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“Why won’t it stop?” she whispered, her dark eyes huge and despairing.
“She has her good days, too. I am going to go upstairs to see what Dr. Finney has to say. Where is Dot?”
“She is having lunch.”
“Why don’t you join her. Aren’t you hungry? Mrs. Flowers is a wonderful cook.” He managed a smile.
Katie did not smile back, but she reluctantly turned. He hurried upstairs, his heart racing. Amazingly, he was anxious. He paused on the threshold of their bedroom, wondering how a man could live this way—in dread of going home, to a place without laughter and affection, without sex; in a state of constant apprehension. And then there was the guilt.
Leigh Anne wasn’t dressed yet. She wore a modest blue silk wrapper, her jet-black hair piled indifferently atop her head. She had the covers up and a wool throw over her lap, as if she was cold. Finney sat by the bed, speaking with her, patting her hand. His wife remained terribly beautiful, but she appeared as fragile as china.
Leigh Anne saw him and sat up straighter, as if stiffening her spine and squaring her shoulders. He slowly entered the room. “How are you?”
She said, “The pain is worse.”
Dr. Finney walked over. The two men shook hands. The doctor spoke softly. “I have given her some laudanum, to dose herself at night. She says she cannot sleep.”
“There is nothing wrong with her leg,” Bragg said tersely. “Those broken bones have healed.”
“Considering there was so much damage, I suspect she will always have some discomfort with her right leg. Try to make sure she does not rely on the laudanum to sleep. She should only dose herself if absolutely necessary.”
“I’ll see to it,” Bragg said. “Let me walk you out.”
“I can manage.” Finney gripped his shoulder. “See you later, eh? At Hart’s wedding?” He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and walked out.
Slowly, Bragg turned.
“I heard every word,” Leigh Anne said, her cheeks flushed.
“I am sorry you are in pain,” he returned.
“Where are the girls?”
He was aware of how much she had come to love Katie and Dot. He wondered if she was desperately clinging to them. “They are having lunch.” He approached, and her eyes widened. As he sat down on the bed by her hip, she tensed visibly, and he wondered if she thought he meant to try to make love to her. In that moment, there was no desire, just a fatigue that felt ancient.
But he knew himself. If she were to reach for him, he would lose himself in lust. He said carefully, “It’s after one. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”
She hesitated. “I do not feel up to the wedding.”
He was shocked. Leigh Anne loved society affairs, and although it was late June, this event would be in every single social column from Bar Harbor to Charleston. He thought about the fact that she hadn’t gone out in the past few days, not even to be pushed about the block or across the square in her wheelchair. When they had first met, she had been one of Boston’s reigning debutantes. Until recently, Leigh Anne had attended almost every luncheon to which she had been invited. She had been at his side at every supper party and charity she had deemed important to his career. He understood that she was melancholy, but it would only become worse if she did not get out.
She grimaced. “Of course I will come. And you’re right, I should begin getting dressed. Where is Nanette?”
He had had to hire a lady’s maid to help her bathe and dress. As his finances were precarious, he had let the male nurse go. “I will send her up,” he said as lightly as possible.
She forced a smile, avoiding his eyes. He went to the door. Then he halted. He hated seeing her so despondent. But how could he cheer her up? Maybe he should tell her that she did not have to go to the wedding if she truly did not feel well. Bragg turned.
Leigh Anne was pouring brandy from a pint-size bottle into her cup of tea.
FRANCESCA HAD BECOME very familiar with many of the unsavory, crime-ridden lower wards of Manhattan. Still, it was a large city, filled with slums and tenements, factories and saloons, with neighborhoods populated by Germans, Italians and Irish, not to mention Russians, Poles and Jews. In the course of her many adventures, she had even learned that there was a “Little Africa” on the Lower East Side. The various immigrant groups migrating to the city resided in distinct ethnic clusters.
