Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (40 page)

She nodded, now wetting her lips. She did not speak.

He understood. He went to the nightstand and poured her a glass of water. He suspected she had been given a
small dose of opium, just enough to sedate her and not enough to make her a rag doll. He brought it to her and helped her drink.

“Who are you?” she whispered after taking several thirsty sips.

“Calder Hart,” he repeated patiently, and he smiled as kindly. “Now, do you know where you have been staying? It is very important that we free all of your friends.”

She blinked, suddenly in tears, and nodded. “On Jane Street,” she said huskily. “Just off Hudson.”

“Where is that?”

“Near Fourteenth Street,” she said, staring. “One of them is sick. She needs to go home, sir.”

“Who is sick?” he asked quickly.

“Emily,” she whispered.

He patted her back. “Don’t worry, it will be over very soon.” Hart suddenly realized that he could not go through with the plan he and Francesca had developed. The plan had been to get information from Rachael and leave her behind, allowing the police to rescue her later. But what if the raid on the Jane Street brothel alerted everyone at the Jewel, and Rachael was spirited off before she could be freed? There was simply no way he could leave her behind, and he saw no alternative but to walk out the front door with her. But then word would be sent to Jane Street, alerting them of his actions.

He had to get word to Bragg. And by now, Francesca should be on her way to Mulberry Street to rouse Farr—but only to have the police stand by.

The night had become a black one. Free Rachael—or free the other girls. Both options did not seem viable.

Suddenly a sharp knock sounded on the front door. Hart ripped the covers up. “Get under the covers and pretend to be asleep,” he ordered.

Rachael obeyed, but slowly. When she was safely tucked in, he went to the door. Whoever was there was knocking again—insistently. He loosened his tie and cracked the door open a hair’s breadth.

The brunette who had been with Francesca said, “Let me in.”

He started and opened the door; she hurried in and closed it breathlessly. “Francesca is in trouble.”

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

“She’s been taken to Solange’s office. Not willingly, I might add,” the brunette said. Her gaze went to the bed.

Hart faced her. “How much will it cost me for you to help us?”

“Nothing,” she said.

He shoved several hundred-dollar bills down her bodice. “Take Rachael out the front door. My brother is police commissioner and he is at Bellevue. Tell him the children are at Jane Street off Hudson. I will meet him there.”

She nodded, already at the bed, encouraging Rachael to get up. “I’m Dawn,” she said with a smile. “Come on. We’re leaving this rotten place.”

Hart opened the door and saw Joseph lying on the floor, unconscious. Blood was trickling from the back of his head and a bookend was on the floor. Hart quickly dragged the body inside and then gestured to Dawn and Rachael to follow him out. The hall had been empty—now a prostitute and a young, inebriated man exited one of the rooms. Hart smiled at them both—the whore smiled back and followed her customer downstairs. “Let’s go,” Hart said.

Solange sat behind her lovely desk, smiling at Francesca. Francesca sat in a chair, facing her, feeling like a student in the dean’s office, except for the two thugs standing behind her. “So, what is your real name and why are you here?”

Francesca was wide-eyed with innocence. “Madame Marceaux, my real name is insignificant. I have used ‘Emerald Baron’ for many years. I am afraid we have a terrible misunderstanding,” Francesca said with a smile.

“Really?” How pleasant Solange was.

“I was taking some air. Mr. Hart was quite, er, vigorous,
and I wanted to refresh myself before my next customer.” Francesca smiled again.

Solange looked at one of the thugs behind Francesca and nodded.

Francesca tensed, turning to see what was happening. He struck her hard across the face, so much so that she cried out, the pain in her cheek making her wonder if he had cracked or broken her cheekbone.

“I despise liars,” Solange said calmly.

Fear almost paralyzed Francesca, fear and pain. She slowly straightened and met the other woman’s pale gray unblinking eyes. “My name is Francesca Cahill,” she began, and she saw a light of triumph in the madam’s eyes, “and I am a sleuth. You are trafficking in children, Madame Marceaux, and I intend to see you appropriately charged, tried, and convicted for your disgustingly self-serving and unabashedly shameless crimes.”

Solange stood.

Francesca told herself not to be afraid—Solange was just another woman, and a whore at that.

Solange walked around her desk.

