Praise for Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series

“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

“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 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 Promise

“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 KISSES

MILLS & BOON

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This novel is dedicated to my sister, Jamie.

I miss you.

Jamie Lee Allen

1965–2005

Courageous in life.

Forever in Peace.

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 ONE

Monday, June 2, 1902,

New York City—Before Midnight

“FRANCESCA, I THINK IT’S wonderful that you have volunteered to chair the Ladies Citizen Union Funds Committee,” Julia Van Wyck Cahill remarked, handing off her ruby-red velvet mantle to the doorman. Slim, beautiful and elegant, and wearing a very famous ruby pendant that had belonged to a Hapsburg princess, she stood with her daughter in the front hall of their Fifth Avenue home, beaming with pleasure.

Francesca, however, was preoccupied. She handed off her own light wrap, a turquoise satin to match her evening gown. “Mama, I did not quite volunteer. I do believe you and Mrs. Astor decided among yourselves to make me cochair.”

Julia’s blue eyes widened as she feigned innocent ignorance. “Darling! Whatever makes you say that? My dear, you are the youngest lady to ever chair the committee, and I know you will be superb, Francesca—you always are.”

In truth, Francesca did not really mind being named the chair, as her current investigation was so routine. A neighbor had realized that certain items in her attics were missing, including several valuable family heirlooms, and having read all about Francesca’s last case in the city’s numerous newspapers, she had requested Francesca’s sleuthing services. Francesca was almost certain that Mrs. Canning’s son-in-law was the thief.

“It is a good cause and someone has to raise funds for the party.” Francesca sighed. “I simply wish you had asked me first if I had the time to give the position all of the effort and attention it deserves.”

Julia took her arm. “I’m sorry, dear. Of course, I should have asked.”

Francesca knew very well what her mother was about. Julia was a great society hostess, and she had been aghast by Francesca’s new profession. Even with Francesca’s success, she remained opposed to her daughter’s involvement in any investigation, although she seemed relieved that Francesca finally had a case that was neither life threatening nor scandalous in nature. Francesca knew her mother wanted her so preoccupied with fundraising for the Citizens Union that she would have time for nothing else other than her fiancé.

At the thought of Calder Hart, her heart skipped uncontrollably. But then, Hart had that effect on her, from the time they had first met, when she had refused to admit her attraction to and fascination with such a notorious man. He was one of the city’s wealthiest millionaires, yet he had come from humble beginnings, born out of wedlock on the city’s poverty-stricken Lower East Side. Until recently, in spite of his reputation as a womanizer, he had been considered the greatest catch in town, with almost every socialite vying for his attention for their debutante daughters. Hart, however, preferred to attach himself to infamous courtesans and divorcées, shying away from any serious involvement. Francesca still had to pinch herself from time to time, in order to realize that it was real—she, Francesca Cahill, who owned an equally notorious reputation as an eccentric, a bluestocking and a sleuth, had somehow snagged Calder Hart. These days, when she walked into a supper party or a ball, knives were sharpened and daggers were drawn behind her back. Once, the whispers and gossip had hurt her feelings; now she rather enjoyed the attention. But then, usually Hart was at her side, whispering in her ear, reminding her to revel in the limelight.

All was not perfect, however. Her father was dead set against Hart. An entire month had gone by since Andrew Cahill had broken off their engagement and he did not seem any closer to coming around, never mind that Francesca’s mother was so angry she refused to speak to him unless it was absolutely necessary. In fact, Julia continued to gloat about the engagement to her society friends, as if it had not been terminated.

Francesca had come to realize she could not imagine a future without Hart in it, and she was determined to win Andrew over to their cause. Her father was one of the great progressive thinkers and leaders in the city. He was also a great humanitarian, and Francesca admired him immensely. She could not imagine eloping behind his back, although she and Hart had discussed it. This was the first time in her life that she had not been able to gain her way with her father.

Hart had suggested they not push Andrew Cahill just now. Calder was out of town right now, and Francesca missed him terribly.

As if reading her daughter’s mind, Julia said softly, “When will Calder return to the city, Francesca?”

“In a day or two, Mama. He is in Boston, tending to his business affairs.” Hart’s fortune had been amassed through shipping, insurance and the railroads. He was also a world-renowned art collector, with one of the most extensive and valuable privately owned collections in America.

Several months ago, Hart had commissioned her portrait and Francesca had been hugely flattered. The portrait had been a nude, and she had been daring enough to pose for it. Last month, the painting had been completed—and it had also been stolen. With Francesca too upset to think clearly enough to investigate the theft, Hart had put private investigators on the case. But there had been no leads; it was as if the portrait had vanished into thin air. If it ever surfaced publicly, Francesca knew she was finished. She had quite a few enemies, although many of them were now in prison.

Francesca did not want to worry about the missing portrait now. Instead, she thought about her reunion with Hart. She could barely wait to be in his arms, being soundly and thoroughly kissed. “Mama, I am going to bed. It was a pleasant evening,” she said, kissing her cheek.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Julia seemed pleased.

Andrew Cahill stepped into the spacious front hall, having been outside giving instructions to the coachman for the next morning. Francesca smiled at her father as he handed off his top hat, white gloves and scarf. Dressed in his tuxedo, he was a short man with a rotund build and excessive side whiskers. “Papa? Did you enjoy the affair tonight?” Her sister, every bit as successful a society hostess as Julia, had held a charity supper to raise funds for the vast new public library, soon to be erected on Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second street. There had been a hundred guests, with champagne, caviar, dinner, dessert and dancing, all in the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

“Of course I did,” Andrew said, his expression somber. “It is a fine cause and I look forward to the day the library opens. Francesca, I should like to talk to you in the study before you retire for the night.”

Francesca tensed. “Papa, can’t it wait?” she began. She had the dreadful feeling he was going to talk to her about Hart, a subject they had carefully avoided for an entire month. Unless he had changed his mind about them, Francesca did not want to hear whatever her father had to say.

“I think we have gone on at great odds for long enough,” he said firmly.

Francesca knew that tone. She waited while he kissed Julia’s cheek, bidding her good-night. Then Francesca and Andrew started through the front hall, arm in arm. All of the servants had discreetly vanished, and their heels clicked on the black-and-white marble floors.

“I believe Hart is back in town.”

Francesca was dismayed. “No, Papa, he is not due back for at least another day, and probably he will not be back until Wednesday.”

“Ben Garret saw him this afternoon crossing the street,” Andrew said curtly. And finally he softened. “Or he thought he did. We had lunch and he mentioned your engagement.”

There was no mistaking her father’s intended subject now. They paused on the threshold of his study, a large library with wood-paneled walls; high, pale green ceilings; hundreds of books, most political or philosophical in nature; electric lights; and the family’s single telephone. Beneath the emerald-green marble mantle a small fire crackled in the fireplace.

“Papa, you broke off our engagement,” Francesca said softly. But she twisted the huge diamond engagement ring which she still wore, refusing to take it off.

Andrew regarded her unhappily. “I intended to break it off, but your mother has openly defied me, gleefully telling everyone we meet about your engagement. In private, she won’t even speak to me!” he exclaimed. “And do you think I am blind? I see the ring you continue to wear!”

Francesca flushed. “Calder gave me the ring, Papa, and it is a token of his admiration and respect. I simply cannot part with it.”

He sighed heavily and walked over to the fireplace, staring down at the flames. “I could tell you stories until I was blue in the face about gullible young women falling for handsome rakes. But like each and every one of those young, naive women, you would not listen to me. You would think you are different, that you are the one to finally capture the cad’s heart.”

Francesca went and stood besides him nervously. “Unlike all those other cads, Hart has never suggested that I have captured his heart. But he has told me how much he admires and respects me, how dearly he needs my friendship, and how well he thinks we suit.”

“So you are not marrying for love?” Andrew asked skeptically. “You are marrying for respect, for friendship?”

Francesca gave him a look. “I love Calder. I have never been so in love. He has a good side, Papa, one that quite contradicts his selfish reputation. And while he says he does not believe in love, he is very fond of me. I wish you could believe that! I think we suit.”

“I never said he was not fond of you. I believe he cares for you. Why else would he want to marry you? He hardly needs your money—he is as rich as Hades! But I cannot approve when I know with all of my being that he will hurt you terribly one day. A man like that will eventually stray.”

Francesca turned away, trembling. Hart had promised her undying loyalty and fidelity. He claimed he was tired of the life he had thus far led, and while Francesca believed him, she could not help but be afraid that the day might come when his head would be turned by a woman far more beautiful than she was. In fact, such a possibility was her single greatest fear.

“Papa, I hate being at odds with you. I know all of your arguments. We both know he has been a cad when it comes to women—just as you know I am the first woman he has ever asked to marry. Why can’t you give him the benefit of the doubt? If I am making a mistake, isn’t it mine to make?”

He faced her fully and clasped both of her hands. “I am so proud of you. You are so beautiful, so caring and so committed to humanity, Francesca. While I do wish your new profession was not so dangerous, you have saved many lives and brought justice to those who desperately needed it. You and Hart have nothing in common!” he exclaimed. “I understand that he has turned your head, but what about a dozen years from now? You have dedicated your life to easing the pain and the burdens of others less fortunate that yourself. Hart is the most selfish man I know. Passion will not ensure a successful marriage, Francesca, not for the long term.”

She pulled away. “That is unfair! You are judging Hart based solely on his reputation. You do not even know him, Papa. He has been nothing but noble to me. If you cast stones at him, Papa, then you cast them at me, too. Please, please trust me now.”

He appeared ready to weep. “Francesca, you have been too kind and trusting since you were a small child, bringing home stray dogs and cats. I keep thinking that Hart is another stray, a man with no real advocates. Are you certain that you really wish to rescue him this way?”

Francesca knew she was Hart’s only genuine friend—he had admitted it. But surely, surely she wasn’t rescuing him as she had all of those strays? If her feelings weren’t love, then Francesca did not know what they could be. “If I am rescuing him, I cannot help my self. Papa, you know that I have never been accepted in society, not until this engagement. Mama’s friends and their daughters always saw me as an eccentric, and they never even tried to make me a part of their circle. Has it ever occurred to you that Hart is rescuing me?”

Andrew looked at her with surprise.

She held up her hand and the huge diamond there caught the room’s lights and flashed. “It feels so right, Papa, being with him. And not because of passion, but because he has become my dearest and best friend. I am begging you to give him another chance. Please. Because you love me, give Calder one more chance to prove himself to you.”

He stared for a long moment. Francesca stood very still, praying he would agree.

“I have treated you as an equal your entire life,” he said slowly. “And even though my heart is telling me not to do so, I surrender. You are a brilliant young woman, and I am hoping that you will come to your senses before it is too late. But until then, I will give Hart another chance—as long as you wait a year before you marry.”

“A year!” Francesca gasped, her pleasure dissolving.

“A year,” Andrew returned calmly. “I know that seems like a long time, Francesca, but it is nothing when you think of a commitment made for the rest of your life. If you still feel this way next June, I will give you my blessing.”

Francesca forced her dismay aside and managed a smile. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you so much.” She hugged him hard.

He tilted up her chin. “I have always been proud of your independent thinking,” he said with a sigh. “I have been wrong to think I could dictate to you after allowing you a lifetime of independence.”

She softened. “I am who I am because of you, Papa. I owe you everything.” She kissed his cheek, suddenly lighthearted. If she could control her lustful nature—or convince Hart to take her to bed before they were married—maybe waiting to marry wasn’t such a bad thing. The year would give Andrew enough time to really get to know and like Hart. “Good night, Papa.” Francesca stepped into the hall.

“Miss?” Her personal maid, Betty, appeared at the far end of the corridor. In her hand was an envelope.

Francesca was surprised to see her. “Betty, why didn’t you go to bed? I told you, I do not mind.” She saw no reason for Betty to wait up for her. Other young ladies might be incapable of getting out of their gowns, but she could manage quite easily and hardly needed a servant to help.

Betty, who was Francesca’s own age, smiled at her. “Oh, miss, it is so hard to get those buttons opened by yourself! And it’s my work to take care of you. Besides, this come for you, and the cabbie who brought it said it was urgent, miss, terribly so.”

As it was almost midnight, Francesca was intrigued. She took the small envelope, noting its premier quality. It was addressed to her at her Fifth Avenue home, but bore no sender’s name. “A cabdriver brought this?”

“Yes, miss.”

Francesca unsealed the envelope and pulled out a small parchment. The note was brief and handwritten.

Francesca, I am in desperate need. Please come to Daisy’s.

Rose

FRANCESCA LEANED FORWARD eagerly in the hansom cab she had hired. Stealing out of the house at the midnight hour had been easily accomplished, with her father still in the library and her mother upstairs and presumably in bed. The doorman, Robert, had pretended not to see her escape—but then, she gave him a weekly gratuity to ensure that he look the other way at such times.

After leaving the house, she had walked to the prestigious Metropolitan Club, but a block south of the Cahill home. There, she had merely waited for a gentleman to arrive at the club. Traffic was light, as it was a Monday night, but this was New York City, and eventually a hansom had paused before the club’s imposing entrance to discharge his fare. Not wanting to be recognized, Francesca had bowed her head as a gentleman walked past her, but she knew he stared, as genuine ladies did not travel about the city at such an hour alone.

Francesca clung to the safety strap, straining to glimpse Daisy Jones’s residence as her cab rumbled toward it. She simply could not imagine what Rose could want.

Daisy Jones was Hart’s ex-mistress, and one of the most beautiful women Francesca had ever seen. When they first met, she had also been one of the city’s most expensive and sought-after prostitutes. Francesca had been on a case at the time, working closely with Calder’s half brother, Rick Bragg, the city’s police commissioner. In fact, at that time she barely knew Hart—and had thought she was in love with Rick.

