you." Francesca nodded. "Very much. Sarah, I'm not sure what to do. Daisy pointed out thateventually Hart will lose interest in me and find someone else. She is right! Isn't she? I mean,he has had so many lovers, all far more intriguing than myself. I am so happy right now and simply could not bear his straying."

Sarah stared at her, wide-eyed. "I am not sure what to say," she began.

"There is nothing to say."

"No, there is plenty to say. First, Daisy has been jilted- and replaced by you. I know you like her, but I do not think an ex-mistress and a bride should speak at all."

Francesca almost smiled. "How conventional you sound."

"No, hear me out. Daisy would be very happy if Hart broke your engagement, as she could then warm his bed and receive more of his gifts. I doubt she wants to leave that house he bought for her. And didn't you tell me once that you thought she was falling in love with him herself? How she must envy you. Perhaps she even hates you."

Francesca was now wide-eyed. "Apparently I cannot see clearly, or think clearly, when it comes to my personal life."

"Who can?" Sarah smiled. "She cannot wish you well. She might even think to cause trouble.

And why else would she be so cruel? I would dismiss all that she has said. And you are more intriguing that Daisy Jones and all her ilk. The city is filled with beautiful women, but you are beautiful and clever and kind and brave! Hart is smitten. I can tell. For a man of his reputation, that speaks volumes."

Sarah is right, Francesca suddenly thought. She might not be quite as pretty as the others, but she had so much more to offer a man like Hart. She felt vastly better. "My brother advised me as you have." Then, "I knew when I agreed to marry him, it would not be easy to be with such a man."

"How is Evan?" Sarah asked with such a pleasant manner that it was clear she had no ill feelings at all for him or second thoughts about their failed engagement.

"He is fine. Apparently he spends most of his free time with Bartolla." The countess Benevente was Sarah's cousin and friend.

"I know. Bartolla speaks of him constantly." Sarah grinned. "I am happy for him. I am happy for them both." Her tone became brisk. "So? When do we unveil the portrait for Calder?"

Francesca hesitated, and perhaps it was her sensual side that Sarah had so skillfully captured on her canvas that won. "Tomorrow?" she heard herself ask, her heart racing. And she recognized the growing heat in her body. It was explosive. How would Hart react when he saw that incredible portrait?

"I'll send him a note tonight," Sarah cried in delight.

Francesca leaped to her feet, wringing her hands, her courage suddenly vanishing. "G.o.d, what if he doesn't like it?" she cried. "Oh, I do hope I am not fooling myself."

Sarah ran to her. "Francesca, do not let that harlot Daisy interfere with your feelings for Hart.

I sense she wishes to cause trouble for you both. Ignore her, please!"

Francesca nodded, but with the hour of the unveiling now approaching, she was too nervous for words.

"He loves you," Sarah said softly, smiling.

"He is fond of me," Francesca corrected, her mouth dry, her temples throbbing.

"Fond enough to want to marry you," Sarah said flatly. "That is very fond, indeed."

Francesca smiled at that. She turned her gaze upon her likeness, thinking about Hart gazing at it, too, and lost her ability to breathe. "I do have one request. You must promise me, Sarah."

"What is that?"

"I want to be here when you unveil it."

Sarah grinned. "Of course."

Francesca changed into an evening gown in record time. She had donned the new one, made by Maggie Kennedy, a turquoise silk. Grabbing her purse, she dashed toward the stairs, amazed that Calder had not yet arrived. She was about to descend when she saw Julia coming up.

She skidded, panting, to a stop.