Francesca grimaced, preparing herself for a very unpleasant encounter.

Solange struck her again, across the same cheek, and her turquoise-and-diamond ring cut through the skin there. “Bitch,” she said, staring, her eyes as hard as the diamonds that had abraded Francesca’s cheek. “I knew you were a fraud the moment I interviewed you.”

Francesca blinked back stinging tears. “At least I am not a whore.”

Solange didn’t hit her again, but Francesca did cringe, expecting another blow. Instead, Solange smiled and looked at the thugs behind Francesca. “Take her, use her as if she were the cheapest whore imaginable, and then, when you are through, get rid of her. Dump her body in the river, please. I do not want it found, not ever.”

Francesca felt real fear. What should she do? Before she could think and formulate a plan, her arm was seized. Francesca
did not hesitate. As she leaped to her feet, she reached for the gun between her legs and pointed it at Solange. “I don’t think so,” she said.

Solange froze. Then, calmly, coolly, “Get that gun from her, George.”

Francesca turned. George hurled himself at her. As his body collided with hers, she fired. He grunted as they both went down, Francesca on her back, George on top of her. God, he weighed a ton!

Their gazes met. “You little whore,” he rasped, pain in his eyes. His hands closed around her throat.

Francesca whimpered, pressed the gun into his chest, and fired it again.

His eyes widened and he collapsed.

She shoved him off as the locked door flew in off its hinges. Relief soared. It had to be Hart. “Calder!” she shouted.

Something in the office crashed to the floor as Francesca struggled out from under the huge thug. Hart said, “Are you all right?”

Francesca paused on her knees, glancing up. He was a most welcome sight. A bookcase had collapsed from the wall near where he stood and the other thug was on the floor, staggering to his feet. “Fine,” she whispered, glimpsing Rachael and Dawn, hand in hand, in the doorway. Then they ran off, just as she saw and heard Solange moving behind her.

She turned as the thug launched himself at Hart. Solange was at the desk, digging in a drawer. Did she have a gun? Francesca still gripped her own gun and she leaped to her feet, raising it. “Freeze, Solange,” she warned.

Solange paused, slowly looking up.

More wood splintered and broke, behind them.

Francesca half-turned. Her eyes widened as she saw Hart kicking the thug in the chest, whirling away, and then kicking him in the jaw. As the thug collapsed, Hart came back, lifting him up and chopping him once with the side of his hand on the back of the man’s neck.

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slid unconscious to the floor.

“Oh my,” Francesca said. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Thailand,” he grunted, straightening himself and his tie. “I spent six months there when I was seventeen.”

Francesca was impressed. “Shall we go?” she asked, turning to Solange. Francesca passed her, checked the drawer, took out two guns, and tucked them both under one arm.

“We need to hurry,” Hart said. As they left Solange in her office, he said, “Jane Street off Hudson.”

“Where is that?” Francesca asked. They entered the foyer, which was filled with both the guests and their escorts, the pianist now pounding out a ragtime tune.

“Near Fourteenth Street,” Hart began.

“Do not let them out,” Solange ordered from behind them.

Francesca turned and saw her standing by the stairs, livid. She turned to face forward and saw two very big doormen coming toward them. One of the men had to be 300 pounds; another, six-foot-seven. Wincing, she handed Hart a gun.

He declined. “No thank you,” he said.

“Calder,” she began in protest.

He walked up to the obese man and smiled. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The man sneered and reached out, as if to grab Hart by the collar or some such thing. He was as slow as a tortoise.

Hart struck him in his jugular and, as he gasped and bowed, simultaneously on each temple. He followed with a kick to the kidneys; Francesca winced. The fat man hit the floor like a rock.

Hart smiled at her.

The club had become very quiet.

“Uh, Calder?” Francesca said, as the giant was approaching from behind him now.

Hart turned as the giant struck at him. He blocked the
blow, ducking beneath the man’s outstretched arm, spun around and kicked him in the back, spun forward, and kicked him there again. The giant wobbled but did not fall, and turned to face Hart, grinning.

“Fight,” someone said with avid interest. A crowd was gathering now.

The giant grinned at Hart and reached for his neck.

“Calder!” Francesca shouted, alarmed, as the man grabbed him around the throat.

