Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (10 page)

Tom froze.

Eliza shrank against the wall.

Tom turned to his wife. “You went to the police?” His tone was disbelieving—and furious.

She nodded, just barely, cringing even more.

“It is hardly unusual to go to the police when a relative is missing,” Bragg said.

“She ain’t missing, an’ my wife’s a fool! She went to her aunt’s, she did, so she could work uptown in some fancy house for some fancy lady.” He looked at his wife again, with murder in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Eliza whispered to Tom. “I made a mistake.” She faced Bragg. “I made a mistake, sir. I truly did.”

Francesca knew that something was terribly wrong. Tom was a drunken lout; his wife was terrified of him, and Francesca’s every instinct told her that Deborah Smith had not gone uptown to work as a lady’s maid. “And where does her aunt live, Mr. Smith?” she asked, careful to appear neutral.

“Ain’t none of your damned business,” Tom sneered.

“She lives on Twenty-second Street, between First and Second Avenue,” Eliza whispered desperately.

Tom moved so quickly that it was impossible to stop him. “Stupid bitch!” he roared, striking his wife across the face.

The slap was resounding. Eliza crumbled against the wall and Francesca caught her before she could fall to the floor. Francesca felt how fragile she was. Her entire body was shaking. The woman turned to meet her gaze. Blood trickled from her nose. And her eyes spoke as loudly as if she had uttered the words:
Please help
.

Bragg struck as quickly. Before Tom could react, his
neck was in a chokehold and he was against an opposite wall. “Apparently no one has ever told you that men do not strike ladies,” he said.

Tom managed, his eyes bulging, “She ain’t a lady, asshole, and we both know it.”

Bragg increased his hold. “You are under arrest,” he said.

Tom tried to speak and began choking.

Eliza cried out, in protest.

Bragg released Tom, who was quite larger than he, and threw him to the floor. He landed on his hands and knees—Bragg stepped on his lower back, hard. Tom coughed. “You can’t arrest me. I did nothing wrong!”

“Assault is a felony, my man, and so is battery.”

Tom began cursing so profusely and graphically that Francesca felt her cheeks turn red. She looked at Eliza. “Let’s get some ice on that nose.”

“It’s not broken,” Eliza whispered, beginning to cry, but without a sound. “I’m fine, really.” She held her fist to her nose to stop the bleeding.

“Let me get some ice,” Francesca said kindly. She could not imagine how this woman survived, living with such a man.

“No,” Eliza said sharply, surprising Francesca. Then Eliza looked pleadingly at Bragg. “He didn’t hurt me, sir. He really didn’t. Please. Don’t arrest him. He’s a good man, he is. It’s just the whiskey. Please.”

Francesca closed her eyes, anguished. She understood all too well what was happening. Bragg could easily arrest Tom Smith, but for how long? And when he came home, she felt certain Tom would take his arrest out on his wife.

Bragg looked from Eliza to Francesca. She silently urged him to agree. Appearing very grim, he released his foot from Tom’s back. The man moaned and made no move to get up.

Bragg knelt. “If you strike your wife again, I am locking you up in the Tombs and throwing away the key. Did you hear me?” he said very softly.

Tom nodded.

Bragg straightened. “We are paying a visit to Deborah Smith’s aunt. Is she your sister?” he asked Eliza.

Eliza nodded, pale and fearful.

“What’s her name?”

Eliza didn’t speak.

Tom heaved himself to his feet. He looked at Bragg with hatred.

Bragg calmly returned the look. “The aunt’s name?”

“Charlotte Favianno.” It was Tom who spoke or, rather, spat. “She married a wop, she did.”

“Thank you,” Bragg said. He leaned close. “If Deborah isn’t there, you will be hauled downtown in a paddy wagon. Lying to the police is a crime. It is officially called obstruction of justice.”

Tom sneered but didn’t speak.

“Francesca?”

Francesca faced Eliza, who looked terrified now. Francesca did not want to leave her alone with her husband, but was there any choice? An idea occurred to her. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“I can’t,” Eliza breathed.

Francesca pressed several cards into her hand—in case Tom took one of them. “Call on me if you need me, Mrs. Smith. Please. I want to help.”

