Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (3 page)

“I thought you would understand,” he said, his gaze holding onto hers.

“I am your biggest supporter,” Francesca said firmly, “as you must know.”

“And I appreciate it.” He nodded at her and Evan both before turning to go.

Feeling as if a mule had just kicked her in the chest, Francesca watched Bragg being greeted heartily by other guests.

“So that is the lay of the land,” Evan said accusingly. “I thought it was a silly flirtation, but it is not!”

Francesca hardly heard him. Bragg had canceled their outing. How could he? What did this mean?

It meant that he had police affairs to attend to.

No. Clearly, clearly, it meant that their kiss had meant nothing to him at all.

Francesca closed her eyes tightly. She had been trying to forget their one single devastating kiss. They had both thought Jonny Burton to be dead at the time; they had both been grief-stricken, frightened, and exhausted. Bragg also had been drinking.

Still, he had kissed her in a way that no gentleman would ever kiss a respectable lady, he had kissed her and touched her and held her, and she had done all of those things to him as well. Had he forgotten?

Had the kiss meant anything at all?

“You are in love with Bragg!” Evan cried.

Francesca was saved from answering him by the lions.

Ladies screamed. A few gentlemen cried out. White laughed and with a megaphone began to greet his guests as men in tights and gypsy shirts entered the dance floor using whips to urge four lions on ahead of them. A woman in garters, black hose, a few inches of skirt, and a corset appeared, holding a large hoop. As she was mostly naked, a few gasps sounded. A lion jumped through her hoop.

“I have promised you all an evening of entertainment,” White was saying. “And by God, you shall have it!”

The lions were circling the perimeter of the stage at a faster pace, urged on by the four men; one by one, taking turns, each lion jumped through the woman’s hoop. The guests began to applaud. Francesca hugged herself.

She was crushed. This would not do. They were only friends, after all.

God damn it.

“You are upset. Has he led you on?” Evan demanded. “That is who you were with the other night!”

Only a few days ago, when she had been out extremely late, Evan had found her out. He had not been certain whether to believe her or not when she had told him the truth—that she was working on the Burton Abduction. Francesca faced him angrily. “I am not upset. And no one has led me on. And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone!”

“Breathe a word of what?” Connie, her sister, appeared at their side, absolutely breathtaking in a pale orange gown and a choker of citrines. It was widely held that the Cahill sisters were as identical as twins, but that was not true. Francesca had always felt that her sister was by far the more beautiful of the pair. She was also stunningly elegant, no matter the time of day. “Now what are you up to, Fran?” Connie asked, but teasingly.

“She is carrying on with Bragg!” Evan said grimly. He turned his back on them and pushed into the crowd.

Connie’s elegant brows lifted briefly, and then she turned to Francesca. “That is good news as far as I am concerned. You know I like the commissioner.”

Francesca did not speak. Fortunately, Julia and Andrew were a short distance away and out of earshot. They were speaking with two other couples, their eyes, however, on the show. Connie did like Bragg. She had been delighted that, finally, at the ripe old age of twenty, Francesca was somewhat romantically inclined toward a gentleman.

Francesca gazed at her sister and was painfully reminded of the secret she kept from her. Last week, she had discovered Connie’s husband in the throes of passion with another woman. But she had not said a word to her sister of Neil’s affair and treachery.

It was still unbelievable. Francesca had adored her handsome, aristocratic brother-in-law from the moment she had laid eyes upon him, five years ago. And until last week, she had thought that he adored his wife. Clearly, she had been wrong.

“Oh, dear,” Connie said, her eyes wide.

Francesca turned to look at the spectacle and saw the woman riding on the back of one of the lions in her scanty attire. “That looks dangerous,” Francesca remarked tersely.

“It looks more than dangerous,” Connie said. “So what is wrong, Fran?”

A few men whistled; the woman waved.

Francesca shoved her unhappy thoughts of Neil Montrose aside. “Bragg has canceled,” Francesca said. Connie was the only one to know about their date.

“What?” Connie glanced at her quickly.

“I am a fool,” Francesca said heavily. “And I am very disappointed.” There, she had dared to admit it.

