Praise for
BRENDA JOYCE'S

Deadly series

“As Francesca searches for clues and struggles with her complicated feelings for two different men, readers will follow her from turn-of-the-century New York’s immigrant tenements to its wealthiest mansions. Fans of Joyce’s Deadly romances will find the seventh in the series to be another entertaining blend of danger and desire.”

—Booklist on Deadly Illusions

“Just when you think you have it all figured out, Joyce turns it all around, leaving you with a cliff-hanger, and eager for Francesca’s next adventure.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Illusions

“Joyce’s latest ‘deadly’ romance is truly a pleasure to read, given its involving plot, intriguing characters and the magic that occurs as the reader becomes immersed in another time and place.”

—Booklist on Deadly Kisses

“If this is your introduction to Francesca Cahill, you’ll be just as hooked on the series as longtime fans. Joyce skillfully pulls you into her characters’ tangled lives as they pursue a killer.

The ‘Deadlies’ keep you coming back for more because you care about the people and you can sink your teeth into their complicated lives as they twist and turn with mystery.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Kisses

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An elegant blend of mystery and romance simmering with sexual tension.”

—Booklist on Deadly Promises

“The steamy revelations…are genuinely intriguing, and just enough of them are left unresolved at the book’s end to leave readers waiting eagerly for the series’ next installment.”

—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Love

BRENDA JOYCE
Deadly Illusions

This one’s for the ladies on the boards:

Thank you for your unwavering support!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER ONE

New York City Tuesday, April 22, 1902 5:00 p.m.

THE CRIME SCENE was a gruesomeone, indeed.

Chilled, Francesca Cahill stared at the woman. The victim was clad only in her corset, chemise and drawers, lying in a pool of blood the same dark red-brown color as her hair. Shivers swept up and down Francesca’s spine, shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature of the day, as it was warm and sunny outside, a perfect spring day.

Not that one would ever guess that fact from this tenement flat. The railroad apartment that Francesca had so boldly entered was long and narrow, consisting of a single room. A window at each end let in some light, but not much, as the brick building just a few feet behind this one blocked out much of the daylight. At the flat’s far end was the victim’s bed, where she lay in her underclothes. Francesca stood in the doorway, the dark, dank corridor behind her. Between her and the victim were so many signs of a vital if impoverished life—a small sofa, the muddy-hued fabric torn and ripped, a faded and torn throw rug upon which sat a pail of water, as if the victim had been soaking her feet before bed. Beyond the small salon area, there was a rickety square table and two equally despairing chairs, one with a leg tied together. In the kitchen’s area, there was a wood counter covered with some stacked plates and utensils, a wood-burning stove and a sink containing a pot and some other items. In the other direction, behind Francesca, there was a police sawhorse in the doorway of the flat. An officer had placed a Do Not Cross sign upon it.

A man carefully viewed the body. Portly, of medium height, his suit shabby and tweed, Francesca recognized him instantly. She coughed to make her presence known and started forward, her navy blue skirts sweeping around her, tendrils of blond hair escaping her chignon and smart little navy blue hat. In her gloved hands, she clutched a purse.

He whirled. “Miz Cahill!” he cried, clearly surprised to find her there in the apartment.

She smiled warmly, determined not to be ousted from the crime scene although this was not her case, as she had no client requiring her to investigate this murder. “Inspector New man, good day. Although from the look of things, this has not been a good day for the victim.” She cast another glance at the dead woman, who appeared, at this closer range, to be in her early twenties. She had been a pretty woman. Newman had closed her eyes.

He met her halfway. Flushing, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he said, “Are you on this case, Miz Cahill? Is the c’mish with you?”

Her heart did a little flip. She hadn’t seen the police commissioner in weeks, not really. Passing him in the hall of Bellevue Hospital the times she had planned to visit his wife did not count. “I’m afraid I am alone. Does this appear to be the work of the Slasher?” she asked, her gaze drawn to the victim as a moth is drawn to candlelight.

Newman blinked. “Her throat was cut, Miz Cahill, like them first two. But this one, well, she’s dead. To my eye, it looks similar to the first two victims. Of course, until the coroner has examined the body, we cannot be sure.”

Francesca nodded gravely, her gaze briefly on Newman. If the newspapers were to be believed—and Francesca knew very well one could not always believe what the dailies reported—there was a pattern here. According to the Tribune, the first two victims had been young, pretty and Irish. The victims, however, had not been murdered, but merely had their throats slashed and were understandably traumatized. But the second slashing was sensational enough to warrant a headline. Of course, this third woman was dead, so maybe there was no connection. But Francesca did not believe that for a moment.

She had learned since embarking on her profession of criminal investigation that she had very accurate instincts. They shrieked at her now. The Slasher was at work here—and the stakes had suddenly changed.

Murder was now the name of the game.

And that most definitely made the case her affair—as people she cared about lived two doors down. “Do we know her name?” she asked softly, noting the way the woman lay. Her arms were flung out, her head turned to the side. There had been a struggle. She felt certain that the dead woman was also Irish.

“Yes. Her name is Margaret Cooper.” He also turned to stare at the victim.

Francesca started at the name, which was no more Irish than her own. She was surprised she had been wrong, but there was still a pattern. She went grimly forward but Newman suddenly detained her. “Miz Cahill? Should you be here? I mean—” and he blushed crimson “—this is a police matter and if the c’mish is not here, I am not quite certain you should be.”

Francesca didn’t hesitate. “I am officially on this case, Inspector, and we both know the commissioner will be supportive of that.” She smiled, at once friendly and firm. But she no longer knew just how supportive of her investigative work Rick Bragg would be. So much had changed—and so quickly.

“Well, I guess I won’t have to decide!” Newman cried in relief as footsteps sounded behind them from the hallway.

Francesca didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She tensed as the police commissioner strode past the sawhorse and into the room.

He was a handsome, charismatic man. Once, she had thought him the most handsome man on the planet, but that had been before she had learned of his estranged wife and his on-again, off-again marriage. Rick Bragg stood a bit over six feet tall, his stride long and purposeful, his shoulders broad, the brown duster he wore for motoring swinging about him. His complexion was dark, his hair golden, and no one looking at him could mistake his air of authority and purpose. In fact, the night they had met at a ball held by her family, in spite of the crowd she had seen him the moment he entered the room. But that felt like a different lifetime, and she had been a different woman, oh yes.

Their gazes met and held.

She realized she had bit her lip and that her fists were balled up. Her pulse had also accelerated. “Hello,” she said, trying not to be nervous. But it was hard. Once, they had been in love. Now she was engaged to his most bitter rival—his half brother, the wealthy and notorious Calder Hart.

If he was surprised to see her, he did not evince it. “Francesca,” he said, pausing before her. His gaze did not move, not even once, from her to the victim or the crime scene. “This is a surprise.”

She stared into his amber eyes and instantly saw how tired he was, both emotionally and physically. She ached for him. She knew he had agonized over the condition of his wife. And suddenly she did not want to talk about Margaret Cooper—she wanted to talk about him, his wife and the two children fostering with them. She wanted to take his hand, she wanted to help.

Instead, briskly, she said, “I ran into Isaacson from the Tribune.” She tried to smile but it felt like a grimace and he simply stared, saying nothing. Her anxiety increased and she clutched her purse with both hands. “He must have been at headquarters when the call came in. When he told me that it might be the Slasher, and that the victim lived on Tenth Street and Avenue A, I had to come directly over. Maggie and her children live two doors away, Bragg,” she said earnestly.

“I know,” he said. His expression softened. “I was concerned myself.” He hesitated, studying her with some intensity, his gaze dipping to the way she held her purse.

She smiled a little at him. He did not smile back. It was simply awkward now, being with him. What should she say, what should she do? Were they still friends? Did he hate her? Had he forgiven her for becoming engaged to the man he bitterly despised? Had he accepted the fact that one day she would marry Hart? For she had finally, with great difficulty, accepted the fact that Bragg belonged with his wife.

Francesca wanted to reach out to him and demand answers to all those questions, but she did not dare. How selfish it would be. But God, there was no one she admired more, no one more noble, more determined, more honorable than Rick Bragg. He had been appointed police commissioner with the charge of re forming the city’s infamously corrupt police department, but it was like spitting into the wind. He had fired some officers, hired new ones, reassigned entire units, but every small step forward was gained at a painful cost. The press hounded his every move. The clergy and the reform movement demanded he do more; politics demanded he do far less. Tammany Hall had lost the last election, but still ruled most of the city. He was up against Platt’s political organization, and the mayor, elected on a re form platform, did not always back him up, afraid of losing the working man’s vote. An election loomed, one Mayor Low did not want to lose. Bragg fought it all, alone.

She knew he would never give up.

And all this with his wife lying in the hospital, the victim of a tragic carriage accident. “I heard that Leigh Anne will be going home soon,” she suddenly said, reaching for his hand without thinking about it. He started as her fingers closed over his, and realizing what she had done, she quickly released him.

“Yes. In fact, they will release her tomorrow.” He looked away.

Francesca knew him so well—or once she had. Now she could not tell whether it was grief or guilt that made him flinch and turn away. “Thank God she regained consciousness within days,” Francesca whispered, a small hurt inside her heart. Why couldn’t she simply hug him and hold him close? He needed to be comforted, that much she knew. She might be engaged to another man, but she would always love Rick, too.

He was grim and he did not speak.

“Is the prognosis the same?” she asked. She had gone to the hospital several times, but in the end had only visited with the rest of the Braggs, who had been coming and going to see Leigh Anne, and not with Leigh Anne herself. She had been afraid of her reception; she had not wanted to upset the other woman, either.

“She will never walk again.” His tone was flat, final. He glanced past her at the victim. “If this is the work of the so-called ‘Slasher,’ then we have a serial killer on the loose.” He walked over to the bed.

Francesca followed until they both stood within feet of the victim. “But the first two victims survived, if the reports I have read were correct.”

He grimly surveyed the body in the bed. The sheets were a cheap coarse cotton, and except for the bloodstains, freshly laundered. The woman’s hair was undone and some of it lay across her neck. “They did survive. Both attacks were one week apart, exactly, each on subsequent Mondays.”

“Oh dear,” Francesca said, intrigued in spite of the terrible tragedy she was witness to. The reporters had failed to note that. “Was this woman killed yesterday?”

“She was found at noon today. But I am going to hazard a guess that she was killed last night, Francesca.” He gave her a significant look.

If the woman had been in her underclothes, then she had been murdered either first thing in the morning, or in the evening before bed. “Rick, I had read that the first two victims were Irishwomen in their twenties. Is that true?”

He leaned over the woman and moved her long, tangled dark red hair away from her neck. Her throat was brutally slit. Francesca wanted to gag; instead, she closed her eyes and breathed hard. No matter how many cases she had, she was certain she would never grow accustomed to violence and death. Of course, there had only been six investigations thus far. Her career as a sleuth had begun last January when her neighbor’s son had been abducted. She had tried to help, never imagining how it would change her life.

Bragg straightened. “Both victims were Irishwomen in their twenties, yes. Both were estranged from their spouses. From the look of this cut, I would say the Slasher has been at work again, but this time with deadly results.”

Francesca stared, forgetting all about her fiancé. She fought her queasiness. “This woman is not Irish. The name Cooper is as American as apple pie.”

“A pattern remains. Three attractive young women, each without means, assaulted on subsequent Mondays.”

Francesca agreed. “Do you think she was killed accidentally? Or is murder now the Slasher’s intent?”

“I have no idea. But if she was murdered Monday, and if the Slasher holds true to the course he has set, there will be another victim in six days exactly.” He faced her and their gazes met.

“We will find this killer, Bragg. And I do mean it.”

He started and, finally, began to smile at her. “If anyone can find him, you can.”

She was thrilled at the gesture of intimacy and she smiled back. “I also assume the Slasher is a man, but we cannot rule out a woman. Remember, the Cross Killer turned out to be Lizzie O’Brien,” she said, referring to a previous case.

“Of course I remember,” he said, and then his expression changed and she thought he was remembering everything that had once been between them. He cleared his throat. “The two previous victims were Kate Sullivan and Francis O’Leary. Neither woman saw the Slasher, as he assaulted them from behind. But it was a man.”

She nodded. “Who alerted the police?”

“A Mrs. O’Neil found her. Apparently, she has the flat next door.”

Francesca stiffened. “Bragg! Not Gwen O’Neil?” An image of the striking redhead assailed her mind.

His tawny eyebrows lifted. “Yes, that is her name. And she is at headquarters. She is very upset,” he added. “Do you know her?”

She seized his arm. “Not only do I know her, you know her, too!”

AFTER SPENDING AN HOUR or more with Bragg at the crime scene, Francesca went two buildings down to visit the seamstress who had become her dear friend, Maggie Kennedy. As she went up the narrow staircase to the flat Maggie let, she was thoughtful. A killer was on the loose, unless the last victim had been accidentally murdered. All three victims had several characteristics in common: they were young, pretty, working class and they all resided within two square blocks. The first two victims, Francis O’Leary and Kate Sullivan, also lived alone. Apparently Francis O’Leary’s husband had vanished two years or so ago, while Kate Sullivan had left her spouse. Margaret Cooper had not worn a wedding band and there had been no sign of a male occupant in her flat—apparently, she had been single, too, although that they would have to confirm. All the victims had been assaulted on a Monday, each a week apart. There was almost no doubt that there would be another assault next Mon day and the likelihood was high that it would be somewhere in the ward and that the victim would be pretty, young, working class, single and female.

Fortunately, the first two victims were alive, which meant she could interview them, perhaps even that afternoon. Although the police had spoken with them, she had not a doubt they had missed crucial clues. Bragg had not been personally involved in the case at that time. Then she remembered her mother’s dinner party and sighed. She would have to attend or there would be a vast price to pay—Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not to be crossed lightly. The interviews would have to wait, as it was well past six already. And then there was Gwen O’Neil. Francesca intended to interview her, too. She wasn’t thrilled that Gwen and her daughter, Bridget, lived right next door to the last victim, just as she wished Maggie did not reside so close by with her children, either. However, the neighborhood was filled with impoverished young women.

As she paused before Maggie’s flat, she thought about the distance now separating her and Bragg. Perhaps she had been a fool to think that he could reconcile with his wife and she could marry another man and somehow they would remain friends. She could not help but be saddened. On the other hand, it was clear to her that he loved his wife, and she was certainly infatuated with Hart. In fact, he had gone to Chicago on business almost two weeks ago and it had been very hard not to think about him constantly.

At least Leigh Anne would be leaving the hospital and going home tomorrow. She wondered if she dared to call on her at home. Then she heard childish shrieks and laughter. Francesca began to smile as she knocked upon the door. Maggie was a widow and was raising four children by herself.

Eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy, once a pickpocket and now Francesca’s invaluable sidekick, promptly answered her knock. He had pitch-black hair and fair skin and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He knew the city like the back of his hand and had helped her out of danger too many times to count. His face was flushed and he looked extremely annoyed. When he saw Francesca, though, he brightened. “Miz Cahill!”

