She nodded. "That is fine. I think they would like to be reassured by you, but I cannot face my mother right now."

He gave her an odd look. "Operator, please connect me to Andrew Cahill's home." He laid his hand over the mouthpiece. "Do you wish to speak to your father?"

"Not quite yet. Can you tell them I am fine, that there was some trouble, and I have fallen asleep in your guest room?" she tried.

"Francesca," he objected.

"I am going downtown with you. I have hours to come up with a plausible reason for having missed my own wedding," she said rather defensively.

He sighed. "Hello, Andrew. I have very good news. I am with Francesca, who has suffered a very trying day.... I am afraid she was lured away from your house deliberately, but she is now fine.... Yes, someone wished to interfere with the wedding.... She has fallen asleep on my sofa.... Yes...I will personally get her home in the next few hours. Good night." He hung up, looking at her.

"I have made you a partner in crime. I am sorry."

"Think nothing of it." Then he softened. "It is hardly the first time, is it? I do not mind telling a white lie for you-and sometimes I enjoy being a partner in crime with you."

She bit her lip, almost thrilling. "It is partly the truth."

He said bluntly, "Have you seen Calder yet?"

She flushed, filled with tension instantly. "Yes. Are you ready to go downtown?"

His gaze was as piercing as a hawk's. She waited, refusing to discuss Hart now. He finally nodded at the door. She started out of the study and he followed, calling for Joel. She said, "Who do you think would want me to miss my wed ding?"

Joel came downstairs, apparently having been visiting with the two girls. As they left the house, Joel leading the way, Bragg said, "Hart has enemies, Francesca-hundreds of them, in fact. We agreed two months ago that trying to investigate a list of his enemies was impossible."

"So this thief might want to strike at Calder, not me." They approached the driveway behind the carriage house where Bragg's Daimler was parked.

"It would hardly surprise me." Anger laced his tone. Giving her a dark look, he went to the motorcar and began cranking the engine.

She tensed, watching him. "You can't blame Hart for what happened today-just as you cannot blame yourself. I have made enemies, as well."

"Yes, you have, and Hart and I have actually considered the possibility that someone has decided to seek vengeance against you by stealing the portrait." The engine roared to life and he straightened. He went around to the passenger side and opened her door. Francesca waited for Joel to scramble into the tiny backseat before she got in. As he closed the door, he said, "We have discussed this investigation several times, Francesca."

Her mind raced as he went around to his side of the car and got in. Hart had never mentioned sitting down with Rick to discuss the stolen portrait. "Bragg, I have already made a mental list of the people who might wish for revenge against me. Gordino, Bill Randall, Mary and Henrietta Randall, and Solange Marceaux are the only culprits I can truly think of."

He had put the car in Reverse. He paused and looked at her. She wasn't quite certain what that look meant. "Gordino was incarcerated for running a con in early April. He won't be out on the street till August."

Gordino was a vicious thug whom she had run into several times during her first investigation. "Good. He isn't smart enough to have managed this theft, anyway."

Bragg smiled slightly, now backing the Daimler slowly out of the driveway and onto the still-deserted street. He shifted into Drive. "I agree."

She thought then about Bill Randall-Hart's half brother. They did not really know each other, but they hated one another. Bill had not been able to abide the discovery that his father had sired a son out of wedlock. Hart despised his half sibling as well-a natural enough response, she supposed, to his father's and brother's rejection of him. But there was more to Bill's antipathy. She shivered. "Bill Randall certainly hates me for discovering that his sister murdered their father." She added grimly, "He also hates Hart."

"Bill turned state's evidence on his sister, Francesca."

She already knew that. Bragg was now cruising down Twenty-third Street toward Broadway, where hansoms, drays and an electric trolley were visible. Mary Randall had confessed to murdering Paul Randall, but only after Francesca had nearly exposed her crime. Bill had abducted Francesca to prevent her from going to the police with the facts of the case. Both brother and sister were very dangerous.

Bragg said, "Bill Randall got off scot-free in exchange for his testimony. Mary is at Bellevue. Her lawyers successfully pleaded an insanity defense. She will be locked up for many, many years. However, Bill has an alibi for Saturday night-he was in his dormitory room at the university with both his roommates-and your portrait was taken on Sunday afternoon. It is virtually impossible that he could have arrived in the city the next morning in order to steal the painting. The earliest train from Philadelphia arrived at noon."

Bill was instantly taken off Francesca's list of suspects. No one could arrive at Grand Central Station at noon and make it to the Channing home uptown to steal the painting in less than an hour. Francesca was sorely disappointed. As Bragg turned left onto Fifth Avenue, she asked, "And Henrietta Randall?"

