CHAPTER ONE
New York City--Tuesday, February 18, 9 PM, 1902
Francesca Cahill prided herself on her common sense, her steady, nonsensical character and her intellect. In fact, throughout the city she was considered not just a blue stocking and a reformer, but an eccentric. Recently, she had also become rather infamous as the city's most successful and intrepid amateur sleuth. This was all much to her formidable mother's dismay. Mrs. Julia Van Wyck Cahill, one of society's leading matrons, wanted nothing more than to see her daughter successfully wed. Francesca, however, had other plans.
Now, Francesca was in shock. She stared blindly out of the window of an informal salon with twenty-one foot vaulted ceilings and marble floors. The door behind her was locked. She did not know what to do, to think. For earlier that day she had received the most stunning proposal of marriage from the city's most eligible (and most notorious) bachelor, Calder Hart. How happy Julia would be should she learn of his desire to marry her. Francesca was resolved that Julia never find out what had so recently upended her life. Francesca was terrified of Julia and Hart conspiring against her.
After all, not only did she have no wish to marry, she was in love with another man.
Tomorrow she would call on Hart and set him straight. How she dreaded the encounter, knowing that it would be an unpleasant one.
If only she were fifty and fat, she thought, starting grimly from the salon. She promptly bumped into her father in the hall. "Papa?"
Andrew Cahill was a benign man in appearance, rather stout, of medium height, and to look at him one would never guess that he was one of the city's millionaires. He had made his fortune in meat-packing in Chicago, moving his family east when Francesca was a child—she was now a woman of twenty. Francesca was well aware that she was the apple of his eye, and not because her sister and brother were older than she was. While she did not take after Andrew in appearance, as she resembled Julia, being blond and blue-eyed, she resembled him in character. Andrew was an avid reformer, as politically and socially involved as any one of the Melons or the Astors. There was only one man whom she admired more—Rick Bragg, the city's newly appointed police commissioner.
Now, distraught and worried, she prayed that her distress did not show, as her father knew her too well and would demand to know what was bothering her so. Worse, she sensed he was looking for her and he did not look pleased, oh no.
"You have a telephone call, Francesca. It is Rick," Andrew said without smiling, his tone grim.
She stiffened with surprise. It was late, and hardly the time for a social call—worse—he would be furious if he ever learned of his half-brother's odd proposal. And now she knew why her father was disapproving—Rick Bragg was a very unhappily married man. Her parents did not like their friendship. She thanked her father, changed direction, and hurried into the library, a room paneled in wood with stained glass windows and beamed ceilings. The receiver was off the hook, on his desk. She lifted it to her ear. "Bragg?" She had to smile breathlessly, his image coming instantly to mind—handsome, golden, resolved.
He was one of the most handsome men she had ever met, and more importantly, the most noble-minded. If anyone could reform the city's terribly corrupt police force, it was he. Unfortunately, the political pressure he was under now to do so was vast.
"There has been another act of vandalism, Francesca," he said without preamble.
She clutched the receiver, forgetting her personal dilemma instantly. Last week the studio of her friend, Sarah Channing, had been ravaged and nearly destroyed. The case had been temporarily shelved, however, as Sarah Channing had not been hurt. "Not another art studio?" She gasped.
"Yes, and it has been thoroughly destroyed, in a similar manner to Sarah's studio, but in a more extreme way. It gets worse," Bragg added tersely.
"How can it be worse?" She whispered, already sensing what was to come.
"The artist was a young woman, just a few years older than Sarah."
Her heart lurched. "Was?"
There was a pause. "She has been murdered," he said. "Francesca, I need you."
Francesca forgot to breathe. Her heart leapt with excitement and a thrill she knew too well. "Where are you?"
"At Headquarters."
"I'll be right there," she said, and she hung up the telephone, stunned anew. A killer was on the loose—another case was at hand. But this time the artist had been murdered. Francesca was suddenly afraid. Sarah's life might very well be in danger, too.
