Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (23 page)

Grace smiled back. “I know you will do the right thing.”

Francesca could not speak. If she did the right thing, she was going to have to break if off with Calder Hart.

It was a beautiful spring day, but her heart was so heavy that the skies seemed gray, not cornflower blue. Leigh Anne walked slowly down Broadway, so immersed in her thoughts that she had forgotten to open her umbrella. She was so fair that she burned easily.

Images of last night came to mind, hot and torrid. But along with the tingle of need there was hurt and despair. He was punishing her, she knew, by refusing to give her a chance to have their child.

If only she could hate him. When she had returned after their long separation, she hadn’t known what she would really feel. The anger had faded long ago, leaving an odd wistfulness, a strange nostalgia, in its stead. Those old-fashioned dreams of true love, children, a happy home and handsome husband seemed quaint and as if they had belonged to another woman. Leigh Anne couldn’t even identify with the spoiled and selfish child who had walked out on her husband that long ago and oh-so-fateful day.

She paused before a window filled with beautiful hats and bonnets, not seeing a single one. Tears rapidly filled her eyes.

She fought them, but she knew that the day that loomed ahead was a long one and this was her single chance to cry, and she quickly gave up. She wept, silently.

For how much longer could she go on this way? Being ignored by day, being ravaged by night? Yet even if she could leave him again, she could never leave the girls. She had been hoping to bring up the subject of their adoption with him, but every time they came face-to-face, she changed her mind, afraid of his reaction, knowing what it
would be. He would accuse her of using the girls to reach him. He had become such a bastard, she thought, and that was the real crux of the matter. Once he had loved her, now he hated her, and it didn’t seem as if there would ever be any going back, no matter how hard she tried to be a good wife.

She wiped her eyes. At least they had the nights. They would always have the raging, insatiable desire. Today it felt like a curse.

What should she do?

What
could
she do?

She had come back because Bartolla had told her he was in love with another woman. She had left him four years ago certain he would never give his heart to anyone else—she had been so confident, so sure of it. When she had received the countess’s letter, she hadn’t really believed Bartolla’s words. Yet when she had met Rick and Francesca at the train, when she had seen Francesca for that very first time, she had understood and she had been terrified.

He worshiped the other woman because she was selfless, noble, and good. He had set her on a pedestal, and Leigh Anne simply could not compete. Nor did she wish to do so—it felt far below her dignity. Besides, she also admired and respected Francesca Cahill. In fact, had the circumstances been different, Leigh Anne suspected they might have become friends.

Leigh Anne set her unopened parasol down and fumbled in her bag for a tissue. Feeling sorry for herself was utter idiocy. It solved nothing. The bottom line was, she had her marriage back and she wasn’t giving it up. She wasn’t giving Rick up—and that was that.

She needed to be strong.

Unfortunately, just then it felt as if the last reserves of her strength were waning dangerously low. For how much longer could she last? Where would she find the strength to renew herself?

Then she thought about Katie and Dot and warmed. The girls needed her. He might not need her outside of the dark
hours of the night, but the children needed her—just as she needed them.

She reached for her parasol, opened it, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. And someone screamed.

“Look out!” a man shouted at her.

And she heard the hooves on the cobblestones, dangerously close; she heard the splintering of wood, the shrieking of carriage wheels, the grating of pressure brakes. And the snorting. . . .

Leigh Anne turned.

The coach was out of control. The horses were on the sidewalk, galloping directly toward her. The frightened driver was a blur. He screamed at her. Leigh Anne felt sheer terror then, and as she stared into the whites of the horse’s eyes she knew the end was near.

She was going to die.

Leigh Anne somehow moved. Screaming, she leaped aside, but too late.

Iron-shod hooves caught her left leg and she went down.

Time stopped.

She knew she had to roll aside, but the pain was blinding, paralyzing, and she could see more hooves coming, directly at her, and the single, terrifying wheel . . . .

Sobbing, Leigh Anne tried to pull herself out of the way.

She failed.

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
29, 1902—3:00
P.M
.

B
RAGG WAS WAITING FOR
her on the street in front of the brown building with the blue shutters where they hoped the Coopers currently lived. They had made plans to meet before her luncheon with Grace. He smiled slightly as she approached. “How was your lunch?”

