Francesca smiled her thanks as she got out of the roadster. "Will I see you tonight at my sister's?"

He didn't hesitate. "No."

"I understand," she said softly. "I'm sure in some time Leigh Anne will want to get out and about again."

He shrugged. Before they could move toward the entrance of the building, a woman came running down the front steps, crying out. It was Francis O'Leary. "Miss Cahill! Miss Cahill!

Please wait!"

Francesca hurried toward her, wondering at her state of hysteria. "Is everything all right?"

she asked in concern.

Francis had been crying. Tears streaked her cheeks and her eyes and nose were red. "Is everything all right? How can anything be all right when my fiance is in jail and the police refuse to release him?" she cried, trembling. "How could they suspect him of anything? How could they suspect him of being the Slasher?" She began to weep. "Please, help me get him home! He is innocent!"

Francesca took her hands. "Francis, try to calm yourself. They aren't charging him with any crime. I think they merely wish to question him." She glanced at Bragg. He nodded at her, urging her to ask the question now on both of their minds.

"He is a good, kind man, not some monster!" Francis said. "He would not hurt anyone, much less stalk and murder them!"

"He seems like a very good man," Francesca agreed, putting her arm around the woman.

"Francis, do you have any idea where Sam was last night?"

"When Kate Sullivan was killed?" she asked sharply, eyes huge and wide.

"Yes," Francesca said. She smiled encouragingly. "Sam claims to have been in his repair shop, but frankly, it was clear that he was not telling us the truth. Unfortunately, we have caught him in a he. But if he is innocent, why would he lie?"

Francis stared speechlessly.

"Francis?" Francesca felt terribly for her now.

She swallowed hard and began to turn red. "He was with me," she whispered, her voice so low it was almost inaudible.

Francesca doubted that. "Francis, please do not perjure yourself."

"He was with me," she said again. She glanced wildly from Francesca to Bragg and back again, highly flushed. More tears welled in her eyes.

Francesca stroked her back, but she was trembling and too agitated to be calmed. "Well, if that is the case-"

"No, he was with me." She was crimson. "All night...the first time...it was our first time and you see, he couldn't have killed Kate Sullivan." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "He didn't tell you the truth because he was trying to protect me."

Francesca realized what she meant. Thoroughly startled, she searched her gaze as Bragg said, "I will see to his release. But I am afraid we will need your sworn statement, in writing."

Francis nodded, but she stared back at Francesca, continuing to shake.

"Well, clearly Sam has an alibi," Francesca said after a pause. The problem was, she knew it was a lie. She could see it in Francis O'Leary's eyes.

Chapter 16.

Friday, April 25, 1902.

7:30 p.m.