Francesca rushed from the library, determined not to alert anyone to the fact that she was about to enter another criminal investigation—one with Bragg at her side. Her family was well aware of her sudden penchant for sleuthing, as she had been a feature in the press several times, unfortunately. Neither her mother nor her father, Andrew Cahill, approved. And while Francesca was rather adept at wrapping her father about her little finger, Julia was a formidable opponent, indeed. Francesca wished to avoid her now at all costs, for otherwise she would never get out of the house at this hour and there was no possible way she could bypass up the scene of this terrible new crime.
As she hurried upstairs, past a hallway lined with several paintings, an image of Calder Hart reared itself in her mind—darkly handsome, dangerously arrogant. Even the sudden happenstance of a new crime could not quite keep her mind off of the personal matters confronting her. And following his image came and equally compelling one of Bragg. She shivered. How had her life ever come to this impasse?
She hadn't meant to fall in love with him. But it had been impossible not to do so, with them working so closely together. And he despised his wife, who had left him four years ago, who roamed Europe while he paid her bills, collecting lovers. More dread filled Francesca. But Leigh Anne was no longer in Europe. She had returned to the city, and she had made her intentions clear. She wanted her marriage back—intact.
Francesca knew she must not dwell on Bragg and his wife now. She quickly rushed into the bedroom of a large guest suite where Maggie Kennedy's four children lay sleeping on two large beds. Her eldest boy Joel was a cutpurse, but he had become indispensable to Francesca in her investigative work as he knew the worst wards of the city intimately. She quickly roused him. "Joel!"
"Miz Cahill?" He murmured, brushing long black bangs out of his dark eyes.
"There has been another murder," Francesca whispered in his ear. "The commissioner just called. Meet me in the hall."
And Joel was instantly awake. Their gazes met. Then he nodded, leaping out of bed as Francesca quickly left. A few moments later, she and Joel, both bundled up in their heavy winter overcoats, were slipping from the kitchen's back door, so as to avoid the doorman in the front hall. Outside, the night was inky blue, with a million glittering stars-and it was frigidly cold. Snow-clad lawns encircled the mansion, and a graveled drive led to a pair of wrought iron gates, closed now, which let out on Fifth Avenue.
The gaslights there lit up not just the avenue itself, but Central Park on its other side. Carriages and broughams crowded the street, with one black motorcar in its midst. But as it was a weekday night, the traffic was moving quite swiftly. Francesca had just seen a horse and hansom. "Let's run. There's a cab," she cried.
Joel grinned at her as they raced up the slick, snow-covered driveway. "Looks like we're in business again," he said happily.
Francesca raised her hand. "Cabbie! Cabbie!" She cried. The driver of the hansom saw her, yanked hard on his horse's reins, the animal and cab veering abruptly towards the curb. The driver in the following carriage cursed, slamming on his brakes to avoid a collision, the two bays in the traces rearing in order to stop.
Panting, Francesca reached the hansom. "Yes, Joel, we most certainly are in business once again," she said, and now, she did smile.
But it was grim, as murder was always a deadly affair.
* * * * *
The murder had taken place at 202 East 10th Street, which was just off of Third Avenue. As Francesca and Joel climbed down from the hansom, the El thundered by overhead. She winced, as the noise was deafening, the train even causing the street beneath her feet to shake. But once the elevated had passed, leaving a cloud of thick smoke in the otherwise cool, clean air, she surveyed the scene.
The buildings lining 10th Street had once, in years gone by, been extremely fashionable single family brick homes. Francesca recognized their style as being Georgian—they had undoubtedly been constructed at the turn of the previous century. Three and four stories high, they had been converted into apartments. One gaslight illuminated the entire block, and poorly. Frozen snow, black with dirt and other refuse, covered the sidewalk. Patches of black ice gleamed here and there.