She glanced past him into the one-bedroom flat, which was usually tidy. Now, goose feathers floated about the family room. Joel’s two young brothers, Matt and Paddy, had clearly been in a pillow fight. The boys were on the floor, holding the mostly empty pillows, howling with laughter. They had clearly eaten, as she saw plates with bread crumbs on the kitchen table. Joel followed her gaze and scowled. “Idi’ts,” he said. “Mum will be fierce unhappy when she sees them down feathers all wasted like that.”

“I see there has been no homework today?” Francesca asked. She knew that Maggie had Matt in school, unlike many other working-class families. Too many of the city’s impoverished classes needed the extra income their children could generate. There was also a question of extreme overcrowding and under-funding for the city’s public schools. It was a shame.

Joel, who could read and no longer attended school, shrugged. “He got some letters to do. But he don’t want to do homework now. I didn’t want to fight about it. Got better things to do.”

Francesca closed the door behind her as Joel’s little three-year-old sister came stumbling out of the bedroom, clearly having been napping. “Joel, if they have eaten, Matt should sit down and do his letters. You know how to read—don’t you want your brother to have the same skills and advantages as you? Hello, Lizzie!” She tousled the sleepy child’s silky black hair.

Joel scowled at her. “Are you here on business, Miz Cahill? It’s been awful quiet for way too long.”

Francesca set her purse down on the sofa. “Yes, I am. And I agree with you—it has been a quiet spell for us. Shouldn’t your mother be home at any moment?”

“She should be home real soon. So what case are we on?” he asked with an impish grin. His dark eyes sparkled.

She patted his shoulder. “We are of a similar nature, you and I,” she said fondly. Then, her smile fading, she said, “A woman was murdered two doors down, Joel. She was Gwen O’Neil’s neighbor.”

He paled. “Miz O’Neil an’ Bridget?”

“They’re fine,” she assured him. “Can you start asking questions in the neighborhood? Did anyone notice a suspicious sort lurking about Margaret Cooper or her apartment or building? Was she afraid? Did she know she was in danger? Who were her friends? Did she have any visitors recently? We suspect the killer to be a man. And it might be the Slasher,” she added.

His eyes were wide and he nodded eagerly. “I can get started the minute Mum comes home,” he said.

“Get started on what?” Maggie Kennedy asked, letting herself into the flat. A paper sack filled with groceries was in her arms. “Francesca!” She smiled brightly. “How nice to see you!”

“We got another case,” Joel told his mother in a rush as she gave him a hug. “Been a murder, right on this block!” Maggie paled.

“Joel, please, let me explain,” Francesca said.

Maggie moved to hug the rest of her children in turn, but Francesca could see her distress. “What is this mess?” she asked the two younger boys. “You know I can’t afford more down! Now start picking up the feathers, every single one. Shame on you both,” she added, a tremor in her tone.

Francesca knew that Joel had worried her. She laid her palm on Maggie’s back as the other woman straightened and smiled reassuringly at her. “Shall we sit?”

“Of course, where are my manners!” Maggie cried, flushing. She rushed to the small dining table not far from the stove and sink and pulled out one chair. “Let me boil some water for tea.”

Francesca went to her and took her arm. “Please, Maggie, do not stand on ceremony. I really wish to discuss the case with you.” She gave her a significant look.

Maggie met her gaze and slowly nodded. As they sat down, Joel slammed out of the apartment. Maggie started, clearly un- happy. “It’s a miracle, really, for you to be giving him a salary, but…I worry so!”

Francesca had quickly realized just how invaluable Joel was, so she had offered him employment as her assistant. He, of course, had been thrilled. “You know I would never knowingly put him in the path of danger,” Francesca said, meaning it.

“I know. You have saved my life—and you have really saved Joel’s life, by taking him away from a world of thievery.” Briefly, she cupped her face in her hands, her eyes closed. Then she sighed. “I am glad that Joel works for you, truly I am…”

Francesca knew that Maggie was very tired from the long hours she put in sewing at the Moe Levy Factory. She touched her hand. “If you do not want him to work for me any longer, I will change it.”

Maggie shook her head. “He adores you. And he no longer is out on the streets, stealing purses behind my back. I’m just distraught today.”

Francesca could sense that and she wondered why. “Gwen O’Neil found her neighbor’s body,” she said after a pause.

Maggie made a choking sound. “Is she all right?”

Francesca took her hand. “I don’t know. Bragg said she was upset. I imagine she will be home shortly, but she was at police headquarters this afternoon. We suspect it is the Slasher at work again, Maggie. But unlike the others, Margaret Cooper did not survive his latest attack.”

Maggie made a sound. “I knew them all! They live—lived—nearby.”

Francesca leaned forward eagerly. “So you are acquainted with all of the victims?”

“In one way or another,” Maggie cried. “Francis and I seem to shop for our groceries at the same time—she is so kind and so sweet—I often bump into her at Schmidt’s Grocery Store. She was so happy,” she added in a whisper. “She recently told me she was seeing someone she thought very special.”

Francesca sat up straight. “Isn’t she the one whose husband disappeared some time ago?” If so, then she was still wed.

“I know she was once married. I had thought she was a widow, actually,” Maggie said with some surprise.

Bragg had reviewed the file with her, and Francis O’Leary was no widow. “Do you know the name of the man she is seeing?” Francesca asked.

“No. She didn’t say. But she lives two blocks from here.”

“Yes, on Twelfth Street.” Francesca decided she must interview Francis O’Leary immediately on the morrow. “Where does she work?”

“She is a shopgirl at the Lord and Taylor store,” Maggie said. “But when I saw her at church yesterday, she looked terrible.. I think she wore a bandage under the collar of her gown and she had a black eye. Perhaps she is not back at work yet.”

Francesca absorbed all of that. If she called early enough, Francis O’Leary would be at home. “And you also knew Kate Sullivan and Margaret Cooper?”

“I don’t really know Kate, but we nod to one another at church on Sundays. She seems very sweet, but a bit shy. You know I’m friends with Gwen, and I met Margaret at her flat one evening when I had to borrow some sugar. She was so nice as well!” Maggie cried.

A circle of friends, Francesca thought grimly, then revised her assessment of the situation. It was a circle of acquaintances, all hardworking women who lived very close to one another and would bump into one another in the course of the day or the week. “I want you to be careful,” she finally said.

Maggie stared, pale, and then glanced anxiously at her children. “Margaret Cooper lived two doors down, Francesca, and Kate Sullivan lives right around the corner. Not even a block away.” She inhaled harshly. “Am I in danger?”

“None of the three victims had children,” Francesca said truthfully, although she felt that Maggie could very well be in danger. “Just keep your wits about you,” Francesca advised. “And I feel certain the children are not in danger. I believe the odds are that you are not, either. Still, we will exercise caution. Next Monday, I want you and the children to stay with me.”

Maggie started. “You mean in the mansion?”

Francesca nodded. This would not be the first time she had put up Maggie and her children in her father’s Fifth Avenue home. “The Slasher seems to be striking on Mondays, Maggie. It is just a silly precaution.” She smiled but it felt grim instead of reassuring.

Maggie hesitated, clearly torn. “I don’t want to impose,” she finally said.

Francesca took her hand. “We are friends! It is not an imposition.”

“I’ll think about it,” Maggie returned slowly. “Maybe the Slasher will be caught by then.”

“I do hope so!” Francesca cried fervently.

Maggie smiled a little, perhaps at Francesca’s passionate outburst. Carefully she gazed at the table. Not looking up, she asked softly, “Has Evan returned home?”

Francesca did not answer at first. She sat back in her chair, recalling how solicitous her brother had been toward Maggie and her children when she had been living briefly with them—and ever since. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had witnessed a romantic spark between them. But it was an impossible match—a seamstress from the Lower East Side and the son of a millionaire. Of course, Evan had recently been disowned by their father. “No, he continues to reside at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I am so very proud of him for standing up to our father.”

“I heard he took employment,” Maggie said, her eyes still lowered.

“Yes, as a law clerk.” Society thought it unbelievable— Francesca had heard the gossip—that he would walk away from his family and his fortune.

Maggie paused. “We haven’t seen him since he came to take the children to the park last month.”

Francesca did not know what to say. “I haven’t seen him very much since he moved out. This has to be hard for him, working as a clerk and living in a hotel.”

“I supposed he is still seeing the beautiful countess Benevente?” Maggie murmured.

Francesca did not know what to say or do. Then she decided the truth was the best course. “Yes, they are often seen to gether. Evan has always gravitated toward bold women like Bartolla Benevente.”

Maggie finally looked up. “She is so beautiful. They make an astonishing couple. If he marries her, it will be a good match. Don’t you agree?” And she smiled, but it did not reach her blue eyes.

Francesca could not mistake what she was witnessing. Maggie Kennedy was fond of her brother in spite of the huge so cial gap between them. Francesca was at a loss. Even if Evan shared her feelings, it would be extremely difficult for them to make a match. But Evan did not return her feelings, clearly, as he was so thoroughly preoccupied with the beautiful countess. “Yes, it would be a socially acceptable match.” She hesitated. “But I am not sure Evan is ready to marry anyone, Maggie. Not only is he a bit of a rake, you know, but after leaving the family the way that he did, I think he needs a bit of time to reorganize his life.”

Maggie stood abruptly. “I am sure he will come home one day. I think I’ll make that tea.”

“That’s a good idea,” Francesca agreed, relieved to end the subject of her brother.

NIGHT HAD FALLEN, the day’s spring temperature suddenly gone. Francesca shivered as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, wishing she had her coat with her. Now that the workday was over, the neighborhood had come alive with the sights and sounds of its residents. Men and women were coming and going on the streets, a gang of adolescent boys was playing stickball, ignoring a heavily laden passing dray. There was tre mendous activity in a corner saloon, and many windows were open, candles burning inside. The aroma of roasting meats wafted onto the gas-lit street.

Francesca had not taken the Cahill coach downtown, and now, glancing around, she regretted it. Obviously there were no cabs in this area. If she walked four blocks, she could catch a horse-drawn omnibus crossing town and then hail a cab from Union Square. But it was dark now, and many of the passersby on the street were a rough, rowdy lot. In fact, she mused as one of a pair of brawny men passing her turned to look at her in her fine skirt and jacket, anyone could be the Slasher.

But he would not strike again until next Monday—if he chose to follow the pattern he had set.

She wished that she was not alone. Of course, she did have a small pistol in her purse. She had learned from experience to carry protection. Francesca started forward, clutching her simple black bag. Hart would murder her for being out in such a neighborhood after dark, alone and without transport.

Someone hurrying her way, a child with him, bumped into her as he passed. Francesca tensed, continuing on, when she was seized from behind. Her heart slammed with fear.

“Miss Cahill!” a woman cried, her brogue as thick as an Irish bog.

Francesca turned, relief swamping her, and met not the gaze of a man, but that of a frightened, distressed woman. An instant later she realized that Gwen O’Neil had grabbed her and that Bridget stood closely by her mother. “Mrs. O’Neil! You startled me.”

Gwen released her. Her eyes were wide in her blanched face. “I cannot believe it’s you! A friendly face—a sight for sore eyes,” she cried.

Francesca was now calm and attuned to the fact that Gwen was far more than relieved to see her. The woman looked ready to leap out of her skin from fear. She smiled at Bridget and instantly realized that the eleven year old knew all about her neighbor’s murder. She stood stiff and frozen beside her mother, her eyes huge in her small face. “Mrs. O’Neil,” she began, smiling and hoping to calm them both. But this was an opportunity not to be missed. Never mind that she was terribly late for her mother’s dinner party—she would see these two safely home and catch a brief interview. Or perhaps even a substantial one, at that.

But Gwen jumped as if she had caught on fire, glancing wildly around her, her eyes huge with fear. Francesca took her arm. “Mrs. O’Neil? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Gwen’s dark eyes met hers. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Bridget was the one who spoke. Tears thickened her voice. “We’re bein’ followed,” she cried.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, April 22, 1902 7:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA GLANCED AROUND but saw nothing amiss. Men and women continued to pass on their way home after a long day’s work and the boys continued to slam the ball around in the cobbled street with their sticks. She faced Gwen grimly. “Let me take you up to your flat,” she said.

“Would you?” Gwen cried in obvious relief.

Francesca took her arm. “Let’s go,” she said kindly. As Bridget preceded them, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. She half expected to see the Slasher standing against the tall iron street lamp, watching them. But nothing on the street had changed.

There was no light in the small entry hall, and the stairs were also dark with shadow, but that was not unusual in these terri ble tenements. “I assume there are no gaslights?”

“No,” Gwen breathed, fumbling in her shopping bag. “But I have a candle and matches.”

Francesca carried a candle and matches as well, but she waited for the other woman to light the wick. Gwen’s hands were shaking so badly, though, that Francesca took the candle and match from her, struck a spark and lit it. Instantly the small, grim entry was illuminated. Someone had hung a cracked mirror on one peeling wall in a futile attempt at decoration. “Let’s go, Bridget,” she said with false cheer, shivering.

They hurried upstairs in single file, the steps creaking beneath their feet. Gwen and her daughter lived on the second floor, as had Margaret Cooper. When they passed Margaret’s flat, Francesca saw that the door was padlocked, meaning that the police had left. The sign Police Line had been nailed to the door. When she and Bragg had left the flat together, a photographer had just arrived. Bragg had conceived of the singular notion of photographing the victim and the crime scene for reference during the investigation. It was a brilliant idea.

Gwen unlocked the door, her hands continuing to tremble. The moment they were all inside, she said tersely, “Bridget, light another candle,” as she quickly bolted the door behind them.

Francesca wondered how she was going to live in such a state of fear. She studied her from behind as the other woman turned, managing a smile and unpinning her straw hat. instantly, her hair tumbled down.

Francesca stiffened. She already knew that Gwen had dark red hair, but now she was struck by the fact that it was almost waist length, rather curly, and very much like the hair of Margaret Cooper. And while Gwen and Margaret did not look at all alike—Margaret had been pretty but in a soft way, and Gwen was striking—the similarity between them now was unmistakable. And Gwen lived next door to Margaret….

“You’re staring,” Gwen breathed.

“I’m sorry. I know you found your neighbor, Mrs. O’Neil. I am so sorry. It must have been terrible.” Behind her, another candle flamed to life, illuminating the long, single room more drastically.

Gwen nodded. “It was terrible,” she whispered. She put her hat on a peg and her wool shawl followed. She wore a simple print blouse and dark skirt. As she leaned over, Francesca realized she was taking off her shoes. Once in her stocking feet, she turned with a small smile. “My feet hurt,” she whispered.

Francesca guessed that her shoes were not store-bought and were either too small or had holes in the soles. Then, as she heard water running at the kitchen sink, she thought about the bucket of water she had seen in front of the sofa in Margaret’s apartment. Had she had sore feet, too? Had she been soaking her feet before her murder? Was that how the killer had caught her?

She smiled at Gwen. “Please, do not mind me. Are you certain that you were being followed?”