Francesca paused breathlessly in the reception hall of her sister's home, a mansion just around the block from the Cahill home on Madison Avenue. She was late, but other guests were still arriving, too. As she handed off her wrap, she searched the crowd that was mingling in the room and overflowing into a large salon not far from the stairs. In that salon, the furniture had been removed and the buffet that would serve a hundred guests was against one entire wall. Huge floral arrangements of white lilies were set on pedestals throughout the room, towering above the guests. Dozens of tables, each seating eight and covered in linen, crystal and gilded dinnerware, surrounded a dance floor. A pianist, accompanied by a violinist, was already playing a waltz. Francesca was looking forward to the evening, her first social engagement on Hart's arm. At the few previous affairs they had attended, they had been secretly engaged and had arrived separately. Smiling, she espied her sister at the far end of the reception room. Connie was her best friend. As always, she was stunningly beautiful and terribly elegant in a lavender chiffon evening gown. She was smiling as she conversed effortlessly with several guests. But then, her sister was always the perfectly gracious hostess. Once, not so long ago, her life had seemed perfect, too. Francesca did not want to recall the terrible way in which the new year had begun for Connie and her husband, Neil. For one more moment Francesca stared, noting that her sister seemed her usual self again-genuinely happy and truly at ease. Francesca was relieved. Francesca had yet to see anyone else that she knew, other than her handsome brother-in-law, who stood close to the front door, greeting the guests as they came in. Where was Hart? Was he late as well? "h.e.l.lo," a warm, familiar voice said. Francesca smiled, turning to face Rourke. "h.e.l.lo! I am so pleased you are here," she said, meaning it. "I don't know a soul, do you?" He smiled at her. "Rathe and Grace are in the salon and your fiance is somewhere about." Her heart fluttered. She was wearing the very daring and provocative dark red gown that Sarah had portrayed in her portrait, just for him. "He must be hiding, otherwise I should have seen him instantly." He took her arm. "Come. Let's wander into the other room and see who we can find." They made their way through the crowd, pausing before Connie. "Francesca," Connie cried in delight, embracing her warmly. "I haven't seen you all week-I was beginning to worry." Like Francesca, Connie was blond and blue-eyed, although every aspect of her features was simply paler. Her hair was almost platinum, her eyes baby blue, her skin ivory. She was considered to be a great beauty and Francesca agreed heartily with that acclaim. "I am on a case," Francesca said with a grin. She lowered her voice. "We are after the Slasher, Con. And I am afraid that last night he murdered another young woman." Connie glanced at Rourke. They exchanged greetings and then she said, "Fran, Mama told me that you and Bragg are working together again. Do you think that wise?" "We are partners, nothing more," Francesca said, flushing because Rourke, who was Rick's half brother, stood there at her elbow, listening to their conversation. "And we do make a very fine investigative team." Connie frowned just a bit-a real scowl would be far too unladylike for her. She lifted a pale eyebrow and nodded at the salon where the ensemble would dine. "I know how enthusiastic you are about this new hobby of yours," she said. "But you are engaged now. Maybe you should start planning the wedding. In any case, Hart is inside." Francesca followed her gaze and saw Hart in his tuxedo, impossibly virile, impossibly male, leaning against one of the eight columns in the room. His posture was undeniably indolent, an irreverent habit that he had. A flute of champagne was in his hand. She was about to smile and wave in an attempt to catch his eye when she realized that he was chatting with a very stunning brunette she had met once before. She stiffened instantly, all eyes now. "Isn't that Darlene?" Rourke murmured. Francesca stared, some dismay beginning. Darlene was clearly flirting with Hart, and it was not the first time. She reminded herself that she was now Hart's fiancee and it was official. Darlene had to know about the engagement, as it was all the talk, indeed. But then why did she keep touching Hart's arm as she spoke? And was she mistaken, or did he not seem to mind her attention? Francesca reminded herself that she had no reason to be jealous. Still, she knew a flirtation when she saw one. "You work with her father, do you not? He's a doctor at the hospital in Philadelphia where you are in your residency." "Yes, Paul Fischer is a fine internist. Shall we?" he asked, holding out his arm. Francesca had not stopped staring and she could feel her cheeks heating now. She was jealous, never mind the fact of their engagement. She wanted Hart to look her way, see her in her daring red dress and smile rea.s.suringly at her. "Yes, we should go over and make our presence known," she heard herself say. "Darlene is terribly coy," Rourke whispered, patting her hand. He smiled at Connie when Francesca made no response, continuing to stare instead. "Your home is lovely," he added to his hostess. Connie thanked him and leaned close. "Fran, do behave. At all costs!" she whispered in her ear. And every single word Daisy had uttered suddenly seared Francesca's mind. But it was too soon for him to wander from her side. Rourke guided her into the salon. "Francesca, you seem upset." "Is Hart flirting with that witch?" she heard herself ask before she could stop the words. Rourke stumbled. "I don't think so. Hart is used to the admiration of females. He is very eager to marry you. I am sure he is merely being polite." Hart suddenly saw her, and her breathing became suspended. He stared. She waited for him to smile at her in that seductive way he had. Instead, he leaned more comfortably against the column, his glance moving over the dark red dress she wore. She smiled uneasily at him. He smiled back, waiting for her to approach. But his smile was very reserved-it was, in fact, distinctly odd. Darlene was speaking to him but Hart's gaze remained on Francesca. And in that instant, in spite of the distance separating them, Francesca knew that something was very wrong. "Are you all right?" Rourke asked quietly. Unable to look away from Hart, she said, "Something is wrong." "I beg your pardon?" She finally glanced at him, unsmiling. "Something is wrong with Hart. He is upset." Rourke's expression was bemused. "And you can tell all of that with half of a ballroom between you and him?" "Yes, I can," Francesca said. Suddenly Darlene tugged on Hart's hand, and as she forced him to return his gaze to her, she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. Francesca felt her fists clench. Perhaps a single inch separated the brunette's bosom from Hart's chest. "Be calm," Rourke advised. "Calder has never been anything but respectful of you. I have actually been impressed by the gentleman he has become. Come, Francesca, we both know that Darlene isn't the first woman to chase him, and she won't be the last. Unfortunately, engaged or not, there will always be women out there who do not care what his status is." He smiled gently at her. "You may have to get used to it." She inhaled hard, because she really felt like starting a cat-fight. But Rourke was right and she knew it. "Would you dance with me? I am in the mood to pull the hair off of someone's head and I need a moment to compose myself." "Don't do that!" Rourke laughed, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor. He said, "You have his undivided attention now." Francesca wanted to look back over her shoulder, but she refused to do so. Still, she badly wanted to give Darlene a piece of her mind. And as she slipped into Rourke's arms and began to follow him about the dance floor, she wondered what she would do should she ever find Hart with a woman in a far more compromising position. If she was so disturbed by his allowing some eighteen-year-old beauty to flirt, then how would she feel if he genuinely strayed-the way Daisy had promised he would soon do? She would never survive, she thought grimly. "What are they doing?" Rourke was an excellent dancer and she had only to remain light on her feet as he turned her about the dance floor. "Hart is watching you like a hawk. I wouldn't worry too much, Francesca. I imagine he will be on his way over here in an instant." She moved closer to Rourke, looking up at him and smiling. "I hadn't realized I could be so jealous or so possessive." Rourke hesitated. "Pa.s.sion makes for some strange bedfellows. I would ignore women like Darlene if I were you, Francesca. I have never seen Hart behave with any other woman the way he does with you. I have never seen Hart smile as often as he does since he has met you, Francesca. But do not misunderstand me. You have chosen to marry a very complicated man, and I would be surprised if your marriage was not, at times, a difficult one." "There have been times when I have wondered what I am doing," she said frankly. "Rourke, I care so much for him, but it's his past that worries me so. Sometimes I wonder..." She hesitated before blurting out her concern. "I wonder if I can really hold his interest." He laughed a little. "I have a strong feeling that you can and you will. I actually think he will try to be a good husband, Francesca. I think he cares deeply for you." She was somewhat rea.s.sured. "Is he still watching us?" "He is watching you. Do you want me to hold you a bit more closely?" Rourke asked with a devilish grin. "Yes." And as Rourke pulled her too close for propriety, she had to peek over his shoulder at the subject of their conversation. Hart was coming toward them. He looked very annoyed. All indolence was gone. "Well, I think you have won-he is coming this way," Rourke said, low. Hart tapped on Rourke's shoulder as they abruptly stopped dancing. "I think I will cut in," he said to Rourke. "If you do not mind?" "Of course not." Rourke smiled. He gave Francesca an encouraging look and stepped aside. Hart took her in his arms. Briefly, their gazes met. Francesca's moment of satisfaction vanished and she tensed, watching him now as he whirled her across the dance floor. His expression was dark. Something was wrong, oh yes. "I take it you have had a busy day?" he asked politely, his smile distant. Francesca gripped him more tightly, aware of the guarded look in his eyes, in his tone. His body rippled with a tension she could not identify. If she were a woman like her sister, she would greet him warmly and not pry into the cause of his dark mood. But she was not her sister. As her mind raced, she said, "Yes. We found Kate Sullivan's husband. He's dead." He swept her around the dance floor, as effortlessly as Rourke had, but his hands were not Rourke's, oh no. They were large and strong and warm, one on her waist and the other holding her hand. "It was a recent demise, I a.s.sume?" She nodded. "It might be a suicide. He might even have been the Slasher." And she ceased dancing but she did not let him go. He halted in midstep as well. "What is it?" she heard herself ask. "I can see that something is wrong." He stared at her. It was a moment before he spoke. "Nothing is wrong. I have had a difficult day." He hesitated. "I apologize. I am sorry if I have given you the wrong impression." His smile was forced. "You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful, but you know how much I like that dress on you." She hesitated. Hart was one of the most charming men she knew, but now it was as if he spoke prepared lines of dialogue that he did not feel. Now there was no charm. "Are you angry with me because I did not wait for Raoul?" He seemed indifferent to the notion. "I hadn't realized. Raoul did not mention it-he is not my spy." It wasn't Raoul, she thought, and she was terribly worried now. "What is wrong, Calder? You seem very disturbed. Has something happened? Please, you must tell me." She smiled a little at him. "We are engaged. You can share all of your deep dark secrets with me." He flinched, looking taken aback, and then he took her arm and guided her away from the center of the dance floor. "We are being remarked upon. People might think we are at odds." "It feels as if we are at odds," Francesca said quietly. "Are we? You have always enjoyedsharing your thoughts with me." His jaw flexed. "No. I am not angry with you, Francesca, how could I be?" And this time heattempted a smile and utterly failed. And even though his words rang with sincerity, his distress was obvious. She was shakennow. "Was it the meeting with the amba.s.sador? Did it not go as you planned?" He made a dismissive sound. "Even if it had been a miserable affair, I would hardly care. Iam only expanding those ventures because it seems to be the thing to do. I do not need theextra wealth." If he wasn't angry with her and if nothing untoward had recently happened then she couldonly draw one conclusion. "Have you seen Rick today?" "No, I have not." His gaze darkened. "Leave well enough alone, Francesca. Would you like adrink?" And finally he smiled a little at her. She seized his arm to prevent him from finding a waiter. A tiny voice in her head told her tolet him be and try to discover the cause of his dark humor another time. But she said, "Oneday we will be married. Or at least, that is what we plan. But our marriage will never work ifyou shut me out. I can see very clearly that you are disturbed, even unhappy. Please, Calder,tell me what this is about." And he was angry now. "Again, I have had a difficult day, and I am sorry if I have upset you."His tone was harsh and abrupt, final. "I have no intention of boring you with the details, either.Leave well enough alone." She recoiled. How would they get along for an entire lifetime if he intended to behave likethis when something went afoul? He seemed to read her mind. "You knew my reputation when you accepted my proposal. Noone forced you to accept. If you wish to change your mind, I will not object." She was so stunned that she gaped. Then she cried, "What are you saying? You...are yousaying that you wish to end our engagement?" She was too shocked to feel anything butmonumental surprise. He stared, his expression so brittle it appeared in danger of cracking apart. It was amoment before he spoke. "We need to stop pretending," he said. "I am not a n.o.ble man.That is a script I wrote for you because you wanted me to write it. But it is only a G.o.dd.a.m.nscript, Francesca. The facts of my life speak for themselves. I am a selfish, self-serving manand I am not Rick Bragg. You may take it or leave it, my dear." She cried out, horrified, wanting to protest his description of himself, but she could not get asingle word out. "I'm sorry," he said flatly, his face now devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry I am not who you wantme to be." He bowed. "I'll go get us champagne."