Several roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms, carrying heavy nightsticks and in their leather helmets had congregated outside of No. 202. A police wagon was parked there, as well, and behind it was Bragg's snow-dusted black Daimler. Several ragged young boys had gathered about the Daimler, pointing at it, while ignoring the cold looks sent their way by the policemen. Francesca did not like the look of the boys-they were all young adolescents, on the verge of manhood, with sullen and calculating expressions. A very drunken old lady, carrying her beer in a bucket, was sitting on an adjacent door stoop, apparently engrossed in the evening's entertainment. Every now and then she cackled at the policemen, then began muttering to herself.
"Mugheads," Joel growled beneath his breath.
Francesca had been about to cross over the short distance to the sidewalk; instead, she froze. "Joel?"
He shot her a look. "You seen 'em before. Looks like their turf been growin' a bit. Either that, or they're on the road."
Francesca glanced in the direction of the four boys, all bundled up in torn wool coats, with rags on their hands, and dirty wool caps on their heads. "Yes, I have. Wasn't that on Avenue C and 4th?" If she recalled correctly, they had been investigating the Cross murders at the time.
"Dunno, but yeah, that's about the right hood," Joel said.
The gang was certainly out of its home turf. "Do they usually wander about, so far from their usual location?" She asked.
"Not really. C'mon. Let's get outta here." Joel tugged on her hand.
Francesca realized that the four boys had seen them. They were all still now, and staring at her and Joel as if they might be fresh meat for their dinner plates. She inhaled for courage, took Joel's arm, and they crossed to the sidewalk. The roundsmen stood between them and the Mugheads now.
"Excuse me, miss," an officer moved to bar their way. "There is a police investigation under way. No one is allowed inside, not unless you happen to live there."
Francesca smiled. "I am a personal friend of the Commissioner. He has asked for my assistance on this case. Which apartment is he in?"
The officer, a young man hardly older than she, blinked. And then a very familiar face appeared behind him—a face dominated by beefy red cheeks and thick gray sideburns. Inspector Newman's eyes met hers. "Let her go in, Wallace. Good evening, Miss Cahill. C'mish is expecting you. He's in Apartment 7."
"Good evening, Inspector," Francesca said with a slight, professional smile. "Thank you. Come, Joel." As she went past the wide-eyed Wallace, she heard him exclaim, "Hey, she's the lady who got the Cross Murderer!"
"That's right, and she works closely with the commissioner," Newman replied, respect in his tone.
Francesca could not help being pleased. But she had worked very hard to earn the respect of the few men who worked directly with Rick Bragg.
"Hey." A lanky youth who was almost six foot tall barred her way. His eyes were shockingly blue, and red hair curled out from under his wool cap. "What business could a lady have here?"
Francesca tensed with some fear, but stiffened her spine and her shoulders. "I don't believe that is your affair. Please step aside." She could feel Joel bristling besides her.
"Just about anything that happens around here is my affair," the redheaded boy said, mimicking her genteel vowels.
"Bugger off, Reid," Joel growled.
Reid laughed. "Like you can tell me what to do?"
"Please,' Francesca began, but it was too late. Joel stepped aggressively forward—a diminutive four foot ten and perhaps a hundred pounds-and Reid stuck out his foot. Joel went face down in the dirty snow. Reid laughed raucously.
"That was uncalled for," Francesca said, trying to control her anger. And she looked the redheaded miscreant right in the eye.
"Oh, yeah? Well, get this. We ain't in no fancy ballroom, Miz Cahill," he spat with sudden anger. "You don't belong here. Go home."
He knew of her—somehow. Francesca reached down to help Joel up. She did not think this boy read the newspapers. So how did he know her name? "Let's go, Joel," she said, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. She knew he wanted to attack the bigger boy. She had little doubt he would be quickly humiliated—and even hurt—should he try.
"You stay out of our way," Joel snarled.
Reid laughed again. "Isn't it past your bedtime, asswipe?"