Francesca had not been surprised when she had learned of the liaison between them. She understood why Hart would want to keep such a woman. In fact, she and Daisy had become rather friendly during that investigation—but any friendship had vanished when Hart had asked Francesca to marry him. Jilted, Daisy had not been pleased.

The large Georgian mansion appeared in her view. Daisy continued to reside in the house Hart had bought for her, as part of a six-month commitment he had promised her and was honoring. Francesca thought, but was not sure, that Rose was now living there, too. Rose was Daisy’s dearest friend—and she had been her lover, before Daisy had left her for Hart.

The hansom had stopped. Francesca reached for her purse, noting that the entire house was dark, except for the outside light and two upstairs windows. Alarm bells went off in her mind. Even at such a late hour, a few lights should remain on inside on the ground floor.

Francesca paid the driver, thanking him, and stepped down to the curb. She paused to stare closely at the square brick house as he pulled away. There was no sign of movement, but then, at this hour that was not unusual. Uncertain of what to expect, she pushed open the iron gate and started up the brick path leading to the house. The gardens in front were lush and well tended and Francesca cautiously scanned them. Her nerves were on end, she realized, and she almost expected someone to jump out at her from behind a shrub or bush.

Just as she was about to silently reassure herself, she noticed that the front door was open.

Francesca halted, fully alert now. Suddenly, she thought about her mad dash from home. She had not bothered to go upstairs to retrieve her gun, a candle or any of the other useful items she habitually kept in her purse. She made a mental note to never leave home without her pistol again.

Francesca glanced inside the house. The front hall was cast in black shadow. She slowly pushed the front door open fully, the hairs on her nape prickling, and stepped in.

She had a very bad feeling, oh yes. Where was Daisy? Where was Rose? Where were the servants? Francesca moved quietly to the wall, groping for the side table she knew was there. Pressing against it, she strained to listen.

Had a mouse crept across the floor, she would have heard it, for the house was so achingly silent. She desperately wanted to turn on a gas lamp, but she restrained herself. Francesca waited another moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and then she crept forward.

A dining room was ahead and to her right. Francesca opened the doors, wincing as the hinges groaned, but the large room was dark and vacant. She did not bother to shut the doors but quickly crossed the hall, glancing nervously at the wide, sweeping staircase as she passed it. The closest door was to the smaller of two adjoining salons. Francesca pushed it open. As she had thought, that room also appeared to be empty.

She paused, swept back to another time when she had stood in that room, her ear pressed to the door that adjoined the larger salon, spying upon Hart and Daisy. She had barely known Calder, but even then his appeal had been powerful and seductive; even then, she had been drawn to him as a moth to a flame. That day, she had been audacious enough to watch Hart make love to his mistress. Such an intrusion on their privacy was shameful, and Francesca knew it. Still, she had been incapable of stopping herself.

She shook the recollection off. That had been months ago, before she had ever been in Hart’s arms, before Hart had cast Daisy aside—before she and Daisy had become enemies and rivals.

None of that mattered. If Daisy or Rose were in trouble, Francesca intended to help. She left the salon the way she had come in. The moment she stepped back into the hall, she heard a deep, choking sound.

She was not alone.

Francesca froze. She stared at the wide staircase facing her, straining to hear. The guttural noise came again, and this time, she felt certain it was a woman.

The noise had not come from upstairs, but beyond the staircase, somewhere in the back of the house. Francesca wished she had a weapon.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Francesca rushed past the staircase. “Daisy? Rose?”

And now she saw a flickering light, as if cast by a candle, coming from a small room just ahead. The door was widely open and she quickly discerned that it was a study, with a vacant desk, a sofa and chair. Francesca rushed to the threshold and cried out.

Rose was sitting on the floor, hunched over a woman whose platinum hair could only belong to Daisy. Rose was moaning, the sounds deep and low and filled with grief.

Surely Daisy was only hurt! Francesca ran forward and saw that Rose held her friend in her arms. Daisy was in a pale satin supper gown, covered with brilliantly, shockingly red blood. Francesca dropped to her knees and finally saw Daisy’s beautiful face—and her wide, blue, sightless eyes.

Daisy was dead.

Rose moaned, rocking her again and again.

Francesca was in shock. From the look of her dress, Daisy had been murdered, perhaps with a knife. Horror began as she realized the extent of the wounds on Daisy’s chest.

Who would want her dead, and why? Francesca recalled the last time she had seen Daisy. She and Rose had appeared at the funeral for Kate Sullivan, a murder victim from Francesca’s most recent investigation. There had been no reason for her to attend, except one: to taunt Francesca. She had been hostile and bitter, and she had clearly wanted Hart back. She had done her best to cause tension between Hart and Francesca, and she had wittingly played upon all of Francesca’s insecurities.

That day, outside of the church, she and Daisy had exchanged harsh words. Although Francesca could not remember the exact conversation, she knew she had been upset and dismayed, precisely as Daisy had planned.

But dear God, though Daisy had maliciously done her best to hurt both Francesca and Hart, she had not deserved this.

The questions returned. Who would do this—and why?

Francesca knelt. Rose had not stopped rocking her friend, weeping now in silent grief. Francesca reached out, grasping her arm. “Rose,” she gasped. “I am so sorry!”

Rose froze, slowly looking up. Her green eyes were glazed with misery and tears. She shook her head, unable to speak.

Francesca quickly closed Daisy’s eyes, shivering as she did so. Daisy was impossibly fair, blue-eyed, with platinum hair, her skin the color of alabaster. Delicate and petite, she had a sensuous grace that could only be inherent, never achieved. Now her small bosom was a mass of bloody, gaping flesh. Francesca would never become accustomed to death, and especially not violent death.

She stood, shaking, and decided against turning on more lights. The murder had been a brutal one. Rose did not need to be confronted with the extent of Daisy’s wounds. Francesca took a soft cashmere throw from the sofa, feeling ill, very much so. She inhaled raggedly for control.

“I will find out who did this,” she whispered, aching for Rose now.

Rose looked up accusingly. “Don’t pretend that you care! We both know you hated her because Hart took care of her. I know you hated her for ever having been in Hart’s bed!”

Francesca, still holding the throw, shook her head. She felt a tear tracking down her cheek. “You’re wrong. I do care. I care very much. Daisy did not deserve this. No one deserves this!” She approached and laid a hand on the brunette’s shoulder. “Please. Leave her now. Come, Rose, please.”

Rose shook her head, choking, hugging Daisy more tightly. She was as dark, voluptuous and tall as Daisy was fair, slender and petite. Now she was covered with her friend’s blood.

“I need to go to the police,” Francesca said, thinking of Rick Bragg.

Francesca needed him now. They made an excellent team—they had solved a half a dozen dangerous and difficult cases together, and he remained her good friend. It was late, but he had to be summoned immediately. Together they would find Daisy’s killer.

Hart’s dark, smoldering image came to mind. He might not have ever loved Daisy, but how would he react to the news of her murder? Francesca realized she would be the one to tell him of the death of his former mistress, and un fortunately, she would have to do so the moment he returned home.

“The police?” Rose’s voice was scathing and bitter. “We need to find Daisy’s murderer! I am hiring you, to find the killer, Francesca. Forget those leatherheads! They won’t give a damn about Daisy,” she said, and she began to weep all over again.

Francesca nodded, but her instincts warned her not to take on Rose as a client. She took the opportunity to kneel and cover Daisy’s brutally disfigured body with the throw, then somehow she pulled Rose to her feet, putting her arm around her. “Please, come sit down in the salon,” she said, wanting very much to get Rose out of the room.

But Rose balked. “No. I am not leaving her alone like this!”

Francesca quickly knelt and pulled the throw over Daisy’s face. “I do need to get the police. There has been a murder, and they must be notified. But I don’t want to leave you here alone, Rose.”

Rose sat abruptly on the sofa, her face collapsing into tears again. “Who would do this? And why? Oh, God why?”

Francesca sat besides her, her mind beginning to function fully again. She had received Rose’s note a good half an hour ago, a few moments before midnight. Betty had said the note had been dropped off at the house just a few minutes before they arrived home. The trip uptown from Daisy’s house was thirty minutes in light traffic, so Rose had sent the note around eleven-thirty. “Rose? Can you answer a few questions?”

Rose looked up. “Are you going to find her killer? The police won’t care. I don’t trust those flies.”

Francesca hesitated, recalling Daisy’s hostility the last time they had spoken, and Rose’s own hatred of Hart for taking Daisy away from her. But how could she refuse Rose, who had loved Daisy so? “Yes. Yes, Rose, I will take the case.”

“You will take the case, even though you hated her?”

“I didn’t hate her, Rose. I was afraid of her.”

Rose jerked, meeting Francesca’s gaze. Slowly, she said, “All right. What do you want to know?”

“What happened here tonight? When did you find her?”

Rose swallowed. “I don’t know. I was out for the evening. When I got here, the house was dark, I knew some thing was wrong! I called for her, but she didn’t answer.” Rose stopped, for out in the hall, a soft bump had sounded.

Stiffening, Francesca looked at the open door, as did Rose. The hall beyond was lost in shadow and she saw nothing. But she had heard a noise—someone was present.

Francesca stood. “Where are the servants?”

“The butler sleeps in his room behind the kitchens, as does the maid. The housekeeper goes home at five.” Rose was ashen and wide-eyed now.

“Did you go below stairs when you came home?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I was about to go upstairs when I saw the light coming from this room.” Her mouth trembled and she glanced at Daisy’s covered body. She inhaled, clearly fighting more tears.

“Wait here,” Francesca said. She glanced at the desk, saw a letter opener and took it. Then she changed her mind, putting it back and taking a crystal paperweight instead. After what had been done to Daisy, she did not think she could stab anyone. Clutching the paperweight, she left the study. The corridor outside remained dark and every blond hair on her nape prickled with dread and fear.

Someone was lurking in the corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. But it would make little sense for that someone to be the killer, who must have long since fled. It was probably just a servant.

On the other hand, murderers often defied every possible assumption one might make about them.

Francesca took a deep breath for courage, once more wishing she had her gun, and she started forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. She heard footsteps approaching—each footfall slow and cautious. She froze.

Her grip on the paperweight tightened. She debated turning to flee, but in a moment whoever was beyond her would appear and see her. Instead, she pressed against the wall, waiting. The shadowy form of a man appeared, carrying a candle. He saw her against the wall, halted in midstride and lifted the candle higher.

Francesca was illuminated—but so was he.

Standing there in the hall was her fiancé.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—12:45 a.m.

FRANCESCA WAS DISBELIEVING. Hart was the very last person she had expected to see. What was he doing in the city?

And then she saw the dark stain on Hart’s white shirt, where his suit jacket was unbuttoned. “Calder?”

He hurried toward her, his own surprise fading. “Francesca!” he exclaimed, and his expression changed, becoming displeased. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, but the beginnings of a terrible fear had crept into her mind. Somehow, she knew the blood was Daisy’s. She stiffened, staring up at his dark, handsome face.

“I’m not hurt.” He took her arm, as if to steady her. “Daisy is dead, Francesca.”

She met his probing regard, her mind scrambling to sort through the confusion. “I know.”

“The blood is hers, Francesca, not mine. I found her in the study. She had been stabbed.”

Their eyes met. All of Francesca’s shock suddenly vanished. He was supposed to be in Boston. When had he returned to town and why hadn’t he called her? What was he doing here at Daisy’s, in the kitchen and servants’ quarters? Given the blood on the front of his shirt, he had held Daisy, too, the way Rose had. Some thing sharp and distasteful filled her: dread. “Calder, Rose said she found Daisy. In fact, she sent me a note asking me to come here.”

“When I arrived, Rose wasn’t here.” His regard held hers. “I found Daisy on the floor of the study, very much alone.” He looked away from her now. His composure was usually rock solid, but Francesca saw that he was struggling to maintain it. “She was already dead.”

Francesca swallowed, feeling ill. “You checked for a pulse?”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

Francesca felt as if she were interrogating a suspect. Of course, that was not the case. “When did you arrive here, Calder?”

His look was sharp. “I left my home around eleven,” he said. Then, softly, with warning, he added, “I do not want you involved, Francesca.”

Francesca’s tension rose. She was already involved, because Daisy had once been Hart’s mistress, because she had once been Francesca’s friend and because she had recently been her rival.

“Francesca,” he said, his tone pointed, and he took her wrist.

She looked into his eyes. “Daisy is dead, Hart. She has been murdered. I think we are both involved.”

He turned away, but not before Francesca saw the anguish in his eyes. She was shocked. Had she imagined it, or did Calder have some feelings for Daisy still, after all of this time?

He slowly faced her. “You are staring.” His tone had softened and his hand slipped to her palm. “Francesca, I am also in shock. We had better summon the police.”

Her heart raced with painful force. If she had seen anguish in his eyes, it was now gone. He seemed grim, but not grief-stricken. Of course he would be distraught that a woman he had once known intimately was dead. “Calder, what are you doing here?”

He hesitated, his expression hardening. “I finished my affairs in Boston earlier than expected. I arrived at Grand Central at a quarter to seven this evening.” He met her gaze directly. “After I found Daisy, I decided to look for the killer. I was about to do so when Rose came into the house. She was not wearing any wrap—clearly she had just stepped out. I hid. She went directly to the study, Francesca, directly to Daisy. I followed her. She was not surprised to see Daisy murdered.”

Francesca’s mind raced. Calder had not answered her question. He had not told her why he was at Daisy’s in the first place. Any affairs that remained between him and Daisy were of a financial nature. Such concerns could have waited. It was well after midnight now.

If he had left his uptown home at eleven, he would have arrived at Daisy’s perhaps an hour ago. What had he been doing in the house for all of that time? Her pulse quickened with fear. She did not have to be thinking all that clearly now to know that Hart could be in trouble with the law. “And then what happened?”