"Your sister is one of the finest hostesses in the city," Bartolla said, beaming with pleasureas she held on to Evan's arm. They had arrived at the Montrose residence and she had justhanded off her velvet wrap. Now, glances were turning her way, both male and female. Themale glances were startled and longing, the female glances were green with envy. Triumphfilled her. She smoothed down the dark burgundy velvet gown she wore, having next to nothingunderneath. Small straps encrusted with diamantes held the plunging bodice up; burgundyvelvet gloves, the b.u.t.tons diamante, covered her arms well past the elbows. As she walked,the gown clung to her hips and thighs. She knew that because she had admired herself in afull-length mirror for some time before leaving the Chandler household. "Connie is a fabulous hostess," Evan said, seeming distracted. She pressed her bosom against his arm. "You are such a dear to bring me here, when weare immersed in our own personal crisis." His jaw flexed and he glanced at her. His voice very low, he said, for the hundredth time, "Are you sure, Bartolla?" And for the hundredth time, she nodded, looking dismayed, whispering, "Please, Evan,please. You don't have to do this. I can return to Europe to have our child and no one willever know." His jaw looked ready to crack apart. "You will do no such thing," he said flatly. She turned away, hiding her smile. He had insisted that they would elope immediately."There's your sister, and Lord Montrose. Come," she said, leading him over. "Connie, my lord, how wonderful to see you both. And how lovely the decor is!" she cried. Connie smiled, kissing her cheek, while Neil Montrose, a very tall, handsome man, kissedher hand. Bartolla strutted a bit before him, smiling warmly at him, as well. But his regardmerely skimmed her low-cut bodice once, a reflex most men had. She realized he had hisarm around his wife and his body pressed closely to hers. "I'm glad you made it," he said tohis brother-in-law. Evan smiled grimly. "How could I refuse an invitation from you and Con?" Bartolla pushed out her chest, wishing she could poke Evan in the ribs, for his expressionwas so morose. Connie noticed her action; amazingly, her husband did not. "That is a stunning dress," Connie said. "You wear it so well, Bartolla." She spoke withoutmalice. In fact, she seemed incredibly content. Bartolla suspected they had recently made love. "Thank you." Bartolla smiled and decidednot to waste her time on Neil Montrose. Neil said to Evan, "Julia and Andrew are here. I hope the evening will not becomeuncomfortable for you." Evan clasped his hand. "Neil, thank you for your concern. But I have other matters on mymind now, matters that do not involve my father." Neil released his wife and put his hand on Evan's shoulder, briefly stepping aside. Bartollastrained to listen to them. He said, "I had lunch with Andrew the other day. He is upset, Evan,and rightly so. Can you not think about some kind of compromise? You are his only son." "Neil," Evan warned, "I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I am afraid that the issuesbetween my father and I are not your affair." Montrose hesitated, his very turquoise eyes unwavering on his brother-in-law. "I am afraid Icannot be indifferent to your plight. Connie and I are both, frankly, worried." "I am happy," Evan said, looking anything but. "So you need not worry about me." Bartolla knew she must take her lover aside and chastise him for his lack of social graces.She sighed and suddenly noticed Calder Hart, standing in the other room with severalwomen, all of them stunning and all vying for his attention. Hart's expression was hard toread. Bartolla could not decide if he was indifferent, bored or interested. She glancedaround, but saw no sign of Francesca. "Where is your sister?" she asked Connie, and foundthat Connie's gaze had also veered to Calder Hart. Her expression was openly concerned. "She went outside onto the terrace," Connie murmured, tearing her gaze from Hart withobvious reluctance. "He is certainly a magnet, is he not?" Bartolla laughed but wondered why Hart was notfawning over his future bride. Connie looked at her oddly. "I think he is in love with my sister." And she turned to glance atHart again. All kinds of interest flared. Were Hart and Francesca arguing? A very young and very prettybrunette, whom Bartolla did not know, was clinging to him now. Her gaze narrowed. Hartcould take care of himself. He must be enjoying that young lady's attentions or he wouldhave disengaged himself. "I doubt Hart has ever been in love," Bartolla said. Then shequickly smiled and added, "Until now." Connie turned her back on the scene in the salon, clearly displeased with her futurebrother-in-law. Evan and Neil stepped back to them. Evan said, "Is Francesca here?" "She is on the terrace, I think," Connie said.

"I need to speak with her." He glanced at Bartolla, and then said to his sister, "She is onanother case." "I know. Apparently the Slasher struck again last night." Evan turned white. "G.o.d, I didn't read it in the World!" "It was in the Tribune," Neil remarked. Bartolla did not like Evan's reaction. "Who was it? I mean, surely it wasn't Maggie-Mrs. Kennedy-Francesca would have toldme immediately!" He was aghast. Bartolla slipped her arm in his, furious and hiding it. Did Evan have some kind of affectionfor that horrid little homely seamstress? She was certainly beginning to think so! Connie touched his arm. "Of course it wasn't Mrs. Kennedy. She has moved into Hart'shome with her children. The woman's name was Sullivan, I think." Evan made a huge sound, clearly of relief. "Mag-Mrs. Kennedy has moved into Hart'shome?" "Yes." "Good," he said firmly. "She will be safe there." Bartolla pressed close. "Darling, don't you think your concern for your sister's seamstress isa bit...out of place?" He seemed startled. "She is a friend of the family, Bartolla, and you know I am very fond ofher children." Connie and Neil exchanged a glance, which Bartolla did not miss. Her cheeks started toburn with humiliation. Would he display his absurd and misplaced affections to the entireworld? "How kind you can be," she said, smiling. "I am so proud of you." She kissed his cheek. He did not seem to notice. "Can I get anyone a drink?" he asked. "We're fine," Neil said. Then he turned to his wife, smiling into her eyes. "All of our guestshave arrived and we should separate and mingle. Will you promise me the first dance afterwe dine?" Connie beamed. "You know I will." He leaned down and kissed her far too intimately for a husband and wife in a public room. "Can you get me a gla.s.s of champagne?" Bartolla asked Evan. "Certainly," Evan said. Feeling vicious now, her glance strayed to Hart. "I'll be outside, with Francesca," she said.