Gwen hesitated and then moved to the small square table covered with a bright yellow tablecloth. A chipped glass was in its center, a single daisy there. She gripped the back of one chair. Bridget was lighting the stove and setting a pot of water to boil. “No. I mean, I’m not certain—but I am sure of it!”

That made no sense. Francesca took off her gloves, laying them on the cheerful tablecloth. Bridget put a carrot, a potato and an onion into the pot. A pinch of salt followed. “Tell me why you think you were being followed,” Francesca said softly.

Tears filled Gwen’s eyes. “I don’t know! I didn’t see any one when I left police headquarters. But I had this feeling, a real strong feeling, that I was being watched! Haven’t you ever had that feeling?” she cried.

Francesca touched her arm. “Of course.”

“Oh Lord, where are my manners tonight? Miss Cahill, you have been nothing but kind to my daughter, saving her from those terrible men last month! Please, sit down. Bridget! Put on water to boil. We have tea,” she said brightly, the tears shining on her cheeks. “English tea. It’s special—I brought it with me,” she added, clearly referring to her recent move from Ireland to New York.

“Thank you,” Francesca said, taking a seat. Gwen contin ued to stand. “So you did not see anyone?”

“No. I didn’t. But I couldn’t shake the feeling, not the whole way from the police station.”

Francesca nodded. “Why don’t you sit, too? You have had an exceedingly difficult day.”

But Gwen had gone to the stove to stir the soup pot. “You probably think me mad,” she said over her shoulder.

“No, I do not.”

“Bridget, wash your face and hands.”

Bridget had been standing quietly in the corner of the room where the counter next to the stove met the sink. “I want to go home!” she suddenly cried. “I hate it here! But mostly, I hate Lord Randolph!”

Francesca stood, the urge to take the child in her arms overwhelming. She wondered who Lord Randolph was. Instead, Gwen rushed to her daughter, enfolding her against her bosom, holding her tightly. “I know, darling, I know. But we can’t go home. You know we can never go back.”

Bridget burst into tears and ran behind the curtain that clearly partitioned off a sleeping area. Gwen stood staring at the mustard-colored drape, clearly torn and anguished. Francesca could not fathom Gwen’s last words. Why couldn’t she and her daughter return home?

Francesca went to her and laid her palm on her shoulder. “How hard this must be for you and your daughter, making a home for yourselves in a new land.”

“It’s hard,” Gwen whispered. “I tried to find good work, but all I could find was work in a factory. We make candles all day long. At home, I was a ladies’ maid in a mansion on a hill. We were never hungry,” she added.

Francesca had recently hired a new maid for her own home, when the staff was already full. Ellie had been a vagrant but had witnessed a murder. Now she was the most dedicated maid at the Cahill home. She knew her mother, Julia, would not allow another addition to the household.

Francesca wondered if her sister needed another servant. How perfect that would be! “Do you have references?” she asked.

Gwen looked away. “I’m afraid not.”

Francesca was startled. She wondered what the lack meant, but knew that now was not the time to pursue it. And she did not doubt that Gwen had been a fine ladies’ maid. She was a fair judge of character, and trusted Gwen’s sincerity. Then a brilliant idea occurred to her. Calder Hart. She brightened. He wouldn’t care if she hired another maid for that huge mausoleum he called a home. She made a mental note to place Gwen in his domestic employ immediately. “May I ask you some questions, Mrs. O’Neil? I am taking on the case of Margaret’s murder.”

Gwen nodded, moving to sit down. She let out a sigh of exhaustion as she did so.

Francesca sat beside her. “Did you know Margaret Cooper?”

Gwen nodded. “She was already living here when we moved in. She was very pleasant, very friendly, offering to show me and Bridget around. She helped me get my first employment, but the work was so far downtown that I quit when I found the opening at the candle makers. We had supper together once or twice. She was a good person, Miss Cahill. She did not deserve to die!”

“So she was not married?”

“No, she was entirely alone in this world,” Gwen said.

“Did she have a gentleman friend?” Francesca asked, thinking about the fact that there had been no sign of a male visitor in her flat.

“No. In fact, I found it odd, as she was so pretty and kind.”

Francesca took a notepad and pencil from her purse and made some notes. “Margaret must have had some kind of personal life.”

“She went to work six days a week and to church every Sunday. You do know,” Gwen added, “that I have already told all of this to the police.”

“I would love to hear your answers for myself, if you do not mind. I care very much about this case and about bringing Margaret’s killer to justice,” Francesca said earnestly. “The police have a great many investigations to handle. I have just one.”

“Of course.” Gwen smiled a little for the first time that evening, apparently beginning to relax. The water began to boil and she got up to make the tea.

“What faith was Margaret?”

“She was Baptist,” Gwen said over her shoulder. Then she smiled again, her eyes softening. “I took her to my church once. She was very religious, Miss Cahill. Her mother was Irish. Did you know that?”

Francesca sat up straighter. Here was another link, she thought eagerly. Kate Sullivan and Francis O’Leary were Irish—and now, Margaret had turned out to be of Irish descent. “No, I hadn’t known. Where did Margaret work?”

“She was a shopgirl. She worked in some fancy sweet shop uptown. I don’t recall the store’s name but she referred to the fact that it was next door to A.T. Stewart’s.”

A.T. Stewart’s was a popular department store. The sweet-shop shouldn’t be that hard to locate. Gwen brought her a cup of tea carefully, as there was no saucer to catch any spills. Francesca smiled her thanks and inhaled. “It does smell delicious,” she said, meaning it. The tea was strong and spicy, exotic, and obviously expensive. It seemed like quite an indulgence for Gwen O’Neil.

“It is wonderful,” Gwen said almost proudly. “I put a spoon of sugar in it. I hope you do not mind.”

“Thank you so much,” Francesca said, knowing that sugar was another expense Gwen could not afford. She took a sip and found the tea as rich to the palate as it was aromatic. She set the cup down. “How did you find the body and when did you find it?”

Gwen’s smile vanished. “This morning. I was leaving to go to work. I was late because Bridget has a cough and I made her an elixir before I left. I let her stay home from school yester day and today.” She began to cry. “As I went down the hall, I saw that Margaret’s door was open. That was odd, so I glanced inside…and saw her lying there on her bed, as dead as could be.” She began to shake.

Francesca stood and hurried to her. “There, there, it’s all right. It’s fortunate that you found her. Was her door ajar Monday night when you returned home from your employment?”

“I don’t know. I don’t recall. If it was open last night when I came home, I didn’t notice. Miss Cahill, was he killing her, right next door, while me and my baby slept?”

Francesca hesitated and clasped her shoulder. “We do not yet know when she was murdered, Mrs. O’Neil.”

Gwen sobbed. “Dear God, it could have been me or my little girl!”

IT TOOK FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to get uptown, and by the time the doorman let Francesca into the Cahill mansion, situated on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park, the gilded clock on the marble mantel in the salon adjacent to the receiving room indicated that it was half past eight. As Francesca handed off her hat and gloves, she did not need to know the exact time in order to know just how late she was. The dining room was several doors down, but she could hear the robust conversation of her mother’s dinner party. As it was accompanied by the tinkle of crystal glassware and the tapping of silver upon china, she knew that supper was already in progress.

Her head throbbed and her new, white kidskin shoes were too tight. Like Gwen O’Neil—and perhaps Margaret Cooper—her feet were sore. She knew there would be some huge cost to pay, but she’d already decided to sneak up to her room, avoiding the party altogether. Besides, how would she explain that she was late? Her parents frowned upon her sleuthing, as she was only twenty years old and still a part of their household. Of course, she had no doubt she could be thirty and mar ried with children and Julia would still despair over her reputation should she continue investigative work. Many times she had half promised Julia that her days as a sleuth were over. But the half truths were merely that. As much as she disliked lying to her mother, she had found her calling in life. She was an excellent investigator, and she had the record to prove it.

Attending supper was out of the question. Francesca smiled at the doorman and began to cross the long receiving room. The press had dubbed the Cahill home the “Marble Mansion” upon its completion some eight years ago. Her father, raised on a farm in Illinois, had become a butcher and eventually expanded into the country’s largest meatpacking business. Francesca had been born in Chicago, but the family had moved to New York City when she was a child. The press had had a field day with her home—and even as a six-year-old, she had read the dailies. At the time, Andrew and Julia Cahill had outdone the Astors and the Melons. Almost the entire room she now sought to cross was marble—the black-and-white floors, the pale Corinthian columns, the carved panels on the walls.

The mahogany dining-room doors were open. Francesca touched her hair, trying to tuck some loose blond tendrils behind her ears. By now, the bit of rouge she had started wearing on her cheeks and lips had long since vanished, the hem of her skirts was dirty and she was quite an untidy mess. She hoped no one would note her passing.

As Francesca started past the open double doors, she stole one sidelong peek into the room, where twenty-two guests sat at the linen-clad table. The table sat ten on each long side, one at both heads, hence twenty-two guests, unless a place re mained vacant for her. Then Julia’s entourage would number twenty-one. She glimpsed a room filled with fine crystal and gilded china, the ladies in evening gowns, the men in tuxedos, and she grimaced, ducking and increasing her pace.

But there was no escaping Julia. “Francesca!” Julia Van Wyck Cahill cried. Her tone was stern and it halted her daughter in her tracks.

Her cheeks warmed with guilt. Francesca felt like a thief caught with her hand in someone else’s safe, not for the first time. Well, there was no escaping now. Slowly, she returned to the threshold of the room, attempting a pleasant smile for the large audience.

All conversation stopped. Mild stares were turned her way.

Julia stood. There was no mistaking the resemblance between Francesca and her mother. Julia was blond, blue-eyed and still of a fine figure. She had been a reigning beauty in her day. As always, she was resplendently dressed in a blue evening gown of silk and lace with three-quarter sleeves, with sapphires at her ears and neck to match. She seemed rigidly displeased, but Francesca did not notice. Instead, in shock, her gaze whipped past her mother to the dark man sitting so indolently at the table in its center.

There was no vacant place, because Calder Hart had taken it.

But he was supposed to be in Chicago, wasn’t he?

Her heart slammed and raced. Calder was home. “You’re back,” she whispered, stunned, and their gazes locked.

He slowly got to his feet, a very slight smile on his dark face, and he bowed.

Francesca had missed him and there was no denying it. Maybe her attraction to Hart was purely physical, but she dearly hoped not. And if it was, then she was not the first to be so foolishly smitten.

Francesca had always assumed she would one day marry a man like her father, someone respectable, admirable, honorable, a reformer and an activist—someone like Rick Bragg. Instead, she was engaged to the city’s wealthiest businessman and most notorious womanizer. She still remained uncertain as to how this had happened, and so quickly. One moment she was friends with the enigmatic and oh-so-charismatic Hart and he was under suspicion for murder. The next, they were secretly engaged—until he had taken matters in his own hands, tired of her procrastination, making a public announcement. How had she fallen in love with Calder Hart? And was it even love?

Whenever she was with Hart, she felt as if she had boarded a locomotive that had lost all its brakes and was speeding downhill on an endless track. But as frightening as it was, she would not jump off, oh no.

She had made up her mind.

Francesca could hardly breathe as Julia said, “Are you going to join us, Francesca? You are a bit late, of course, but I am sure the traffic must have been terrible. And as you can see, your fiancé called. Of course, I invited Calder to stay and dine with us.”

Francesca had the utmost difficulty tearing her gaze from Hart. But there was an odd note in Julia’s tone, anxiety, per haps, or tension. And then she gave up, simply staring at the man who had somehow, inexplicably, offered marriage, mum bling, “I had better go upstairs and change.”

Calder stepped away from the dining table. With some alarm, he said, “Francesca, are you about to faint?”

Francesca had no clue as to what he was speaking about. Before she could react he was at her side, his arm around her waist as if holding her up. “I’m afraid my fiancée needs some air,” he said firmly, and before either Andrew or Julia could speak, he was propelling her from the room.

Hart was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was clad in a dark suit. The pitch-black wool might have been dour on another man, but on him it only heightened a sense of danger and made him more alluring. Hart’s gaze moved over her face and Francesca knew she blushed, her heart continuing to race wildly. His dark eyes—midnight blue flecked with gold—slipped down her jacket and skirts.

She began to smile, leaning against him. They crossed the hall and entered a salon, Hart’s strong arm an anchor about her waist. He stopped just inside the salon, one with a dozen opulent seating areas. Smiling back at her, he pushed the door closed with his foot.

She choked down her rising laughter. “That was painfully transparent.”

He took her in both arms. “I have been away for two very long weeks, Francesca,” he murmured, “and we both know I don’t care what the present company says or thinks.”

She knew she should protest as his hands slipped to her shoulders. Not because she did not want his kisses, but because her father was very opposed to Hart and was testing him in every way to see if he was worthy of her. Julia, on the other hand, wanted the match and openly gloated about it. She grasped his shoulders, too. “I think you missed me, Hart.” She felt certain that he had and she grinned, never mind the heat slamming through her body.

“How clever a deduction,” he said. “And it’s Calder, darling—or am I making you nervous?” A dimple winked in his cheek. He was making her nervous, damn him for knowing! They had only shared a few hours of intimacy together, and she had forgotten how devastating it was being in his arms, his hard, strong body pressed up against hers. Clearly he was aroused, and she decided to ignore the question. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

“Bold wench,” he said, and she heard laughter in his tone. “You did not answer me, darling. Why am I making you nervous?” And he stared intently into her eyes, no longer smiling at all.

She stared back, her breath suspended. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “These past few weeks have felt so odd. I have been drifting about in a fog. It’s almost as if it has all been a dream. I expect to wake up and find you a figment of my imagination!”

Surprise was there in his eyes, which were turning the color of ash. But his grip tightened on her. “I’m flattered, Francesca, but I am not a dream. In fact, some women find me a nightmare.”

She wet her lips, well aware of all the broken hearts he had left in his wake. “I don’t,” she began. “Calder—”

He cut her off, pulling her close and covering her mouth with his.

Francesca lost all coherent thought. He knew how to kiss a woman, as he had seduced so many, but this time he wasn’t interested in seduction. As his mouth instantly opened hers, as he penetrated deeply with his tongue, she sensed his need to possess. She melted as he kissed her again and again, somehow standing, her legs useless, desire pooling between her thighs, a flood. Hart had come to hold her face in his hands as he continued to kiss her as deeply as he could. Somehow, she managed to realize that he had really missed her. His desire felt explosive. She was beyond thrilled.

She tore her mouth from his. It was hard to speak as she clung to him. “Why don’t you take me home tonight,” she finally gasped.

His eyes widened. “I won’t pretend I am not tempted and highly so, but nothing has changed. We wait until our wedding night, Francesca.”

Her hands fisted and she pounded him once on the chest. “Damn it! I hate your nobility!”

He smiled at her. “I’m the least noble man you know. But I won’t treat you like the others.”

“You’ve never offered marriage to anyone else, so even if we share a bed before the wedding, you are not treating me like the others!” she cried. But this was a useless battle and she knew it. They’d had it several times before.