“I left her and went to search the house.” He released his hand from hers and tilted up her chin. “You’re upset. I am, as well. We’ll get through this, Francesca.”

Francesca tried to smile at him and was fairly certain she had failed. “Of course we will. But Daisy is dead, Calder. As malicious as she was toward me, toward us—she did not deserve to die, and certainly not so violently.”

His face tightened and something dark and deep flared in his eyes. “No. As much trouble as she caused us recently, she did not deserve to die.”

Suddenly Francesca recalled that day last month out side of the church. After taunting her, Daisy had walked away. Hart had come outside, the memorial service over. He had been grim and resolute, and he had told her in no uncertain words not to worry.

I will take care of Daisy. Those had been his exact words. Now Francesca felt a surge of fear and she tried to think if anyone might have overheard his statement. Of course, Calder hadn’t meant he would murder Daisy; he had meant he would make sure that she no longer bothered either one of them. But Daisy had been his mistress until a few months ago, and he continued to support her financially. Francesca had investigated enough crimes of passion to know that Hart should be kept out of this case. “Calder, you should leave right now. I will find a roundsman and alert Bragg. Did any one else see you? Did Rose see you?”

He gave her an odd look. Softly, he said, “Are you trying to protect me, Francesca?”

She stiffened, but that single look caused her heart to skip. “Very well, I confess. Yes, I want to protect you. You should stay as far away from this house and the murder scene as possible.” It crossed her still-dazed mind that she would have to lie to the police, if no one was to know that Calder had been at Daisy’s that night. She didn’t know how she would manage telling such a lie to Rick Bragg.

Hart’s eyes smoldered. “I already spoke to Homer, the butler, and the housemaid. They are in their quarters, where I told them to remain. They both know I am here. I don’t think Rose saw me. I found Daisy murdered, Francesca—I didn’t murder her myself.”

He was angry and she knew it. Quickly she took his hand but he shook her off. “Hart! I know you didn’t kill her!” Of that, she had no doubt. “But you were here on the night of her death. You could be implicated.” Francesca hoped that the coroner would discover that Daisy had been killed before a quarter to seven that evening.

“You don’t need to protect me, Francesca,” he said. “Besides, half the city knows I have been keeping her. I cannot deny our relationship. But remember, Rose was here before me.”

“That is your word against hers.” Francesca rubbed her temples, which throbbed. No good was going to come of this. A crystal ball could not have been clearer! If she did not find another suspect, and quickly, the police were going to consider Hart a prime suspect. She looked up and found him regarding her steadily, his gaze far too intent.

Suddenly he softened. He reached out and touched her cheek. “Why are we arguing? You don’t need to protect me, Francesca, as I have done nothing wrong. And I have been fending for myself since I was a small boy, stealing scraps of food on the streets. And I have missed you,” he added even more softly, and his tone was impossible to resist.

“I have missed you, too,” she whispered shakily, moving into his arms as he reached out to her. She stood there, still grieving yet overcome with relief, pressed against his hard, powerful body. This was where she most wanted to be. Something terrible would come of this case, she just knew it. She was afraid for him, for her, for them both. But as afraid as she was, she had never loved him more.

Hart held her silently for a long moment, and she felt his strong heart begin to increase its beat. Her own pulse could not help but skip and dance when she was in his arms. Francesca lifted her face.

He touched her lips with his, once, twice, three times.

Beneath the gentle brushing, Francesca sensed his urgency and need. In response, as always, a fire roared to life in her veins. Their eyes met and held. Then Hart stepped back. “We should respect the dead,” he said seriously.

“Yes, we should.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest and gave herself a moment to refocus. “Rose is with…the body.”

“Rose,” he repeated. “Could she have murdered the woman she loved? Might she have already been here when I arrived? When did she send you this note, Francesca?”

Francesca could not imagine Rose killing her best friend, but she would consider it, of course. “The note arrived at my home before midnight. Let’s estimate that it arrived by a quarter to the hour. Rose wrote and sent the note around eleven or shortly thereafter. She was undoubtedly sending me the note, which came by cab, when you walked in.” It crossed her mind that most of the suspicion could be directed at Rose. “She found the body before you did. She was first on the scene.”

He stared for a moment. “I have never trusted Rose. Why did she send for you, of all people? There was no love lost between any of us.”

Francesca hesitated.

“Let me guess,” he said sarcastically. “She wants you to find the killer?”

Francesca bit her lip. “Calder,” she began, deter mined to head him off at the pass. Even though he was always supportive of her investigations and proud of her success in them, she knew why he did not want her on this particular case—and the reason was Daisy. “This is a crime of passion. I do not think it will be hard to find the killer. From what I saw,” she added, an image of Daisy’s mutilated chest coming to mind, “someone stabbed Daisy repeatedly in a fit of anger.”

“You cannot predict the nature of this investigation!” Hart exclaimed. “Do not mistake me now, Francesca, this is one case where I do not want you involved.” His look was uncompromising.

“But I am involved. She was your ex-mistress and I am your fiancée.” Francesca tried to be firm and gentle at once.

He made an angry sound and took her arm. “I am asking you, this one single time, to leave the investigation of Daisy’s murder alone.”

That terrible feeling of dread rose swiftly up again. Francesca stole a look at Hart’s angry expression, her heart sinking. Now was clearly not the time to tell him that nothing and no one—not even Hart—could stop her from finding Daisy’s killer. But why did he want her off the case so badly? Surely he had nothing to hide, not from her.

“This is too personal for us both,” Hart said in a calmer tone, as if that explained his reasoning, but it explained nothing at all.

“Yes, it is personal for us both,” Francesca said noncommittally. She was aware of the exasperated look he cast at her, but now she was wondering about Rose. She had yet to ask her exactly when she had found Daisy. Given the extent of her grief, it was possible she had sat with her dead friend for quite some time before writing Francesca the note. One fact was clear—Daisy had been murdered before eleven or half past eleven p.m., when Rose had sent Francesca the note.

Together, they moved toward the study, where the candle continued to flicker. As they approached, Francesca’s steps slowed, as did Hart’s. His grasp on her hand tightened, but with reassurance, not warning. Francesca glanced at him and he tried to smile at her, but the curve of his firm mouth could not extinguish the sadness in his dark navy blue eyes.

He was far more upset than he was letting on, she thought with dismay. God, what if he still had feelings for Daisy? Could she possibly manage that, when Daisy had always felt like a threat to her relationship?

Rose was now sitting on the sofa, curled up like a child, her knees to her chest, the dark green evening gown she wore stained with blood. Daisy remained on the floor, covered from head to toe with the throw. Hearing their footsteps, Rose looked up.

She shot to her feet, pointing, her hand shaking. “You! I should have known! You goddamned bastard! You killed her!”

Police Commissioner Accused of Dereliction of Duty

Commissioner Bragg Fails Reformers

Civic Leaders Outraged with Police Policy

IN DISGUST, RICK BRAGG swept all three newspapers from his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His head ached and he was impossibly tired. He had never felt more worn, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed a single time, indicating it was one in the morning. Right now, he almost regretted accepting the mayor’s appointment, an appointment that had initially been filled with excitement and hope. He was the first police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt to attempt the monumental mission of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police force. But the hottest issue of the day was his undoing, especially as the mayor had tied his hands behind his back, refusing to allow him to do his job as he wished to do it.

Bragg sighed and reached for his bourbon. Mayor Low was already afraid of the vast German vote and had decided to ask the police not to enforce the blue laws, which required the closing of saloons on the Sabbath. Yet every reform group in the city was in favor of such closings. But after a series of crackdowns, Tammany Hall had made it a point to stir up as much trouble for Bragg and his force as possible. The German workers of the city were in an up roar, demanding their rights in protests and petitions. Afraid of losing reelection, Low had told Bragg to back off.

Low was good for the city. He was a man dedicated to social and political reform and he was courageous enough to oppose Tammany Hall. He was also Bragg’s boss. There was no way Rick could refuse his orders, even if it meant compromising his own oath to uphold and obey the law.

He could please no one now. The reformers, led by the clergy and the city’s progressive-minded elites, wanted his head and his resignation. So did half of his own force, due to the internal shake up he had inflicted these past five months, reassigning officers left and right to break up the rings of graft and bribery that manacled the city in a web of corruption and lies. Low had made it clear that he wished for Rick to continue on; given the circumstances, he was pleased with the internal cleanup of the force. Rick hadn’t really been considering resignation, but sometimes, on an endless day like this one, it crossed his mind.

He was never at home, and his family had never needed him more.

He drank, finishing the bourbon and pouring another one. His family. Images of his beautiful wife and the two little girls they had decided to adopt filled his mind. Who was he fooling? He had finished all the urgent paperwork an hour or two ago and had chosen to linger over the damn dailies, with their accusatory headlines, because he was afraid to go upstairs.

He was afraid to go to the bedroom he shared with his wife, afraid to go to their bed.

He leaned his face on his hands, closing his eyes, so tired he thought he could fall asleep at his desk. And it wasn’t the job, it wasn’t the corruption, it wasn’t the politics—it was the impossible personal and private dilemma he found himself in. How much longer could he go on this way?

He had become a stranger to his family, a stranger to the little girls who needed him—a stranger to his wife.

And she wanted it that way.

He stood abruptly, terribly torn. A part of him was ruthlessly determined to go up those stairs, climb into her bed and simply hold her, even though he would find her stiff with tension, pretending to be asleep. When he reached for her, he knew she would turn away, refusing to allow him any opportunity for comfort or intimacy. And he could not blame her.

Leigh Anne had said she did not hold him responsible for the accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs, but he blamed himself—and knew that, deep down, she blamed him, too.

Once, he had thought their marriage over. Years before the accident, soon after they were first married. She had left him to travel in Europe and he had hated her passionately. Now, too late, he had faced the extent of his passion. He still loved her and he always had. But it had become painfully obvious that she no longer cared in return. He knew what he should do. He should give her the freedom she clearly wanted, but how could he? Who would take care of her if he did so? And what about the girls? If he left Leigh Anne, it would mean the loss of his family.

His heart seemed to crack apart at the thought.

He stared at the dark, empty fireplace. The past flashed before his eyes—the moment he had first laid eyes on Leigh Anne, which was when he had fallen in love. Their wedding, and her happiness then. His sudden, unexpected decision to leave his profitable career to perform legal services for the poor and inopportune. Her unhappiness had followed, for he had turned his back on a sizable income and worked eighty-hour weeks instead. Finally, there was her betrayal. She had simply left him, walking out on their marriage. Too late, he wished he had never taken that damn employment, or that he had begged her to return.

But he hadn’t. And four years of separation had limped by, until the night Francesca Cahill had come into his life.

He smiled, but his sadness increased. He wondered what would have happened if Leigh Anne had never returned to him. He still cared deeply for Francesca and he always would. Once, they had been on the verge of falling in love, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he was committed to his wife and children—and Francesca was committed to his half brother. His smile vanished. Hart would break her heart. He knew it the way he knew that Leigh Anne wanted him to leave. He had not a single doubt, and the day Hart hurt her, he would break him.

A sharp knocking sounded on the front door.

Bragg was relieved, as he hated thinking about Francesca with Hart. It was terribly late, so the call could only be police business—an emergency. Bragg grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and hurried down the narrow hall of the modest Victorian brownstone he leased.

A roundsman stood there with a lantern, his expression alert. Bragg was already shrugging on his jacket. “What is it?” He did not know the young officer who faced him.

“Sir, there has been a murder. Inspector Newman thinks you might want to meet him at HQ, immediately.”

He was tense, and glad of the distraction. This could only be dire, indeed. “Who is the victim?” He stepped outside, closing the front door behind him. The early June night was cool, but not unpleasant.

“A woman. Her name is Miss Daisy Jones, sir.”

An instant passed as he assimilated this stunning fact—Hart’s mistress had been murdered. “Newman is at headquarters? He is not at the murder scene?”

“No, sir. There are some officers at the scene, but he has several witnesses to speak with, sir. He asked me to tell you that he is interviewing Calder Hart and Miss Cahill as we speak.”

Bragg tripped. For one moment, he was in disbelief. Hart was at HQ—with Francesca. And he simply knew that no good could come of this case.

FRANCESCA SAT BESIDE HART at the long, scarred wood table in the conference room of police headquarters. The room was on the second floor, just a door down from Bragg’s office. Inspector Newman, a rotund and pleasant man with graying hair with whom Francesca had worked many times, sat facing them, holding a notepad, and wearing his most professional demeanor. Francesca knew that was on her account, as he was very aware of her close relationship with Bragg.

Francesca had already heard Hart’s story on the short ride from Daisy’s to Mulberry Street, when they had had a chance to speak. Now she watched him closely, carefully listening to his every word. She could not help herself, for she had learned on her numerous past investigations to check and recheck every detail. Witnesses often confused facts and events; perpetrators often deliberately misled the police. Of course, she was not suspicious of Hart and she expected him to keep his facts straight, and although his expression was deadpan, his tone calm, she was certain now that he was very distressed by the evening’s events.

“I left the train depot a few minutes before 7:00 p.m. As I was not expected, I took a cab home. Traffic was heavy and it was a good hour before I reached the house. An hour later I found a note from Daisy on my desk.”

Which meant he had found her note at 9:00 p.m., approximately, Francesca thought.

“And what did her note say?” Newman asked.

“She wished to speak with me the moment I returned home and said it was very urgent.” Hart’s impassive expression never changed, but sitting beside him, Francesca could feel the tension coiled up in him. She could not help herself, and she reached out to cover his hand with her own. He glanced at her with a slight smile that failed to reach his gold-flecked eyes.

“And do you have any clue as to what could be so urgent?” Newman asked.

Hart did not hesitate. “I felt certain the matter was a financial one.”

Newman glanced at Francesca, his cheeks becoming a bit pink.