Chapter 17.

Friday, April 25, 1902.

9:00 p.m.

Francesca was far too upset to be cold. She leaned on the plastered terrace railing, shaking terribly as she gazed down at Madison Avenue and the coaches and carriages below. She had been standing outside for the longest time, and Hart hadn't come looking for her. Did he really want to end their engagement? Francesca was so upset that she could not think straight. She was certain of one thing. Something was wrong with Hart. He was cold and distant, and it seemed as if he wished to push her away. Was this merely a black mood that would pa.s.s? Or had he changed his mind about them? The thought of losing him now hurt unbearably. She wiped moisture from her face. This morning he had been himself and everything had been fine. Somehow, within a few hours, everything had changed. What had happened? She began to think clearly now. Surely something had happened! One did not walk away happily from one's fiancee and a few hours later try to break things off. But did it even matter? Her heart was breaking at the very idea of losing him. She was such a fool. She should have heeded her father's advice, Daisy's warnings, and even Hart's own claims about himself. Instead, she had chosen to believe he was someone fine and n.o.ble, a sheep in wolf's clothing. But it was too late now. She was in love-and she had never been morevulnerable. But the real problem was that a part of her continued to believe that he was good andn.o.ble-not selfish and depraved. 'A part of her would simply never give up believing in him. She wiped her eyes roughly. She was going to have to fight, somehow, for his heart. Shesimply could not cave in and give up. Too much was at stake-she loved him too much. The thought of chasing Calder Hart was beyond terrifying. So many women had done justthat and they had all failed. "Francesca? Is that you?" a man's voice said. She didn't recognize the intruder, although the voice was familiar. Francesca quickly wipedher eyes again with the back of her hand and turned, smiling widely at the stranger. A lanky man came forward, smiling. "It's I, Richard Wiley," he said. "What are you doing outhere by yourself?" "Mr. Wiley, h.e.l.lo," she said, relieved it was someone she could easily manage. Once, Juliahad tried to get her to accept Richard's courtship. That seemed a lifetime ago. "I am onanother investigation, and I am trying to sort out some clues," she lied. "You have been so busy since we first met," he exclaimed, smiling down at her. He hadbrownish hair and an oval face that was pleasant enough, if unexciting. "I have read so muchabout you these past few months." She smiled in a more genuine manner. "I seem to have found my calling," she said. "I enjoyinvestigative work." "And you do it so well. May I congratulate you on your recent engagement to Mr. Hart?" Somehow Francesca continued to smile. "Thank you." Another guest stepped outside andwhen she saw that it was the countess Benevente, she was dismayed. She did not wantBartolla to even suspect that anything was amiss with her and Hart. "Can I escort you inside?" Wiley asked. "You must be cool standing out here in that gown." Bartolla was approaching and she clearly wished to speak. Francesca knew the countesswould not be dissuaded and in the dark it was less likely that she would surmise anything.The terrace had only two widely s.p.a.ced gaslights. "I am so enjoying the fine April evening."Francesca smiled at him. Wiley left after nodding at Bartolla. Shivering, the countess cried, "Francesca, why are youout here alone? Where is that dastardly man you call a fiance'? You will catch your death!" Francesca plastered a smile on her face, inhaled hugely and said, "I am on a new case and Iam trying to piece together some clues. I am afraid I am not in the mood for a fete." Bartolla put her arm around her. "Darling, no matter what your mood, do you think it wise toleave Hart unattended?" And she smiled, laughing. Francesca briefly closed her eyes. Somehow, she knew this woman was going to take aknife and twist it in her heart. Then she opened them and faced Bartolla. "Why would you saysuch a thing?" Bartolla stared at her, her smile slowly fading. Then she touched Francesca 's hand. "You are very upset," she said. Francesca tried to appear disdainful. "A very good woman was murdered yesterday,Bartolla. I am preoccupied with her death-and with preventing another murder, if I can." Bartolla studied her for an interminable time. "You know, Francesca, you are the bravestwoman I have ever met, and probably the most sincere." "I doubt that," Francesca said warily, taken aback. Bartolla rubbed her arms, a reaction to the cool April breeze. "You have always been honestwith me. You have always been kind. You are hiding out here, aren't you?" she said quietly. Francesca started. "No, I'm not!" she cried far too quickly. Bartolla studied her in the darkness. A pause ensued, making Francesca uneasy. But whenBartolla spoke, her tone was different, subdued. "Did you really think that being attached toHart in any way would be easy?"