Joel started for him. A knife appeared in Reid's hand. But at that exact same time, Francesca yanked Joel backwards by the collar of his torn overcoat. "I would put that away, if I were you," she said softly. And, from the corner of her eye, she recognized the man who had just appeared on the doorstep of No. 202.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. The gaslight illuminated him, revealing sun-streaked hair, a bronzed complexion, and a tan great coat. He was handsome in an unusual way. Indian blood ran in his veins. And he was already striding purposefully toward them.
Her heart sped. She could not help smiling. They had agreed to remain friends, to fight the attraction that had formed, but dear God, could they really do so? Francesca had never fallen in love before. She knew she would never do so again.
Reid looked over his shoulder, saw Rick Bragg and tucked the knife away. Whistling for his three friends, he hurried across the street, weaving in and out of the several carriages passing by. Bragg paused besides Francesca and Joel, for one moment staring after Reid with hard, unwavering eyes. Then he turned to her and their gazes met and held.
And her heart skipped wildly. So much had happened and so quickly...She did not ever want to hurt this man. She simply cared too much.
"Are you all right?" He asked, his amber gaze softening.
She smiled then, as always, no matter the circumstance she found herself in, glad to see him. In the course of four difficult and confusing investigations, he had become her best friend and perhaps even an anchor for her. "Of course. I am hardly afraid of one delinquent boy." The exaggeration was a slight one, but she so enjoyed seeing respect and admiration in Rick Bragg's eyes when he looked at her.
"He has a record a mile long. And he's fifteen going on sixteen, which makes him a young and dangerous man. When he was Joel's age, he was also a kid."
Francesca knew by now that 'kid' meant a child cutpurse. Before she could comment, Joel said, "He's mean an' smart. An' he buzzed molls. Still does, from time to time."
Francesca blinked. Bragg said, "He preys upon the ladies, Francesca, so watch your purse the next time he is about."
"I can take him," Joel declared, two bright spots marring his pale cheeks.
Bragg raised a brow. "He's twice your size, Kennedy. I'd think twice about such an act of folly if I were you."
Joel spat into the street, precariously close to Bragg's feet. Fortunately the spittle missed his shiny, polished shoes.
"Joel," Francesca said in reprimand.
"We got a murder to solve or what?" Joel said angrily. He slipped past Bragg and hurried towards the front door of the building.
Francesca and Bragg watched him. He was not willing to give up his hatred of anyone associated with the police. But then, he had been in trouble with the police for most of his young life. He was a pickpocket with his own criminal record. She tugged on Bragg's sleeve. "You are so patient with him. Thank you."
"Do I have a choice? When my favorite sleuth has made him her assistant?" A smile was in his tone.
She smiled and he smiled back. And in that single moment, the past few hours—and weeks—disappeared. In that single instant, his terribly beautiful wife did not exist, and neither did Calder Hart, his dangerously provocative half-brother. In that instant, the moment when Leigh Anne had faced Francesca and demanded she stay away from Bragg had never happened—as if she had not returned from her four year absence in Europe in order to reclaim her marriage, as if she had not confronted Francesca to discourage their friendship and to warn her away. Leigh Anne had, in fact, shaken Francesca's confidence thoroughly. For she had insisted that she shared a bond with her husband that Francesca could never sever.
Francesca had to pinch herself to remind herself that the past few hours, days and week did exist, very much so. That Leigh Anne had returned to the city and that she was Bragg's legal spouse. That Calder Hart, in what had to be a moment of madness, had told her that he intended to marry her. She shivered, feeling very much as if she were wedged between a rock and a hard place. But at least now she was on familiar footing—a crime had been committed, they had a case to solve, and once again, they would be working together.
Bragg took her arm, guiding her across the icy street. "What happened?" She asked as they entered the building.