Eliza hesitated, glanced worriedly at Tom, and said, “You are so kind.”

Bragg and Francesca left.

And one hour later they learned that not only wasn’t Deborah at her aunt’s, but Charlotte Favianno hadn’t seen her niece or sister in at least ten years.

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
28, 1902—2:30
P.M
.

F
RANCESCA THANKED HER CABBIE
, and as the hansom rolled away, she turned to face Number 11 Madison Square. A dozen handsome coaches were lined up along the block in front of Bragg’s town home, many of them double-parked. Liveried drivers stood on the sidewalk in clusters of two and three, chatting amiably while awaiting their mistresses. Traffic passing around Madison Park was therefore congested, resulting in the frequent blaring of horns and even a few curses. Francesca knew there would be no traffic summonses today. Not when the wife of the police commissioner was having a luncheon.

Francesca trembled, foolishly afraid to go up to his dark green door and use the knocker. And her fear had nothing to do with being late.

How could a portion of her heart remain exclusively Bragg’s? She was about to marry Calder Hart, who had been the most eligible and seductive bachelor in the city—a
man she was dangerously, overwhelmingly attracted to. She was also genuinely fond of him—more than fond, in truth. She knew she anticipated the next time he walked through the door of the same room she was in, just as she knew she eagerly awaited his embrace, his kisses, his touch. He fascinated her, he confused her, and he infused her with lust. And just about every single lady in the city would give her right hand to be in Francesca’s shoes.

But she and Bragg had just parted company thirty minutes ago after their brief interview with Deborah Smith’s aunt. Neither one of them had been very surprised by Charlotte Favianno’s admission, or the fact that Tom Smith had lied. As always, they had been thinking along the exact same lines.

Bragg had gone back to headquarters to issue a warrant for Smith’s arrest while she had gone uptown to attend his wife’s luncheon.

Francesca closed her eyes briefly. Working so closely with Bragg again had been more than enjoyable—it had been familiar, comfortable, reassuring, and even right. They made, as always, the perfect investigative team. But this past morning had proven even more—it had reminded her that there was no one she admired and respected more than Rick Bragg. He put the welfare of others and the pursuit of justice first—always. He was, in fact, a real-life hero.

Francesca knew it was over with Rick Bragg; her every instinct told her that—she was certain Bragg would never divorce his wife. But the terrible truth was it would never really be over, not as long as he continued to be the man that he was. A very strong bond remained between them and she had become acutely aware of it while working with him that morning. That man would always have a piece of her heart and it was as simple as that.

The challenge was in their remaining real friends—given that he had Leigh Anne and she was now marrying Calder Hart.

She could not linger on the sidewalk—several of the drivers were eyeing her with curiosity now. She inhaled for
courage and strode determinedly to the front door. Peter, Bragg’s man, answered her knock immediately. He was huge, six-foot-four, with blue eyes and blond hair. Francesca knew from firsthand experience that he was a jack-of-all-trades; at various times he had been Bragg’s butler, his valet, his household manager, his driver, and even his bodyguard. And until her mother had hired Mrs. Flowers to take care of the girls, he had also been their nanny.

If he was surprised to see her, he gave no sign. Impassive, he inclined his head and stepped aside so she could enter. Ahead, on Francesca’s right, was the dining room. But no sounds emitted from it and she knew it was too small to host a luncheon for thirty ladies. Still, the sounds of animated conversation and laughter drifted to her. “They are in the salon?” she asked nervously.

He nodded. “And his study,” he said. “Mrs. Bragg has made a buffet.”

She winced, handing him her navy blue coat, which remained a mud-splotched mess. Then she wished she had thought to wear a dress that day—not that she had any pleasant day dresses. As always, Francesca wore a simple navy blue skirt and a white shirtwaist. It was her daytime uniform, so to speak. She also wore Hart’s ring as she had promised she would.

She twisted it nervously. And she had to face the fact that it always bothered her to see Leigh Anne.

“Follow me,” he said.

She gripped his arm impulsively. “Are the girls upstairs? I would so love to see them for a moment, first.”

His eyes flickered. “Yes. Shall I show you up?”

She flushed, as he knew she did know the way. “I’m fine, thank you, Peter.” She quickly started up the narrow staircase that was before her in the front hall.