He stepped away from her, murmuring, “I’ll take care of you, but this is not the time or the place.”

She finally began to breathe, trembling now. She knew what he meant. She had been in his bed, once, for a few hours. He had touched and kissed her everywhere, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible. It had been sheer ec stasy. She blushed just thinking about it. “When?”

He laughed and turned away, raking his hand through his coarse, dark hair. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself,” he said, amusement in his tone.

“What is so entertaining about this?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

He stood at the fireplace, both hands on the marble mantle, and he gave her a look over his shoulder. His eyes were hot; his tone was not. “This is far harder for me than you, darling. Trust me.”

“Let’s move up the wedding,” she demanded.

“You know it is your father who insists upon a year.”

“I am going to change his mind,” Francesca vowed grimly.

He turned and faced her, making no effort to come close. “There is blood on your jacket,” he remarked.

Surprised, she glanced down at herself. When she saw a large, obvious smear of dried blood on the bottom of her blue wool jacket, she gasped. Then the comprehension dawned and horrified, she looked up.

His smile was grim. “Only you would walk into a dinner party covered in blood. Another case…darling?”

She found her voice. “No wonder Mama sounded so strange! Oh, dear! And I am not covered in blood—it is one smear!”

“There’s a patch on your skirt, too.” His tone was flat and surprisingly calm.

Which meant nothing. With Hart, it could be the lull before the storm. Francesca carefully noted a spot near her left knee. “I must have brushed the sheets,” she remarked, more to her self than to him.

“The sheets? Care to elaborate?” How casual he sounded.

She wrung her hands and met his gaze. “Did everyone see?”

“Undoubtedly.” He softened, approaching and taking her small hands in his large ones. “We will be the talk of the town, will we not, darling? I can see it now. My indiscretions, my past, my penchant for depravity, my shocking art—all will become passé. You shall meet me at an affair covered in blood, or with the smell of gunpowder on your clothes and in your hair. Now, instead of gossiping about me behind my back, they will gossip about you. They shall whisper that we are the oddest match, but that we deserve one another.” He actually smiled, clearly enjoying the notion.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her heart sinking. “I know you don’t care about your reputation, but I do care about mine, or at least, Mama cares, desperately, and—”

He suddenly reached out and reeled her back into her arms. “I know it hurts you to be called an eccentric, but with me at your side, they can call you far worse and it simply will not matter. As my wife, you will be able to do as you want. Surely you know that, Francesca? Our marriage will give you more freedom to be what you truly are than you have ever dreamed of.”

She stared, stunned. Of course, she knew Hart liked to shock society, as he so disdained its conventions, and he had the wealth and power to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. But she frankly hadn’t considered the power she would gain as his wife. He was right. They might gossip about her be hind her back, but as Mrs. Calder Hart, no door would ever be closed to her. As Mrs. Calder Hart, she could do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased to do it.

The concept was stunning.

He chuckled softly. “You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see how surprised you are, and how pleased.” He added, “I am glad that is not the reason you are marrying me. It isn’t my wealth you are after and it isn’t posi tion and power. Hmm. It must be my kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case.”

She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer. “It is definitely your kisses, Hart, that have so ensnared me.” She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merely from desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn’t she been worrying about that very possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changed the subject. “Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?”

His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. “No.”

Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. “Do you remember little Bridget O’Neil?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prostitution ring.”

“Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it was also the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think.” She thought about the trip she must make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business, actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed been the murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O’Leary.

Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wished she had chosen her words with more care.

“We?” he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp.

She winced to herself and sighed. “Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned as I was for Maggie Kennedy’s safety. We happened to be there at the same time and apparently we are both on the case.” She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be a jealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, at times arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged.

His jaw flexed. “Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so noble half brother.”

She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. “He is the commissioner of police!”

“He has more to do than investigate common crimes—he has a detective force for that.” Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now.

She followed. “You have no reason to be jealous,” she said, and the moment she spoke she regretted it.

He turned. “I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick.” His eyes had turned dark.

“If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him.”

“Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?” And his tone was mocking.

She tensed. “Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment. Good God, a moment ago I was fainting from passion in your arms! I don’t want Bragg to be between us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact with him.”

He sighed. “You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day I have been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind and take him back.”

She was stunned. “He is married. Leigh Anne almost died. In fact, she is going home tomorrow. He would never leave her, especially not now.”

Hart stared at her, clearly not accepting her every word.

Francesca did not like it. She was being sincere. She wanted to marry Calder Hart, never mind that there would be no white picket fence, never mind his reputation and his ex-lovers. The only thing she could not get past was how much courage was involved in being with such a man.

“And if he did leave her? Then what?” he asked softly.

She felt chilled. “You already know my answer.”

“Do I?” He was grim.

Francesca felt real despair. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved him, but she knew that everyone whose opinion she held dear would advise her against it. And even a woman of no previous experience knew better than to tell the city’s most notorious womanizer that she was in love. Besides, her emotions were so turbulent she wasn’t sure it was love. “Hart, you do know.” She hurried to him and took his hands in hers. “I want to be with you. I think I have been clear.”

He just looked at her and she wished that she could read his mind, but at times like this, it was impossible to know what he might be thinking. And then he spoke. “I am your second choice, Francesca, and there are times when it is crystal clear.”

And in that moment, she had a terrible premonition that he would never forgive her for wanting Rick Bragg first, for once thinking him her true love. Uneasy, she stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. As she feathered his unmoving mouth with hers, she said, “Please believe me. Remember, there have never been any lies between us. I will never lie to you, Calder. Not ever. It is you I want.”

He made a disparaging sound, but his arms went around her, tightening. “You want me in bed, darling. And while I do not mind, we both know neither one of us would be here like this if Leigh Anne had stayed in Europe.”

Francesca stiffened. For once she was at a loss and could not think of a good reply.

HIS GAZE WAS FIXED on the candle shining in the apartment window across the dully lit street. A single passing carriage, too fine for the ward, could not distract his eyes. He did not blink, not even once, but simply stared and stared.

He waited for a glimpse of her, moving about her flat, and he shivered, but not from the cold. He was used to damp and cold far more bitter than this. No, he shivered from excitement.

He stared unblinking at the hint of shadows moving inside the flat. And suddenly he saw her. The trembling ceased.

He was sick of them all.

Every single one, all of them whores, just like her.

Rage filled him—rage and need. Bloodlust.

He had made a terrible mistake and he knew it, but soon, very soon, his knife would cut, and this time, it would not be a tragic mistake, oh no. This time, the faithless bitch would die.

He smiled and his fingers twitched and then he found the hilt of the knife and he gripped it with great care. And watching her, he slowly stroked the blade.

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 9:00 a.m.

HE HAD COME to hate the city’s most renowned hospital. Now, instead of getting out of his roadster, Rick Bragg stared at the entrance of the pavilion in which his wife was being treated, gripping the Daimler’s steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached, dread forming in his chest.

The hospital took up several city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-eighth Streets, from the East River to Second Avenue. The many buildings that comprised it had been erected independently of one another, so that some of the pavilions were narrow and tall, others broad, whitewashed and squat. Just to his left, there was new construction under way for the tuberculosis clinic that would open early next year. A crane was lifting huge blocks of granite, the workers in their flannel shirts shouting encouragement to the operator.

He knew he was a coward. He had been sitting in his motorcar for twenty or thirty minutes, delaying the inevitable moment of alighting from the vehicle, of entering the accident ward, of walking down the sterile corridor, of crossing the threshold of the room that contained his wife.

It was not that he did not want to see her. It was that being with her took every ounce of his strength.

But she was alive, he reminded himself, fiercely relieved. Alive, conscious, with no apparent impairment to her brain. He didn’t care that her left leg was useless, that she would never walk again. Not when weeks ago it had seemed as if she might never wake up.

The guilt crushed him.

And for one moment, it was as if one of the granite blocks being carried to the new construction site had landed on him, making it impossible to breathe.

Decisively, Bragg got out of the Daimler. He laid his gloves and goggles on the front seat. Two passing male nurses nod ded at him. He tried to recall their names and failed.

His duster over his arm, he strode up the concrete path to the Accident Pavilion and pushed through the wood-and-glass door. Nurses, both male and female, and doctors stood around the reception desk. Someone saw him and waved him on through.

Her door was open. He paused, his heart beginning to race, and as he looked inside the sterile whitewashed room with several beds, all unoccupied except for hers, he saw that she was sitting up against her pillows, flipping through Harper’s Weekly. His heart quickened impossibly. She wore one of her own peignoirs, lavender silk and cream lace, and even crippled, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She realized he was standing there, staring, and she looked up, slowly putting the magazine aside.

He somehow smiled. He was perspiring now. So many emotions ran riot that he had more trouble breathing, thinking. The most dominant feelings were vast relief and crushing guilt.

“Good morning,” he heard himself say.

She carefully returned his smile. “Good morning.” Leigh Anne was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, with the face of a china doll. Her perfect features—large green eyes, tiny nose and rosebud mouth—were accentuated by a delicate ivory complexion. Her hair was thick, silken, straight and black. No man could enter a room where she was present and not look twice and then stare.

He noticed several new flower arrangements on the window-sill.

She followed his gaze. “Rourke came last night.”

“In the middle of the week?” His half brother was attending medical school in Philadelphia.

“Apparently he has applied for a transfer to the Bellevue Medical College and he has an interview this afternoon.”

Rick nodded, unable to focus on his half brother’s plans. “How are you today?” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting by her side.

She never looked directly at him anymore, it seemed. Her gaze on Rourke’s yellow hothouse roses, she said, “Fine.”

He wanted to reach over and take her tiny hands in his. And in spite of all the passion they had once shared, he did not dare touch her. He was afraid that she would reject him—as she should. “You must be so pleased to be going home today.”

She seemed to smile but she did not answer, her gaze now wandering to the magazine on the bed. Idly, she pulled it closer to her hip.

Ever since the accident, it had become like this, an utter failure of communication, utter awkwardness. He was sweating now. He wanted to pull her against his chest and stroke her hair and beg her for forgiveness, but of course he did not. At least, thank God, she was coming home. “I will come by at four or five, if that suits you,” he said.

She slowly looked up, her expression very hard to read.

“The girls are terribly excited,” he added, trying to smile. But he was a policeman, and before that a lawyer, and he knew when something was wrong.

“You didn’t bring them this morning,” she said softly, clearly dismayed.

Katie and Dot were two orphans who were fostering with them, and whom he intended to adopt. He had brought them to visit Leigh Anne every day. “You will see them this afternoon,” he said, smiling with an effort.

She turned her head away.

Alarm mingled with dread.

Then, not looking at him, she said, “I’m afraid it’s far too soon for me to go home.”

He started. Then, in an uncharacteristic rush, “The doctors think it would be best. I’ve hired two nurses to attend you round the clock. The girls are expecting you. I am expecting you!” he heard himself cry.

Her jaw hardened visibly and she looked him in the eye and repeated, “I’m afraid it’s too soon for me to go home, Rick.”

“ARE YOU CERTAIN THAT you don’t want to go inside?” Francesca asked, teasing.

She stood with Joel on Mulberry Street just outside of police headquarters. Joel was slouched with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which had holes at both knees. He had plopped a black felt cap on his head, and he scowled at the two front doors of the station house. Roundsmen in their blue wool uniforms and leather helmets were coming and going, a police wagon was parked not far from where they stood and Bragg’s Daimler was being surreptitiously watched by another patrolman. All of this was in the midst of one of the city’s worst slums.

Even now, a prostitute in a very revealing robe stood in the basement doorway across the street, taunting both the policemen and the male passersby. A drunk had just urinated on a tree, and several shabbily clad children were playing hooky from school. Francesca looked up at the bright blue, cloudless sky and she smiled, happily.

Hart’s image filled her mind.

Even now, she could feel his hard demanding mouth on hers.

He was back, it wasn’t a dream—she was engaged to the city’s most notorious bachelor and she couldn’t be happier.

Never mind his foolish jealousy of the night before. It would pass—it always did.

“I’m not going inside,” Joel said flatly. To emphasize his point, he spat on the sidewalk near his boot-clad feet.

He despised the police, having been apprehended, roughed up and incarcerated more times than he would ever admit. He also despised Rick Bragg, refusing to see past the fact that he was the police commissioner. Francesca stopped smiling and tried to be stern, no easy task when her heart was singing. Tonight she and Hart were dining at the Waldorf-Astoria, alone. She could hardly wait.

“Joel, spitting is ungentlemanly and it was uncalled for.”

He sighed. “Sorry. I’ll wait over there,” he said, gesturing with his head in some other direction.

“I won’t be long,” she said, smiling again. She patted the cap on his head and hurried up the granite steps and into the reception room.

As always, it was filled with civilians lodging one com plaint or another, newsmen looking for a scoop, recently apprehended thugs and rowdies waiting their turn to be formally charged and locked up, and the policemen and officers handling it all. Several staff were behind the long reception counter, including Sergeant O’Malley, and she waved at him. He nodded at her and called out, “He’s upstairs. Door’s open, I think.”

She had become a frequent visitor at police headquarters and needed no formal permission to come and go. No one seemed to have noticed, though, that she had not been present at the station in several weeks. Turning to hurry upstairs—she never used the elevator—she bumped into a man.

It was Arthur Kurland from the Sun, a snoop whom she thoroughly disliked. She should have expected this, as he was always at headquarters and just as often seeking her out. He smiled at her, steadying her. “I haven’t seen you at the station house in a long time, Miss Cahill. What brings you here?” He seemed delighted to see her.

She did not even try to pretend that she didn’t dislike him. After all, he was privy to far too many secrets. He had uncovered her brief romantic attachment to Bragg and Francesca sensed he was waiting to reveal the fact of their past liaison when it would be the most harmful foreveryone.

“Good morning.” She was brisk. “Surely you have heard by now that a woman was found murdered yesterday and that it might be the work of the so-called Slasher?” Trying to be imperious, she raised both pale eyebrows.

“Yes, I have. I take it you are on the case?”

“I am.”

He whipped out his notepad. “Any new leads?”

“I’m afraid it is far too soon to be speaking to the press.”

“Dear God, an arctic chill has just entered the room!” He laughed and tucked the pad and pen back into the breast pocket of his jacket, then adjusted the felt fedora he always wore. “You were only too eager to spill the beans last month when you were chasing after Tim Murphy and his gang.”

She scowled. “I had hoped that leaking information to the press might aid my investigation. This investigation is in the preliminary stages. I refuse to compromise it. Good day.” She shoved past him.

He quickly caught up. “Hmm, compromise. An interesting word. So, Miss Cahill, there are some things you will not compromise?”

Aghast, she faced him, feeling all the color drain from her face. She had been compromised more than once when alone with Rick Bragg and this man knew it. “That was unbearably rude. What do you want from me?”

“Does your fiancé know you are here and working with the man he hates more than anyone else?”