"I have spoken to one neighbor, Louis Bennett, in No.5," Bragg said, pausing inside a pleasant entry hall with a single chair, a table on the wall, a mirror above that. A small chandelier light burned above their heads. Joel had plopped down on the chair, swinging his thin legs. "No. 5 happens to be across the hall from No. 7, where Melinda Neville was murdered. He had come in at half past seven, saw her door open, called out, and did not receive an answer. So he peeked inside. And then he saw the vandalism—and her body. He immediately ran outside and flagged down a roundsman."
So the victim's name was Melinda Neville. Francesca paused to study the heavy wood door they had just come through, which was painted a dark green. The lock was brass. It required a key. There was no deadbolt on the inside, for the obvious reason that too many people shared the house. "Is this door always locked?"
"Yes. But when Bennett came in, it was unlocked," Bragg said. "I don't think it is surprising that the murderer would flee without locking it behind him."
"Of course not. Did Bennett see or hear anything at all? Anybody?" She asked.
"No. But he is extremely upset now, and I suspect he went into shock when he realized that Miss Neville was dead." Bragg said quietly.
A wide staircase was just ahead of them. It was typical of most Georgian homes. Bragg said, "There are three apartments downstairs, and four on the next floor, three more above."
Francesca nodded and started for the stairs, Bragg joining her and Joel leaping up. "Perhaps our killer is a tenant here," she said.
"Perhaps. But there are ways to pick a lock, as you know. In fact, wait one moment. Joel?"
Joel faced him. "What?"
"Do me a favor, will you? See if you can open that door from the outside if I lock it form within."
Joel narrowed his gaze at him. "I ain't no bedchamber sneak," he finally said.
"I know you are no burglar," Bragg said, appearing very slightly annoyed. But then, it was growing late and it had been a very long day and he and the child had never quite come to friendly terms.
Joel turned and went outside. Bragg locked the door and glanced at Francesca. A moment passed, and then they heard something being inserted into the lock. Francesca tensed. Joel picked at the lock form the outside without result for several minutes, and then they heard him run off. Francesca sighed and said, "I do not think he is quite done."
"Nor do I," Bragg said, his golden eyes on hers. They exchanged smiles. A moment later the lock clicked behind them and Joel pushed through the door, grinning in triumph. "Not so hard," he announced with glee and pride.
"Well done," Francesca applauded, ruffling his thick hair.
Joel pulled away, blushing and proud, and handed Bragg a set of keys.
Bragg looked at him. "And where did you get those?"
Joel laughed. "Took 'em right out of the pocket of Inspector Newman," he said.
Francesca bit her lip to suppress her laughter. "Shall we go up?" She asked.
Bragg nodded. Francesca led the way, Joel on her heels. No. 7 was on her right at the top of the stairs. The corridor there was about twenty feet. A faded blue runner was on the floor, and a wall sconce was between the two pairs of apartments on each side of the hall. The lighting was dim even though it was electric. No. 4 faced No.7. Bennett's apartment, No. 5, was adjacent No. 4.
The door to No. 7 was open. Lights had been turned on within. A uniformed roundsman stood outside the door, clearly to keep any inquisitive civilians away and he nodded at Bragg, while glancing curiously at Francesca. Inside, another detective in plainclothes was on his knees, searching beneath a faded sofa for any possible clues.
Francesca smiled at the officer and stepped inside a small salon that had been turned into an artist's studio. Two windows on one side of the room which overlooked 10th Street undoubtedly provided wonderful light for the artist to work in. Instantly she saw Miss Neville lying on her side, her face turned away, about midway across the room. And from this distance, Miss Neville appeared to be untouched. There was no blood, and one arm was out-flung. She could have been asleep.
But of course, she was not.
Francesca inhaled. She would never get used to death, much less a death that had been inflicted in violence and brutality upon an innocent human being.