Hart somehow slid his arms into the vise of forearms, and before Francesca could blink, he was free and striking the man on the underside of his jaw, with first one foot, then the next.

“Fight!” someone shouted.

“Fight!” another man answered excitedly.

Something crashed in the salon, glass shattering.

The giant refused to go down. He stood there, staggering, but also grinning at Hart.

“Goddamn it,” Hart said with annoyance.

There were more crashes; Francesca dared not look away from Hart, but she was vaguely aware of several fights breaking out among the various gentlemen in the club. Hart smiled. “I do beg your pardon,” he said, and he kicked the man right in the testicles.

The giant gasped and slowly but surely sank down to the floor, turning white.

Hart held out his hand. “Now I’ll take that gun,” he said.

Francesca glanced around, wide-eyed, and saw that a riot had broken out—even several women were throwing things at and on their customers, for lamps, glasses, ashtrays were all flying about the rooms. Some very serious fisticuffs were also taking place. Francesca glimpsed Solange, pale now with alarm, and turned back to Hart, handing him a gun.

He turned it around and hit the giant with its butt right on the crest of his head. The man’s eyes finally closed. “Let’s get out of here,” Hart said.

Francesca blinked once more at the melee now in progress—the glorious Jewel was turning into a pile of broken
furniture and adornments; even some magnificent paintings were being torn from the walls and stomped upon. Bodies were everywhere. Philip Seymour suddenly smiled at her, appearing at her side, his nose bloody, his eyes bright. “Now this is fun.” He grinned.

Francesca blinked at him.

A woman hit him over the head with a champagne bottle, and he grinned again at her, just before his eyes rolled back and he sank to the floor. She raised the bottle threateningly at Francesca.

Francesca ducked and ran by her, meeting Hart on the other side of the reception hall. He took her hand and they hurried out the front door. Hart let loose a piercing whistle. Across the street, Francesca saw Raoul leap into the driver’s seat of Hart’s brougham.

“We made it!” she cried, smiling at him.

He did not smile back. “God, I abhor violence,” he said.

Even though Raoul drove the team at a near gallop, running interfering vehicles off the road, by the time they arrived at Jane Street, the police were already there. A police wagon and Bragg’s Daimler motorcar were parked in front of a decrepit-looking building; a number of policemen in uniform were hustling two roughs and a well-dressed middle-aged woman in a navy blue suit who had to be the madame down the brownstone’s steps. Several gentlemen who had undoubtedly been there as customers were also being handcuffed. Hart said, “I sent Dawn to Bellevue to get him. It’s odd that he managed to bring the police so quickly.”

His tone was suddenly strange and Francesca glanced at him. He smiled grimly at her and walked past her, toward the crowd that had gathered in front of the brothel.

Francesca suddenly saw Bragg coming out of the building, a child in his arms. Joel was following, and so was a familiar girl. But surely her eyes were deceiving her and that wasn’t Bridget O’Neil? And then she took a second
look, because her brother was with both children!

And then she saw Rourke Bragg behind them, with two more girls.

Francesca ran forward. Bragg was coming off the front step when she reached him. “Is everyone all right?” she cried. She was wearing Hart’s jacket over the countess’s dress and clutched it closed.

His gaze flew to her cheek. “Yes. What happened?”

She gripped his arm, gazing at a flushed child in his arms. She had dark hair and pale skin. Was it Emily O’Hare? “Is she hurt?”

“No, she’s ill. It’s Emily O’Hare. Apparently she’s been ill for some time.”

Francesca smothered a cry as Rourke said, “Put her in the Daimler. She looks feverish. We should get her to a hospital immediately.”

Bragg transferred the child to his half brother’s arms. “You take her. I’ll meet you there later.”

Rourke nodded and hurried off.

“What happened?” Bragg asked again, taking her arm.

“It’s nothing,” she said, meeting his dark gaze. “But the Jewel, a club on Fifth Avenue, is also trafficking in children, Rick. The madam is Solange Marceaux.” She hesitated and decided not to tell him what had happened to her just yet.

“I’ll send some men down to raid it immediately and pick her up,” he said. “I’m afraid to ask what you were doing there tonight.” His gaze slid over her legs, obviously visible in the revealing dress.