Francesca bit her lip. She knew she must not discuss her private life with Bartolla, whom she did not trust. But she so desperately needed someone to talk to and Bartolla knew Hart as well as anyone. "Only a very foolish woman would have ever thought such a thing," she said with an attempt at a smile. Bartolla smiled back. "A wiser woman would have told him to go to h.e.l.l, wouldn't she?" Francesca had to agree. Nodding, she said, "He is very difficult to resist. He is persuasive when he chooses to be." "And tonight, he is enjoying a flirtation with someone else. Are the two of you arguing?" Francesca stiffened instantly. So Bartolla had noticed. Had the entire world seen his lack of attention to his future bride and the attention he was directing elsewhere? She said, "I hardly mind his flirting. It does not affect me-or us-at all." "I came here tonight feeling rather catty," Bartolla said thoughtfully now. "I thought to make myself feel better at your expense. I was going to join you on the terrace and pour salt in your wounds. But I do like you, Francesca. And instead, I think I should give you some advice." Francesca froze. What ploy was this? "Go back inside, darling, and fight for what you want," Bartolla said. "But do not stand out here alone, sulking in childish tears." Francesca gaped. But Bartolla was terribly right. She was hiding and sulking and, in general, feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to fight for Hart, but she was afraid to compete with Darlene Fischer and her like. "I don't know if I can," she whispered. "I am half as beautiful as all the women he has always preferred in his bed." Bartolla pulled her close. "Nonsense! You could improve your daytime fashion, of course, and get rid of those ugly blue suits. But you are every bit as alluring as the rest." "I don't know how to do what you are suggesting," Francesca said, wide-eyed. "Of course you do. You are wearing that dress, aren't you?" Bartolla smiled in a conspiratorial manner. "It is all a game, Francesca, even if you dare to really fall in love. It is the right dress, the right sway of the hip, the right glance, the right moment." "But I am hardly a seductress," she whispered. "Any woman is a seductress. You just must be better at it than the others, and as you are far more clever than us all, it should not really be a problem, now, should it?" She had been very seductive in that oil painting, she thought. And more times than she could count, Hart had responded to her as if she was a femme fatale. "But something is wrong. Something has set him off." She hesitated. "And I feel certain it is not desire for Miss Fischer." "He's a man. A very virile one. Men like him wander. So even if tonight he is preoccupied with some other matter, one day he will genuinely stray. I know you know that! But you can pull him right back." She smiled then. "I've seen him watching you. It's so much more than l.u.s.t. If it were mere l.u.s.t, I'd tell you to break the engagement and have some simple fun. He admires you immensely and I've seen it in his eyes. There is hope, darling-if you are strong enough to weather the ups and downs of a relationship that will undoubtedly be very stormy." Francesca hated the fact that Bartolla, like Daisy, believed in Hart's eventual disloyalty. But she wondered if she had the strength to do as Bartolla had described. And suddenly, in that moment, she was determined to take up just such a battle. It felt as if her entire life was at stake, and perhaps it was. She couldn't imagine living without Calder present in her every waking moment, her every thought. "Thank you," she finally said. "Thank you for being sincere." Bartolla winked. "Don't tell anyone! I shall be ruined." Francesca smiled, about to reply, but then she could not speak. Hart stepped onto the terrace, and even shadowed as he was, she knew his form and felt his presence instantly. He came forward, his strides filled with purpose. Francesca watched him emerge into the moonlight. His expression was hard and determined. He glanced at Bartolla just once, dismissively. He disliked her and did not offereven a polite greeting. Bartolla clearly didn't care. She gave Francesca an encouraging look and hurried inside. Francesca felt paralyzed. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Will you stand outside allnight?" he asked quietly. "I have been considering doing just that," she said, impossibly aware of his hands as theyslipped off the jacket and her shoulders. She searched his eyes. Had she heard a normalresonance in his tone? "I have behaved in the most reprehensible manner," he said. "Francesca, I am sorry. Thereis simply no excuse for my harsh words earlier this evening." Relief flooded her, making her knees useless-she found herself clutching his lapels as hegripped her waist, offering her his strength and support. "Why? What has happened? Whatis wrong?" He shook his head, but his hands pulled her close. "I don't know," he murmured, and hiseyes closed. He kissed her cheek several times, her jaw, her throat. She shivered, desire an instantaneous flood, no matter how upset she was. She realized hewas shaking as his mouth moved over the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She held on to him as if hewere a ghost that might vanish at any time. "Can't you talk to me? Calder, how will ourmarriage ever succeed if you shut me out this way?" He flinched, meeting her gaze, now holding her face in his hands. "I don't want to talk, notnow, not about anything," he said. And his mouth claimed hers. It would have been so easy to cave into his desire-as there was no mistaking his rawneed-and be swept away to a very safe place. Instead, her mind raced as he kissed her,again and again, hungry and insistent. They could not solve their problems this way. Shepushed him away. "No." He was out of breath. His eyes widened. "No?" And suddenly she saw a gleam in his eyes. She knew him well enough to know that he thought her refusal a challenge. She braced herhands against his chest. "You have given me a terrible fright," she said slowly. "And I think Ihave every right to know why." He stepped away from her now, raking one hand through his hair. "You do have every right,"he said finally. "But I also have the right not to share every single aspect of my life, everysingle thought, with you." He became wry. "You really do not want to know." She was very still, in some disbelief. "Actually, I do. But you are right-there is no law, norule that says I must be privy to your private thoughts." He smiled at her, just slightly, but it was genuine enough. At least their crisis was over, she thought. "Why did you tell me that I could end ourengagement?" He hesitated. "I was in a very black mood. I regret my words. And I am more than sorry. If youlet me-" and he smiled far too seductively "-I will show you just how sorry I am." "Is that it?" she asked incredulously. "You indicate that you wish to end ourengagement-that you wish for me to back out, sparing you the cruelty of doing so-and youwill offer me no explanation?" "No," he said flatly. His smile was gone. "Do not push me now." The warning was clear. His good mood and the Calder Hart she had come to know and lovewas clearly in jeopardy. But she could not help herself. If he was having doubts about theirfuture, she simply had to know. She went to stand before him, laying her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Do you want toend our engagement?" she asked. He did not react with surprise; he did not protest or deny it. His jaw flexed, hard, his eyesturned black and he stared. Oh my G.o.d. He wanted to end it. Her hand fell from his chest. She stepped back, away from him.

"Let's go inside," he said roughly. He smiled a little at her. "I promised you that champagne." "No," she whispered, refusing to move. "We have been honest with one another from thestart. We agreed there would never be any lies between us. If you have doubts about us-about me-you owe me the honesty we agreed upon." He wet his lips. "I never want to hurt you. It still remains the last thing I ever want to do." Headded, "Please, Francesca, leave this alone." And it was a plea, the first he had ever madeto her or anyone that she knew. But she could not hear him now. He had doubts, grave doubts. "You wish to end ourengagement," she heard herself say. It wasn't a question. Her world began to blacken andspin. "Don't push me," he said harshly. "Not now, not tonight." She somehow managed to remain upright. She became aware of Hart holding her arm."Let's go home, Francesca. I think we could both use a good scotch." As if he hadn't justwarned her with real anger to let the past hours alone, he brushed his mouth over her cheek.There was urgency there. She thought she nodded. She needed to think, never mind that she felt dangerously shockedand incapable of any thought at all. Hart was guiding her inside and across the reception hall. It was oddly empty except forstaff, and she was vaguely aware that most of the guests in the salon had taken their seatswith their suppers. Somehow, Hart had his arm around her waist. She briefly closed hereyes, leaning against him. Even now, when her every instinct told her that he was the oneshe should run from, she found comfort in the strength of his powerful body, in the strength ofhim. His step faltered. She felt his tension and knew it had nothing to do with their recent conversation. She lookedup at him. "What is it?" He met her gaze, his expression lightened. "Are you at all inclined to sleuth tonight?" She followed his gaze, surprised. A very handsome gentleman had just entered the houseand he was handing off his walking stick and gloves. "Why? Who is that?" "That, my dear, is Lord Randolph." Francesca instantly forgot the previous moments and stared. Randolph was a few years hersenior, perhaps twenty-seven or -eight. He had dark hair, fair skin and even from thedistance separating them, she realized his eyes were a brilliant, remarkable shade of blue."Yes, I do want to sleuth-how could I even consider missing this opportunity?" she asked,never removing her gaze from her quarry. He was a striking man, the kind of rake even agood woman like Gwen might fall victim to. How interesting it would be if he were Gwen's former lover and employer and now in the city,while the Slasher was on the loose. And hadn't Maggie said the gentleman she had met on the street corner the night of Kate'smurder had remarkable blue eyes? Francesca bristled inwardly. How she hoped that Randolph was their Slasher! Hart smiled at her. "I can see the gauntlet being thrown. Let me introduce you, then." "Wait!" She met his gaze. "You made some comment about his reputation." "Ah, yes. He has the unenviable reputation of being absolutely dour." "Dour?" she asked. "Apparently he lost his wife and children in a fire, Francesca," Hart said somberly. "Althoughthat was quite a few years ago, he rarely smiles and is known to be dour, grim and reclusive.He avoids society, female company of all kinds, and seems to have no intention of everremarrying. That, I suppose, is what has really set the gossips off. He is a wealthy catch andthe ruling matriarchs are terribly annoyed with him." "Perhaps he cannot be blamed, having suffered such a tragedy," Francesca said. Shebegan to think that he could not be the rake who had seduced Gwen. "Quickly, Hart, beforehe goes in to dine."