"Their mother was sentenced to one year for her attempt to cover up her daughter's crimes. She remains imprisoned on Blackwell's Island."

"Well, that rules the Randalls out."

"I believe so. However, Solange Marceaux vanished into thin air when we raided her brothel during the investigation into Murphy's child-prostitution ring."

She hadn't thought about the icy blonde madam in months. Francesca had briefly posed as a prostitute in order to get into her establishment. Solange had been furious with the deception-she had even ordered Francesca killed. "She still hasn't been found?" Her nape tingled now. Solange Marceaux was a strong, clever and dangerous woman.

"I'm afraid not," Bragg said, carefully passing the electric trolley, which was devoid of passengers at that hour. The conductor waved at them. "We will find her eventually. I am sure she has set up another brothel somewhere in the city."

Francesca realized they were passing Fourteenth Street, a major crosstown thoroughfare. They would be at the gallery within moments. "Solange was vicious and vengeful, Bragg. She is a truly formidable opponent. But if she is back in business, I cannot imagine her jeopardizing her profits and her liberty by seeking petty revenge against me."

"And just how petty is such revenge? If that portrait is publicly displayed, you will never be welcome in polite society again."

He was right. She glanced at him, trembling. His expression was odd.

"You have given me several long looks tonight. Is something wrong?"

He hesitated, returning his gaze to the street. "You have been calling me Bragg all evening. You haven't called me that since my reconciliation with Leigh Anne."

Her heart seemed to erupt in her chest. She wasn't sure what to say and she thought of Hart, his words cruelly echoing. It is over.

As if reading her mind, he said, "Are you going to tell me what happened with Hart tonight?" His tone was terse.

They were already at Eighth Street. Washington Square and Waverly Place were one block down. She saw the shiny police wagons ahead, illuminated by the city's gas lamps, with their bright brass-plated sides and wheels. Three of them were lined up on the street between the park and the gallery. A number of roundsmen were milling around. A slight crowd had gathered, with several children running about, as if it were a carnival. She glanced at Bragg.

He sighed, making a right on to Waverly Place and pulling up behind one of the police wagons. A tall, familiar figure detached itself from the group of policemen. Francesca stiffened in dread.

Bragg let the motor idle as Chief Farr approached. When he stepped into the light spilling from one of the cast-iron streetlamps, Francesca saw that he was smiling. He held a small lantern in one hand.

Farr despised her. And he was not trustworthy-Bragg knew that for a fact. Had he seen her portrait? If he had, she was finished.

"Hello, C'mish. Miz Cahill." He nodded politely at them. "Sorry about the wedding," he added with a half smile, and she knew he wasn't sorry at all.

Her heart was pounding with explosive force. "Thank you. I am sure we will tie the knot another day."

"Sure." He did not sound as if he thought so. He opened her door for her. She got out rigidly, her gaze slamming to the gallery. It was cast in blackness, but she could see wooden barricades on the sidewalk, preventing anyone from going down the steps to the gallery's front door.

Then she took a quick look at the crowd. Thank God the city's carnivorous press corps wasn't present.

Had Farr seen the portrait? she wondered once more.

She glanced at Bragg as he came around the front of the motorcar, but his gaze was on the gallery. He said sharply, "Is that door open?"

"I'm afraid so," Farr drawled. "It was open when we got here, C'mish."

Francesca started running, her horror escalating. When she reached the barricade she saw that the front door of the gallery was entirely open. She cried out. Anyone could have walked inside!

"Did you go inside?" Bragg demanded of Farr from be hind her.

Francesca did not wait for his answer. She shoved past the barricade and started down the steps, stumbling.

"Didn't have a choice. Clearly, someone broke in. The glass is all busted up."

She realized that the glass on the front door was broken, which made no sense-unless someone had thought to reach in from the outside to unlock the front door. But the front door hadn't been locked when she had left.

"Hand me the lantern and everyone stand back," Bragg ordered. As she pushed open the front door, she felt him behind her. He held up the lantern and light illuminated the gallery.

She froze.

The wall where the portrait had been hanging was empty.

CHAPTER SIX.

Saturday, June 28, 1902

Midnight

FRANCESCA SAT IN the passenger seat of Bragg's car as it idled on Fifth Avenue, just outside the open gates of the driveway leading to her family's home. She was finally, truly, exhausted.