She was proud that she knew the city well, but she did not know it like the back of her hand. In her very first investigation—into the abduction of a neighbor’s child—she had met a young, outspoken cutpurse, eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy. He had defended her from a thug, and she had taken him under her wing, not just because he knew so many tricks of the trade, but because she had a secret wish to help him improve his lot in life. When she did not have Joel with her—a rare circumstance indeed—she used a map to navigate Manhattan. Today, Joel was with his mother, Maggie, a wonderful seamstress who had become her friend—and possibly a romantic interest of her brother’s. She could imagine the chaos in the Kennedy home just then, as Maggie had been stunned to have been invited to her wedding. Undoubtedly Joel and his siblings were being groomed for the event.
But she did not need her maps. The cabbie she flagged down on the avenue instantly told her that No. 69 Waverly Place was on the north side of Washington Square.
Francesca was relieved. The previewing was but a few blocks from 300 Mulberry Street—which housed police headquarters.
She was on pins and needles. She had not a doubt in her mind that her portrait was at No. 69 Waverly Place. She had begun to wonder if someone wished to agitate her on her wedding day. If so, that someone had certainly succeeded!
Earlier, she had been relieved to find her father’s study empty; perhaps Andrew had been taking his weekend ambulatory in the park. She had made one quick telephone call before leaving the house, and it would have been quicker if the operator, Beatrice, hadn’t tried to converse with her about her wedding. But Hart hadn’t been home—she couldn’t imagine what he was doing on their wedding day—and she had spoken to his butler, Alfred. The butler had asked her if she wished to leave a message, but she had been too frenzied to get downtown to think of anything coherent to say. Before dashing out of the house, Connie had told her that she was a madwoman.
Francesca looked at the small pocket watch she had bought for herself recently; crime-solving was laborious, and she tended to run late. It was half past one. It had taken longer to get downtown than she had thought it would, but she had a good hour yet to explore.
They were on Fifth Avenue, traveling south. Ahead, she saw the green lawns and paved walkways of Washington Square. On both sides of Fifth Avenue she saw old brownstone buildings that were clearly residences, although she also saw a few ground-floor restaurants and taverns. Her hansom turned left onto Waverly Place, which faced the square. More dark brownstones lined the block, shaded by elm trees. Shops were on the lower floors.
She caught the bright sign hanging from one such establishment: Gallery Moore.
“Stop, driver, stop!” Her gaze sought the number above the sign. It was No. 69.
Frantically, Francesca dug into her purse.
“Do you want me to wait, miss?” the cabbie asked. He had a heavy Italian accent.
Francesca quickly looked around. Despite the holiday, the square was full. Women in pretty cotton dresses, some with parasols, were strolling with their children or their gentlemen escorts. Some of the men were in their shirtsleeves, while a few wore suit jackets and top hats. Two cyclists, one a woman in knickers, were on bicycles, weaving precariously along the paths. A few small dogs raced about, while a balloon drifted into the sky. It was a very pleasant, genteel scene.
She looked at the block facing her. Once, the buildings had been fashionable, single-family Georgian homes. There were daffodils growing about the elm trees on the sidewalks, and she saw more flowers in the window boxes. Washington Square was a tired and old neighborhood, but it remained middle-class. Another hansom was passing by and she decided it was safe to let the cabdriver go.
She was in such a rush that she stumbled from the cab. Slamming the door, she turned to face the gallery. Her heart thundered.
Everyone seemed to be in the square; the city block was deserted.
She paused to take her small pistol from her purse. It was loaded. Whoever had stolen her portrait, he or she was, at the least, a thief. And she would certainly not be surprised if that thief was also a blackmailer or an enemy, seeking revenge upon her. She would be a fool to deny her fear.
Her stolen portrait could be inside. She prayed that it was.
There were wide stone steps on her right, leading to the apartments above the gallery. The gallery itself was on the basement level, meaning she had to go down several steps to get to the front door. As she did, the first thing she saw was the white sign hanging on the door. Its bold black letters read Closed.