Her mother frowned at her as she ascended to the landing where Francesca stood. Francesca grimaced. She was in trouble now. She had not spoken a single word to Julia since the prior evening when she had arrived latefor the supper party-since Hart had used that foolish excuse that she might faint to take herfrom the party so that they could have a private moment together. When he had decided heshould leave, preparing to make his excuses to her mother, Francesca had simply fledupstairs. Dressed for supper in a dark red evening gown, rubies at her throat, Julia looked her up anddown. "Calder just arrived. So has that little hoodlum, Joel Kennedy." Francesca promptly forgot about the way she had avoided her mother last night. Had Joelfound a lead? Why else would he have come all the way uptown to see her? "Joel is here?"she asked, starting past her mother eagerly. Julia detained her. "You aren't wearing any jewelry, Francesca." Her tone was brisk. Francesca touched her throat and found it bare. She sighed, knowing full well that her lack ofjewels was not the real issue. "I did not want to keep Hart waiting," she began. "I have wanted to speak to you all day," Julia exclaimed. "But you were gone at the crack ofdawn and arrived home just moments ago. You are on another investigation, aren't you?"Julia accused, her blue eyes darkening. Francesca grimaced. "Mama," she began. "Do not Mama me!" "I guess I had better get a necklace and some earrings," Francesca cried, hoping to avoid abattle. There was no winning if she dared to take a direct stand against her mother. Julia took her wrist. "Are you going to answer me?" Francesca met her gaze. "Please don't worry. This case won't be dangerous, I a.s.sure you." Julia cried out in dismay, turning pale. "Mama, please consider that I have successfully solved several cases since the new yearand I am in one entire piece," Francesca tried brightly. "And your dearest dream is comingtrue-soon I shall marry, and the best catch in town at that." "You are barely in one piece! You have been held prisoner, you have been shot at, a knifehas been held to your throat and you have been burned! You will wind up a corpse before abride!" Francesca paled. "Mama, that's a terrible thing to say." Julia realized it, because she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide andshimmering with tears. "I love you so," she whispered. "And you terrify me with your recklessadventures. Why was there blood on your jacket and skirt last night? Why? And need I addthat several of the ladies remarked on your appearance? The gossip at lunch today wa.s.simply delightful. Mrs. De Witt suggested that Hart would break off the engagement if youcontinue your sleuthing ways." "Is it really my safety you are concerned about or is it my reputation-and yours?" Francescasaid before she even thought about it. Julia stiffened. "I demand an apology," she said. "I'm sorry!" Francesca cried, meaning it. "That was a thoughtless thing to say. I know youfear for my welfare. But I also know you fear for my reputation." "Your welfare is my primary concern. What mother is pleased when some murderous thugholds a knife to her daughter's throat?" Francesca winced. That had happened on her last investigation into a child-prost.i.tution ring."That was a threat, Mama. He never meant to hurt me." Julia made a desperate, scoffing sound. "And you think to console me with thatinterpretation?" "Oh, Mama," Francesca whispered, wishing she could somehow soothe her mother's fears. "Of course, when you marry Hart-if you live to do so- your reputation will hardly matter. Noone will ever close their salon to you once you are his wife. But, Francesca, I truly fear thatyour wedding day may never come, not if you continue this frightening new inclination of yours." Francesca inhaled and debated having it out with her mother. She debated telling her thatsleuthing was no mere inclination or hobby, that she had found the profession she wished topractice for the rest of her life. Then she decided to postpone such a terrible confrontation.The time to tell her mother was after she was wed. But her mind raced. Her father was as disapproving of her sleuthing as Julia was. It hadbecome tiresome, not to mention difficult, working on each and every case while living intheir home. And the way things were progressing, it would be a year before she marriedHart and had the freedom to come and go as she pleased. She sighed. Her life would be so much easier if she had her own flat. She was instantly excited at theidea. Her parents would not agree, of course, but they really could not prevent her frommoving out if she decided to do so. The question was, did she dare? "Francesca? I can see that you are concocting some scheme," Julia said sternly. Francesca swiftly smiled. She would raise that issue at another time. "Mama, I promise tobe careful but I cannot quit my investigation now. The police have asked me for their help, asI am somewhat personally involved in this latest crime." Julia stared, her face tight. "And what crime is that and how are you personally involved?"She shuddered with dread as she spoke. Francesca grimaced. "A woman was murdered. A woman who lives two doors from MaggieKennedy. You know how fond of her I am. I don't like the fact that she lives so close to thecrime scene. A killer is loose in her neighborhood, Mama..." She hesitated. "We think it isthe Slasher." Julia cried out. Francesca took both of her hands. "I am working with Bragg again. I have the entire policeforce behind me. I won't get hurt. But that madman must be brought to justice before hetakes another life!" Julia erupted. "Now you are working with Rick Bragg again? And don't you care that his wiferemains in the hospital? His wife, Francesca. W-I-F-E," she said, spelling out the fourletters. "This is not a romantic involvement," Francesca cried. "I am engaged to another man!" "You were in love with Rick Bragg until a few weeks ago. I am no fool. I know very well thatyou accepted Hart on the rebound," she said firmly, turning away. Francesca ran after her. "What are you going to do?" Julia did not answer her directly. "You are late. Hart is waiting." Francesca followed her downstairs, worried now. "Does he know about this latest investigation of yours?" Julia asked, not glancing back, herhand on the gilded railing. "Yes, he does," Francesca said. "And he approves?" "Hart has no wish to mold me into a stereotype," Francesca said as they reached the groundfloor. "He will never put me in shackles and chains. You know he admires me for my courageand my intellect." "I doubt he approves," Julia said. Francesca now sighed. "I admit that it is more like he tolerates my penchant for sleuthing,"she said. "But if it will make you feel better, I promise to let the police manage the bulk of thematter. I will limit my involvement to asking a few questions of Maggie and her neighbors."She knew she was pleading now. Julia faced her and shook her head in exasperation. "I know you mean well, Francesca, but Ialso know that you will never bow out of anything that claims your interest. We will continuethis discussion later, because Hart is waiting-as is that hoodlum." Francesca did not move. "Joel doesn't pick purses anymore, Mama," she said, and thenshe cried, "What are you going to do?" "I am going to put an end to this nonsense," Julia said flatly, and she walked away.