Chief Farr had explained that when he had arrived at the gallery with a police detail, the front door had been open-he hadn't touched it. The gallery had been in darkness. He had taken a lantern and gone inside with two men, in case a burglar was present. The gallery had been empty. But it had instantly been obvious that a painting had been ripped from the wall it had been nailed to. Farr had been careful that he and his men hadn't touched anything.

Farr had ordered a search of the premises, the surrounding grounds, and he had sent several officers to speak to the neighbors. No one, according to the chief, had seen or heard anything unusual.

Bragg was putting Inspector Newman on this case. Tomorrow morning Newman and Heinreich would go over the gallery with a fine-tooth comb, looking for clues. They had already dropped Joel at his mother's flat on Tenth Street and Avenue A, and tomorrow he would canvass that neighborhood.

"Are you all right?"

Francesca started at the soft sound of Bragg's voice. She glanced at him. "How can I be all right? Our thief has the portrait again."

"We do not know that it is the same thief," he said quietly.

"No, we do not. But it is probable that it is the same person." She truly doubted some passerby had walked into the gallery and taken her portrait. She stared ahead, through the open iron gates, at her house. Only a few lights were on downstairs.

"Everyone is probably asleep, but that isn't what is bothering you, is it?"

Hart's cold image came to mind. Her reputation remained in dire jeopardy and the man she loved had turned his back on her. Was he even at home? "I was afraid, briefly, that the chief had seen my portrait."

"I know. I was afraid of the same thing. Are we ever going to discuss what is really amiss here?"

She blinked back sudden tears. "I don't know if I should-or if I can."

She tried to stare straight ahead at the limestone mansion. Her hands were on her lap, and suddenly, she felt his large, strong hand covering hers. She stiffened, the heartbreak acute. How could this be happening?

"I am so sorry, Francesca," Bragg said intensely. "I know he was a bastard when you went to see him."

She somehow nodded, feeling all her resolve crumbling.

"And I apologize for prying into a very private matter. It is just...that I care."

She slowly looked at him. "I know you do.... He was horrid, absolutely horrid. He was so cruel...."

He reached for her. She wasn't sure how it happened, but she laid her face on his broad chest, his arms going around her, and allowed herself a moment to weep. She felt him tense and she told herself that she must stop this nonsense. She fought and managed to turn the tears off. "Do you think he will ever forgive me?"

His hand moved to the nape of her neck beneath her hair, which remained in a haphazard knot. "He is not a forgiving man. Never mind that there is nothing to forgive."

Being in Bragg's arms felt perfectly safe. But she was also reminded of the romantic times they had shared; she was reminded that he was a handsome and virile man. She loved Hart acutely. Francesca pulled away and he let her go. "I am sorry for being a simpering, self-indulgent and silly woman."

"You are none of those things. You are strong and brave, and Hart is a goddamn fool."

She wiped her eyes and gazed at him. "He said it was over. He told me he does not care about what happened today. He told me that he never loved me."

Bragg's eyes widened in shock. "My God! He has no shame! Damn it, he is rotten and selfish to the core, to be so unfeeling-to only care about his own feelings!"

Just then, she did not feel like defending him. "If he doesn't love me-if he has never loved me-then it is over and there is nothing I can do about it."

Bragg's gaze was dark and hard. Francesca expected him to insist that Hart did love her, but he did not. He finally said, "I hate seeing you hurt like this. Francesca, I know you will not believe me, but I also know that you trust me. You will be fine. Maybe not tomorrow or even the day after, but you will get through this."

He was insinuating that she would get over Hart. She turned away. She loved Calder, but if her love was not returned, then she had been in love with an illusion-and she wanted that illusion back. "I had better go in. It is late and we have so much to do tomorrow."

"Yes." He put the motorcar in Drive and it inched forward. "Where will you start your investigation?"

She smiled wanly. "Joel will canvass the neighborhood downtown. He might turn up some interesting witnesses to last night's affair. I think I will start at the very beginning and pay a call on Sarah."

"Perhaps that's a good idea. Why don't you stop by police headquarters when you are done with her, let me know what you have discovered, and we can plan the next step together."

She glanced at him. The police were already involved, and she knew he would stay on top of the investigation in order to protect her. Maybe Newman and Heinreich would have uncovered a new clue by tomorrow. "All right." They had reached the end of the driveway and the wide stone staircase leading to the front door. Francesca hesitated. "Thank you for everything, Rick."

His gaze was sharp. "You don't have to thank me for anything," he said firmly.

She smiled and said good-night and got out of the automobile, hurrying up the steps. She was aware that he waited for her to get safely inside before driving away; in previous investigations she had been accosted both in her driveway and outside her own front door. As she let herself in, she finally heard the car leave.