She stiffened. How did Kurland know that? “Calder doesn’t hate Rick Bragg. Calder and Rick are half brothers. They are close.” And, as she lied so baldy, she felt her cheeks turn red.

He laughed. “If you say so! But isn’t it difficult, spending the day with one man—and the evening with the other?”

She could barely respond, she was so livid. “You have the social grace of an ape, Mr. Kurland.” And she stalked away.

He followed. “It’s why I’m such a good reporter. Sure you don’t have a lead for me? Anything?”

She halted in her tracks and whirled and he crashed into her. They leaped apart. Panting, she said, “Are you attempting to blackmail me?”

“Moi?” He was incredulous. “Never, Miss Cahill.”

“A wise decision.” She wondered if she dared tell Hart about how dangerous this man was becoming. But then she would have to reveal the extent of her prior relationship with Bragg to him. And that would be dangerous, indeed. “Good day.” Her tone was final and she hurried up the stairs.

He stood at the bottom landing and called up, “And to answer your previous question, Miss Cahill, I haven’t decided what it is that I want from you.”

She glanced down and met his cool gaze and stumbled. As she righted herself, he tipped his hat in the most disrespectful manner and walked away. Filled with unease, she stared after him.

She knew she must warn Bragg. Quickly she turned and hurried up the hall to his office. His door was ajar but not open, solid wood on the bottom, the glass opaque on the top. She knocked and it swung wide.

His desk faced the door, a window that looked out over Mulberry Street behind him. She expected to find him up to his elbows in work—his desk was always stacked high with files—but instead, she found him sitting there, staring off into space, looking impossibly sad. She froze.

This was not the time, she realized, to burden him with Arthur Kurland. But what was wrong?

He started as he realized that she was present and jumped to his feet, smiling slightly, but Francesca knew him well enough to know the expression was forced. He was preoccupied and disturbed. And she had not mistaken the sadness in his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, coming forward. There was a fireplace on the other side of his desk with numerous photographs on the mantel, mostly of his vast family, although several were of him with President Roosevelt or with the mayor. But there had never been a picture there of Hart, his half brother, or of Leigh Anne, his wife. Now the first thing she saw was a huge portrait of Leigh Anne in an oval silver frame. It dominated the mantel and every other photograph placed there.

She quickly tore her gaze from the photograph, managing a smile. “Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting.”

And suddenly his facade vanished. His smile gone, he took her arm, guiding her to one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. “You could never be an interruption,” he said.

She did not sit. “What’s wrong, Rick?”

Instantly he turned away. “Nothing.”

She didn’t move, staring at his back until he sat down be hind his desk, facing her once again. He lifted a file. “Heinreich is almost certain that the same knife was used on all three victims.”

She did not want to discuss the case now. Something was terribly amiss. “Has something happened? Are the girls all right?”

“The girls are fine. The Slasher is at work, Francesca, and now the question is who will his next target be, and will he strike again on Monday?” Bragg handed the file across the desk. “I am glad you are on this case,” he added. “We don’t have much time.”

She took the file but did not open it; she could only stare. He looked away. Clearly he did not wish to discuss anything personal with her. Yes, everything had changed, because not very long ago he would open his heart to her without a moment’s hesitation. The urge to be his friend—a real friend—and to help him now overcame her, but so did guilt. What right did she have to the happiness she had just been feeling when his life was causing him such anguish? Surely, whatever was wrong, it could be fixed. Surely she could help! She had to help. Otherwise she was no friend at all.

But now was not the time to push or pry. As hard as it was to back away, she would do just that. She took a deep breath and opened the file. “Margaret Cooper was killed Monday afternoon, between noon and 4:00 p.m.,” she read from the file’s notes. A chill tickled her nape and she knew she was missing something very important. “So Margaret was not attacked at night like the others.”

“No.”

She glanced back at the file. “Her neck was cut with a blade no more than three inches long.” Surprised, she looked up. “Would that not be a common pocketknife?”

“Yes.”

Diverted now from Bragg’s private dilemma, she saw that it had not been an easy task to sever Margaret Cooper’s jugular. Some sawing had been involved. And the same dull blade had been used on all three victims, the cutting from right to left. She looked up. “In all likelihood, the Slasher is right-handed.”

“Yes.” He was intently focused on her now. “Apparently there is a nick on the murder weapon, a small indentation on what Heinreich believes to be the right side of the blade. That nick has caused a slight vee on the track of the slit on Miss Cooper’s throat. He said he noticed it on Kate Sullivan’s wound as well, but at the time thought nothing of it.”

“That is a wonderful clue!” She handed the file back to him and sat staring at him, wide-eyed. He stared back as thoughtfully. Her mind raced, but not conclusively. Something continued to nag at her, but she could not identify it. She heard herself wonder, “Is he going to sharpen that knife? And if so, will the nick be filed out?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Bragg rocked in his cane-backed chair. “I hope not,” he added.

She continued to think. “I see that there was no forced entry at Margaret Cooper’s. Did he pick the lock? Attain a key? Follow her inside?”

“There was no forced entry at Sullivan’s or O’Leary’s, either. None of the two women have any idea how he got inside their flats,” Bragg said. “I take it you will interview both women today?”

“I intend to try,” Francesca said grimly. And then she knew what she was missing and she shot to her feet. “Bragg!”

His eyebrows lifted and he stood. “What is it?”

“Bridget O’Neil stayed home from school on Monday! She had a cough. She was at home—alone—when Margaret Cooper was murdered.”

For one moment, he simply stared back at her. Then, “I cannot get away for a few hours.”

She almost smiled, for she knew exactly what he was thinking. “I did not notice her coughing yesterday. She is probably in school now, anyway.”

“Yes. How does 4:00 p.m. sound?”

“I’ll meet you at the O’Neils’.”

IT WAS NOON WHEN she stepped out of a hansom cab in front of the attractive limestone building that housed the Lord and Taylor store on the corner of Nineteenth Street. Paying the driver, she thanked him and hurried up Fifth Avenue to the wide, arched entrance. Once inside, Francesca saw that the ground floor was already crowded with dozens of ladies. Bragg had told her that Francis worked at the perfume and soap counter. She had not been to Lord and Taylor’s in some time, having no personal inclination for shopping, so she had no idea where that counter might be amongst the many others.

Facing her was a long counter filled with gloves, surrounding shelves of hats. Francesca glanced aside and saw a counter selling French and Belgian chocolates, and then she froze in disbelief. Had she just seen Hart’s former mistress at the glove counter?

Slowly, she looked back toward that glove display and her heart lurched wildly. Standing there, pulling on a delicate pair of beaded evening gloves, was none other than Daisy Jones.

Francesca felt hot. She started to fan herself with her purse. Daisy had yet to see her, and of course, Hart no longer visited her. Not only had he promised Francesca fidelity from the moment she had accepted his proposal, she had been eavesdropping on him when he had bluntly told Daisy of his intention to one day marry Francesca. That had been well before Francesca had had any intention of ever accepting him, and his words to his mistress had been a shock. He had coldly told Daisy that their relationship would be over from the moment Francesca became his fiancée.

Fanning herself did not help and she unbuttoned her gray jacket. She had gotten into a lot of trouble that day, for she had also watched Hart and Daisy indulge themselves in a bout of raw passion. She would never forget what she had seen.

She was at a loss, unsure of whether to approach Daisy or not, as once they had been on friendly terms. Of course, that had changed with her engagement to Hart—and the realization that she really wanted to marry him, that she had very strong feelings for him.

Francesca decided that there was no point in greeting the other woman. Because Daisy and Hart had originally agreed to a six-month liaison, he continued to allow her to live in the house he had bought for her, in spite of their breakup, until that six-month period had lapsed. There were still three full months left on that arrangement and Francesca knew that for a fact. But as she was about to hurry away, Daisy laid the evening gloves down, apparently declining to buy them, and turned and saw Francesca.

Her beautiful blue eyes widened.

Francesca halted and smiled so widely her face seemed to turn to plaster. “Daisy!” she cried as if the other woman were her very best friend. “I haven’t seen you in so long! How are you?” She went forward and grasped the slim woman’s shoulders while pecking her cheek.

Daisy smiled back. She was one of the most beautiful women Francesca had ever seen, so delicate and fragile in appearance, as pale as an alabaster statue with her platinum hair and fair complexion. Francesca knew exactly why Hart had made her his mistress and as always, when faced with just how lovely Daisy was, she failed to understand how he could refuse her bed now. There was simply no way that Francesca could ever compete in beauty, grace and elegance. The other woman also happened to be from a genteel background, although Francesca had never learned why she had become a fallen woman. When confronted with Daisy in the flesh, Francesca always felt tall, overweight and gauche.

“Francesca, this is such a pleasant surprise,” Daisy said softly in her wispy, childish voice. “Are you shopping?” She seemed mildly incredulous.

“Actually, I am on a case. I am here to interview someone.” Francesca continued to smile, although it had become painful. Of course, Hart would choose the most beautiful woman in the city to warm his bed, just as he bought the most controversial art, the most handsome and modern carriage, the fastest, most elegant horses. So the real question was, why did he wish to have Francesca in bed?

She could understand his rationale for marriage. They were friends. Hart admired and respected her and had never, not once in his life, had a friend before. But why not marry her and keep women like Daisy for his sensual entertainment? Now Francesca was sweating. She reminded herself that Hart did want her in bed, and he had proven it to her more than once, including last evening.

“I so admire you.” Daisy smiled, touching Francesca’s arm very lightly. “You are so clever, so bold. And Hart clearly thinks as I do. He is so proud of you, Francesca.”

“I’m not sure of that,” Francesca said, finally allowing her smile to vanish. Her cheeks ached anyway.

“Can I see the ring he gave you?” Daisy asked almost eagerly.

Francesca pulled off her kidskin glove. For one moment Daisy was still as she gazed at the huge diamond, which must have cost several fortunes. Then she smiled and looked up with admiration in her gaze. “Calder must be smitten.”

“Hart doesn’t believe in love,” Francesca said, and the moment the words were out, she wished to kick herself. It was true—Hart felt love was for fools and had been clear from the start that he was not about to succumb to the emotion, even if it could exist for him. Still, why not let the other woman think that Hart was in love?

Daisy’s very pale eyebrows lifted and her nearly turquoise-blue eyes were wide. “Still, he wishes to marry you. You are the talk of the town, Francesca, and the envy of every lady of marriageable age. Rose and I were just discussing it last night.”

Francesca desperately wanted to change the topic. “How is Rose?” she asked quickly. Rose and Daisy were best friends and, Francesca knew, longtime lovers, a relationship that both shocked and fascinated her.

“Wonderful,” Daisy said with a happy smile. “Now that Hart no longer visits me, she is allowed to come and go as she pleases.” Her smile vanished and she leaned close, confiding, “He was simply so possessive when we first began our affair. He was livid at the thought I should even want to chat with Rose and he refused to allow her even platonic visits. How jealous and controlling he was!”

Francesca hugged herself. That certainly sounded like Calder Hart.

Daisy smiled again. “But you must know that. I mean, you are now the focus of his attention, so surely you are receiving his outbursts of jealous rage.”

Francesca felt warning bells go off. She knew she must end this conversation and find Francis O’Leary. “Yes, Hart can certainly be jealous and demanding. Daisy, I must go.” But she felt oddly ill. Not too long ago Hart had been jealous over Daisy. Now he was jealous where she was concerned.

But Daisy took her hand, holding it tightly so that she could not leave. “Francesca, I must have a word with you!” she cried, appearing worried now.

Francesca knew that no good could come of any further conversation. “I really must go.” She shrugged free and started to flee.

“Rose and I are so worried about you. You are too naive to manage a man like Hart!” Daisy cried to her back.

Francesca halted in her tracks. Slowly, she turned to face the woman she had once sincerely liked and was now desperately afraid of. “I am not naive.”

Daisy went to her and gripped both of her hands. “Three months ago, Hart could not stay out of my bed. Night and day, he was there, and any man who looked at me was the target of his jealous rage.”

“Just stop,” Francesca said, wanting to plug up her ears like a child.

“No, you have to listen before he hurts you terribly! I know he truly wants you, and why not? You are beautiful and clever and he has never met a woman like you before, that much is clear. And you may last longer than all of the others, really—after all, he has become fond enough of you to ask you for marriage. But Francesca, Calder Hart is a very sensual man. You know this. You know his reputation, you know it is not false. Do you really think to keep his attention where it belongs—on you and only you?”

Francesca knew there was not one drop of blood left in her face. She simply could not speak, because every word coming from Daisy’s horridly pretty mouth was the truth.

“He is fascinated with you now. Not so long ago he was fascinated with me. And before that, there was someone else and before that, someone else. There will be someone after you, Francesca. Sooner or later, his gaze will wander, his gaze and his interest, and we both know that when that happens, his promises will mean nothing.”

Francesca knew that Daisy was right. She had known this all along, and it was why she had not been able to accept his proposal at first. It was why, after accepting, she had fled the city for an entire month, grappling with her emotions, her fear. It was why, in the darkest hours of the night, she would wake up in a sweat, terrified of her engagement, her impending marriage, terrified of Calder Hart. Daisy was right. There was simply no way a man like that was going to stay happily and faithfully married to any woman, much less herself. And the day he wandered was the day the sunshine would leave her life.

But she had to speak. So she drew her shoulders back. “I know.”

Daisy started.

Francesca somehow smiled, holding her head high. “You are hardly telling me anything new, Daisy. Remember, when I first met Hart I was in love with Rick Bragg. We became friends first, not lovers, and I know more about him than anyone else.” That was a stretch of the truth. She continued calmly. “We remain friends. And we share desire. He admires me, I respect him. It’s really very simple—we make a good match. It’s hardly a love match.” And she continued to smile.

“So you are marrying him because you cannot have the man you really want?” Daisy asked, her gaze intent and unblinking.

The question felt dangerous. For a split second, Francesca hesitated, then prayed her answer would not come back to haunt her. “Yes,” she lied. And she thought about what Hart had said last night. “And I am marrying him for wealth and power. As his wife, I can conduct my business affairs as I choose. We both know how independent I am. I will have more freedom than a woman could possibly dream of. Hart has assured me of that.”

Daisy stared. Then, with some admiration, she said, “You are clever, Francesca. You had me fooled. I thought you naive enough to have fallen in love and to think Hart your knight in shining armor. I apologize. Rose and I need not worry. This shall be a very good match, indeed.”

“We both think so,” Francesca said, hoping that Daisy did not see her relief. She began to tremble.

Daisy sighed and kissed her cheek. The most delicate floral scent emanated from her. “Please come and call on us. We would love to receive you,” she said.

“I will try,” Francesca said, not meaning it.

Daisy took her hands warmly in hers. “I hope you do not mind my speaking out. You are always forthright. I assumed you would appreciate my honesty.”

“Of course I do,” she lied with another smile.

“Hart is a lucky man,” Daisy said. Smiling at Francesca, she gave her an odd look and walked away.

Disturbed by that last remark and the lingering glance Francesca felt her knees give way. She collapsed against the counter, barely able to breathe. Tears rapidly filled her eyes.