Hart hurried forward, Francesca following. It was a relief to be investigating again."Randolph, good evening," Hart said very pleasantly. Randolph started as he recognized Hart. "Hart, good G.o.d, is that you?" He smiled slightly asthe two men shook hands. "What an amazing coincidence," he said. "May I introduce my fiancee, Miss Francesca Cahill?" Randolph was clearly surprised by that. "You are engaged?" He then flushed. "Miss Cahill,Harry de Warenne at your service, and may I add my congratulations?" He bowed. "Thank you. Do you know my sister or brother-in-law? They are your hosts tonight." He woreseveral rings, Francesca noticed, but only one on his left hand. The stone was black onyx, anunusual choice, and some carving was upon it. It was also gold. "Yes, I know Montrose rather well. He has a house in London not far from mine," Randolphsaid. "Oh, so you are from England," Francesca smiled. "I had thought your accent Irish." Randolph glanced at Hart. "Your fiancee is very clever. I am from Ireland, in fact, although themajority of my family is English. We are the black sheep, actually, us Irish de Warennes." "I am sure you are hardly a black sheep," Francesca said lightly. "So you prefer to reside inLondon? I am partial to the green Irish countryside myself." Actually, she loved London,having been there numerous times, and she had never been to Ireland. Hart said smoothly, "I am surprised to see you here. Usually you send your lieutenants tomanage your business affairs." Randolph shrugged. "This time there were matters that required my personal attention." Francesca became thoughtful. "I am friends with a very beautiful woman and I believe she isfrom the vicinity of Limerick. Perhaps I should invite her to our supper party. You might knowher. She resides here in the city now." "Perhaps, although I would doubt it. Who is she?" Harry de Warenne asked. "Her name is Mrs. Hanrahan, Mrs. David Hanrahan, although we are so close, I call herGwen," Francesca said, her smile never slipping, her gaze unwavering upon his face. And his polite expression did not change, not in the slightest. "I am afraid I do not know thewoman in question," he said.

Chapter 18.

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

10:00 a.m.

"h.e.l.lo." Francesca greeted her sister. Anxiety filled her but she managed to smile. Connie looked radiant as she came forward, wearing a lovely pink and ivory striped gown, but her eyes reflected some surprise. "Fran! Is everything all right?" she asked as she quickly embraced her. Once, before sleuthing had come to take up so much of her time, Francesca had been a frequent, if not daily, visitor at her sister's home. She adored not only her sister, but her two nieces as well. Recently, her visits had become twice weekly, much to Francesca's chagrin. There simply did not seem to be enough time in the day to accomplish all that she wished to. Francesca looked directly at her sister. She had tossed and turned half the night, trying to decipher every word and gesture Hart had made. In the end, when she had fallen asleep, not a single conclusion had been reached. "I don't think so," she said. "But frankly, I am not sure." Instantly, Connie turned and closed both salon doors, insuring the utmost privacy for them. Then she returned to Francesca, taking both her hands and guiding her to a pair of burgundy chairs. As they sat, she said softly, "I take it this is about Calder?" Francesca nodded, stabbed with a dreadful combination of dread and fear. "How did this happen?" she whispered. "How did I fall in love with such a man? My entire life I believed that my husband would be someone exactly like our father. Instead, I am head over heels for the most notorious womanizer to ever grace the city's halls."