She scanned the room, shivering, as it was cold within the flat. Miss Neville had two chairs and a low table facing the sofa at its opposite end, beyond where she now lay. She had clearly been using the sitting arrangement as her salon. Both of those chairs were overturned now, as was a vase of freshly cut flowers. Red roses lay scattered about the upside down chairs.
Francesca turned to the closer side of the room. Facing the room's two windows a few feet from the door where Francesca stood was an easel, which was also upside down and upon the floor. A canvas lay there, face-down, alongside a palette and a dozen variously sized brushes, all of which looked to have been thrown roughly down. Paint had been dumped and thrown, splashed and splattered, almost everywhere. The back of the canvas was dripping shades of blue, purple, red and black, and similarly violent hues dotted the room's pale green walls, the sofa, the floor and the once pleasant beige and red Oriental rug. Just beyond the seating area was an open doorway; inside was a small bedroom, as impossibly neat as the studio she stood in was not. "Have you searched her bedroom?"
"Yes. I found a single unopened letter, dated a year ago, addressed to Miss Neville at a flat in Paris. It was from a Thomas Neville."
"Her husband?" Her eyes widened, as here was a distinct lead.
He had to smile. "He was her brother. I opened and read the letter. The return address is here in the city. My plan is to interview him first thing in the morning."
"Shall we meet at, say, nine?" Francesca asked quickly.
Bragg smiled. "He may not be there, Francesca. I hate for you to waste your time. Besides, don't you have classes tomorrow?"
Francesca was pursuing a higher education and she had secretly enrolled at Barnard College last fall. "I will be at your office at nine," she said firmly. She had missed so many classes that another one would not matter.
"Good," he returned as swiftly.
Francesca could not help it then. It felt good to be at his side, working on another investigation, one which they must solve, as murder was now the name of the game. Her gaze returned to the scene of the brutal crime.
One canvas remained standing against another wall, a landscape done in watercolors, but angry splotches of red and black marred it's otherwise tepid pastel-hued surface. Francesca did not find the landscape at all impressive, although it was well executed.
"How'd she get it?" Joel asked bluntly. "Ain't no blood."
"She was strangled," Bragg said.
Francesca inhaled, rather dreading the evaluation she must make of the victim. "So the killer must be a man."
"I would think so. I doubt another woman could have strangled her. There are numerous bruises on her throat and neck, indicating a very forceful grip."
Francesca nodded grimly. Miss Neville would wait another moment, as she was hardly going anywhere. Francesca turned to stare at one of the room's paint-splashed walls.
For upon it, not from the upright watercolor, amidst the splatters of dark paint, was a single letter, hastily painted there in black. The letter seemed to be a 'B'.
Francesca started and faced Bragg. Their gazes locked. "Bragg? Did you notice that letter upon the wall?" As the wall had been marred with so much paint in so many dark and disturbing colors, the crude letter was not glaring or overly obvious.
"Yes."
Their gazes held. Her brother Evan, quite the catch himself, had recently and reluctantly become engaged to Sarah Channing, an engagement planned by their families. Sarah was a rather shy young woman and not at all Evan's type of lady—Francesca knew he preferred beautiful, flamboyant women. Sarah was more than retiring, she did not care at all for society or its social whirl, in fact, she was a passionate and even brilliant artist. Less than a week ago, her art studio had been attacked in a shockingly similar manner. There were no suspects. One difference, however, between the instance of vandalism now and then was that there had been an incomplete letter painted in blood red on Sarah's wall. At the time, she and Bragg had thought it might be an 'F'.
"Bragg? What do you make of the letter 'B' on the wall over there?"
He inhaled. "It is not painted in red, it is complete, and it is not an 'F'."
They stared at each other. Finally Francesca said, "That is definitely a B."
"Yes, it is. We shall have to go back to Sarah's and see if the F we thought we saw was actually the beginnings of a capitol B. This letter B is a capitol." Sarah's studio had been left untouched since the vandalism, as the case remained an open one. Bragg strongly felt that crime scenes should remain untainted; he worried about his detectives missing clues on the first go round. Francesca thought his investigative technique brilliantly original.