Suddenly the crowd was hushed. Francesca glanced at the stage. The woman was now hanging upside down on a trapeze, her knees locked over the bar. Her short skirts revealed most of her backside. Her breasts seemed about to be falling out of her very small boned top. The lions were seated now placidly in a row, and three of the four men had formed a human pyramid behind them, the fourth man maintaining the lions. Clearly the uppermost man was going to be plucked up by the woman acrobat.

“Oh, Fran, I am sure he had a valid reason. These things happen,” Connie began, not taking her eyes off of the show.

“You are prejudiced,” Francesca grumbled.

“But so are you!” Connie exclaimed. The crowd cried out.

Francesca’s eyes widened. The uppermost man of the human pyramid had caught not the woman’s hands but the bar she hung from, and he threw his own legs over it, so he also hung down as they swung wildly over the crowd. But the man and woman had their legs locked together, and they were back to back and head to head.

“Oh, my,” Connie managed, her cheeks as pink as her dress.

Francesca stared, stunned. And suddenly the trapeze artists both reversed positions, and they were sitting on top of the trapeze—on top of each other’s laps.

Someone whistled. A man shouted. Others applauded.

They pumped the swing—and their bodies—harder.

It was almost as if they were lovers on top of that trapeze. Francesca managed, “You don’t think … They wouldn’t dare … White wouldn’t let them!”

“I think this is not decent,” Connie breathed, yet she did not look away. In fact, she seemed mesmerized.

“Very indecent,” someone drawled behind them.

Francesca stiffened in surprise and she and her sister turned almost as one. Calder Hart smiled at Francesca, and then he looked at Connie, his regard becoming speculative.

“You’re Bragg’s brother. We met the other day,” Francesca managed, wanting to see what the trapeze artists were doing but almost afraid to peek. Connie had turned her wide-eyed attention back to the performers.

“Half brother,” he said, with a nod. “Miss Cahill, I presume?”

Francesca nodded, extending her hand, when the crowd shouted. As he took it, she jerked around to see the two trapeze artists standing on the trapeze, facing each other now, swinging energetically back and forth.

Hart released her hand.

Francesca turned to face him, but he was staring at Connie, who still could not take her eyes away from the show.

Calder Hart laughed and shook his head, returning his gaze to Francesca. “You should be home, Miss Cahill. Home and in bed, where proper young ladies like you belong. And maybe you should take your sister—I presume she is your sister—with you.”

“I am in shock,” Francesca admitted.

“In shock—or titillated?” he asked, glancing sidelong at Connie again.

“I beg your pardon.” Francesca finally stiffened. But she
was
titillated. How could she not be? She was thinking about Bragg. Was he as mesmerized as everyone else by the spectacle on the trapeze? Or was he annoyed or angry or even bored?

“Is
this your sister?”

Francesca nodded. “I am sorry. Connie, Mr. Hart. My sister, Lady Montrose.” Francesca pinched her arm.

Connie gasped and faced Calder Hart abruptly, clearly breathless and quite distracted. She gave him her hand while he looked her up and down, slowly and frankly. Francesca was simply stunned, but Connie didn’t even notice. “I beg your pardon. I have never seen such a thing. I am speechless,” Connie confessed rapidly.

He was wry. “That is obvious.” He bowed over her hand. “Might I assume that any efforts on my part to extol your beauty would now be a sheer waste of my breath and time?”

Connie glanced briefly at him. “I beg your pardon?” She hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

“I thought so,” he said with some mockery. He touched his chest as if he had been wounded.

“He is Bragg’s half brother,” Francesca offered.

“And a good friend of White’s,” Calder Hart added, staring at Connie as if awaiting her reaction to this bit of news. When she said nothing, he shrugged and grinned.

Francesca stared at him thoughtfully. If he was White’s friend, clearly he was used to this kind of exhibition. “Why does White wish to shock society?”

He grinned at her. “You shall have to ask him that. It has been a pleasure, ladies. I do hope to have the pleasure again—soon.”

Francesca found herself rather speechless, but it did not matter, as he bowed his head and disappeared into the crowd too quickly for her to have a chance to respond. Connie didn’t even notice. The man on the trapeze had slipped beneath and through the woman’s legs and now he stood
behind
her, pumping the trapeze. The crowd roared, while the woman on the bar seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy.