Connie inhaled, her blue eyes wide. "Do you think he is pursuing other women?" "No." But Francesca bit her lip. "I mean, I know you saw him last night. He hardly spent a moment at my side and he allowed that Darlene Fischer to flirt with him quite endlessly. But no, I do not think he wishes to stray yet. But something is bothering him and he won't tell me what it is." "Then maybe you had better let him be, until he wishes to confide in you." When Francesca started to object, Connie raised her hand. "I know that will be incredibly difficult for you! I cannot imagine any feat harder than restraining yourself when it comes to Calder Hart. But trust me, Fran. There is a time to press, and there is a time to stand down." Francesca comprehended her sister's words and meaning, she really did. But how could she let this go? "When I finally accepted his proposal, I instinctively knew that he had the power to completely destroy me. What should I do? I cannot decide what action to take," she cried. Connie paused thoughtfully for a moment. "You know I will always be honest with you. Giving your heart to a man like Calder is a dangerous proposition, indeed. I, too, always thought you would find true love with someone like our father-someone like Rick Bragg." Francesca sighed. "He would have been so safe." "Yes, he would. Why don't you tell me what really happened last night?" Connie asked. Francesca met her gaze. Her heart slammed with her entire recollection of the prior evening. "Yesterday morning everything was as it always was. Hart was completely attentive and extremely affectionate and charming. The moment I arrived here last night, though, I sensed that something was amiss. I could almost see this dark cloud hanging over his head." "Did you ask him what was wrong?" "Yes. He refused to discuss the matter. I pressed and he became very angry with me." She tensed. "Con, he told me I knew his reputation when I agreed to become his wife, and he would not object if I changed my mind!" Connie gasped. "He wants you to break off the engagement?" "Later he denied it. But isn't that the only conclusion to be had? He has doubts about us and I believe he would not mind if I pushed him away!" Connie took her hand. "Fran, I am not going to even attempt to comprehend a man like Calder Hart. I mean, I thought my life with Neil was perfect, and look at what happened." Francesca studied her sister closely. They had both learned during one of Francesca's cases that Neil had been having an affair with another woman. To this day, Francesca could not understand why he had done such a thing when he truly loved her sister. He, of course, had refused to explain, and it was not her business, anyway. Her sister's marriage had barely survived, but now they seemed back on track, if not happier than ever. "But clearly Calder Hart is having second thoughts about such a monumental decision as a lifelong commitment," Connie said. "I cannot agree more," Francesca said grimly. Connie squeezed her hand. "Would that really be so odd? He is twenty-six years old and he has never courted any woman before you. He has been a shameless and dissolute rake. Now, apparently, he wishes to reform. Perhaps it would be strange if he didn't have some doubts?" "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Francesca asked. "And what should I do? In the end, he apologized for his behavior, but he still refused to explain himself. And it hurt me, Con, to see another woman flirting so liberally with him! I was actually green with jealousy watching him with Darlene Fischer." Connie sighed. "I don't know how to make you feel better, but I do have some advice-advice I feel very strongly about." Francesca leaned forward, eager to hear her sister's words. After all, she was an experienced woman. "Please!" "First, answer this. Do you have any doubts about him?" Francesca did not hesitate, even as she thought about Rick Bragg. "No. At first I was uncertain-at first I still loved Rick, but now we are truly friends. And that has allowed me to realize how much I love Calder." She hesitated and added, "I do not doubt my feelings. I doubt his ability to keep his promise not to ever be unfaithful." "Fran, you must take a life with someone else one step at a time. Don't even think ahead to some faraway future day when he might break his word to you." She flushed a little and Francesca knew she was thinking about Neil. "Even the best marriage with the n.o.blest man will have some difficult moments." "I guess I can agree with that. So you advise me to fight for him-to fight for his heart?" she asked, thinking about Bartolla's words. "No," Connie cried in dismay. Francesca was surprised. "No?" Connie shook her head. "Do not chase after Hart! That is the worst thing you could do. If he ever sensed you were in pursuit, I feel certain he would lose interest." Francesca stiffened with confusion and dread. "So what should I do? Walk away?" She was in some disbelief. "No. Stand firm in your heart and be yourself." She smiled then. "You are so eccentric, Fran, and that is the woman who has turned Calder's head. Not some coy debutante like Darlene, but a beautiful, brave and clever sleuth, a woman committed to justice and reform, a woman absolutely selfless. You are unique-remain that way. Do not even think to compete with women like Darlene. Because then you would be like the others!" Francesca was wide-eyed. "So I should do nothing?" "No, you should bring all your efforts and all your interest to your current investigation. Do you not have a murderer on the loose?" Francesca started to relax. "A killer who must be found, and quickly!" she said with some genuine relief. "Find the Slasher, Francesca. Be yourself. If Hart wants to flirt, let him. Because if this is meant to be-if this will ever work-he will get over his doubts and the marriage will proceed. But he must be the one chasing you. It must never be the other way around." Francesca hugged her sister. "You are right! I feel certain. As worried as I am, I must be brave and try to prevent another murder. Either Calder will remain committed to our engagement, or not. In any case, I know that competing with the likes of Darlene is not my strong suit." "Your strong suit is who you truly are," Connie said with vast affection. Francesca smiled, knowing that Connie was being kind. Her sister recognized that Francesca should not-and could not- compete with the city's most beautiful and seductive women. Hart was clearly having doubts but he still was extremely fond of her, and she would not dwell on what she could not control. Francesca stood. "You have been so helpful," she exclaimed. Connie grinned. "That is what sisters are for. And where are you off to now?" "I do have a killer to catch," Francesca said, returning her smile. "But before I interview John Sullivan's other roommate, I promised Rick I would call on Leigh Anne." Connie's pale eyebrows lifted. "How is she?" Francesca's smile faded. "I don't think she is doing very well." * * * It was so odd and so pleasant, Maggie thought, her heart fuzzy with warmth, as she watched two of her sons as they sat on the sofa together. Mathew was trying to teach Paddy the alphabet and he was being very serious about it. Paddy was attempting to be as serious, but he could not grasp the concept of the letter A at all. Both boys were freshly scrubbed and clothed in their Sunday best, and they were dwarfed by the gold velvet sofa they sat on. Behind them was a huge red wall, an incredible painting of two women and a child from some bygone era, the high, high ceiling above painted red with a gold and cream starburst in its center. Her sons looked like two little princes. Almost.

Her heart lurched with sadness then. They would never be princes; the best they could be were honest, hardworking, G.o.dly men. Once, that had been enough. Recently, it did not seem enough at all. She glanced around at the huge and opulent room, which, in fact, wasn't large at all compared to the other rooms in the house. Calder Hart had been kind enough to tell her she could use the house as freely as if it were her own home. Of course, she would never do such a thing-she had warned her children not to touch anything, afraid they might break some priceless treasure. His butler, Alfred, had shown her to an entire wing that was exclusively for her and the children. He had even wanted to give each child his own room! Those instructions had been given by Mr. Hart, who clearly did not know much about children. Last night all of the children, except for Joel, had crawled into her huge, canopied bed, frightened by the vast s.p.a.ces, the dark, the house. If only, she thought, she could give her children an education. Not the few years of learning that Joel had had, but an education that might enable them to find the kind of employment that would allow them to live as gentlemen. Maggie thought of Evan Cahill now. Her sons were never going to be a gentleman like him. "Mama!" Lizzie cried, running into the room, Joel following at a leisurely pace. Lizzie had a red smear on her face. Maggie hurried to her, dismayed by the untidiness. "Joel! What has she been eating? Why didn't you clean her face? What if someone saw her looking like some farmer's brat?" She scooped her little daughter up, using a kerchief she kept in her bodice to clean what was jam from the corners of Lizzie's mouth and chin. "I got to go, I gotta meet Miz Cahill. Cook gave her these special cookies," Joel explained with a grin. "Ma, I never had such good food in my life! Not even at Miz Cahill's!" "Don't get used to it," Maggie said too sharply as she set Lizzie down. The child ran, toddling, over to her brothers, and then tried to climb onto the sofa but failed. Joel had ambled over behind her and set her on it, next to Paddy. He glanced at Maggie, folding his thin arms over his chest. "I know where we live," he said, understanding her fears exactly. But then, he was just like his father, and not only in looks. He was clever and so perceptive that, at times, it dismayed her. She almost smiled and told him that. Instead, she said, "I know that you do. But look at your brothers. In a few days, they won't even remember our home. They'll think this is their home. And then what will happen when we do go back?" Joel shrugged. "It won't take 'em long to be themselves again." Maggie sank down in a chair. This wasn't right. Her children were in for a terrible letdown and they were her life. Even she, herself, as hardworking and G.o.d-loving as she was, could get used to this kind of home. And Evan Cahill's image came so strongly to mind that her heart ached. Don't be a fool, Maggie girl. Maggie froze, because she had just heard her husband's voice as clearly as if he were still alive. Tears came to her eyes. Once, she had conversed with him as freely and frequently as if he were still alive. He had been her best friend, a childhood sweetheart, and she had thought, when he died, that she would miss him forever. He had been gone for a few years, but it was only recently, in the past few months, that their conversations had eased and then ceased. Hearing his warning so clearly now, as if he stood there in the room, handsome and smiling, made her heart flutter wildly. If only he were here. How she needed his advice. Maggie girl, I am here, I will always be here. And I know you know it, deep in your heart. Evan Cahill's dark, dashing, blue-eyed image was now engraved on her mind. Her heart fluttered again, but differently, almost madly, and she closed her eyes in despair. She had been thinking of him so often, and not just because of the other day. For several months now, he had been a constant source of her dreams, an unwanted shadow in her days. How can you let your heart go there? Maggie, I told you this before. He is not for you!