Francesca was willing to let him off the hook. “I am well aware of the fact, Inspector, that Daisy was Calder’s mistress.”

He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, to bring up such a delicate subject. You spoke as if the affair had ended?”

“It ended the day Francesca agreed to become my wife,” Hart said flatly. “The morning of February 24.”

Francesca looked at him in real surprise. He recalled the exact date she had accepted his proposal? He turned to smile at her, when Rick Bragg walked purposefully into the room.

Francesca leapt to her feet, very relieved to see him. Calder’s half brother was a very handsome man, but the two men shared little resemblance. Bragg had tawny hair and a golden complexion, as did most of the Bragg men, while Hart was as dark as midnight. He glanced between Francesca and Hart as he approached them, his expression grim. Hart’s face settled into an unreadable, emotionless mask.

Francesca was aware of the new currents of tension swirling in the room as she clasped both of Rick’s hands. “I am so glad you are here! Calder was just giving his statement, Rick. Of course, you know that Daisy is dead.”

“So I have been told,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. But Rose is devastated.” She hesitated, then dared to add, “Calder is upset, too.”

Rick clearly did not believe that. “What are you doing here, Francesca? You are a witness to the murder?”

“Not really,” Francesca said quickly. She realized Bragg had not released her hands and that Hart watched them like a hawk. She gently disengaged herself. “Rose found the body and sent a note, asking me for help. It appears that Rose discovered Daisy first, and that Calder found her while Rose was sending me the note. When I got to the house, Rose was with Daisy and Calder was looking for the killer. He had just spoken with some of the staff.”

Bragg turned to Hart. “Don’t let me interrupt your statement.”

Hart shrugged as if he had not a care in the world.

Bragg leaned over Newman’s shoulder and scanned his notes. As he did so, Newman said, “He received a note from Daisy requesting a meeting, sir. That would have been about nine o’clock.”

Bragg nodded, straightening. His aloof gaze met Hart’s. “So you rushed off to meet your mistress?”

Hart sent him a cold, unpleasant smile. “You know damn well I broke off the affair when I became engaged to Francesca.”

Newman looked startled. He said, “Sir, she was living in Mr. Hart’s house.”

“I am aware of that. So, you rushed off to meet Daisy as she requested?” Bragg asked again.

Francesca walked over to stand beside Hart, dismayed that Bragg had instantly gone on an attack. Hart, who remained sitting rather indolently, did not give any sign of being shaken. “No, I did not rush off anywhere. It had been a long day and I had a drink, perhaps two. It was some time later when I decided to call on Daisy and conclude whatever affairs were bothering her.”

Bragg made a mocking sound. “And those affairs were?”

“I assumed they were financial matters,” Hart said, slowly rising to his feet, “as the only connection left between me and Daisy was financial. I continued to support her—we had a verbal contract, and it did not expire until mid-July. But you know all of that, don’t you, Rick?”

Bragg stared and Hart stared back. Then Bragg glanced at Francesca. “I find it highly unlikely that you just returned to town and went to see Daisy to discuss a few bills.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Hart said, finally appearing annoyed. “I never have and I never will.”

Bragg looked ready to explode—or arrest him. Smiling tightly, he said, “Considering your mistress has been murdered, I think you had better start to care what I think.”

Hart smiled as tightly, and for one moment, Francesca thought he was about to smash his fist in Bragg’s face.

Francesca hated the hostility between the two brothers. She gripped Hart’s arm. “A terrible murder has been committed,” she said tersely. “There is no point in the both of you going at each other’s throats. We need to find Daisy’s killer. We owe her that.”

Bragg gave her an undecipherable look and walked away, running his hand through his hair. Hart faced her, his rigid expression softening. “You don’t need to be here right now,” he said.

Francesca gaped. “Of course I do!” she cried. She could not tell him, not in front of Newman and Bragg, how worried she was about his apparent involvement. “When we go home, we will go home together,” she whispered.

Before Hart could object, Bragg returned to them, apparently having recovered his composure. “Let’s leave the subject of why you went to see Daisy aside for the moment. Walk me through what happened when you arrived.”

Some of Hart’s tension eased. “I left the house around half past eleven, I think. When I arrived at her home, I saw that there were no lights on downstairs. No one answered the knocker, and that was odd. I did not have a good feeling at this point. So I tried the door, found it unlocked and walked in.”

Francesca could not breathe and her heart raced. The mental note she had made earlier was glaring at her now. Hart had said he had left home at eleven, not half past. Was he deliberately misleading Bragg and the police, or had he, like most witnesses, made an innocent factual error? And she wondered again, if he had really left home at 11:00 p.m., what had he been doing for nearly an entire hour in that house? Was that why he was misleading the police?

Almost as if he were a mind reader, he turned to Francesca. “What time did you get there?”

She hesitated, her instincts rising up now. She did not want to lie, but she desperately wanted to protect Hart.

“Francesca?”

She wet her lips. “Before midnight,” she lied. “I imagine it was just a few minutes after Hart.” She could barely believe that she was lying to a man she had once loved and still cared so deeply for.

Bragg rubbed his jaw. “Calder?”

“I found Daisy shortly after I first walked in,” he said, not looking at Francesca now. “It appeared as if she had been stabbed in the chest, many times. No one could survive such an attack, but I did check for her pulse.” He spoke very calmly, as if they were discussing the next day’s weather, but he was gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in and his knuckles were white.

Francesca could not see his expression, because he had looked down, but she gave up all pretense now. Hart was distraught and anguished. He certainly still cared for Daisy, and Francesca was hurt and jealous, dear God.

But Francesca wanted to comfort him, too, and she moved closer to him. Instantly he glanced at her. She sensed he wanted to reassure her, and any grief he might be feeling was masked. Then he looked at Bragg. “I sat with her for a moment,” he said calmly. “I was in shock. I was very much in shock.”

Bragg nodded. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he said.

Hart had tossed his charcoal-gray jacket aside. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his dark tie loose and askew. He rarely wore a vest, and dried blood stained the finely woven white cotton material of his shirt. Now he glanced down at his own chest.

“You held her?” Bragg asked.

Francesca tensed.

An interminable moment passed and Francesca thought Hart was recalling the moment he had first seen Daisy dead on the study floor. She touched his arm; he did not notice. “I saw her the moment I reached the study door. It was ajar. There was so much blood. I knew instantly that she had been murdered.” Hart finally looked at his half brother. “But I checked to see if she was breathing. She wasn’t. I was on my knees.” He stopped. He had spoken as if reciting notes for a university class. Now he looked down. “Yes, I held her.”

Francesca turned away. Her heart beat so hard it hurt her there, inside of her chest.

“Go on,” Bragg said to Hart, as if he had not just revealed his feelings, when they all knew he had.

Hart shrugged. “I instantly wondered if the killer remained in the house. I was about to begin a search when I saw Rose coming inside, without any kind of wrap. Clearly she had only just stepped out. I was suspicious and I made certain she did not see me. She went directly to the study. She was not surprised to find Daisy dead there, but she was very distraught.”

“She still did not see you?” Bragg asked.

Hart shook his head. “We all know that Rose was very fond of Daisy. Although her behavior seemed suspicious, I left to search the house, on the chance I might find either the killer or a clue. I had just finished speaking with the butler and a housemaid when I ran into Francesca.”

“And that would have been at midnight,” Bragg confirmed.

“I guess so,” Hart said, suddenly sounding tired. “Are we through?”

Francesca would have been consumed with guilt for her deception, but there was too much worry and hurt. She could not get past the fact that Hart had admitted to holding Daisy in his arms, obviously grieving for her. She reminded herself that he had every right. After all, she still cared for Bragg. She would grieve until the day she died if anything ever happened to him. Why couldn’t she accept that Hart had continued to care for Daisy, too?

Because she had always been jealous of the fact that Hart had once wanted Daisy enough to keep her as a mistress.

Francesca did not want to think about how insecure Daisy had always made her feel. She took a breath and plunged into the fray. “Rick, I arrived just a few moments before I bumped into Hart. When I arrived, the front door was ajar. I found Rose with Daisy, in grief. There was no sign of a murder weapon. I covered up the body and I also thought to look for the killer, as I heard a noise in the hall. That is when I ran into Calder on the stairs.”

“And you went to Daisy, for what reason?”

Francesca reached into her beaded velvet evening bag and handed him the note. He read it and gave it to Newman. “Tag it,” he said. He faced Hart. “And the note Daisy sent you?”

Hart was rubbing his jaw. “It’s probably on my desk, where I left it.”

“I’m afraid I will need it, Calder.”

“I’ll send it to you,” Hart said. He walked away from Bragg and Francesca, as if deep in thought. Francesca watched him, aware of Bragg watching her. This was one case that she was not going to be enthusiastic about working on. She turned to Bragg. “Rose has admitted to finding Daisy murdered, Rick. I think we need to pursue her as a suspect, as distasteful as that is.”

Bragg spoke, not to Francesca but to Hart. “You have a houseful of witnesses, do you not, who will testify that you were at your home from the time you arrived there, at approximately 8:00 p.m., until you left for Daisy’s at half past eleven?”

Hart faced them from a distance. “Alfred let me in when I returned from the depot. I am sure he saw me go out.”

Bragg made a note. “And your driver can certainly testify to taking you to Daisy’s at half past eleven, can he not?”

Hart’s expression was impassive. “I took a cab.”

Francesca almost groaned. “Rick! Hart was at home for at least three hours! I am sure quite a few staff can testify to that.”

Bragg looked at her, not responding.

Francesca felt some panic bubble. Rick did not believe all that Hart had said.

“Rick, I want to speak to you alone,” Hart suddenly said.

Francesca was instantly alarmed. “Calder!”

“No.” His eyes had become shards of steel. “I wish to speak with my brother privately.”

Francesca’s worry knew no bounds. She hesitated and Rick said, “I want to speak to him alone, as well. Francesca, it is late. I will finish with Hart and he can take you home, as long as you promise me you will come in first thing in the morning to give an official statement.” He smiled at her.

But she did not smile back. If they wished to speak alone, then they were going to discuss her—or discuss something they did not wish for her to hear. When both men united against her, it was a losing battle. She looked at Rick, who was smiling too benignly at her, then glanced at Hart, who was not smiling at all. He appeared ruthlessly determined, but to do what?

“I’ll take you home in a few minutes,” Hart said.

She knew she could not prevent this private discussion. She sighed and faced Rick. “Of course I’ll come in tomorrow morning. What about Rose?”

“I’m going to interview her in a moment, if she is up to the task. If not, I will send her home with a police escort and speak with her in the morning, as well.”

Francesca would be shocked if Rose were ever proven to be the killer. She felt very sorry for the woman. “Rick, she is in mourning.”

“I know.” He laid his hand on her back and guided her across the room to the door. “Newman? Why don’t you see Miss Cahill downstairs and begin speaking with Rose.”

“Aye, sir,” Newman said.

HART WATCHED FRANCESCA LEAVE. He was very deter mined, but a part of him almost called her back. Before the door closed she sent him a reassuring look. He knew her so well now, better than he had ever known anyone. Therefore, he had not a single doubt that Francesca genuinely wanted to comfort him, just as he knew she wanted to protect him. It was amazing, and he knew that later he’d be grateful. Tonight, however, he had no use for any emotions whatsoever, not even those engendered by his fiancée. Tonight, he refused to feel anything at all.

Images of Daisy filled his mind, her anger, her tears, and later, her bloody corpse.

Hart turned to Rick and said, “I do not want Francesca involved in this investigation, not in any way. She thinks to protect me but it is hardly necessary.”

Bragg’s tawny brows lifted. “I could not agree more. How noble of you.”

Inwardly he seethed. “We both know I am not noble, Rick, so don’t even begin. But even I am not rotten enough to put Franesca in the awkward position of defending me in the murder of my ex-mistress.” He did not want his past with Daisy—or any woman—thrown up in Francesca’s face, time and again. In fact, he had regretted his hedonistic past ever since meeting Francesca, or shortly there after. Although he could not change the past, he hoped to keep Francesca as far removed from it as he could. Yet to night, the past had somehow caught up with them both.

“I could almost believe you are putting Francesca first,” Rick said, “except we both know you are not.”

Hart despised his brother’s self-righteous, judgmental nature. “Let’s finish, Rick.” His temper was explosive and that felt good.

But Rick was clearly not finished. “You don’t want Francesca to know why you went to see your mistress tonight, do you?” Rick was furious. “We both know you did not ride downtown to go over her expenses and accounts.”

Hart saw red. “Fuck you. I did not visit Daisy to sleep with her.”

Rick stared. Finally said, “Then why? Because only some very urgent dispute or crisis would rouse you so late at night.”

He tensed. Daisy’s sobs filled his mind, and the image was hateful. “I told you, it was a matter of finances. I’m not even sure what, exactly, the matter involved. She probably wanted more funds. I had asked her to leave the house last month, earlier than we had agreed. She refused and I had decided to let it go. Maybe she was going to ask me for a payoff.” He smiled coldly. “But we will never know now, will we?”

“How interesting this is, your word against the word of a dead woman. Why did you ask Daisy to leave the house earlier than the two of you had agreed she would go?”

Hart had to hand it to his half brother—Rick never missed a trick. Calder had learned long ago to stick as closely to the truth as possible. “She had become difficult, even malicious, toward me—and worse, toward Francesca. I was angry with her and I had had enough.”

Bragg’s brows rose. “Were you angry with her to night?”

“No,” Hart said, and that was the truth.

Rick saw it, too, because he nodded. “Is there anything else you wish to add?”

“No.”

Rick nodded again. “Come in tomorrow afternoon. Your statement will be ready and you can sign it.” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t hurt, Calder, to bring your lawyer with you.”

Hart stiffened. “I don’t need a lawyer, because I did not murder anyone.”