She was naive and she was a fool. She had believed, or she’d wanted to, that Hart would be faithful to her forever! But Daisy was right. She was a current fascination, and only that. Marriage or no, one day his interest would wander and when that day came, she would be destroyed.

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Francesca faced the shopgirl behind the counter. “I’m fine,” she managed. “Thank you.” But even as she spoke, she wondered what she should do. These past few weeks she had managed to control her deepest, most secret fears. The recent encounter with Daisy had brought them to light again. Nothing had changed.

Hart did not love her, did not even believe in love, and she was falling head over heels for him. Dear God, what should she do?

If she was smart, she would walk away. That much, at least, was clear.

Either that, or she would have to be very, very brave.

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 1:00 p.m.

HAVING COMPOSED HERSELF, Francesca paused before the counter selling soaps and perfumes. A pretty, brunette shopgirl was discussing the merits of a lavender soap with an older, elegant lady. Francesca waited at the counter and stared.

The shopgirl was in her early twenties. Her black dress had a white collar and cuffs and did not quite conceal all of her throat. Today, Francis O’Leary wore no bandage. A pale pink line on her neck indicated that she had been the Slasher’s victim.

The lady opened her purse and took out some coins. Francesca noticed Francis’s rings. On the fourth finger of her left hand, a tiny red stone winked in a band of silver. Francesca wondered if the ring had any significance.

Her soap wrapped and in a small shopping bag, the buyer left. Francis approached Francesca with a smile. “May I help you, miss?”

Francesca smiled in return, handing Francis O’Leary her business card. It read:

Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case too Small

Francis read the card, her dark eyes growing wide. With a small gasp, she looked up. “What is this about?” she said on a note of fear.

“Are you Francis O’Leary?” Francesca asked kindly.

Francis tried to hand her back the card. “Yes, I am! This is about the Slasher?” She seemed panicked.

“You may keep my card, please, in case you need to reach me,” Francesca said. “Yes, this is about the Slasher. I have taken the case, Mrs. O’Leary.”

Francis had paled. “I told the police everything I could,” she whispered.

“Would you mind repeating it all to me?”

She hesitated. “No, I don’t mind…but I am trying to forget it, him!”

Francesca clasped one of her hands. “We must prevent him from striking again. Did you hear that there was a third victim this past Monday—and that she died?”

Francis cried out. “But he did not want to kill me! I am certain of it!”

“How can you be certain?” Francesca asked.

“I’m sure of it! He could have killed me if he had wanted to!”

“Please, Mrs. O’Leary, just tell me what happened.”

Francis hesitated and nodded. She continued to clutch the glass counter, her knuckles white. “I had no idea someone was in my flat. I had worked all day. I was tired, very tired, and hungry.” Tears filled her eyes. “I had bought a loaf of bread on my way home with some dried corned beef. I thought to soak my feet a bit and then eat.”

Francesca wondered if every shopgirl in the city had ill-fitting shoes. “Go on.”

“I unlocked my door, then closed and locked it. I was about to sit down on the sofa when he grabbed me from behind.” Her wide eyes shimmered with the tears that had yet to fall. “He held the knife to my throat, the blade barely touching my skin. He said something in a hoarse whisper, and then he cut me. And then he shoved me away, to the floor. When I looked up, he was gone.”

“The police say you cannot recall his words.”

Francis simply looked at her. The tears fell now.

“I am so sorry to upset you,” Francesca whispered. “But I do not want another woman hurt—or murdered.”

“I dreamed about him last night.”

Francesca was surprised. “What did you dream?”

“It makes no sense. I dreamed he called me a faithless woman.” She looked down at the display beneath the glass countertop. She whispered, not looking up, “I think…I am almost certain that he called me a faithless…bitch.”

Her surprise increased. Francesca leaned forward. “You think that because of your dream or because you can remember his words?”

Francis gazed at her. “It was so real. Like remembering something you should have never forgotten.”

If the Slasher had called her faithless, that would imply that he knew Mrs. O’Leary. “Would you recognize his voice again if you heard it?”

“Yes!” She shivered. “Of course I would.”

Francesca was thoughtful. Then she held up Francis’s left hand. “Is that an engagement ring?”

Francis blushed, smiling. “Yes. My friend gave it to me Saturday. The attack made him realize how much he loves me.”

“Your friend?”

“Sam Wilson. My…husband…died two years ago. There’s been no one since. It’s been so long…and then I met Sam.” She was smiling and clearly in love. “We met in March. March 3rd, to be exact.”

“I am very happy for you,” Francesca said, hiding her surprise. Bragg had told her that Francis’s husband had disappeared over two years ago, clearly having decided to leave his wife. But she was claiming that he was dead—while preparing to marry another man. Did her fiancé, Sam Wilson, know the truth? Francesca wondered. And she could not help but note that Francis had met Sam Wilson a month before the Slasher’s first assault.

“Mrs. O’Leary, the police commissioner told me that your husband abandoned you two years ago. That he simply left one day and never came back.” Francesca stared at the woman.

Francis turned crimson. “Oh,” she said, sitting down on a stool behind the counter. “Oh,” she said again. Tears filled her eyes.

“So he isn’t dead?” Francesca asked, this time gently.

Francis shrugged. “He’s dead to me, Miss Cahill. Please, please don’t tell my fiancé! Sam has made me so happy!” she cried.

“I won’t say a word,” Francesca said. She felt sorry for the young woman now. “Why would anyone, much less the Slasher, label you as faithless?”

Her dark eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know! I adored my husband, Miss Cahill, until the day he left. Until that day, he was a good, solid, honest and hardworking man—or so I thought! I was never faithless to Thomas.”

Until now, Francesca thought silently. She decided to ask Bragg if the police could attempt to locate Francis’s errant husband. “And what about your loyalty to Sam?”

“I would never be faithless to the man in my life. I’ve seen no one but Sam since my husband left me.”

Francesca met the other woman’s unwavering gaze. She did not look away as most liars did, and there was no change in her coloring. Francesca felt rather strongly that Francis had buried her husband some time ago—that, to her, he was really dead. If Francis had been called a faithless bitch, it had probably meant nothing more than the words of a maddened killer. “Mrs. O’Leary, do you have any idea where your husband is? Have you heard from him at all since he left?”

Francis set her jaw. “I have not had a single letter—not a single word! But I do suspect he went West. He was always talking about the open ranges of Texas and California. And Miss Cahill, if he did go out West, well, then he could be dead, couldn’t he? They say that land is a dangerous, lawless place.”

Francesca realized that trying to locate Thomas O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”

“He must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”

“But how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”

“Perhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”

“It is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”

“Yes.” But she appeared uncertain now.

“But what did you do with your bag of groceries, your purse? And I assume you wore a hat and perhaps a coat or shawl? Wouldn’t you put your bags down first and then remove your hat and shawl and after that lock the door?”

Francis stared. After a moment, she said, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. There were a few moments when the door was unlocked, maybe even ajar, while I did those things.” She flushed. “I seem to remember the door being ajar when I went back to lock it. Oh, God! He slipped inside while I was unpinning my hat or some such thing!” she cried.

“Yes, I think the Slasher could have slipped inside after you. I am assuming you did not light a candle yet?” Francesca now made some rapid notes.

“I never had a chance to light a candle that night, Miss Cahill. It hadn’t become fully dark yet. After I locked the door I went to sit, and that was when he seized me.” Her eyes re mained wide, but respect filled them now.

Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”

“No, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”

“Perhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.

Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.

But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.

THE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.

The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelier overhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.

He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”

Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and dashing, and until his fall from Cahill grace, he had been a premier catch. Francesca smiled up at him, searching his eyes. “You seem very well.”

He laughed and shrugged. Then, “I haven’t been at the tables in over a month, Fran.”

She cried out in surprised delight. Evan had a passion for gaming and, to her dismay, she had learned that his debts exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. That had been one of the causes of friction between him and their father. Recently, the man to whom he owed the vast sum of money had threatened his life. Francesca had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from Hart to pay him partially back, and Hart had called on the creditor as well, to make it clear that Evan’s life would not be forfeit for his debts. Since then, there had been no more threats and no more assaults. But on several occasions in the past Evan had lapsed into his old habit of gambling. Francesca was thrilled that he had managed thus far to stay away from the nightclubs. “That is wonderful,” she said. “And there is no temptation?”

He gave her a dark look. “There is always temptation, Fran. I will be tempted until my dying day.” Then he lightened. “But the countess is keeping me quite busy and very distracted.”

An image of the radiant, auburn-haired widow came to mind. “Has it become serious?” Francesca asked lightly. She happened to like the flamboyant countess, but she did not quite trust her. Bartolla Benevente had once meddled in her private affairs when she had been infatuated with Rick Bragg.

Evan hesitated, running his hand through his dark hair, and paced over to the wall of windows, which looked out onto Madison Avenue. Francesca followed him. Below, the street was filled with carriages and trolleys; the city was doing business in full swing. Pedestrians—mostly darkly clad gentlemen—hurried up and down the street. She suddenly thought about Hart and the evening ahead and she smiled.

Then she thought about Daisy and she frowned, her heart skipping with fear.

“I don’t know,” Evan finally said, facing Francesca directly. “I am in love, but…I have been in love before.”

How mature his assessment was. Francesca was impressed. “Yes, you have. And you do gravitate to the Bartolla Beneventes of this world.”

He smiled a little at that. “Yes, I do. She would make a good wife.”

“I doubt she wishes to wed a law clerk.”

“Yes, I agree, and I have thought about that. She urges me frequently to make up with Father.”

Francesca met his gaze and touched his arm. “You do what you need to do, Evan. I am very proud of you.”

He shook his head, his expression self-deprecating. “And how are you? You seem radiant, Francesca, but then I look into your eyes and I see that you are worried. Is everything all right?”

Now it was Francesca who hesitated. It crossed her mind to tell Evan about the awful conversation with Daisy, but she had no wish to dwell on the painful subject. “I am on another case,” she said, an attempt to distract herself. Then she gave up. “I ran into Daisy a few hours ago.”

Evan started. “Daisy? You mean that lovely creature whom Hart…you mean—” he coughed “—Hart’s, er, Daisy Jones?”

Francesca hugged herself. “I know that he was keeping her as a mistress, Evan. You need not be discreet with me.”

Evan stared, his forehead creased. “Fran, it is over?” Doubt filled his tone.

She knew she should not have raised the subject. “He broke it off with her when I accepted his proposal.”

Evan spoke with care. “What I love most about you is your loyalty and trust.”

“What does that mean?” she asked with dread.

“Fran, I don’t know how to say this, but he keeps her still!”

She stiffened. “If you mean she continues to live in his house, the house he bought for her, I know that. He promised her six months and will live up to that agreement. But he stopped seeing her the day I accepted his proposal. I happen to know that for a fact—I was spying on him with Daisy when he told her he would be faithful, Evan. And Daisy even admitted he no longer sees her now that he is engaged.”

Evan laughed, visibly relieved. “I am so pleased! I did not know.” Then he sobered. “But Fran, everyone thinks she remains his mistress. It is unwise for him to allow her to live in that house.”

Francesca stared. “Do you mean that society assumes Calder has a mistress, in spite of his engagement to me?” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, I do.”

She gaped, and then she was furious. “But it’s not true! Is that really what everyone says?”

He sighed and took her hand. “I’m afraid that it is the obvious conclusion to be drawn. And why is Hart being so honorable with such a woman?”

She pulled free. “He is quite noble, Evan, I have learned that in the few months since we met. He gave his word and he is keeping it.” Now she really began to worry. “If Father learns of this, we are through! He dislikes the match enough as it is.”

“I agree with you,” Evan said. Then, ruefully, he added, “I am sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, Fran.”

She walked away, still angry but also somewhat mortified. “They are all gossips and hypocrites,” she huffed.

“Many of them are. Is that why you look so worried? Because Daisy still resides in that house?”

She slowly faced him and did not speak.

He stared for a long moment. “Francesca?”

“I am such a fool,” she whispered. And she felt tearful again. “I think I have fallen in love with Hart, Evan. What will I do?”

He quickly came forward, taking her hands. “But that is wonderful. You will marry for love! As you, of all people, should, Fran. And Hart—well—” he smiled “—I think he has finally found his match.”

She pursed her lips and it was a moment before she could speak. “Even if I am his match intellectually, I am not half as lovely as Daisy or the other women he has been with.”

He was incredulous. “Is that what is bothering you?”

“Yes…no. I am in love with a dissolute man, Evan. How will I manage to avoid a broken heart?”

Evan was silent for a moment. Then he put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa, where they both sat. “Well, if anyone can answer this question, I suppose it is me. I certainly qualify, do I not?”

She knew that he referred to his own womanizing ways. She nodded.

“I won’t lie to you, Fran. You may be in for heartbreak and sorrow. But on the other hand, there is a saying, and it is said for a reason. Every dog has its day. Hart would not be the first rake to be reformed by a good woman.”

For a long moment she stared, terribly desperate for reassurance. “What do you really think?” she finally asked.

He was grim. “I like Hart. I think he is very fond of you. But…he is the most jaded man in town. I can’t help but worry about the future—the way that Father does.”

She nodded, hating what he had said.

He said, “If you break this off, though, you will never know what might have been.”

Francesca looked at him. “I don’t want to break anything off.”

“Then don’t. Give him the benefit of the doubt. So far he has treated you with the utmost respect.”

That was true. She nodded, feeling a bit better. “And he has never even considered marrying anyone until he met me,” she added.

“That is true, and it does speak volumes.” Evan smiled again and stood. “I have to get back to work. Is that why you called?” He became teasing. “To ask your black-sheep older brother for his questionable advice?”

She also rose, relieved to change the subject. “Actually, no. I came to tell you about the case I am on, because I am just a bit worried about Maggie.”

His reaction was instantaneous. “Is Maggie in danger? Are the children in danger?” he demanded.

Francesca was so surprised by his vehement tone that she blinked. “I don’t know. I hope not. Have you read about the Slasher, Evan?”

His eyes widened impossibly. “Damn it, Francesca, get to the point! Is Maggie in any way involved with the Slasher?”

She touched him. “Calm down. She is not involved with the Slasher. There was a third victim on Monday, and she died. She also lived two doors from Maggie. I merely want Maggie to be cautious. I suggested that she and the children stay with us next Monday, as we suspect the Slasher will adhere to his pattern and strike again then.”

Evan was quite pale. Then he said grimly, “I hate the circumstances she lives in! How can she raise those children in such a hovel? Before I walked out on my fortune, I had wanted to get her and the children situated in a better area. But it was not my place and she is so proud, I knew she would refuse. Now I have no funds. Francesca, it is simply intolerable for her to live in that slum.” His blue eyes blazed.

His passionate outburst amazed her. “Evan, I know you are fond of the Kennedy children, but is there something more? Are…are you more than fond of Maggie herself?” Francesca heard herself boldly ask, in real confusion.