Francesca did not like the sound of that. She knew how much her marriage to Hart meant to her mother. She should have never mentioned that she was sleuthing once again with Bragg. Hurrying somewhat grimly through the marble-floored reception hall, she found Hart and Joel conversing in the gold salon. They stood before the fire that crackled below the marble mantel of the hearth. She skidded to a halt and they both turned at once. She clung to the door, trying to catch her breath and her composure. Hart was a devastating sight in his white dinner coat and black evening trousers, a black bow tie at his throat. He was such a seductive man-his magnetism was simply inescapable. A slow smile spread across his face and his gaze slipped as slowly over her, from head to toe. She wished she knew what plan Julia had up her sleeve. "I am late," she gasped. "I am sorry!" He strolled to her and pulled her close, whispering, his mouth on her ear, "I don't care how late you are as long as you are finally here with me." She melted immediately, forgetting Joel was present, and could think of nothing but his large, strong hands on her waist, his firm lips on her ear, his musky scent and the cloak of male virility and power he had somehow enveloped her in. She drew back and their gazes touched. The expression on his face seemed oddly tender, though the gleam in his eyes was not. Her heart skipped. "Sometimes you do say the most romantic things," she teased, but her heart beat like mad and she wished they were dining alone at his house, not at the Waldorf-Astoria. And then she thought about his ex-mistress and their conversation earlier. Francesca stiffened. She did not want to worry about the veracity of Daisy's comments now. "Is that what you consider romantic?" he asked with amus.e.m.e.nt, his grip on her waist tightening. She met his gaze and could not manage a smile. His smile vanished; his gaze became searching. "What is it?" She wanted to blurt, Will you love me forever? But of course she did not, as love was not in the promise he had made to her. He had offered her friendship, respect, admiration and fidelity, but not love. Never love. He had made it clear that love was for fools, and the one thing Hart was not was a foolish man. She swallowed hard. "Nothing," she managed to say, trying to pull away from him. But he did not let her go. "Something is bothering you." She bit her lip so hard that it hurt. "Mama and I had it out in the corridor upstairs. She wants to end my sleuthing once and for all, I think," she whispered, painfully aware that while she was telling him the truth, she was also lying to him. A part of her so wanted to tell him about the encounter with Daisy. But another part of her refused to do so-the proud, sensible part. Hart would not admire a jealous, insecure woman. He stroked her cheek once as he released her. "Really?" There was vast skepticism in his tone. "And that is what is bothering you now?" She wished he were not so astute. "No," she whispered roughly. Then she forced a smile. "I have so looked forward to this evening, Calder, please. I don't have to share my deepest darkest secrets with you, do I?" He stared far too thoughtfully at her. It was a moment before he spoke. "Of course you don't, darling," he said, but there was something odd and clinical about his tone. She shivered. He wasn't happy with her right now and she could sense it. And that was not how she wished to begin their precious evening alone. Then his finger moved down her neck to linger about her collarbone. "I see that you rushed to dress tonight," he said flatly. It was almost as if he was withdrawing from her. "Yes." "And how is your latest case progressing?" he asked, clearly aware that her investigation was the cause of her tardiness. "Well," she said with a genuine smile, "we have learned that it is the Slasher at work, Calder, and we must work frantically now to find him before he strikes again this coming Monday," she said eagerly. He gave her a sidelong look, smiling very slightly. And she knew that even though he said nothing, he was thinking about who "we" was. It