Rick shrugged and started for the door.

Hart seized him from behind. “I meant what I said. I do not want Francesca working this case with you. Turn her away, Rick, when you see her tomorrow. She doesn’t need this.”

“I can’t dissuade her when she has set her mind to something.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

Rick gave him an enigmatic look and he walked out.

Hart lost it. He kicked the door so hard that it hurt.

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—3:00 a.m.

FRANCESCA WAITED IN HART’S carriage, a large, elegant six-in-hand, while Hart and Bragg spoke. Although the station had been unusually quiet, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

The ward was almost deserted. Although numerous prostitutes worked the brownstones just across from headquarters, Francesca saw only one madam, outrageously dressed in a peignoir with a pink feather boa, smoking a cigar and sitting on the stoop of her building. A pair of officers was returning from a foot patrol in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets, billy clubs in hand and wearing their new police-issue Colt revolvers. A horse and rider was approaching, and some raucous conversation was coming from a nearby flat. Otherwise, like the station house, the night was oddly quiet.

Why had Hart sent her out? What did he wish to discuss with Bragg alone? Francesca could not help but be worried. A part of it was simple—leaving both men alone together was like sending them an invitation to do battle.

Their rivalry was ancient, going back to when they were small boys. They shared the same mother, Lily, who had tragically died. Rick had been eleven years old at the time and he had been claimed by his father, Rathe Bragg. Hart had been unwanted, so Rathe had taken him in, too. Francesca knew Hart so well now and she understood. His mother had never had time for him, first fighting to provide for her children and later, fighting to stay alive, a battle she had lost. Somehow Hart had felt abandoned and unloved, first by Lily, and then, by his biological father. As foolish as it seemed, he had never been able to forgive Rick for being the wanted one, the favored one, the loved one.

And as children so often do, he had searched for Lily’s and then Rathe’s approval in a backward way, his behavior wild and out of bounds, testing first his mother and then his stepfather. But he hadn’t really wanted to push everyone away—he had just wanted to be loved, in spite of who he was.

Francesca knew Hart had not been aware of what he was doing as a small boy or a rowdy adolescent. Yet she had come to realize that his behavior as a mature and powerful man was really no different than that little boy’s. He claimed not to care what anyone thought of him, and he was well aware of his black reputation, but Francesca thought he did care—and that he refused to admit it, not even to himself. He refused to conform to the rules and mores of proper society; he had flaunted his lovers, many of whom were divorcées, and he displayed the most shocking and controversial art. Behind his back, society gossiped in absolute fascination. Hart laughed about it, but it was as if he had to see just how far he could go before being cast out. There had been difficult times when he had tried to push her away, as well. But Francesca understood that his actions were a test—a test of her loyalty, her friendship and her devotion. She was never going to fail.

There was another aspect to Hart’s rivalry with his half brother. The two men were as different as night and day. Rick had given his life to social and political reform, even at the expense of his marriage. His reputation was as stellar as Hart’s was not; he would never flaunt an indiscretion or compromise anyone’s reputation. Hart was only accepted in good society because of his wealth and power. Rick was accepted not just because he was from that acclaimed family, but because he was a leader of the reform movement, universally respected and admired for all of his good works. No two men could be more different—on the surface, at least.

It also did not help that, when she had first met Hart, she and Rick had been romantically involved. Hart remained jealous of the fact that she had chosen Rick before him and that she maintained a genuine friendship with him. Rick clearly loved his wife, and Francesca often felt he would not mind her engagement—as long as it was to anyone other than Hart. She sighed. She could not undo the past. She could not stop caring about Rick Bragg and she could not stop loving Hart. Their rivalry had begun decades before either man had ever met her, but she was aware of being added fuel to the fire.

Francesca pushed open her window. The night was cool but pleasant; a few stars had come out to join the crescent moon. She felt a soft summer breeze and she let it caress her face. She was so worried about this case and where the investigation would take her.

Suddenly the other passenger door opened and Hart climbed into the backseat beside her, taking her hand. “Are you cold? Why are you waiting here, when you could be inside?”

Francesca met his dark gaze and tried to smile at him. “It can be so noisy in the lobby. I have a head ache,” she said truthfully.

His smile faded as the carriage rumbled away from the curb. He put his arm around her. “It has been a terrible evening,” he said quietly. “I wish you hadn’t been here tonight, Francesca.”

She looked up at his face, at the strong and attractive features she had come to love, acutely aware of his powerful embrace. “I’m glad I was here,” she said passionately. “You are not going through this alone!”

“Francesca, I know you mean well. You always mean well,” he said roughly, and he smiled. “But this affair is already a sordid one. I have never asked you before to cease an investigation, but I am asking you now.”

She pulled away from him, disbelieving. “Hart, don’t ask me to drop this.”

“You are upset with me,” he remarked, his eyes moving over her face.

“I want to help,” Francesca said firmly. “I can help. Daisy was murdered and we both know I can find her killer. Just as we both know that right now, the police think you might be involved.”

His expression hardened and he glanced away.

She moved into his arms, turning his face toward her. Hart could be terribly insecure and vulnerable at times, as if still that small, unloved, unwanted boy. “I am not upset with you. You did not murder Daisy, Hart,” Francesca said. “We simply need to bring her killer to justice.”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his chest. Against her skin, Francesca felt the stiff material of his shirt, and she realized he had pressed her hand against Daisy’s dried blood. “Why are you calling me Hart? You only call me Hart when distressed.” His gaze was searching in the flickering lights of the carriage.

She wet her lips. “I am distressed. You are, as well. How can we not be distressed after what has happened?”

He studied her and said, “And that is why I don’t want you on this case. It will only get worse.”

She trembled. “And how will it get worse?”

He was incredulous. “I care enough about you not to want you reminded every hour of every day that I was in Daisy’s bed a few months ago!”

Her mind became blurred. A little voice inside of her head said, “Don’t.” She ignored it. “Why did you call on Daisy tonight?”

His grip on her hand tightened as their gazes locked. “There was a matter she wished to discuss.”

Francesca continued to tremble and she knew Hart could feel it. She recalled Newman’s expression of pity, and Bragg’s. Both men thought Hart had gone to see Daisy to take her to bed. “What matter?”

He rubbed his face and Francesca realized how tired he was. “Can we let this go, at least for tonight?”

She knew he had not gone to Daisy for carnal reasons. While it was her worst fear that one day he would stray, they had only recently become engaged and the passion they shared remained vast. “What was so important and so urgent that you had to see Daisy tonight—the night of her murder?” She could not help herself. “Calder, we agreed to always be honest with each other. We both know that you didn’t go to Daisy’s to discuss financial matters.”

“We had a private matter to discuss.” He was terse and there was a warning in his tone.

Francesca became alarmed. “A matter you wish to keep private from me?”

“Yes.” He turned away, resolute, his expression hard and tense. “Please. Just leave it for now.”

She could not believe he would not tell her what he and Daisy had intended to discuss. But it was not his nature to ask for anything, and he was asking her now to let the subject alone. She didn’t know if she could. Her mind was spinning. She simply could not imagine what had brought him to Daisy’s in the middle of the night. “Your motive in calling on her is crucial to your defense.”

He became rigid. “So now I am accused of her murder?”

“Hart, I am not accusing you of anything! I know you are innocent. But the police will want to know.”

He was angry. “No, you want to know! You want to pry! Damn it! I just asked you to drop it! But when you get an idea, a clue, a lead, you might as well be a terrier with some damned bone. Usually your tenacity is endearing—it is not endearing now. Please, leave it, Francesca.”

She recoiled. And against her will, an image arose of him with Daisy in an intimate embrace.

As always, he knew. He tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. His eyes were wide. “You cannot think I went there to sleep with her?”

Francesca felt her cheeks heating. She really did not doubt Hart, but she did doubt Daisy. Had the other woman somehow lured him to her home to seduce him, in the hopes of rekindling their affair?

And because she hesitated, he grew incredulous. “Don’t tell me you have doubts about my loyalty,” he began in warning.

She could not breathe. She shook her head. “I don’t. Not really. It’s just—” she managed to say.

“Not really!” he exclaimed, cutting her off. “It’s just what?” he demanded.

Francesca saw from his shocked and angry expression that she had been wrong to even begin to doubt him. “You know I am insecure at times like these,” she said. “I did not trust Daisy—and neither did you! If only I were half as beautiful as she was.”

He leaned close, exploding. “I asked you to marry me because I had no wish to continue my philandering ways! I asked you to marry me because I was sick to death of all of those desperate women, and more important, of myself! I asked you to marry me because I wish to commit myself to you, Francesca. I knew, shortly after meeting you, that you were the one woman I wished to share the rest of my entire life with. I told you, in a true confession of my feelings, that I could no longer enjoy being with those faceless women, whose names I could never even recall! I asked you to marry me because you are the only genuine friend I have ever had, and because I have come to care deeply for you—because you have changed my life! Now, you believe I was sleeping with Daisy? I have never been faithful before, Francesca, but I have been faithful to you! And you are ten times more beautiful than Daisy!”

He was so angry. Francesca huddled against the velvet seat, shocked by his passionate outburst—and thrilled, too. “Calder, I was merely being honest. I don’t really believe you went to Daisy to sleep with her, of course I don’t. But Daisy always worried me. She was so beautiful. I am such a bluestocking, and I am so different from women like her. I admit it—when it comes to such women, I am a jealous, witless fool!”

He swept her into his arms. “Yes, you are jealous, witless and foolish at times like these,” he muttered, and he covered her mouth with his. He moved so quickly that Francesca was stunned, and then his tongue thrust hard and deep. Before she could react, the kiss softened, becoming thorough, and more thorough still. Francesca forgot the conversation, holding on to his hard, powerful body, her blood surging with heat. When he finally pulled away, she was dazed and throbbing with a terrible need and urgency. His sexual tension emanated from him in waves, but he gently brushed some strands of blond hair from her cheek. “You are as different from Daisy and her kind as can be—and I am so grateful for it! You tempt me, Francesca, as no one else ever has,” he whispered roughly.

It was always this way, she thought, recovering some of her sensibilities. When she became terribly insecure, he would make love to her and she would realize she had been a fool. When she was in his arms, all doubt died. She smiled at him and clasped his cheek briefly.

He smiled back and, his eyes closing, he kissed her hand.

The electricity that existed between them sparked. She covered his hand, pulling it against her face. Her heart pumped, each beat solid and pregnant with desire, in the hollow of her chest. She had missed him terribly while he was out of town and it would be a few more minutes before they reached her home.

He sensed the direction of her thoughts and looked directly at her. His gaze was brilliant as it met hers. Very softly, he said, “This is a dangerous night. I don’t feel in control, Francesca. I am not certain this is a good idea.”

She slipped her hand under his shirt, against the warm skin of his hard chest, but his shirt remained stiff with dried blood. She looked at it; so did he.

Daisy was dead and Hart was in trouble, she some how thought.

He kissed her cheek lightly and took her hand. Francesca fought the raging of her body until it softened. “I am sorry,” she said when she could speak. “I am sorry for being so foolish and for having even the tiniest doubt. But I am afraid I will always be jealous when it comes to other women.”

“You don’t ever have to be jealous of another woman, Francesca,” he said so seriously that her insides melted.

“I will try to prevent such a lapse in the future, I swear it, Calder.” She actually managed to smile at him.

He glanced at her. “Maybe I should be more understanding,” he said, surprising her. “Recently Daisy did her best to interfere in our relationship. Maybe your response to her was reasonable. But, Francesca, I have to remind you of one basic fact. Daisy had the airs of a well-bred lady, and I am rather certain she came from a genteel background, but she sold her body, Francesca. I paid for her attentions—they were never freely given.” He held her gaze. “Darling, she was a whore.”

“Calder!” She was shocked that he would speak so ill of the dead. But her mind quickly grasped the fact he had just tossed her way. Francesca sat up straighter. “Did she ever tell you anything of her background?” she asked. She had also realized upon first meeting Daisy that she was from society, although Daisy had never once referred to her background.

“It never came up. Frankly, I wasn’t curious, not at all.”

Francesca began to plan her next day. “This was a crime of passion, Calder, not some random killing. The killer knew Daisy and I think he knew her well. I must find out who she really was—where she came from, and why she left that life to become a prostitute.”

He sighed. “I can see how determined you are. Well, if anyone can uncover the truth about her life, I am sure that person is you.”

She barely heard him. She had so much work to do—and the sooner, the better, so she and Calder could get past this terrible tragedy and get on with their lives.

He tilted up her chin and their eyes met. “You lied for me tonight, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I was at that house by half past eleven, an hour or so before you ever got there. You did not arrive until half past twelve.”

She tensed. “I know what I did, Calder.”

“You lied to Rick.”

She bit her lip. “And I hated doing it. But you were at Daisy’s for perhaps an hour after discovering her dead. And the police will think that terribly bizarre.”

He took her hand again. “I told you—after Rose came in, I was looking for her killer.”

“I know. And I believe you. I just want you off their list of suspects.”

“You lied to Rick for me.”

“I hated lying to him, but we are engaged,” she said softly. “I will always be on your side, first and foremost.”

His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I think I am finally beginning to understand that, Francesca,” he said. He hesitated. “I am grateful.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

He stared another moment, then faced his window, his face becoming a hard, tight mask of controlled emotion.

Her smile vanished. She knew his thoughts had veered away from her to the murder—and perhaps to the private matter he had wished to discuss with Daisy—and she could not help thinking that Hart was hiding something from her.

She was afraid.