And he was clearly startled. He backed up. “What? I mean, of course I am fond of Mrs. Kennedy. How could I not be? She is a wonderful woman, so kind, so compassionate, so caring. And my God, she has raised those children on her own, working herself almost to death to give them a good home. But what, exactly, are you suggesting?” His disbelief grew. “Surely you are not suggesting some kind of romantic attachment on my part?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca said carefully.

He laughed in disbelief and walked away, then began to pace in consternation.

Francesca watched him carefully. Was it possible that Evan did have a romantic attachment but that he refused to admit it, even to himself?

He turned. “I want her to move uptown, now. I will speak with Mother and make certain there is no issue.”

Francesca felt certain that Evan cared far more than he was admitting. But he was also very involved with the countess, so she did not know what to really think. “She is proud, as you have said. She dislikes charity, which we both know. She isn’t even certain she will move uptown on Monday, Evan. I doubt she will pack up and go today.”

He glared. “Yes she will,” he said. “I am taking the afternoon off—to hell with everything. She will not refuse me—you watch and see.”

Francesca began to smile. It had become clear which way the wind blew. Carefully she hid her smile and her satisfaction as she watched her brother storm from the room.

SOMEHOW, MOSTLY THROUGH tearful pleading, she had gained permission from her supervisor to leave work an hour early. All day, Gwen had thought about little other than her daughter as she poured tallow into mold after mold. She had not wanted Bridget to miss another day of school, so she had dropped her there that morning. Within five minutes of leaving her daughter on the public building’s front steps, she had begun to worry.

A killer was on the loose. He was in their neighborhood. Bridget’s school was only a few blocks from where the killer had last struck. Would Bridget be safe in school? Gwen thought so. But she did not want her daughter setting one foot out on the street by herself—not after school, not before school, not ever. If anything happened to her daughter, she would die. Bridget was her life.

Standing in the aisle of the horse-drawn omnibus, Gwen clung to the safety strap, surrounded by strangers. Bridget had already walked home from school and she prayed that she was safe. Maybe they shouldn’t have left their home in Ireland. With everything that had happened in the month and a half since their arrival in America, Ireland seemed far safer than New York City, which had become cold and lonely, a dark and threatening place.

She bit her lip so she would not cry. There was no going back and she knew it. They were trapped here, in the merciless city, trapped in poverty, hopelessness and, now, real danger.

Briefly she closed her eyes as she swayed in tandem to the rocking omnibus. Briefly, she saw the vast, manicured green lawns that swept up to the imposing, stone-gray palatial residence where she had once been employed. For one moment, it was as if she stood at the foot of the long, winding, graveled driveway, watching the gardeners tend the various blooms. And in that moment, she watched the master of the house appear on the wide, flat front steps, a tall, dark man in a riding coat, breeches and high boots—a handsome man who had never smiled in the entire first year she had worked there.

Her heart still ached with the memories and it was an ache that would never go away.

Gwen inhaled hard, forcing the past far away, and that was when she felt eyes boring into her back.

She straightened, her grip on the safety strap tightening as the bus lurched to a stop to discharge a passenger. The feeling of being watched did not disappear. It became hard to breathe. Very slowly, she turned around.

But the men seated behind her on the crowded bus were reading dailies. She looked down the aisle at the other standing passengers. No one was looking her way, no one at all. The back doors swung closed and the omnibus lurched forward.

Glancing wildly around, she thought, I must be losing my mind.

On the sidewalk, he watched the bus disappearing.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 5:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA SMILED AS her cab halted in front of the building where Gwen O’Neil lived. Bragg’s black roadster was parked on the street, a conspicuous sight amidst the drays and wagons on the block. Bragg stood leaning against the hood, his hands in the pockets of his brown wool suit jacket, appearing thoughtful.

As the bay in the traces lowered his head, the driver turned around and opened the small window behind his back. The front seat was elevated and he smiled down at her. “Twenty cents, miss.”

Francesca handed him twenty-five. She reached for the door but Bragg was already opening it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

“I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

He stopped and looked at her.

“I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

“Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

“Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

“He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O’Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.

Bragg leaned against the wall, reflective.

“I would tend to believe that it was just a dream, as there does not seem to be anything faithless about her,” Francesca said.

“You are supposing that he knew her and deliberately chose her as his victim. He might have a vendetta against all young, pretty women, Francesca, based on some experience he has had with one particular woman. He might only vaguely know his victims and they might not know him at all.”

“I have also thought of that. It would be helpful if the killer knew his victims and chose them deliberately.” She was grim. “If he randomly attacks women, how will we ever find him?”

“I have assigned extra men to patrol this ward. I have expanded the two square blocks in which all the victims were found to six square blocks.”

“That is a good idea, but that will not change the fact that we need to knock on doors. Someone must have seen someone suspicious lurking about last Monday near here.”

“I hope so,” he said. “This case will involve a lot of legwork.”

That was her cue. She smiled at him. “And what should we do about Francis O’Leary’s missing husband?”

He smiled in return. “Find him?”

“I was hoping you would say that!” she cried. “Of course, that will involve even more legwork and we may never locate him. He could be dead, for all we know.”

“When you look at the current case file, you will see that Newman began a preliminary search for Thomas O’Leary. He interviewed his friends, co-workers and employer. No one had any idea that he would abruptly walk out on his wife or his life. I should not be surprised if we learned he was dead—or if we never learned where he went and where he is now.”

She agreed wholeheartedly. “Rick, why would a man who abandons his wife come back to assault her, and then assault a similar woman before murdering Margaret Cooper? I should love to interview O’Leary, but he is not high on my list of suspects.”

With some fond amusement, he said, “And is there a list of suspects?”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a list of zero.”

He laughed. Then, “I am truly pleased to be on another case with you, Francesca.”

“So am I,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps Joel has discovered something useful. So, is Leigh Anne home? The girls must be ecstatic.”

His smile vanished. “She is undoubtedly walking through the front door as we speak.” The moment he spoke, he grimaced, clearly displeased with his choice of words. He knocked abruptly on Gwen O’Neil’s door.

She was stunned. What was this? Why wasn’t Bragg with her? Why wasn’t he ecstatic? “Perhaps you should be home as well. I can interview Bridget by myself, Rick, and relay all the pertinent information to you later.”

Not turning, he knocked again. “She is aware of my schedule,” he said.

There was no mistaking the tense note in his tone or the rigidity in his back. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Is every thing all right?” she asked carefully, almost wishing she had not brought up this obviously painful topic.

He glanced sidelong at her. “Yes.”

Francesca did not know what to think, but clearly, Bragg did not wish to discuss his wife. She knew she must respect his wish for privacy, but what had happened? Everything was not all right, any fool could discern that. Then she realized there was still no answer to the knock.

“No one is home. We will wait,” Bragg said flatly.

Rather relieved to be distracted from Bragg’s personal life, Francesca stepped past him and rapped smartly on the door. “Mrs. O’Neil?” she called. “Bridget? It is I, Francesca Cahill.”

Bragg smiled a little at her. “You remain the terrier with the bone. No one is home, Francesca.”

She started to try again, when the door suddenly opened and Bridget appeared there, white-faced and shaken. There was no mistaking her fear. “My mum’s not home yet,” she whispered.

“We have scared you!” Francesca cried, putting her arm around the pretty red-haired child. “I am so sorry!”

Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought it might be the Slasher.”

“You are right to exercise caution,” Bragg said as they stepped inside.

“The Slasher does not knock,” Francesca told her, guiding her to the table. Then she realized that they did not know that, not at all, as they did not know how he got into the first two women’s flats. Perhaps he had knocked on Margaret Cooper’s door, only to con his way inside. She glanced at Bragg and clearly, he was reading her mind. “Did you go to school today?” she asked.

Bridget nodded, still trembling. “I’m not coughing today.”

“That’s wonderful. Bridget, can we ask you some questions?”

The small red-haired child stared anxiously, even suspiciously, at her. “What kind of questions?”

“You know that Mr. Bragg is the police commissioner?”

Bridget nodded, glancing his way.

“We are trying to find the man who murdered Margaret Cooper,” Francesca said.

“I know,” Bridget returned. And then tears filled her eyes. “Why did we have to come here? I hate America!”

Francesca shared a glance with Bragg and sat down beside her, taking her small hands in hers. “I know how hard this must be for you, leaving your home behind. But one day, this will be your home, too.”

“It will never be my home. I hate it here! I wish we could go home, but we can’t, I know that.” She wiped her eyes with anger.

The reason why the O’Neils could not return to Ireland was not her concern and had nothing to do with the case. But Francesca was curious, and past investigations had taught her never to leave any stone unturned. Before she could get the words out, Bragg said, “Why can’t you return to Ireland, Bridget?”

Bridget looked at him. “Because Papa hates us.”

Francesca’s eyebrows lifted and bells shrieked alarmingly in her mind. “I’m sure your father doesn’t hate you,” she said.

Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her mouth hard together.

“Why would your father hate you?” Bragg asked quietly.

She shrugged, looking away, clearly determined not to respond.

“Where is your father?” Francesca tried.

Bridget glanced sullenly at her. “In jail.”

Francesca bit her lip and quickly exchanged a glance with Bragg.

“Is he in a prison in Ireland? Or is he in the city?” Bragg asked quietly.

“He’s in Limerick.”

Francesca was disappointed. Briefly, she thought they might have had a lead.

Then Bridget started to cry. “He’s still supposed to be there. But today, after school, I thought I saw him across the street!”

Francesca stood, staring at Bragg, who stared back. “Darling,” she said, clasping Bridget’s shoulder, “you think your father is here, in the city?”

“I swear I saw him!” Bridget was in tears. “But if Mama finds out, she will be more afraid than she is now!”

Francesca knelt before the child, clasping both of her hands. “Why do you think your father hates you? Why was he in jail? And why would your mother be afraid if your father were here in the city?”

She bit her lip. Finally she whispered, “Mama says I am not allowed to speak of it.”

“This is a police matter,” Francesca said gently. “You cannot withhold information from the police. It is against the law.”

“I can go to jail?” she gasped.

“No one is sending you to jail,” Francesca said firmly. “But surely you wish to obey the law?”

Bridget nodded glumly. Then, in a rush, she spoke. “Papa tried to murder Lord Randolph!”

Francesca stood. She didn’t have to ask. Bragg said, “Who is Lord Randolph?”

Bridget covered her face in her hands. “The man Mama loves.”

AS HE TOOK THE steps in the narrow stairwell two at a time, Evan Cahill was well aware that his heart was racing. He could not shake the conversation he had just had with Francesca from his mind. But his leaping pulse had nothing to do with romantic matters. He felt sure of it. He was very fond of Maggie and the children, but his adrenaline was the result of fear and determination, nothing more.

Still, he had not visited her and the children in some time and he was eager to see them all. He was equally aware of that.

He paused before her door, noticing that it was freshly painted a cheerful shade of blue. As he finger-combed some pieces of hair back into place, he wondered if she had painted the door herself. He hoped that Joel had done it for her. She worked herself to the bone as it was. The last time he had been there, the brown paint on the door had been flaking and peeling away from the wood.

He straightened his tie and knocked. As he waited for a response, his heart tightened unmistakably, and then he heard Maggie’s voice on the other side of the door. He felt himself smile.

“Paddy, stop. You know we do not open doors until we know who is on the other side,” she scolded.

Paddy was five and a mischievous handful. He looked just like Maggie, except that his red hair was far brighter. “It’s Joel,” Paddy cried in protest.

“Probably,” she said. “Who is it?” she then called.

He felt his smile increasing. “Evan Cahill.” An image of her pretty blue eyes filled his mind and he could imagine Paddy pressed against her skirts.

And he felt her surprise and could almost see her hesitate. A moment later the door opened and she stood there in a simple dove-gray skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair swept back into a bun, her eyes wide with surprise. She appeared breathless.

“Hello,” he said. And even as distressed as he was with the circumstance of the Slasher striking two doors down, he held a paper bag filled with cakes and cookies in his arms. He knew Maggie would refuse a sack of groceries.

Her mouth trembled. “Hello, Mr. Cahill. I…I’m sorry, we were not expecting company. The flat is a mess!” And as she spoke, Paddy cried out in delight and tackled him about the knees, hugging him there.

“Mrs. Kennedy, please do not stand on formality with me. I was in the neighborhood and I thought to bring the children some treats.” He made no move to step inside but he could see from the corner of his eye that the flat was as clean as a whistle and as tidy as always. He did not know how she fed and housed her four children so properly. His admiration for her knew no bounds. “Paddy, my boy, if you do not loosen up I may keel over.” He was joking and he winked at Maggie.

But she did not smile now. “Please, come in,” she whispered nervously.

As he did, Mathew whooped and barreled over to hug him, too. Evan set the bag down on the kitchen table, draped in a blue-check tablecloth, and he slapped the seven-year-old on the back. “How are you, buddy?” he asked with a grin.

“Great,” Mathew grinned. “I got an A in arithmetic!”

“That’s wonderful,” Evan said, meaning it and feeling oddly proud of the child. “And what grades did you receive in reading and writing?”

“Bs,” Mathew said earnestly, eyes wide. Like Joel, he had midnight-black hair and the dark eyes to match.

“Good job,” Evan said softly, pulling him close for a moment. Then he felt Maggie come to stand behind him and his entire body tensed. Slowly, he released the boy and turned, uncertain now of why he reacted to her so. He felt somewhat breathless.

“I’ll put up some tea. Lizzie just went to sleep and Joel is out,” Maggie said, her eyes wide and riveted on him.

He gave up. There was something so pretty about her, and why deny it? That meant nothing, of course, as he was very involved with Bartolla, whom he would probably one day marry. And Bartolla was the kind of woman he was insanely attracted to—gorgeous, bold and far from innocent. But Maggie was lovely and he had always had an eye for attractive women, so of course he would notice her. But there was something else about her, something he could not put his finger on. In a way, she was like a ray of the purest light.

However, Maggie and he were from different worlds. They both knew it. The gulf of class and economy that separated them was as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. So even if Francesca was right—which she was not—any feelings on his part, other than the noble ones of admiration, respect and friendship, were entirely inappropriate.

“Thank you,” he said very quietly. He was uncharacteristically shaken.

“Joel and your sister are on a case,” Maggie said, hovering over the kettle she had just set to boil.

He stared for a moment at her slim back. Most women who had had four children had long since gone to fat. Maggie remained slender. Not for the first time, he thought her a touch too thin. But then, he knew her rather well now and he knew she gave the best of everything, including their meals, to her children. He saw a pot on the stove. Now curious, he wandered over.

She whirled and they were face-to-face, mere inches separating them, her back to the stove.

For one moment, he did not move, impossibly aware of her, realizing that she wore the faintest scent, floral and sweet. Then he stepped aside. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured, glancing into the pot. She was making a stew, a few potatoes and onions simmering with some bones. There was no meat to be seen.

Maggie had scurried to the kitchen table and grasped the back of a chair. “Have you had supper?” she said very breathlessly. “I mean, we do not have much, but you are welcome to dine with us.”