was a moment before he tore his speculative gaze from hers. Looking reflective indeed, he put his hands in the pockets of his satin-trimmed trousers and strode slowly toward the fireplace. Francesca felt that the evening was in a downward spiral. But before she could go over to him and make light of the fact that she was working with the police-and his arch rival-she saw Joel, standing not far from her. The boy was almost hopping from foot to foot, he was so eager to speak with her. She had entirely forgotten that he was present. "Joel!" She rushed to him. "Joel, what have you found out?" she asked eagerly. "Did someone see a man leaving Margaret Cooper's?" How she hoped that was the case! "Sorry," he said ruefully. "No one seems to have seen anything, Miz Cahill." "Then why have you come uptown at this late hour?" "It's Miz O'Neil. Bridget's mum." Francesca started. "Has something happened? Bragg and I were with her only a few hours ago." Then she winced and glanced at Hart. But he merely smiled at her, his real feelings impossible to discern. "I dunno. But I went to see Bridget, an' Miz O'Neil spent the entire time standin' in the kitchen, cryin' her eyes out. She's so scared!" Francesca stared. "Did she say anything?" He shook his head. "No. But she kept going to the window and lookin' out on the street, then runnin' back into the kitchen. Like she was lookin' fer someone outside, but was afraid to be seen herself. I dunno. I have a real bad feeling, Miz Cahill. Something ain't right." Francesca had a very identical feeling as well. Gwen had seemed jumpy when she and Bragg had last spoken to her, and she had also seemed distressed, although no more so than the day before. Had something happened that she had failed to mention earlier when Francesca and Bragg had been at her flat? Francesca was used to people hiding facts from the police and sometimes it was easier to conduct an interview without an official police presence. Of course, there were times when the strong arm of the law was exactly what was needed. "I think you need to speak to her, Miz Cahill. I know ye got fancy plans fer tonight, but mebbe they could wait?" He was hopeful. She touched his wool cap. "I think you're right. Hart and I can dine a bit later. And while we are at it, we can give you a ride home." She smiled at him and then turned to Hart. "Calder? We need to make one stop before we dine. Can we possibly do that?" "Gwen O'Neil's?" he asked. She nodded, praying he would not mind. "I have no curfew," she said earnestly, "so we can dine later." Hart shook his head, but with tolerant affection now, for he was smiling. "Are you certain you even wish to bother with supper, Francesca? Instead of spending our romantic evening sipping champagne and nibbling on caviar, we can spend it sleuthing by candlelight in the slums downtown." She heard the humor in his tone and was terribly relieved that they had weathered their brief crisis. "Thank you. Thank you for being so understanding." He approached her and took her arm. "Empathy is not my forte, but with you, I shall try." And he seemed far too reflective again. Which made her far too uneasy. She wet her lips. "I do hope you are not too hungry." He laughed and guided her to the entry hall, where a doorman promptly opened the front door. "Frankly, I am famished," he said. "But I must admit, I am intrigued. Accompanying you on your investigation should prove far more interesting than our previous plans."

"Do you mean it?" she cried. "I do," he said, amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes. And he added, "The evening suddenly promises to be an extremely unusual one."

Chapter 7.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902.

7:00 p.m.

Peter appeared almost magically in the front hall the moment Bragg stepped inside. He took Bragg's duster without a word; the huge manservant, who was a jack-of-all-trades, rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. Bragg paused as Peter went to the hall closet He strained to listen and finally, from upstairs, he heard Katie's gentle laughter.

He was too tense to smile.