"What message does the vandal—the killer—intend?"
"I have no idea, Francesca," Bragg said softly. "Not yet."
Suddenly Francesca stilled—chilled. "We are a team now, and most of the city knows it."
"What are you getting at?"
"First an F, and now a B," she murmured.
He understood and started. "You think the killer is toying with you and I?"
Francesca shrugged. "I don't know. How could I? We haven't even begun to investigate. But the notion did occur to me, unfortunately." And fortunately, she had quickly recovered her composure. For it was not a foregone conclusion that the letter F had been painted on Sarah Channing's wall.
"Well, I do hope you are wrong, because that would indicate a very maddened killer, Francesca."
Francesca nodded, but her senses all felt heightened now, for this was what she did best, as she had so recently discovered. "Bragg? There is one more difference, obviously, between the Neville and Channing Incidents."
And it was a huge difference, indeed. Sarah had discovered the crime at five fifteen in the morning and she lived to speak of it. That is, she had not seen or encountered the vandal, and there had not been a murder. But Miss Neville was dead, very much so.
"Yes, as Sarah lives and Miss Neville does not," Bragg said, clearly thinking in the same vein as she.
"Is Sarah in danger?" Francesca asked slowly, with dread. She had become quite fond of Sarah since meeting her.
Bragg hesitated. "I simply don't know, Francesca," he finally said.
Francesca inhaled and faced Miss Neville again. There was no more avoiding what she must do. But Bragg touched her elbow, a gesture of restraint. She met his gaze. "I'm fine."
"It isn't pleasant," he warned.
"Death is never pleasant." She walked slowly across the room, avoiding the patches of paint, aware of Bragg following her.
Miss Neville's face was turned away from her, which was fine. Francesca looked first at her gray ensemble. Splotches of angry paint had been cast upon her, too. It made Francesca angry, for she imagined the killer throwing paint upon his dead victim. "He murdered her before he vandalized the studio," she said.
"Not necessarily. She might have surprised him in his act of destruction, and become rather paint-splattered as a result."
Francesca simply did not think so. She felt that Miss Neville had been dead when the murderer had begun to tarnish her with paint. And while the fitted suit was not a custom made one, it was of a good quality, and it indicated that Miss Neville was a gentlewoman. Francesca glanced at her shoes-they were white patent leather with fancy heels and they had cost a few dollars. The petticoat frothing about the unevenly turned hem of the gray skirt was French lace. Francesca was perplexed.
Miss Neville lived frugally, but she dressed well. In fact, there were two rings on the fingers of her outstretched hand, and one of them was a small but not tiny sapphire flanked by two small diamonds. She wore it on her left index finger-had she been engaged? Married?
The other ring was a simple silver band flecked with tiny red stones. Francesca assumed the stones to be garnets.
Francesca allowed her gaze to move up Miss Neville's still form—she had a very fine figure, a small waist and a voluptuous bosom-- and finally to her neck. She saw marks that were turning black and blue upon her throat, both on the front of her neck and on the back. Whoever had done this, he had been a strong man, probably with large hands. Her gaze moved higher. Her hair was a pretty, bright chestnut, although severely drawn back into a chignon. A dove gray hat was pinned to her head and the skin of her right cheek was fair and flawless.
Francesca walked around her to the other side, so Miss Neville was facing her now. She sank down to her knees, looked at her stunning and very familiar face—and she cried out.
"Francesca?" Bragg reached for her.
Francesca allowed him to pull her up, simply too stunned to speak.
"What is it?" Bragg demanded. Francesca gulped down air. "That—she isn't Miss Neville—Bragg! That—she is Grace Conway!" Francesca stammered, still reeling.
"What?"
"Grace Conway—the actress—I met her once—Bragg! She is my brother's mistress!"
© Copyright 2003, Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
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