FRANCESCA PASSED A MOSTLY sleepless night. At eight in the morning, dressed in her usual no-nonsense navy blue suit, she stared at her pale reflection in the mirror of her boudoir. She had thought about Daisy’s gruesome murder all night, endlessly analyzing the little evidence she currently had. Maybe today Hart would tell her why he had called on Daisy. Maybe she would find a new lead, one that would point her in the direction of the real killer. As distasteful as it was, she had to acknowledge that Rose’s behavior that evening had been odd and suspicious. Francesca could not come to terms with the concept of Rose murdering her best friend and lover, but she was clearly on the police’s list of suspects and she would have to be considered a possible perpetrator. She could certainly deflect attention from Hart. Instead of worrying about what Hart might be hiding, she was going to focus all of her attention and efforts on finding the brutal killer. Sooner rather than later, she would interview Rose at length.

Francesca added some pins to her jaunty blue hat and left the dressing room, her long dark skirts swirling about her. She grabbed her reticule as she left the bedroom, having already placed her small derringer inside. A servant was coming up the corridor toward her. “Miss Cahill? You have a caller.”

Francesca was taken aback. A call at eight in the morning was unheard of. This had to be urgent. “Is it Hart?”

The servant handed her a business card. “It is a Mr. Arthur Kurland, ma’am.”

Francesca was filled with surprise and anger. Kurland was a newsman from the Sun. Usually he accosted her outside of her home or on the street. He had never dared to call in such a social way before.

“Should I send him away, ma’am?”

Francesca was certain he had learned of Daisy’s murder. Half of the city’s newsmen kept shop in a brown stone right across the street from headquarters, on the lookout for a hot scoop. As he seemed to have some kind of personal animosity toward Francesca, he had surely come to gloat over the fact that the murder victim was Hart’s ex-mistress. Francesca had no doubt he had come to pry for information.

Oh, she would see him, all right. She would carefully feed him misinformation that pointed him in any direction but Hart’s. “No. Where is my father?”

“He is in the breakfast room.”

Francesca quickly led the way downstairs. She did not want Andrew learning of Daisy’s murder, not until the police had an official suspect, other than Hart. Francesca had little doubt that if Andrew learned of the murder now, it would put the final nail in the coffin of his disapproval of her engagement. He would never give Hart another chance. “I’ll entertain Mr. Kurland in the Blue Room, Mary. Bring two cups of coffee, please.” As she entered the spacious front hall, she pinched her cheeks, regretting her earlier decision to forgo rouge.

She must not let Kurland suspect that anything was wrong. So she smiled, sailing forward to where he waited at the hall’s other end, by the front door. His brows slowly rose as she paused before him and he carefully scrutinized her face.

Francesca hoped she did not look exhausted or distressed. “Good morning, Mr. Kurland. My, this is a surprise.”

He was a slim man in his thirties with brownish hair and wearing an ill-fitting, equally brownish suit. He grinned. “I think the surprise is mine. You’re not going to give me the boot?”

“If you are calling in such a pleasant manner, there must be an interesting matter to discuss.” She gestured and he preceded her into a pale blue room with mint-green ceilings, gilded paneling and several lush seating arrangements. He paused before the large white-and-gold marble fireplace. Francesca closed the mahogany doors behind her.

“I don’t know if murder should be described as interesting, except that maybe it is interesting to you, because you are a sleuth.” He smiled widely. “Come, do not play innocent with me!”

“Are we discussing the terrible, untimely demise of Miss Jones?” Francesca asked in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we are discussing the murder of your fiancé’s mistress,” Kurland said, regarding her closely.

Francesca’s smile felt so brittle she did not know how long she could maintain it. “Mr. Kurland, everyone knows that Hart ended his affair three months ago, when we became engaged.”

He rolled his eyes. “For such a smart investigator, you are awfully naive.”

She tried to control her slowly rising temper. “I do believe I know Mr. Hart a bit better than you do. I would hardly agree to marry him if he were the cad society thinks him to be.”

“Indeed, I’ll bet a month’s wages that you know him better than me!” He laughed, the implication clear.

Francesca fought to contain her temper. “If you wish to think Hart so immoral as to keep a mistress while engaged, so be it. But I find it hard to believe you have come all this way uptown to discuss Hart’s private affairs.”

“But that is exactly why I have come, Miss Cahill,” Kurland exclaimed. He was eager now. “Good lord, the man’s mistress—all right, his ex-mistress!—has been murdered. This smacks of being a true crime of passion. Hart wouldn’t be the first man to rid himself of an un wanted mistress.”

Francesca trembled, her fists clenched. “Did you come here to accuse my fiancé of murder?”

He sobered. “Nope. I came here to ask you how you feel about it—the murder, I mean, of such a rival.”

She inhaled. “Daisy was my friend,” she lied. “We were friends before I ever became engaged to Hart, and I am going to find her killer.” She still could not decide just how much Kurland knew. “But I do agree with you on one point. I saw the body. It was a vicious and brutal crime of passion.”

“You saw the body?” Kurland repeated eagerly.

Francesca was relieved. He obviously had no details of the murder. Of course, eventually he would uncover every detail, she had no doubt, but she would take all of the time that he could give her. “I found the body,” she said, then she corrected herself. “Actually, we found the body.”

Kurland whipped out a notepad and pencil. “We?” he echoed. “Surely you do not mean you and Hart?”

“I do,” Francesca said smoothly, although her cheeks felt hot. “Hart and I had been out to supper. He had some papers to drop off at Daisy’s. You surely know that she was living in a house he provided. In spite of the end of their affair, he had agreed she could stay on until July.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kurland said. “And at what time did you find Miss Jones?”

“It was about midnight.” Francesca described how she had found Daisy, but did not mention Rose’s presence. “We left the body and split up to look for the killer, but he or she was long since gone. When we returned, Rose was with Daisy.”

Kurland stared. “This is very interesting, indeed! And where did you say you had dinner?”

Francesca smiled. “It was a private affair.” She had no friends who lived downtown who would fabricate for her, but a maître d’ could be paid off. “We took a private room at Louis’,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation of the formal downtown restaurant.

Kurland suddenly smiled and shook his head. “So you are Hart’s alibi, and he is yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Cahill. Surely you must realize, with all of your vast experience, that you are as much a suspect as Hart?”

Francesca stared, her heart accelerating. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“I heard the rumor that Daisy’s body was discovered independently by Hart and by Rose Cooper. I have heard no whispers that you were with Hart, although I had been told you were at HQ last night, looking into the case.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Francesca said flatly, “but I would not rely too heavily on them. And no one has pointed a finger my way.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Bragg allowing that,” Kurland said with heavy significance. “But I bet he wouldn’t mind pointing the finger at your fiancé.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, Kurland had caught her and Bragg in a somewhat compromising situation, well before Leigh Anne had returned from Europe to reconcile with him. “I am not involved,” Francesca said. “You may think what you want, but in the end, the truth will out.”

“Yes, in the end, I will learn the truth—every grisly aspect of it.” Kurland slipped his notepad into his jacket. “I do appreciate your candor, Miss Cahill.” He tipped his fedora at her.

Francesca turned to walk him to the door. In the hall, he paused, and Francesca tensed.

“Of course, I have only just begun to dig,” he said. “And there is one more possible theory.”

“I’m sure there are many theories,” Francesca said.

“Perhaps you and Hart conspired to murder Miss Jones together?” he asked pleasantly.

“Hart has conspired to murder no one, Mr. Kurland, but if you wish to cast stones at me, so be it. I am not afraid of your slander,” Francesca said. She did not wait for the doorman, but jerked the heavy front door open herself. “Good day.”

“I hardly mean to upset you, Miss Cahill, but you and Hart had the most to gain from the death of his mistress.”

“Good day, Mr. Kurland.” She finally lost her compo sure and slammed the door closed in his face. Then she stood there, staring at the beautiful grain of chestnut-hued wood, her heart hammering hard and fast. Kurland would probably learn the real facts of the case by the end of the day. He might be scum, but he was a tenacious and skilled reporter. That did not give her much time to unearth a valid suspect. Francesca had little doubt that if she did not find someone other than Hart with motive and means, to morrow’s headlines would be very distasteful, indeed.

“Francesca!”

Francesca stiffened in disbelief. Her mother could not be standing behind her now. Although Julia was an early riser, she never left her rooms before eleven, preferring to take care of all of her correspondence in the mornings.

“Francesca!” Julia clasped her shoulder from behind.

Francesca turned, aghast, to face her stricken mother. “What—what are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“I wanted to speak with your father before he left the house,” Julia cried. “Hart’s mistress is dead? Murdered?”

Francesca’s mind raced. Her mother knew everything that happened in society. Of course, she would know about Hart’s relationship with Daisy. Yet she had been Hart’s biggest supporter and was so favorably disposed toward their marriage that Francesca had some how assumed that she hadn’t known about Daisy. She managed, “She was his ex-mistress, Mama. And yes, she was murdered last night.”

Julia moaned. “And you and Hart are suspects?”

“Mama!” Francesca put her arm around her. “We are not suspects! Hart discovered the body, but Daisy’s friend, Rose Cooper, actually found her first. Mama, I am investigating the case. So far, there are no suspects. We don’t even have an autopsy report.”

But Julia was shaking her head. “How could you allow that man into the house! His articles are scurrilous!”

“I know. I wanted to make certain he did not jump to the wrong conclusions.”

Francesca knew what her mother was thinking—that Francesca wanted to make certain he did not suspect Hart. “Mama, please don’t worry. I am going to find Daisy’s killer.”

“Don’t worry. Of course I am worried. And not just because you are about to put yourself in all kinds of danger once again. Francesca, this scandal will be too much to bear!”

“Mama! Hart is innocent!”

Julia gave her an anguished look. “When the scandal breaks, it won’t even matter.”

FRANCESCA DECIDED TO TRY to catch Hart before he left for his offices, which were at the tip of Manhattan on Bridge Street. Hart had recently built a huge home for himself a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. It had cost millions, and it rose up out of the wilderness of upper Manhattan like a royal palace. Sweeping lawns and lush gardens surrounded the house, and farther back on the property was a large pond, tennis courts and a redbrick stable. When Francesca had first met Hart, he had been living alone. She hadn’t been able to understand how any human being could reside by oneself in such a huge home, with only staff for company, or why anyone would even want such a secluded and lonely existence. Had Hart not been so arrogant, she would have felt sorry for him.

He did not live alone now. His stepfather and step mother, Rathe and Grace Bragg, had recently returned to the city, and were currently building a new and very modern home of their own. They had moved in with Hart some time ago. His nephew, Nicholas D’Archand, had also moved to the city and was attending Columbia University, and from time to time his various stepbrothers or his stepsister would also appear. Francesca was thrilled for Hart. He might deny it, but she felt strongly that being surrounded by family was the best thing possible for him.

Now, with the coach Hart had bought for her parked in front of the house, Francesca rapped on the front door. Hart worked long hours and slept little, but often he would work at his home in the early mornings. Still, it was a quarter to nine now and she was afraid he was already gone.

Alfred greeted her almost instantly. “Miss Cahill!” He beamed, clearly pleased to see his employer’s fiancée and no longer trying to hide his feelings about their union. “Do come inside.”

“Good morning, Alfred,” Francesca said, dashing into the huge front hall where a great deal of Hart’s art collection was displayed, including a shocking nude sculpture and a very sacrilegious Caravaggio. “Have I missed Calder?”

“I am afraid so. In fact, Mr. D’Archand has already left for the day and Mr. and Mrs. Bragg are in Newport for two weeks. However, Mr. Rourke is in residence. He arrived two days ago and he has yet to leave,” the dapper, balding butler replied.

Francesca bit her lip, debating whether to send Hart a note. She had too much on her agenda for that day to travel all the way downtown to Lower Manhattan—even on an elevated railway, the trip would take a good forty-five minutes or so.

“Shall I summon Mr. Rourke? He is in the breakfast room.”

“Alfred, that’s quite all right.” Francesca smiled. “I am on an investigation. I will show myself into the library and write Hart a note.” Hart should be told of Kurland’s visit. Thus far, Francesca had tried to avoid letting Hart know how bothersome and even malicious the newsman was. She had been afraid that Kurland would reveal the extent of her past relationship with Rick Bragg, but that did not matter now. Mama was right. If a scandal broke, it could destroy everyone. “But I do have a question or two I should like to ask you.”

Alfred seemed surprised. “Of course, Miss Cahill.”

“You were here, were you not, when Mr. Hart arrived home last night?”

“I most certainly was. I let him in.”

That was a relief, Francesca thought. “Do you recall the hour?”

“It was a minute or two after the hour of eight o’clock—I happened to glance at the clock in his study, which is where he went directly upon arriving.”

“And then what, Alfred? Did you bring him supper? Did you help him hail a cab when he left?”

“He told me he did not wish to be disturbed.”

Francesca did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what time he left the house last night?”

Alfred shook his head. “I did not see Mr. Hart again until this morning, Miss Cahill. When he gives an order to be left alone, it is my responsibility to ensure that no one—not even family—intrudes upon his privacy.”

Francesca almost moaned. Her heart raced. “You are telling me that no one in this house saw him after he arrived at eight?”

“I am the only one who saw him come in, Miss Cahill, and yes, he secluded himself in the library for the evening. Frankly, I had no idea that he even went out.”

Francesca felt despair.

“Miss Cahill?” Alfred was clearly bewildered and worried now.

She stared at him, wondering if she dared ask him to lie for Hart. “Alfred, the police may wish to speak with you. They may ask you the same questions I have.”

His gaze widened. It was a moment before he spoke. “I see. And what should I say to them?”

Was she really going to do this? She believed in the truth and the law! But Hart was innocent, and until the real killer was found, he was in jeopardy. “Perhaps you might suggest that you waited on Hart that evening,” she heard herself say. “Once or twice. He did go out that evening—he went out at half past eleven.”

“Very well,” Alfred said with resolve.

“Thank you,” Francesca whispered.