"I know," Maggie whispered aloud, miserably. "Ma? Don't be sad," Joel said urgently. "It's only fer a few days and when we get home, I'llmake sure the boys eat as good as they do here." Maggie jerked and met Joel's anxious eyes. She clasped his shoulders. He had far toomuch responsibility for one so young. "What would I do without you?" she whispered. "Andhave I ever told you that you are just like your father?" He smiled, but with worry. "Only a hundred times." Maggie caressed his thick black hair and then realized that someone had come to stand inthe doorway. She started and met her host's dark gaze. "Mr. Hart, sir," she cried, smiling.Did he think he was interrupting them? "Do come in," she said, and then she flushed. "Imean, it is your home." Hart smiled a little as he accepted her invitation, strolling inside. He clasped Joel's back,who beamed. "I did not want to interrupt," he said, glancing at the three children on his sofa. Maggie prayed no one had jam or anything else on their hands. "Children, get down! We willgo to our rooms," she said, wringing her hands. "Mrs. Kennedy, please, do not send them out on my account," Hart said. Maggie flinched and met his gaze. He seemed very grim, she thought, and very tired. Therewas no smile on his face, not even a trace, or anything at all in his eyes. "Alfred said wecould use a room. I thought this room appropriate, as it isn't as large as the others in thehouse. But-" "Please, Mrs. Kennedy, use any salon you desire. I am on my way out and I merely wished toinquire if all of your needs are being met." She nodded, barely able to believe how kind he was-how kind everyone was. There wereother guests in the house, Grace and Rathe Bragg, a brother, a nephew. Everyone waspleasant and friendly, as if she was a real guest and a real lady, herself. Maggie! Don't go foolin' yourself. You're not gently bred and you never will be! "We are fine. Thank you so much for your hospitality. I must thank Francesca again," shesaid breathlessly. His expression hardened and he faced Joel. "Do you know where Miss Cahill is today?" heasked. "I have sent a note, but she is already out for the day." Joel smiled eagerly at him. "Yes, sir! We got plans, we do. She had personal matters withher sister, Mr. Hart, and then we got to call on Mrs. Bragg, as she promised to do so. Afterthat, she got to interview Sullivan's flatmate, the one she didn't speak to. An' if there's stillsome time, she said she wants to visit some lord who's stayin' at the Holland House." Hart's eyebrows rose. He seemed reluctantly amused. "And she thinks to do all that in oneday, does she?" "Yes, sir, she does. Miz Cahill is determined, ain't she?" He grinned proudly. Hart tousled his hair. "Can you give her a message from me?" Joel nodded eagerly. "Tell her I would enjoy taking her to supper tonight." "Yes, sir!" Joel replied. Alfred paused in the doorway. "Mrs. Kennedy? You have a caller," he said. Maggie was startled. How could she have a caller? And then Evan Cahill walked into theroom. Her heart raced wildly and she felt herself flush. Evan bowed. Impeccably attired in a finedark suit, he looked disheveled, nonetheless. "Mrs. Kennedy, good day." She mumbled a greeting in reply, unable to take her eyes away. He was the most dashinggentleman she had ever laid her eyes upon, and she knew for a fact he was also thekindest. "I think I will excuse myself," Hart said, some humor in his tone. He and Evan exchangedfriendly words and he strode out. Maggie knew her cheeks were red. How had it gotten so warm in the room? She tugged atthe collar of her shirtwaist.

Evan did not see as he knelt now, embracing the two younger boys and Lizzie, who insistedon being hauled up in his arms. Mathew started to tell him that he was teaching Paddy hisletters, while Paddy tried to tell him that he had eaten eggs and sausages and flapjacks forbreakfast, all at once, with real sugar syrup, and milk! "Is that all?" Evan teased, still holdingLizzie in his arms. She was pulling on the curls of his dark hair, but he did not seem to mind."And does your belly ache?" "No." Paddy grinned. He rubbed his stomach, sticking it out. "It feels good!" "Cookie," Lizzie beamed. "Cookie!" Evan looked her in the eye. "I'm afraid I came empty-handed today-almost." He finallylooked directly at Maggie and her heart sped. "Joel," he said, not looking away. "There's ashopping bag in the front hall. I think there are some items in the bag that might be ofinterest to the children." Still staring at Maggie, not smiling at all, he slowly set Lizzie down. And suddenly all the children were gone, Joel taking Lizzie out by the hand. Silence filled theroom. Maggie could not find a single breath of air. She so wanted to fan herself, but would notdare. Why was he staring? Why did he look so grim? "Mr. Cahill?" she whispered nervously. "Evan. I thought we agreed at supper the other night that it is Evan...Maggie." She bit her lip. Maggie girl, don't! "Yes," she somehow managed to say. He suddenly sighed, the sound reluctant and painful, and he turned to the window that wasbehind him, staring at it. Oh dear, something was wrong. Somehow she had come to stand behind him; somehow,she was touching his hand. He started, whirling, and they stood facing one another, just inches apart. She knew she must leap back and away, but her feet refused to obey. Instead, her heartpounded desperately with the insane desire to move forward into his arms, just this once.She whispered, "What is it? Why do you look...so sad?" Suddenly he lifted his hand. Disbelief filled her and something incredulous-hope. He cupped her cheek. "You are so sweet," he said roughly. His simple touch affected her as no caress had in years. She wanted to throw her bodyagainst his, press her mouth to his, and cling hard, for all eternity. But something was terriblywrong. He had helped her so many times-he had been a G.o.dsend for her children-shehad to help him now. She pulled away. "Something is wrong," she said quietly. "How can Ihelp?" His face collapsed. He turned away, looking defeated. Maggie was filled with alarm. "Evan? What has happened?" He did not face her, so she went around him, standing in front of him, taking his hand. "Issomeone ill? Has someone died?" she asked in fear. "No." His mouth barely moved as he spoke. Then, flushing, he continued. "The countess ispregnant." Maggie gasped. And when his words penetrated through her shock, a knife pierced throughher heart. "Oh." "Yes, oh," he said grimly. Now she felt her cheeks heat. She dropped his hand. I told you, Maggie girl, I told you he isnot for you! But you didn't listen, did you? No, she hadn't listened, not to her own conscience, her own common sense. "But you loveher," she heard herself say. "I mean, the child is yours." It was a question and she knew hercheeks flamed. He looked into her eyes. "The child is mine." She realized she wanted to weep. "This is wonderful, then, this is cause to celebrate-" "I don't love her." She froze. He stared at her in agony, and then he turned and walked across the room.

She was breathing hard. The beautiful countess, who was so perfect for him, was having hischild. And he did not love her...not that it mattered. Suddenly she chased after him. "Surelyyou have feelings for her! Surely you must-she is so beautiful, so elegant, such a lady!" Heturned to her, appearing disbelieving. She couldn't stop. "You are so kind and good with mychildren. I see how much you care. Why, you will make a wonderful father. This is joyousnews, it is!" "I don't love her," he said intensely. She could only stare. She felt tears forming in her eyes. He isn't saying that he loves you,Maggie. Don't be a fool! You are an Irish farmer'

s daughter and he is a gentleman. And she found every single ounce of strength she had. "The child is yours. You are going tobring a beautiful life into this world-a life you are responsible for." "Yes, of course, I know that," he said. But he was staring now so directly, so boldly, that herknees became weak. Why was he looking at her that