She paused, clutching the small gun. The door was glass, but set in iron and barred with it. She glanced at the windows on each side, which were similarly barred. Most galleries had large windows, to allow in natural light. She imagined that it was dark and gloomy inside this space.
A smaller sign was in the right-hand window. She went closer to read it.
Summer Hours: Monday-Friday, 12:00–5:00 p.m.
The gallery was closed to the public. Francesca felt her heart leap with relief, but that did not dim her anxiety. A small doorbell was beside the door, and there was a heavy iron knocker on it. Francesca reached for the doorknob.
It gave instantly as she turned it, and the front door swung open.
Clearly, someone was waiting for her.
In that moment, she wished that Hart had been at home, or that Bragg had still been present when she had gotten the invitation. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside. No lights were on, so the gallery was filled with shadow.
Francesca stepped in and closed the door behind her very, very quietly. To her satisfaction, she did not hear even the scrape of iron on the floor.
She could see well enough now and she turned, her skin beginning to prickle, certain she was not alone. She almost gasped.
Her portrait faced her.
She trembled. She had forgotten how stunning the painting was—and how provocative. In it, she wore nothing but a pearl choker. Her hair was up and perfectly coiffed. She sat with her back to the viewer, but she was partially turned. Not only were most of her buttocks visible, so was the entire profile of one of her breasts.
There was no mistaking her identity—and to make matters worse, she wore an expression of naked sensuality and raw hunger.
When she had posed for that painting, all she could think about was Hart.
Her instinct was to rush forward and yank the picture from the wall and destroy it. But there would be time for that later. She fought for composure. What did the thief want? Why surface now? Did he or she want money? Did he or she want to ruin her?
Was she being watched?
She felt as if eyes were upon her—and she did not like it, not one damn bit. She had her back to the door. She looked outside through the bars and glass, but the small concrete space beyond the front door was vacant.
Francesca started forward, gun in hand. If the thief was watching her, there was no point in remaining silent. Now she saw the other paintings on the walls. None were Sarah Channing’s work. Her style, somewhat classical yet impressionistic, too, was very distinct. “Where are you?” she called out loudly, turning the corner behind the center wall. The area there boasted nothing but blank gray walls. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Her words seemed to echo slightly in this smaller back chamber. She saw an open doorway, but hesitated. “Come out. I know you’re here.” She swallowed, straining to listen. All she could hear was her own thundering heartbeat and her rapid, shallow breathing.
She was afraid. Why wouldn’t she be? Someone had lured her to that gallery. She needed to take possession of that painting. “I will pay you handsomely for my portrait!” she cried.
There was no answer.
Standing in the back room, facing a dark, open doorway, she knew a moment of despair. What kind of game was this?
She hated releasing her gun, but she tucked it in the waistband of her skirt, only so she could remove matches and a candle from her purse. Months ago, she had learned to carry a large bag in order to keep the necessities of her trade with her. She lit the candle and realized the small doorway belonged to a single room, which consisted of a desk, a chair and file cabinets.
Francesca walked inside and saw nothing but receipts and notes on the desk. She looked carefully at the notes, but they were scribbles. Neither her name nor Hart’s jumped out at her. She looked at the saucer, which contained business cards.
Gallery Moore—Fine Arts and Consignments
Owned by Daniel Moore
No. 69 Waverly Place,
New York, NY
She rummaged through the drawers quickly, but there was simply too much paperwork to go through when the clock was ticking. The time. She froze, then reached for her purse, which she had laid on the desk. It was almost half past two.
Her temples throbbed. She did not have time to investigate now. But Bragg would be at her wedding and she would tell him everything before the ceremony, and send him downtown to retrieve the painting. But how could she leave the portrait now?
What did the damn thief truly want?
Francesca snuffed out the candle with her fingertips and left it on the desk—she had others in her purse. She took her gun from the waistband of her skirt. Purse in hand, in the darkness, she left the small office.