Almost unable to believe what she was doing to protect her fiancé, Francesca went down the hall. She had to find the real killer immediately, so these lies could stop. Hart’s library was a huge, dark but pleasant room. Books lined three of the walls, but a number of windows and glass doors opened out onto the back gardens, showing a view of the tennis courts. His desk was at the far end. Francesca turned on a lamp and went to it.

The jacket he had worn the night before was on the back of his chair. Francesca hesitated, her gaze drawn to the stain on the right side of it. It was obviously dried blood.

Last night, he had gone into this room before going upstairs to bed. Francesca could imagine him removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and pouring himself a Scotch, the drink he preferred. Her eyes now found an empty crystal glass. Had he sat there, hunched over his drink, brooding about Daisy’s death?

She shook her head. Of course he had. She wondered if he had thought about her, too. Had he regretted their argument? Had her doubt been on his mind? Or had he been too preoccupied with Daisy’s murder?

Francesca told herself not to return to that place of doubt and insecurity. Instead, she briskly went behind the desk, reaching for a piece of paper. She scribbled a quick note, telling Hart that a reporter had been to see her that morning and that they should meet that evening to discuss the case. She added that she was on her way to interview Rose, and that the first thing she had to do was establish a timeline for the murder.

“Francesca?”

She started and looked up, only to meet Rourke Bragg’s warm gaze and equally affectionate smile.

He seemed mildly bemused. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, coming into the room. He was Hart’s stepbrother but Rick Bragg’s half brother, and like his half brother and father, he had dark blond hair, amber eyes and a golden coloring. He was a medical student in Philadelphia and Francesca genuinely liked him.

Francesca straightened. “Rourke, I’m sorry! You didn’t frighten me. I was so absorbed I did not realize you were there.” She quickly came around the desk and he clasped her hands and kissed her cheek. “Are you on break from medical school?”

“The semester is over, actually, and I am waiting to see if my transfer to Bellevue Medical College has gone through,” Rourke said easily. “And how is my favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law?” But his gaze was carefully searching.

Francesca hesitated. A tremor swept through her as she thought about the murder and Hart and she knew he felt it, because he became very alert. “You haven’t heard.”

Warily, he said, “I haven’t heard what?”

“Daisy is dead. She was murdered last night.”

He was clearly shocked.

“You haven’t seen Hart?”

“I was out last night when he returned from his business trip. What is it that you are not telling me?”

She inhaled. “Hart found the body.”

Rourke made a sound and looked away. Then, facing her, he said, “Don’t tell me. He is the prime suspect?”

“I hope not! Rose also found Daisy, but independently, before Hart arrived at the scene. Or at least, that is how it appears. Rose is also a suspect.”

Rourke shook his head grimly. “Is there any chance that you were with Hart last night at the time of the murder?”

“I wish I had been, but no. Rose actually sent for me. I found them both at the house with the body around midnight.”

Rourke walked away, his expression hard. Then he hesitated, glancing at Francesca. “At midnight? What the hell was Calder doing at Daisy’s at that hour?”

Francesca flushed, wondering if he was thinking what Newman and Bragg had thought. She walked back to Hart’s desk and sat down in his chair.

Rourke hurried to her. “Francesca, I did not mean that the way it sounded! We both know he had a good reason for being there. I just don’t happen to know what that reason is.”

“I should like to know, as well.” Seeing Rourke’s grim expression, she added, “Rourke! He was not there to rekindle their affair. Surely that is not what you think? Bragg and Newman think so, and the fact that he will not explain why he was there isn’t helping his case.”

Rourke paled. “No, I don’t think he went to Daisy’s for such a purpose.” He sat down on the edge of Hart’s desk. “Calder won’t explain his actions? That hardly makes any sense.”

Because Rourke had become such a good friend, she said, “I wish he would confide in me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine what could be so secretive. But in a way, he is right. He is entitled to his privacy. However, the police do want an explanation. And sooner or later, he shall certainly have to give them one.”

Rourke smiled at her. “I am pleased to see that you remain as calm and sensible as ever.”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a facade—I am worried. But not because I doubt Hart’s innocence. Rourke, I wish Hart hadn’t been at Daisy’s last night—and I wish he would tell me why he went to see her in the first place.”

He regarded her for a moment, as he absorbed what she had said. “Francesca, give him some time. I believe that Hart is in love with you. He has never been this involved before—or involved at all, really. He may not know how to confide in you. He may not understand that you need to know why he went to Daisy’s last night.”

Francesca was startled. Rourke’s words made sense. Hart had been reluctant from the first to share his real feelings with her. He kept a large part of himself closed off. He was adept at showing the world an arrogant facade, but Francesca knew it was only that, a front to hide the very complicated man behind it. Perhaps he didn’t know how to be himself with her—and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to having to account to anyone for anything.

“I know one thing,” she said slowly. “Hart needs my trust. It is probably the greatest gift I can give him. So if I have to wait to discover his secret, I will do just that.”

“I happen to agree. No one has ever believed in him before,” Rourke said. He gave her a look. “Patience might be worthwhile in this instance, Francesca.”

“Obviously, we both know that patience is not my strong suit.” She sighed. “I am resolved to be patient now, but I am worried, Rourke. He lied to the police. I can’t imagine why, but obviously he felt it was necessary. And I even lied to the police to cover for him.” And now Alfred would lie, too.

Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”

Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”

Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”

She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”

He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it’s my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”

Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”

“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.

Francesca’s brows rose. Most of the city’s residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”

He glanced away. “I haven’t seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”

Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”

Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”

Francesca handed him the note, which she had folded in half. “Oh, I will. How about Saturday evening at seven, say at the Sherry Netherland?”

“You can be so transparent, Francesca!”

She batted wide, innocent eyes at him. “Transparent about what? I haven’t seen you in weeks and we haven’t had a social moment since well before my last case, in fact. And I haven’t seen Sarah—I am killing two birds with one stone.”

He smiled and shook his head.

Francesca was about to walk out with Rourke. Then she remembered to take Hart’s stained jacket and she lifted it off the chair. On her way out, she would give it to Alfred for a cleaning.

A white stub fell from one of the pockets.

Francesca retrieved it, realizing it was the stub from a train ticket. She was about to put the stub on his desk when she saw the name of the city next to the punched hole: Philadelphia.

Her good humor vanished. She quickly told herself that the stub was an old one. Hart had not been to Philly since they had become engaged at the end of February. Becoming ill, she glanced at the date on the top of the stub.

June 1.

She inhaled, blinded by the date.

“Francesca?” Rourke asked in concern.

She hardly heard him. Hart had told her that he had gone to Boston. But yesterday he had returned from Philadelphia. She had the proof, right there in her hand.

Hart had lied to her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—10:00 a.m.

LEIGH ANNE BRAGG WAS A petite woman with shockingly dark hair, green eyes and fair skin. She had been universally acclaimed as a great beauty her entire life. But now, applying rouge to her lips and cheeks, she saw a gaunt stranger in the mirror, a lackluster woman she did not recognize. Dark circles had been etched beneath her eyes, although she went to bed early, for she could not sleep. Worse, her eyes held a haunted look that matched the despair in her soul.

Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, staring at her reflection, aware that the male nurse her husband had hired was in the hall outside of the bedroom, awaiting her every command. Her daughter, Katie, stood by her side, anxious for her to go downstairs.

Of course, Katie was not her biological daughter. When she and Rick had reconciled, he had been fostering Katie and her little sister Dot. Their mother had been murdered and Francesca Cahill had moved both girls into the house as a temporary measure. Yet months had passed and Leigh Anne had come to love both girls as if they were her own flesh and blood. Rick clearly felt the same way, and they had decided to try to formally adopt them. Leigh Anne couldn’t imagine what the house would be like without the girls—or what her marriage would be like, either.

Once, long ago, she had been so terribly in love. It hadn’t taken much to realize that, despite a four-year separation, she still loved Rick Bragg. How ironic it was to discover that her feelings had remained unchanged, in spite of so much discord, so much misunderstanding and betrayal. But it no longer mattered, because she was no longer suitable for him.

“Mama?” Katie smiled worriedly at her.

Leigh Anne hated the fact that the precious child was so astute. Katie watched her like a hawk, clearly aware of her depression and misery, rushing to fulfill her every whim, as if that might ease the pain. Leigh Anne knew the pain of loss and heartbreak would never go away. She smiled brightly at her child. “Can you call Mr. Mackenzie so we might go downstairs?”

Katie nodded eagerly and rushed out of the dressing room.

Leigh Anne watched the woman in the chair in the mirror, and saw her smile vanish the moment the child was gone. The woman she observed was attractive, though wan, and perfectly attired in lavender silk and amethysts. The woman sat in an odd chair with two huge wheels and handles that made it easier for an attendant to push. The woman was a cripple.

Leigh Anne looked away, but it didn’t matter, because the image remained engraved in her brain. She knew that every time Rick looked at her, that was what he saw: a cripple.

She rubbed her thigh, reminding herself that his pity did not matter. Her right leg ached, but there was no feeling in her left leg and there never would be again. The doctors actually thought that, with time and intensive work, she might regain some use of her right leg, but there had been too much damage to her left leg. So why would she even try to regain some use of the one limb? She would never walk again, never dance, never make love….

Leigh Anne knew she was pathetic, to be feeling so sorry for herself. She reminded herself that she was alive and she had the girls. God, she didn’t know what she would do without them! She wiped her eyes briefly. She only dared to allow herself such self-pity when she was alone. She reminded herself that she didn’t need her legs, not when she had a chair with wheels and a nurse. She reminded herself that she was fortunate, so terribly fortunate, to have suddenly become a mother to two such wonderful girls. But no amount of rationalization would ease the melancholy that weighed her down. It was like being buried alive, she thought dismally, yet death was not an option.

The telephone, which had been recently installed in the house, rang in the bedroom just beyond her boudoir. Unthinkingly she reached for the wheels, trying to turn them, but she was so weak now. Tears of frustration came when she saw the nurse reach the phone. He was a tall, attractive young man and he said, “One moment, sir. I’ll get her.”

It was Rick, she thought, her heart accelerating, and the oddest combination of dread and anticipation filled her. She wondered if it would always be this way—if a part of her would always yearn for a word from him, a look, his presence.

Mackenzie came into the boudoir. “It’s the commissioner,” he said pleasantly, easily wheeling her into the bedroom. He positioned her near the phone and she reached for the receiver before he could hand it to her, as she was determined not to let anyone see how lost and incapable she had become. But the receiver was large and she was clumsy and it fell to the floor.

Leigh Anne blinked back more tears of frustration as Mackenzie quickly retrieved it, handing it to her.

Leigh Anne inhaled. She was doing her best not to let Rick know how miserable she was. “Rick?”

“Leigh Anne. How are you?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

But then, they had become strangers, which was what she wanted now. “I am fine,” she said, aware of the enormity of the lie. “You went out last night,” she said just as neutrally. He had not come to bed last night. Most nights he fell asleep on the sofa in his study, which she preferred—and which she knew he preferred. She had lain in bed, pretending to sleep, wondering if he would join her, afraid that he would, and worse, that he might think to hold her. But instead, someone had come to their front door and he had gone out for the rest of the evening. She was accustomed to police affairs requiring such strange calls.

“There was a matter that required my attention at headquarters,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” she lied again, as she doubted she had actually slept more than an hour or two.

“What are you planning to do today?”

She had no plans. She was afraid to resume her old life, as she could not imagine the reaction of her friends if she called in her wheeled chair. She had accepted callers, however. Francesca Cahill called twice a week, and Leigh Anne genuinely liked her—she was very kind, pretending that nothing untoward had happened. Rick’s parents also called frequently—Grace dropped by almost every day. But it had been simply awful when her old friend Countess Bartolla Benevente had called. Leigh Anne knew that the countess had been secretly delighted by her condition. How many other of her old friends would take pleasure in her downfall? “As Katie has finished school, I think we’ll go to the park.”

“It’s a beautiful day. I’ll try to come home earlier,” he said, hesitation in his tone.

She swallowed, almost wanting him to return home at that moment. Images of their past raced through her mind, a jumbled collage of memories, all of them happy, playful or passionate. “If the matter is a serious one, do what you have to do, Rick. You know I don’t mind.”

He was silent, and she wondered if he was relieved or dismayed.

“Do you recall Daisy Jones?” he asked.

Her interest piqued. She understood the caution she heard in his tone, as the telephone operator was undoubtedly listening to their every word. It was the single drawback of the incredible convenience of a telephone—there was no privacy, ever.

Daisy was Calder Hart’s mistress, or she had been, until recently. “Yes, of course.”

Bragg said, “She was murdered last night.”

Leigh Anne gasped. “That is terrible,” she said, meaning it, even though she had never met the other woman.

“I may be late tonight after all,” Rick said, sounding grim.

Leigh Anne had many questions now. As Hart was Rick’s brother, even if they did not get along, she began to worry. “Of course.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I had better go.”

“Yes,” she said, still stunned by the news of Daisy’s murder. She knew Hart somewhat, but not all that well, and wondered at his reaction to the news.

Leigh Anne replaced the receiver on the phone’s hook. “Mr. Mackenzie? I’ll go downstairs now,” she said, thinking about Francesca now. How was she faring? she wondered. She almost smiled. Francesca was undoubtedly on the case, as no one was more intrepid than she.

As Mackenzie wheeled her out of the bedroom, Leigh Anne realized that Francesca would be working on the case with Rick. She refused to feel any jealousy, because she and Rick had a marriage of convenience and nothing more. But she knew that Rick had been fond of Francesca while they had remained separated, and no matter how she tried, a part of her hated them working together again.

“I’ll have you downstairs in a moment,” Mackenzie said with a smile. The nurse lifted her from the chair to carry her downstairs, Katie behind them. This was the moment Leigh Anne hated the most, when she had no choice but to be in the nurse’s arms as he carried her down the narrow Victorian staircase.