He knew he had made her nervous and he hated that she was so skittish around him. Maybe she sensed his admiration could have been something more, if the circumstances had been different. Suddenly, he wished that the circumstances were different.

Confusion stunned him.

“Mr. Cahill?” she asked.

He leaped away from the stove, smiling. But he remained shaken. “I’d like to take you and the children to supper,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

Now that he had spoken, he liked the idea. He’d put a huge meal into them all.

“You want to take us to supper? You mean, to a restaurant?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. We should wait for Joel,” he decided.

Maggie hugged herself. “I can’t accept.”

His smile vanished. “Mag—Mrs. Kennedy, please. I’m hungry, and not in the mood for soup. A nice beef roast would do.” He smiled encouragingly now and could almost feel her mouth water.

“Surely you did not come all this way to take my family to dinner?”

He became sober. “Francesca told me about your neighbor.” Then he glanced at the children. “I’d like to find a private moment to discuss this with you.”

She bit her lip, also glancing at the two boys, who were playing with some toy soldiers, all in Confederate gray. “It is very unsettling,” she whispered.

He walked directly to her and took her hand. He also lowered his voice. “Two doors down, Maggie? It’s not acceptable. I must insist that you take my sister up on her offer.”

A mulish expression appeared on Maggie’s face. “I know that Francesca means well, as do you, but we are not a case for charity.” Her tone rose with some anger.

And he was as angry. Still, he fought to keep his voice down. “This is not about charity. This is about the safety of your children and your own safety, too.”

“I have thought about it. On Monday we will stay with my brother-in-law.”

He started, surprised. And while he would prefer her to be safe and sound in the Cahill home uptown, this was better than nothing. “Where does he live?”

“A bit farther uptown, right on the East River at Twentieth Street. He won’t mind. Since my husband died, he is the only family we have here in the city. He’s a good man and very fond of the children,” she added.

“You would be safer uptown,” he said, and by that he meant Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first Street where the Cahill mansion and his own home, now abandoned, were.

“I heard that all of the victims lived between Tenth and Twelfth Streets. My brother-in-law’s flat is far from this vicinity,” she said stubbornly.

He sighed. “I can hardly twist your arm.”

“No, you cannot.” And then she softened. “Do not misunderstand. I truly appreciate your concern. Really.”

“I will surrender—but only if you agree to have supper with me,” he said. The moment he realized how flirtatious his tone had become, he tensed. “With the children,” he added quickly.

She stared. “I…I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

He had been chasing and seducing women his entire adult life. Taking her hand was sheer instinct. “It’s only supper, Mrs. Kennedy. One you and your children shall thoroughly enjoy.” The same instinct widened his smile and intensified his persuasive stare.

Her cheeks turning red, she tore her glance away. “While we wait for Joel,” she said, low, “I’d like to tidy up the children.”

He had won. Grinning, he realized he held her hand and almost lifted it to his lips. Instead, he released it. “I’ll go see if I can find Joel,” he said, still smiling.

Maggie nodded, slipped past him and called for the two boys.

“CAN I GIVE YOU a lift home?” Bragg asked as they paused before his motorcar. Night had fallen, a pleasant warm evening filled with winking stars and the remnants of last night’s full moon.

“Actually, I have to stop at Sarah’s.” Her friend, the artist Sarah Channing, had sent a note that morning asking Francesca to come by at her earliest convenience.

“I’ll drop you there, then,” Bragg said with a smile. He walked around the car and held open the passenger door for her.

Francesca got in, picking up the spare pair of goggles. He closed the door, cranked the motor and then got in beside her. Their interview of Bridget had not produced any further clues. The child had not seen or heard anything Monday afternoon, which was frankly a blessing. They did not need Bridget to have any knowledge of the murder that might put her in danger. Gwen had arrived home shortly after their talk with her daughter.

As Bragg turned onto Tenth Street, she turned toward him. “I feel sorry for Gwen O’Neil.”

“Why? Because she fell foolishly in love with a man she should have never looked twice at?”

They had spoken with Gwen, as well. “Lord Randolph was her employer! Any attraction on his part was as faulty as any on hers. But now I know why she does not have references,” she said. Still, it had been apparent from Gwen’s expression and tone that she had fallen in love with the Irish aristocrat and that she loved him still. Francesca felt certain that he was a cad. She had quickly sensed that they had been lovers. No wonder her husband, David Hanrahan, had tried to kill Randolph. Gwen had been using her maiden name since leaving her husband.

But was he still incarcerated in Limerick, or was he now in the city? If he had arrived in New York, then he was on her exceedingly short list of suspects.

“Why are you concerned about her lack of references?”

“I intend to find her better employment, as a lady’s maid,” she said.

Bragg smiled. “Will you become involved with each victim or near victim on every single case we work on?”

She faced him fully and his smile faded. Softly, she said, “You are implying that there will be more cases for us, Rick.”

He finally glanced at her. “I doubt you will give up your newfound profession. And while I am currently police commissioner, I will not turn my back on you should you ever need my aid.”

Francesca stared, touched. But what was he implying? “You sound as if you are not certain of your future.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You are aware of the politics surrounding my job. I may be out of my position far sooner than I would choose, before I can really make the changes this department needs.”

Francesca forgot about their investigation for a moment. The press had begun to note the increase in activity of the city’s saloons and so-called hotels on Sundays. One of the hot test debates in the city since Bragg’s appointment was whether or not to enforce the blue laws against serving liquor on the Sabbath. That issue was constantly fueled by the clergy and the goo-goos—the good government reform movement. Early in his term Bragg had closed a number of establishments violating those laws; recently, the police department seemed to be looking the other way at those infractions. “Is it true? Have the police begun to ignore the Sunday saloon openings?”

He sighed heavily. “We have been selectively enforcing the law, Francesca, and only closing the worst offenders. Low asked me to ease up.”

She gripped his arm. “Why?”

He glanced at her. “The mayor is worried about reelection, as well he should be. Every time we close a saloon on Sunday, he loses votes to Tammany Hall. Which is the greater goal? Reforming the corrupt police or reelecting a great reform mayor?”

“But he appointed you to uphold the law!” she cried, frustrated for the dilemma in which he found himself.

“Yes, he did. But there is so much of an outcry by the working community against the closings that he has asked me to exercise the arm of the law with caution and care.” He was grim. “I am torn, Francesca. If I do my job as I wish to do, Low will lose the next election. It has become very clear.”

“And you are loyal to Low, instead of to the people who believe in you and the cause of reform?” She felt despair, for she was one of those people who so believed in the law, the cause of reform—and in him.

“I am focusing on the corruption within the department now. I have an internal investigation in progress. When it is concluded, a number of officers will be dishonorably discharged.”

She blinked. Then, filled with admiration for him, she touched his arm. “I am proud of you,” she said.

He smiled at her then.

Traffic had become heavy as they had turned onto Fourth Avenue, where a huge excavation was in process for the new railroad line that would terminate in the Grand Central Station. A trolley crept slowly forward just ahead of them, while several carriages and a hansom penned them in. Francesca suddenly realized that Bragg’s home wasn’t far from where they now waited, ensnarled in traffic, and that his wife had come home as scheduled but he was not there to greet her.

She looked at him. “Please, Rick. You should not be driving me all the way across town. You should be at home with Leigh Anne.”

His jaw tightened. It was a moment before he spoke. “You will never catch a hansom at this hour. I am happy to drive you to the Channings and I am sure they will send you home in one of their coaches.”

His reply was not satisfactory. “I know you well, Rick. Why didn’t you take Leigh Anne home from the hospital? I am starting to think that you are avoiding going home.” She stared at his handsome profile, which now seemed cast in stone.

He stared at the back of the trolley and finally said, “You are right.”

She was stunned. “I am right?”

He sighed and, not looking at her, replied, “I am avoiding going home.”

“What?”

He was grim. “Leigh Anne did not want to leave the hospital today.”

Francesca blinked. “She did not want to come home?” But everyone wanted to leave the hospital as soon as they could!

“I don’t blame her.” And finally he glanced at her, his eyes filled with anger.

“What does that mean? And why didn’t she want to leave the hospital?”

The trolley moved. Bragg took a moment to shift gears and the Daimler crept forward. “She didn’t want to come home because I am there.”

“What?” That was nonsense, Francesca was certain.

He faced her, his eyes wide with anger and anguish. “Cease all pretense, Francesca. We both know that this is entirely my fault.”

“What are you talking about?” she cried.

“The accident,” he spat.

“The accident?” She was thoroughly bewildered. “You mean, Leigh Anne’s accident?”

“Yes, of course, her accident, what other accident would I mean?”

She could only stare.

“She would not be in this predicament—a cripple for life—if not for me.” He slammed his hands on the wheel.

Francesca jumped in her seat. Then she seized his wrist. “Dear God! You had nothing to do with the accident. It was just that—an accident. You speak as if you were driving that runaway coach that ran her down!”

“I might as well have been the driver,” he said savagely.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you blaming yourself?” she gasped, horrified.

“Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away from me!” He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. “A witness saw the entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was so distraught she never saw or heard the run away carriage until it was too late. And we both know why she was crying,” he added darkly.

A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. “Even if she was crying, you do not know why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd.”

“I wished her dead,” he said suddenly, his tone raw. “I did, Francesca, I did, and my wish was almost granted.”

The horn blared repeatedly now.

Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “It doesn’t matter what you wished. It doesn’t matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to your feelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not! You must stop blaming yourself.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “And do you know what makes matters even worse?”

She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes.

He inhaled harshly. “What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I still love her.”

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 6:00 p.m.

THE CHANNING HOME stood alone on a large lot, a huge affair of eclectic design. Three towers jutted out from the roof, and from the oddly placed parapets and balconies, gargoyles frowned viciously down. The mansion was partly gothic, partly neoclassic, and Francesca could never quite decide why it had been so designed. But the entire Channing family was eccentric, which might explain it. Sarah’s now-deceased father had studded the interior walls with animal heads and the floors with exotic skins, despite the gilded walls and European furniture, as he had been an avid trophy hunter. Mrs. Channing stood out from society for her very guileless and equally foolish manner, although she always meant well. Sarah, who had once, briefly, been engaged to Francesca’s brother, was renowned as a recluse. She was also a brilliant artist.

Having thanked Bragg for the ride, she was let inside the Channing home. Sarah materialized almost instantly.

“Francesca!” she cried in delight.

Francesca was as pleased to see the young woman who had become one of her best friends. Sarah was truly remarkable—in a way, she and Francesca were kindred souls. Sarah’s passion was her painting, and when she had been engaged to Evan, she had been miserable. Of course, the match, concocted by both families, had been truly ill conceived, as both parties had nothing in common. Sarah was small, plain and considered shy and timid, clearly not the kind of woman to catch Evan Cahill’s eye. In fact, Sarah was thoroughly independent and unconventional. Unlike most young women of marriageable age, Sarah had no interest in shopping, dreaded social engagements and gave not one thought to romance or marriage. Her life was her art. Francesca empathized completely.

Now, Sarah had smudges of paint and charcoal on her face, hands and the bodice of her green dress. The moss-hued garment might have been flattering on another woman, but Sarah had olive in her complexion and her hair was chocolate brown, so that the gown washed her out. Francesca had never, not even once, seen Sarah appropriately garbed. Sarah did not care what she wore and her choice of clothing—usually decided by her mother with the best of intentions—made that clear. The styles in her wardrobe, while expensive, overwhelmed her small stature and the colors usually dulled her coloring, her eyes and hair.

“I am so glad you could come by,” Sarah cried breathlessly.

Francesca looped her arm in hers. “What has put that sparkle in your eye? I know it is not a man! Let me guess. Some thing to do with a painting?” she teased.

“Hurry with me,” Sarah said with a grin. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a loose ponytail, and some paint had gotten into the stray curls around her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes, long-lashed and round, positively sparkled. The more time Francesca spent with her, the more she changed her initial opinion of Sarah. Sarah no longer seemed plain or timid at all. She was one of the most vibrant and interesting women Francesca had ever met.

“Are we going to your studio?” Francesca guessed as they hurried down a long corridor leading to the back of the house.

“Of course,” Sarah said with a grin. The door was open. The large room was filled with canvases, some finished, others in various stages of execution. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, although two landscapes were also present. She had clearly, at one time, been influenced by the romantics, and later by the impressionists. Her work now was bright and bold—she clearly adored color—but her strokes were far more realistic than one would expect. “I have finished your portrait,” Sarah said, pausing before an easel that was draped with cloth.

Francesca’s heart leaped with excitement. Hart had commissioned her portrait some time ago, when she had thought her self in love with Bragg. He had only done so because he had wanted to annoy her, and he had done just that. Francesca had no time for any sittings at the beginning, but as their relation ship had changed, sitting for a portrait he wished to hang in his private rooms had become thoroughly exciting. A month ago he had asked Sarah to make the portrait a nude. Francesca had agreed, and every sitting had become exhilarating.

Now, on pins and needles, she asked, “How is it?” Shamelessly, she could not wait for Hart to hang her nude likeness in his rooms.

Sarah laughed with happiness. “Why don’t you decide for yourself?” And she swept the cloth from the canvas.

Francesca started in surprise.

The naked woman who sat with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder, was stunning. Francesca knew she was no beauty, yet the woman in that portrait most definitely had her face. Her features were classic, her lips full, her nose tiny. But there was nothing ordinary about her face. Somehow, Sarah had made her captivating. Francesca simply gaped.

In the portrait, her gleaming, honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed, as if for a ball, and she wore a pearl choker about her throat. The fact that it was all she wore was infinitely seductive as well. Francesca realized her cheeks had grown warm. She finally found the courage to look at the rest of the portrait.

Her body was as alluring as her face. Francesca was amazed. The line of her back was long and elegant, but her buttocks were sensually full. The intriguing profile of one breast escaped her arm, and not far from where she sat, a red ball gown lay in a puddle of opulent fabric, clearly abandoned in haste.

The portrait was suggestive, terribly so. Francesca tugged at her shirt collar. The humming became a drumming in her ears. Was that really how she looked? Was this what Hart saw when he looked at her? Surely Sarah, being so fond of her, had exaggerated all of her features.

“What do you think?” Sarah whispered.

Francesca bit her lip. She still could not quite speak. The portrait was an amazing feat—to take a sensible, professional woman like herself and put her features together in the manner that Sarah had. It was her face, but the expression did not belong to an innocent woman, or a skilled sleuth—it belonged to a passionate lover, a creature of the bedroom and the night.

“Don’t you like it?” Sarah asked tersely now.

Francesca whirled. She thought she might be crimson. “I love it,” she cried. “But Sarah, how did you do it? That’s not me—yet it is! In that portrait, I am almost as alluring as Daisy.”

Sarah smiled in relief. “For a moment, I thought you did not like it,” she exclaimed. “And painting your likeness was easy enough. It’s what I do,” she added. “Do you think Hart will be pleased? Have I gone too far? The theme is frankly sensual. It might be too risqué, considering you will one day be his wife.”

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