She thought she heard a small scraping sound coming from the front of the gallery.
She raced through the empty back chamber. “Who is there?”
There was no answer.
Frustration arose. She turned, jamming the gun into her waistband again, reaching with both hands for the oil painting. To her shock, it did not budge.
It wasn’t hanging on the wall by a wire; it was nailed.
She jerked on it again. It did not move.
And that was when she heard a lock clicking loudly in the dark.
She whirled to face the front door, expecting to see someone standing there, grinning at her. Instead, she saw a flash of movement outside of the gallery as someone ran up the steps to the sidewalk.
She cried out. Francesca ran to the door and seized it—but it was locked from outside as she had expected.
She cried out again, furiously, and tugged on the doorknob again. It did not budge.
Stunned, she stood there, the knob in her hands, the horror beginning.
She had just been locked in.
How was she going to get out? How was she going to get to her wedding?
CALDER HART STARED OUT of the window of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church’s second-floor lounge, feeling very pleased. He was already in his tuxedo, although he had yet to don his tie. Fifth Avenue was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had left town for the summer—except, of course, for those at the uppermost crust of New York society who lived in awe—or fear—of Julia Van Wyck Cahill.
The avenue was terribly attractive this way, in such a state of splendid desolation, with only a single carriage and two black hansoms traversing its paved streets. Stately mansions, elegant townhomes, exclusive shops and clubs lined the thoroughfare. Only three coaches were parked outside the church; it was far too early for guests to arrive. He glanced at a grandfather clock in one corner of the dressing room. It was a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. His gaze wandered back outside. Surely he wasn’t looking for his bride—he was not superstitious, but he had no wish to see her before the wedding, just in case. He smiled to himself. He had little doubt that Francesca was already in the church with her sister and mother, frantically applying the finishing touches to her toilette, as if she could possibly be made any more beautiful.
A few months ago, if someone had told him he would be at a wedding as the groom, he would have been very amused—and he would have considered that person an absolute fool. Yet there he was, with a racing heart and a touch of nerves.
“Hey, Calder,” Rourke Bragg said, laughter in his quiet tone. “Are you planning a mad dash for the exit yet?”
He took one last look at the quiet avenue. Two roundsmen in blue serge, carrying billy sticks, were standing on the street corner, chatting. Hart suspected they would soon be directing traffic.
He slowly turned to face the young man who had spoken. Rourke took after his father, Rathe Bragg. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair, amber eyes and a sun-kissed, almost swarthy, complexion. He also had Rathe’s inherently sunny, optimistic nature. He was actually Rick’s half brother, but having been taken in by the Bragg family at the age of nine, when their mother died, Hart considered him a relation, if not a sibling of sorts.
He also happened to like Rourke, who was in medical school and was devoted to his profession. He had not one hypocritical bone in his body.
Speaking of hypocrites, Rick Bragg had yet to arrive. He had only spent a half an hour last night with them at the private room they had taken in the Sherry Netherland to celebrate the last of Hart’s bachelor days. Hart smiled grimly. He rarely bested his perfect brother. He had surely bested him now.
He would never forget that once, months ago, Rick had been smitten with his bride. But Francesca was marrying him.
The satisfaction welled. It was savage.
“He must be sweating bullets,” Rourke’s younger brother, Gregory, said. He was twenty years old to Rourke’s twenty-four, and currently clerking in San Francisco for his uncle, Brett D’Archand, a shipping magnate. Upon learning of the wedding, he had taken a train to New York. Hart had asked Rourke, Gregory and their younger brother, Hugh, to stand up with him, along with young Nick D’Archand. Gregory’s grin was smug. “My God, Hart, it’s all over after today. No more wild women, no more fantastic orgies, just shackles and chains. You must be mad.”
Hart slowly smiled. “If you are asking me if I have doubts, the answer is no.”