Her cheeks grew hot. This was simply too intimate. Leigh Anne closed her eyes, forcing herself to endure the moment. And for an instant, she imagined herself in Rick’s arms, the strongest, safest haven she had ever known.

But that was not to be. Not ever again.

“I’ll get the chair,” the nurse said, having carried her into the parlor. He placed her on the sofa and left.

Katie was watching her. Sensing her every emotion, she grasped Leigh Anne’s hand. “Mama? Can we go to the park today? You, me and Dot and Papa?” Clearly she had overheard the telephone conversation.

Leigh Anne squeezed her hand. “I am afraid your father is involved in some urgent police affairs,” she said. “But yes, we can go to the park and feed the birds.”

“Papa never goes anywhere with us anymore!” Katie cried. “Mrs. Flowers can make us a picnic and we can fish, the way we did the last time he came with us.”

Leigh Anne stiffened. The last time they had had a picnic, she had left, unable to bear such a family occasion, and Francesca Cahill had taken her place. Rick would probably still be in love with the other woman if they had not reconciled—a reconciliation Leigh Anne had forced him into.

If not for the girls, she would leave him and set him free.

Their single servant, Peter, a tall Swede, appeared on the parlor’s threshold. “Mrs. Bragg? You have two callers.”

Leigh Anne arranged her face into a smile. “Who is it, Peter?” she asked, filled with dread. If it was Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.

“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”

Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.

“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”

Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”

A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.

Francesca had met Joel Kennedy, a young, street-smart kid, on her very first investigation. Joel was the oldest of four children, his mother a pretty, hardworking seamstress who was widowed. During the Burton abduction, Joel had helped her navigate her way through some of the city’s seamiest sides. Francesca had needed his help, but she had also wanted to turn him away from his life of petty crime. After he had proved indispensable to her on several other investigations, she had hired him as her assistant. Now she picked up Joel Kennedy or had him meet her every day.

But young Joel was not on her mind, and neither was Rose nor the crucial questions she must ask her. Why was Hart lying to her, when they had come so far as a couple? Their relationship had been based on absolute honesty until now. How could he lie to her, and what did it mean for them and their future? What was he hiding?

Her first impulse had been to travel to Bridge Street and confront Hart in his offices, demanding to know why he had said he was in Boston when he had been in Philadelphia instead. But Francesca had instantly seen the folly of that action. Confronting Hart was never a good idea. He had a huge, quick temper, and she would only ignite it. The current investigation had already begun to place a strain on their relationship, and Francesca did not want to add to it. If she had judged him correctly last night, he had been grieving for Daisy. She could not attack the man she loved when he was mourning. But hadn’t she seen and sensed something else in the nature of his tension? Last night, Hart had refused to discuss why he had called on Daisy. In doing so, he had pulled away from her, his usual response to a difficult situation—a response she dearly hated. Could his refusal to discuss his visit to Daisy have something to do with his trip to Philadelphia?

As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.

The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!

She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.

Joel appeared in front of the tenement building where he lived with his mother, his two brothers and little sister. He was a thin, short boy with a shock of dark hair and very fair skin. He grinned at her as he climbed up into the coach, allowing Raoul to open the carriage door for him. Joel had come a long way, Francesca thought, smiling with affection at him. Clearly, he enjoyed Raoul treating him as if he were a little prince, when just a few months ago he had been stealing purses.

“Thanks,” he said to Raoul.

Raoul almost smiled and shut the door firmly before climbing onto the driver’s seat.

Even though it was June, Joel wore a knit cap over his black hair, and Francesca tugged on it. “Good day, Miz Cahill,” he said.

“We are on a new case,” she told him as Raoul lifted the brake and clucked the two handsome bays on. “A murder investigation.”

He grinned. “My favorite kind of case. Think it will be dangerous?”

“I hope not! And I also hope I am not jading you,” Francesca said seriously. She sighed. “You know the victim, Joel, as do I.”

He was all eyes. “Who got iced?”

She was not up to correcting his slang now. “Miss Jones.”

He understood right away. “Mr. Hart’s er…lady friend?”

“Hart’s ex-mistress, yes.”

His eyes bulged. “Ma’am! What happened?”

Francesca filled him in. “When we get to Daisy’s, I will interview Rose. As usual, I need you to canvas the ward and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious between ten and midnight last night. To the best of my knowledge, we have lost the murder weapon, a knife. You can keep your eye out for that, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Do we got any suspects?”

Francesca hesitated. “Not exactly. But I am afraid both Hart and Rose are at the top of the list right now.”

Joel adored Hart. It was obvious that he clearly ad mired the man, as they had both come from the same desperately impoverished background. “Why would Mr. Hart off Miss Jones?”

“He wouldn’t,” Francesca said firmly. “But in a crime like this—I am sure the autopsy will reveal numerous stab wounds—the police always look at family and friends first. Whoever murdered Daisy, Joel, knew her and wanted her dead. We must find the real killer, and quickly.”

“Before Mr. Hart gets in trouble,” Joel said, nodding grimly.

Francesca tugged on his cap again. She had become as fond of the boy as if he was her little brother, but then, she was very fond of his mother. Maggie Kennedy had been acting somewhat oddly lately. Francesca had taken tea with her twice, and the Kennedy sparkle had been missing from her stunning blue eyes. “How is your mother, Joel?”

He grimaced. “I dunno. Something’s bothering her. She’s so sad all of the time. I mean, she pretends not to be, but I can tell.”

Francesca hesitated. A month ago, she had witnessed her brother Evan saving Maggie from an insane killer, and there had been no mistaking his concern for her. As she had already suspected romantic sparks flying between the two, she had been delighted, never mind that an up town gentleman should not dally with a downtown seamstress. Evan was currently living at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He had been disowned by their father, much to Francesca’s dismay, but the bright side was he seemed to have abandoned his notorious gambling ways. He was now making an honest living as a law clerk, and Francesca was very proud of him for standing up to their father.

While Evan was a ladies’ man with a rather large reputation, Francesca knew he would never compromise Maggie, and she was certain he had strong and genuine feelings for her. Hart had advised her to stay out of the affair, reminding her that Evan was courting the Countess Benevente. Most of society thought he might marry her, although Francesca wasn’t so sure. She could not imagine Bartolla Benevente marrying a law clerk. But then, she was a wealthy widow, so Francesca could be wrong. “Joel? Has my brother called at all?” She simply had to know.

Joel scowled. “I thought we were friends! He used to come by all the time with all kinds of goodies an’ gifts. I ain’t seen him since Father Culhane tried to kill my mother.” He was angry now. “I know what’s up. He’s too busy with that countess to bother with me, Paddy or Matt.”

Francesca reached for him but he pulled away. “He’s having a rough time these days,” she said gently, and it was the truth. “Imagine how you would feel if your father disowned you and you had to move out of the house. Imagine what it would be like if your father refused to call you his son.”

“I don’t have a father,” Joel said sarcastically. “He’s a grown man, not a boy, so it don’t matter, anyway.”

Francesca sighed. Joel had come to care far too much for her brother, and maybe Maggie had, too. She should not get involved, but if ever there was a time to interfere, it was now. If Evan was not going to pursue a relationship with Maggie, he should have never treated her as he had when she had been in so much danger. Francesca decided she would call on him later in the day. And then Daisy’s Georgian brick home came into view. She tensed, instantly forgetting all about her brother. An image of Rose, grief-stricken and holding Daisy’s mangled body, came to mind. Francesca was sobered by the recollection.

Joel had learned to wait for Francesca to alight from the carriage first. When she had done so, he leapt to the street. “I’ll start talkin’ about,” he said.

“And don’t forget Daisy’s servants,” Francesca reminded him as he started off. She had discovered long ago that witnesses spoke differently to different interrogators. Often she could get more information than the police, and Joel would certainly be handier with the staff.

This time, the front door was firmly closed and her knock was promptly answered by Daisy’s butler, Homer, a white-haired man of middle age. He ushered her inside, looking positively stricken. Francesca thanked him and handed him her card. “Good morning. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was a friend of Miss Jones. I am a sleuth.”

Homer read her card. It read:

Francesca Cahill

Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case Too Small

“I do recall, Miss Cahill. I am afraid that…” He stopped, unable to continue, clearly distressed.

“I was here last night,” she said gently, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry about Miss Jones.” She would begin her investigation with Homer, she decided.

“Thank you,” he whispered, ashen. “She was a good employer, ma’am. She was very kind to me and the staff.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly, although of course she had not known. “I came to see Miss Cooper, but I should like to speak with you first.”

He nodded, not at all surprised. “Are you going to find her killer?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Good! She did not deserve to die,” he cried. “I know she sinned, but she wasn’t a bad woman.”

Francesca patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit, Homer. May I call you Homer?”

He nodded. “I am fine. It’s just the shock….”

“I know. At what time did you finish your duties last night?”

“At half past five.”

That was very early and Francesca was surprised. “But what about supper? Or did Miss Jones go out?”

He shook his head. “She was staying in with a guest. She dismissed me, Annie and Mrs. Greene,” he said.

Francesca was surprised. It seemed that Daisy had been planning a private evening with someone. But she had to make certain she had not misunderstood. “When Daisy was entertaining, she dismissed the staff?”

He flushed. “Last night she wished for a private evening, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca stared. What was he not telling her? “But this was her pattern of behavior?”

His color deepened. “When I first came to be employed here, she would dismiss us when Mr. Hart called.”

Francesca’s insides lurched and tightened. She should have been expecting that, she realized grimly. “And after Mr. Hart and I became engaged?”

“She entertained Miss Cooper a few times, but other wise, she would go out, which was usual, or stay in alone.”

Francesca blinked. “Miss Cooper does not live here now?”

Homer seemed surprised. “No, she does not. But she calls once or twice a week.”

It did not sound as if Daisy and Rose had resumed their former relationship. Or, if they had, it sounded as if it had lost some of its fervor, Francesca thought. “Who did Miss Jones see last night?’

“I don’t know,” he said apologetically.

Francesca’s mind raced. Before she and Calder had become engaged, he had called on Daisy and she had dismissed the staff. On a few occasions, she had dismissed the staff in order to see Rose. Calder, of course, had arrived at Grand Central Station at seven o’ clock—she had the ticket stub to prove it—so he could not have been her caller last night, for Daisy had dismissed everyone at half past five. Surely she had been expecting someone by six or seven o’clock. Had she been expecting Rose? “Perhaps she was going out?” Francesca had to rule this possibility out.

“Oh, no! She had me prepare a small supper, which she said she would take later. She also asked that I chill champagne and ice two glasses. It was odd, because the supper was for one.”

Francesca tried to breathe. Daisy had intended to have drinks with her caller, but not dine with her or him. This was another fantastic lead! “You went to your rooms at half past five? And that is when Mrs. Greene went home and Annie went to her room?”

“Yes.”

“And this morning? Was the champagne gone? Had both glasses been used? Had she eaten her supper?”

He met her gaze. “No one drank anything last night. I had opened the bottle for her, and two glasses had been poured, but neither had been drunk. Her supper was untouched.”

Francesca tried to fight her excitement. If Homer had been instructed to open the bottle of champagne before retiring for the evening, then Daisy’s caller had been expected shortly after five-thirty. Had Daisy greeted the killer with champagne? If so, she had seemed to intend an intimate rendezvous with her murderer. And if the drinks and her supper had not been touched, had she just narrowed down the time of her murder? “Did she say at what time she was expecting her caller? And did you see or hear anything last night?”

“She made no mention of when she was expecting her caller.”

Francesca said, “And you did not see or hear anyone?”

“I went out for a while, Miss Cahill, to take a drink with some friends. When I returned, it was well past eight—it was close to nine-thirty or ten. The house was dark, which I found it a bit strange, but I saw some lights upstairs and I decided it wasn’t my business. I was tired and I went to bed. Mr. Hart awoke me at midnight.”

Francesca’s mind raced. “So you did not hear anything when you came in at nine-thirty or ten?”

“No.”

Francesca’s thoughts veered. “Hart has admitted that he came to see Daisy last night.”

“It was very odd, him calling like that,” Homer said.

“Why? Why was it odd?” Francesca asked quickly.

“Well, he hasn’t called in months.” He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, but this is so awkward, with this being his house and you being his fiancée.”

“Please, Homer, do not fret on my account! When I accepted Hart’s offer of marriage, I was well aware that he was keeping Daisy, and as we both know, he stopped seeing her at that time.”

Homer glanced away.

Francesca did not like that. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

“Except for last week,” he amended somewhat glumly.

Francesca tensed. “Last week? He came here last week?” And a treacherous image arose of Daisy smiling at Hart and handing him a glass of champagne.

Homer hesitated, wringing his hands. “I don’t know what I should say or do,” he said. “He is my employer.”

She fought the dismay. “He called on Daisy last week.”

Homer’s brows shot up. “Not that way, Miss Cahill! He came in the afternoon, last Thursday, I think. The visit was a brief one, and there were no refreshments. Miss Jones made it clear she did not wish for them to be disturbed. I don’t think he stayed for even a half an hour. I don’t know what they discussed,” he added hastily.

There was relief, but on its heels came fresh dismay. What affair had they been conducting? “You didn’t hear anything?”

“She sent me away. No. I didn’t hear anything.”

Francesca inhaled. Hart’s call had been the day before he had left on his business trip.

“Miss Cahill?” A woman whispered, her tone tentative.

Francesca saw a housemaid approaching, her dark eyes huge in her pale, freckled face. “Are you Annie?”

Annie nodded, appearing frightened and stricken. “I heard them,” she said hoarsely. “I heard them shouting—arguing—and I heard Miss Jones crying.”

Francesca froze. “What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know. But Mr. Hart was furious when he left. He was so angry that he broke the door—I saw him do it. And Miss Jones? She collapsed on the sofa, weeping.”

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