Francesca poked Connie with her elbow—a quite unladylike gesture. “You were rude!” she exclaimed.

“Was I?” Connie managed. She did not even look at Francesca.

“There you are!” It was Julia, and Andrew was on her heels. “We are leaving! I have seen quite enough. We are leaving this instant. White should be arrested for this!”

Francesca had had enough as it was. “That’s fine.” She glanced at Connie.

“I had better go find Neil,” Connie whispered unsteadily, referring to her husband.

Before she could leave, Francesca gripped her hand. “Con?” She was thinking about the way Calder Hart had kept staring at her sister. It was making her uneasy now—in retrospect.

Connie’s breathing was shallow. “I’m fine. I’ll see if Neil wants to stay or leave.”

Francesca nodded. “All right.”

Suddenly Connie squeezed her hand and leaned close. “And don’t worry. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.” She smiled. “Bragg will be back.”

Francesca thought about Bragg and her heart sank. “Thank you,” she said. But Francesca knew Connie was wrong.

Half the crowd had decided to leave, and from the murmurs and whispers around her it was clear that White’s departing guests were shocked and scandalized. Some, like Julia, were very angry at being duped into attending such an immoral and lax display.

The elevators were full. Francesca found herself in one corner, her parents in another. Evan had decided to stay. Julia was very angry with him.

Francesca wondered if Connie and Neil would remain for the rest of the evening. As angry as she was with Neil for having taken Eliza Burton as his lover, she doubted he would be so disrespectful of Connie now as to spend the rest of the evening with her in the throes of such immoral entertainment. Francesca felt certain Neil would take his wife home.

As the elevator cage was opened, the crowd surged out. “Francesca?” her father called.

“I’m fine, Papa,” Francesca said, following the crowd through the exit doors. She couldn’t see her parents but knew they were somewhere on her left.

Outside, a blast of cold air enveloped her in spite of the fur-lined cape she wore. It hadn’t snowed in days; it was too cold. The city was breaking its own record low temperatures.

Horses and carriages lined Madison Avenue between 26th and 27th Streets. The broughams and coaches were double-parked, along with a few motorcars. Hansoms cruised the avenue, looking for or carrying fares. Pedestrians swarmed the sidewalk in front of the Garden, but the surrounding blocks were rather deserted, due to the cold. Francesca slipped on a patch of treacherous ice as people pushed past her, looking for either a cab or their coach; she did not see her parents in the crush. “Papa?” She righted herself carefully and gingerly made her way to the curb. The Cahill brougham was just ahead.

Someone grabbed her arm, hard.

Francesca whirled, knowing it wasn’t either of her parents. A pair of black eyes met hers from beneath a huge fur-trimmed hood.

For one instant Francesca stood there, shocked that someone would grab her and unable to determine whether the person was a man or a woman. She was about to demand that she be released when the person said, “Miss Cahill?”

It was a woman. Francesca relaxed slightly. “Yes?”

“Please.”
The woman’s single word was an emotionally distressed plea. “Please.
Please help me”
she said.

F
RIDAY,
J
ANUARY 31, 1902—10:00 P.M.

Astonished, Francesca could only stare. As she did so, the woman pressed something into her hand and begged again, “Please.” She turned, slipping and sliding away as she fled into the crowd.

“Wait,” Francesca began, coming to her senses.

“Francesca?” her father called from the street behind her.

Her heart was racing and she was breathless. Francesca opened her palm, keeping her back to Andrew as he called for her again. The woman had crushed a card into her palm, and even with all of the street lamps, it was too hard to read in the dark. Francesca quickly slid the card into her beaded purse.

She inhaled with excitement and turned, moving toward the waiting brougham. Her father regarded her closely as she approached. “Did that woman accost you? Are you all right?”

Francesca smiled at him, and it was genuine. “No, no, it was a case of mistaken identity,” she said.

A woman was in trouble. Desperately so, if her tone was any indication of her straits. And she wanted Francesca’s help.

It was not until she had reached the sanctuary of her bedroom that Francesca could dig into her purse and produce the calling card. On the front was the woman’s name, Miss Georgette de Labouche, and her address, which was 28 West 24th Street. She lived only a few blocks from Madison Square.