Francesca tried not to wince. “I had a fabulous piece of cod,” she said. It was a lie. She’d barely been able to eat.

He started, his gaze piercing, sensing something was amiss, but she hurried past him to the building’s front door. She was more upset now than she had been before, because Grace Bragg was right. She was marrying Calder Hart for all the wrong reasons, and it wasn’t fair—not to anyone, not even to herself. She did not want to talk about it, especially not with Bragg. But could she really break up with Hart?

She must not think about it now. There was work to do and not much time in which to do it. She had promised
Sarah she would sit for her at half past four.

Bragg said from behind her, “They’re here. I checked with some neighbors. Flat Number Four.”

Francesca nodded. “Let’s go up.”

He seized her arm. “You are distraught. What happened?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled too brightly at him.

He studied her. “Grace can be too honest sometimes. But she means well. She is one of the kindest women I know.”

“I know all that. Let’s see if John Cooper is at home. We have missing children to find, Bragg.” She pulled free and hurried into the entry, a small, narrow windowless square. The fourth flat was on the second floor. Francesca did not hear a sound from within it and she was dismayed as she knocked sharply upon the battered wood door.

There was simply no answer.

She faced Bragg after knocking twice more. “No one is home.”

He gave her a look. “Let’s go in anyway.”

She was startled. He smiled at her and tried the door—but it was firmly locked. Bragg took a small knife from his breast pocket and began fooling with the lock. It clicked. He smiled at her and tried the door, and this time the door swung open.

“Very nice,” Francesca breathed. “Have you been taking lessons from Joel?”

He chuckled as they stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

The flat was one room. It was not partitioned into separate sleeping areas. Francesca instantly became uneasy, glancing around. There was one bed on the far wall. “Where is Bonnie’s bed?”

“I don’t know. The neighbor told me they have been here for about six months.”

“This is odd. I am worried.” There were a series of wall pegs by the bed and she saw several garments, all clearly belonging to a grown man or an adult woman. In case she
had missed something, Francesca went to them and inspected the clothing. “There’s nothing here for a child.”

“Bonnie was twelve. She might have been tall for her age—she might have worn the clothing of a small woman.”

There was one rickety and stained bureau near the bed as well. Francesca went to it. She found some very nice linens, the kind that would have cost a fortune for the Coopers, and some other odds and ends. Then she saw the rag doll. She seized it. “Evidence that there was a child.”

But Bragg was going through the set of shelves in the kitchen area. He held up two silver candlesticks. “Someone is up to his old tricks,” he said, “unless I miss my guess.”

Francesca clutched the doll. “Where are her clothes? Where is her bed? Why does this flat seem to belong to a childless couple?”

“Perhaps Mrs. Cooper’s way of grieving was to get rid of all signs of her daughter.”

“I smell a rat,” Francesca said grimly.

Suddenly they heard footsteps in the hall. Francesca tensed as a man with a barrel chest and a heavy growth of beard appeared in the doorway. “What the hell are you doing in here?” he shouted angrily.

Bragg stepped forward in a such a manner that he shielded Francesca from the intruder. “John Cooper?”

“Jesus! You a copper?” the man demanded.

“I’m afraid so,” Bragg said calmly. “Are you John Cooper?”

He stared sullenly and then nodded. “You got a warrant for bein’ in here?” he asked.

“No, but I can have one, appropriately dated, anytime I choose.”

Francesca winced.

“What the hell do you want?”

Francesca stepped past Bragg. “We want to know where Bonnie is,” she said.

“Bonnie?” His gaze narrowed. “She’s dead.”

Francesca almost cried out. Bragg restrained her. “What happened?” he asked.

His nostrils flared. “She was beaten up by some rough, out on the street. She didn’t make it.”

Francesca inhaled, her mind spinning. Was this man telling the truth? It would certainly explain why none of Bonnie’s belongings were in the flat. “But the school doesn’t know.”

“I guess I never got down there to tell ’em what happened. Now get out.”

Bragg strode past Francesca. “You’re going to have to come with me,” he said.

“With you?” he cried.