His next words made her pause. “It is good to have you back, Miss Cahill.”

Surprised by his declaration, she turned and smiled, but felt how anxious her expression must remain. “It is good
to
be
back,” she said, but in truth, she doubted the veracity of her own words now.

He was about to leave. Francesca could not help herself. “Peter?”

He hesitated.

“How are the girls? I mean, how have they fared with Mrs. Bragg in residence?” She began to blush. The question was highly inappropriate.

“They adore her,” he said.

Francesca had to grip the smooth wood banister to keep from falling. “What?” Then she caught herself. “How wonderful,” she said, feeling ill.

She turned and hurried up the stairs, almost devastated. But Peter was a man of few or no words. She had learned that if he did bother to speak, his every word was an honest one.

The girls adored Leigh Anne
. She should be thrilled—she wanted to be thrilled—but she was upset, terribly so. Leigh Anne was beyond gorgeous—Bragg clearly thought so, never mind his protestations that he despised her—and she was holding a charitable luncheon, the girls adored her, and damn it all, she would make such a perfect senator’s wife.

You have Calder Hart now
, she told herself grimly. And her heart tightened as his image came to mind.

She did, and if anything, she felt even firmer in her resolve to go through with the engagement and marriage, even if their attraction was based on lust and not love. But that did not make being in Leigh Anne’s house now any easier.

She had reached the top of the stairs. The children’s room was on her right, but she turned to her left. The door there was ajar. It was the master bedroom and Francesca knew it.

It was wrong, but extreme curiosity propelled her now and there was simply no denying what she must do. She opened the door and stepped inside.

Francesca inhaled, hard. Leigh Anne had changed the
simple and stark decor. The room was painted a rich golden hue, gold-and-red-striped brocade drapes hung from the window, the bed was covered with red paisley bedding, and a gold Chinese rug with a floral design was underfoot. She trembled wildly. She could even smell Leigh Anne’s perfume. It enveloped her, heady, sensual, and strong.

Her glance wandered to the dressing room, which had no door. A red Oriental rug was there, along with a red velvet stool. The vanity remained the original one, the wood old and scarred, but Francesca gazed upon perfume bottles, a pretty silver box she suspected contained powder, and several jars of cheek and lip rouge. Her gaze caught something else.

A long scrap of nude-colored silk was hanging on a peg beside the vanity.

Don’t
, she told herself.

She grimaced and hurried forward and lifted up the garment. It was a transparent nightgown, and the bodice was nothing but black lace.

Francesca dropped the sensuous and clearly revealing gown as if it had burned her hand, which it had not. But it did seem to burn her heart.

Upset, she hurried from the bedroom, and as she crossed the short hall, she told herself that she had gotten what she deserved for snooping so unconscionably. His private life with his wife was just that, private, and none of her affair.

“Frack!”

Francesca blinked at the familiar little screech, and then saw a blond blur racing toward her just before Dot hugged her around her knees, screaming, “Frack! Frack!”

It was simply too much—Francesca felt tears rising, fast and hard, as she bent to embrace and lift up the two-year-old. “Hello, darling,” she murmured, hugging her hard.

Dot beamed at her, an angelic child with a head of blond curls and big blue eyes.

Francesca smiled back, wishing she had a free hand so she could wipe away all traces of the tears trickling down her face. “I missed you, baby girl,” she whispered.

“Dot hap,” Dot said, dimpling with laughter. “Hap hap!”

“That means she’s happy.”

Francesca looked past Dot and saw Katie, dark and unsmiling, standing in the doorway of the children’s room, her skinny arms hugging her chest tightly. “Katie, how are you?” Francesca cried eagerly.

Katie simply stared accusingly at her, then turned and disappeared back into the children’s bedroom.

Francesca’s heart lurched. Katie remained sullen and hostile, at least with her, and she had a very good idea why. “Hello, Mrs. Flowers,” she said to the tall, bespectacled woman who had come out of the room. As she spoke, she was aware of Dot playing with her hair. Her weight had become uncomfortable, so Francesca shifted her in her arms, ignoring Dot’s grip on her hair. She was expecting a friendly reply to her greeting but not the one that she received. For Mrs. Flowers never spoke—as she did not have the chance.