“I’m afraid so. Your daughter was murdered. Those responsible need to be apprehended and brought to justice,” he said. “I’ll need a statement from you and your wife.”

“We don’t know who did it,” he growled. “I didn’t see it and neither did my wife. We were told about it. It was some rowdy, giving her a hard time. By the time we got there, she was dead.”

Francesca glanced at Bragg, and they shared a look. He was also skeptical. She said, “I’m so sorry.”

Cooper stared at her, an ugly look in his eyes.

“You will still have to come with me and make an official statement,” Bragg said.

Cooper cursed, his way, Francesca supposed, of agreeing. “Where is she buried?” Francesca asked.

He eyed her. “St. James Cemetery,” he said.

“Sarah, I am sorry I am late!” Francesca said breathlessly, shrugging off her coat. A valet took it away for her.

“I am happy you could come at all,” Sarah said, smiling, her eyes alight. “I can tell you are hugely busy with your latest case.”

“I am,” Francesca said, instantly grim. Was Bonnie Cooper dead? Or was this a convenient way to excuse her disappearance? But that would imply that Cooper was involved. Yet hadn’t he once pawned off his own daughter as an impostor for that ransomed child, in the hopes of
collecting the reward? He was a despicable and foul man. Francesca shuddered, wishing she’d had the opportunity to interview his wife.

“You seem very preoccupied,” Sarah said as they went down the hall to her studio.

“I
am
preoccupied,” Francesca admitted, suddenly thinking of her luncheon with Grace Bragg. Today Sarah was very conservatively dressed in a navy blue dress. Splotches of paint marred the fabric, and her chignon was falling down. She looked very bohemian, Francesca thought. “Do you think I am marrying Calder for all the wrong reasons?” she asked very quietly.

Sarah halted in her tracks. “Only you can answer that, Francesca,” she said quietly. Then, “I do think he adores you. And you seem very fond of him. I like the match.” She shrugged, but there was a question in her eyes.

Francesca sighed. “Grace doesn’t.” She felt like telling her everything. Her spirits felt impossibly low.

Sarah started and then firmly pushed open the studio door. “She actually said that?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Oh my,” Sarah said softly. “How terrible for you. But Francesca, you must please yourself, not Hart’s foster mother and not anyone else.”

Francesca managed a small smile when it struck her that Rourke was to meet her there. She wondered if she might convince Sarah to let down her hair. “What time is it?”

“Almost five. Why?”

He should be there at any moment. “I had better disrobe,” she said, hiding a real smile. “Sarah, your chignon is coming apart.”

Sarah shrugged, clearly indifferent, but her eyes narrowed. “Is something going on that I should know about?”

“Of course not,” Francesca said, stepping behind the lacquered screen. As she began to take off her clothes, she listened to Sarah moving about, arranging her palette and brushes, occasionally humming. Francesca had just slipped on the silk kimono when she heard a different set of footsteps
—heavier, male. She tensed, but she was grinning.

“Sarah, good day. I do hope I am not intruding,” Rourke’s pleasant and smooth voice sounded.

There was silence.

Francesca stuck her head around the screen. Sarah looked stunned to see him, and now her cheeks were turning red. “Rourke . . . Bragg . . . ” she stammered. “This is a surprise! I thought you were in Philadelphia.” She sounded breathless, and now she was busily fussing with her brushes and avoiding his gaze.

“I am in town for the weekend. How are you?”

“Fine. And you?” Sarah glanced up and colored instantly again.

“I’m very well, actually, thank you. Is Francesca here? She asked me to meet her here. I need to look at her throat.”

Sarah stared in surprise. “Is Francesca ill?”

Francesca decided she should come out. She stepped out from behind the screen, smiling. “Hello, Rourke. No, Sarah, I am not ill. But there was a slight incident last evening,” she said.

Sarah looked at Francesca’s throat, now exposed, and she gasped, paling. “What happened?!” she cried.

“I am fine, really,” Francesca said.

“The wound is a superficial one,” Rourke told Sarah. Then he glanced at Francesca, more precisely at her pale ivory kimono. “This should be an interesting portrait,” he murmured. “Do I dare ask whose idea this was?”