I do. The one thing I am sure of is that Francesca did not suddenly decide to jilt Calder.” He spoke without emotion. She knew he hated the idea of Francesca marrying Hart. But if he was pleased by this sudden turn of events, she could not tell. “Peter, may I have a scotch, please?”
The Swede nodded and left the dining room.
She looked at her glass, willing herself to have patience. “Chief Farr called. He was looking for you.”
“I guess he has heard the news,” Rick said grimly.
She wasn’t sure what his odd tone meant. “He already knew that Francesca is missing. He said something about how there must have been a commotion today.”
Rick looked at her. “What did he say, exactly?”
She started, and finally pulled her drink toward her. “He made a comment about how there must have been a commotion at the church when the bride did not show up. I said it was quite chaotic.”
Peter returned and handed Rick a scotch. He took a sip. “Farr doesn’t like her.”
Leigh Anne finished her brandy. “Surely he doesn’t wish her ill, Rick.”
Rick grimaced, studying his drink. “I imagine he is pleased that something has befallen her.”
“That is a terrible thing to say.” He was very concerned, she realized. Carefully, she said, “I hope you are wrong and Francesca had an extreme case of bridal jitters. I hope she is not in jeopardy somewhere.”
He stood up abruptly. “I have to call Farr.”
“Rick, do not worry about me. I am going to read to the girls and put them to bed. Go find Francesca.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Are you certain you do not mind?” His gaze strayed to the empty glass on the dining table in front of her.
“I have always liked her.” That much was true. Francesca was a pleasant, kind and even admirable woman. “I am worried about her, too.”
“Thank you,” he said, walking out.
She leaned back in her chair, beyond relief, aware that she was already forgotten. He wouldn’t bother her again that night, and after the girls were asleep, she could dose herself thoroughly with brandy and laudanum.
FRANCESCA HAD SPENT the entire carriage ride filling Joel in on every detail of that day. Joel, of course, already knew that her portrait had been stolen. Two months ago, when she, Hart and Bragg had decided to leave the police out of the investigation—no one wanted anyone to know about the portrait—Joel had wanted to know why everyone was so upset. She had told him that the painting was somewhat compromising.
He hadn’t known what the word meant. Francesca had decided not to tell him the absolute truth. She had merely said that she had posed in a manner that society would frown upon. Joel hadn’t cared after that. She knew he found the mores of society confusing, irrelevant and at times, just plain stupid, to use his own words.
As No. 11 Madison Square came into view, Francesca felt her heart lurch. The square was deserted at that hour, but the park was beautifully lit from the streetlamps and the moonlight. Bragg’s house was a narrow Victorian, on a block filled with similar redbrick homes, just a few doors down from Twenty-third Street. Francesca thought about the time they had walked from his house to Broadway to gaze up at the newly constructed Flatiron Building, which the city’s newsmen were calling a “skyscraper.” The towering, triangular building remained a stunning testament to the brilliance of mankind.
“He is here,” she said, noticing his Daimler parked outside the small carriage house adjacent to the Bragg residence. She paid the driver as she and Joel swiftly stepped down to the sidewalk. Lights were on downstairs and upstairs.
She had regained a great deal of her composure in the past thirty minutes. Still, she had been badly hurt. A part of her wanted to rush into Bragg’s arms, seeking comfort. But another, more mature part of her knew to keep the current state of discord between her and Hart private.
As the cab left, they started up the brick path, toward the house. Francesca knocked on the door, eager to tell Bragg everything that had happened to her.
The door was flung wide open.
Bragg took her arm. “I knew it was you. Are you hurt?”
She came inside, Joel following, so much relief flooding her. Some of her resolve to remain strong and independent crumbled. She smiled tightly. “I have had an awful day.”
“I can see that,” he said, suddenly releasing her.
In that moment, she knew he wanted to hold her, but he made no move to do so. She did not know if she was relieved or disappointed. Joel broke the silence. “What’s wrong with you two? We have a case to solve! Miz Cahill was locked up—someone tried to stop her from marrying Mr. Hart!”
Francesca bit her lip. “Actually, Joel, someone did stop me from marrying Hart.” She managed to tear her gaze from Bragg’s. Where was Leigh Anne?
“What happened? Why are there scratches and cuts on your face and hands?” He took her arm and guided her into his study, a small dark room with a desk and two chairs. The fireplace was unlit. Joel followed them to the door, but lingered in the hallway.
She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder, but his wife was not in the parlor at the end of the hall, although the door was open, the lights on. “Am I intruding?”
“Of course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”
She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received this by hand this morning, shortly after you left,” Francesca said, taking the envelope marked Urgent out of her purse. She handed it to him, the invitation inside.
He quickly read it and paled. “The portrait?”
She nodded, glad to be back on the firm ground of the investigation now. “When I got there, the gallery was closed for summer hours but unlocked. I went in and I saw the portrait. It is nailed to one wall. I felt that I was not alone and I began to explore. Perhaps a half hour later, someone locked me in from outside.”
Bragg made a harsh sound—she knew he was angry. “Go on.”
She wet her lips. “I called for help, but no one heard me. Then I tried to climb out a very small window in the back office. I had to break the pane. That is how I got cut on my face.”
He took her hands in his, not looking down. “How did you hurt your hands?”
“Clawing the wall as I tried to get up to that window.”
His expression, already tight, hardened even more.
She couldn’t help comparing his reactions to Hart’s. Had Calder even noticed her cuts and scratches? “Eventually two children heard me. Their father and a roundsman let me out.”
For one more moment he held her hands, and she had the impression that all would be right in the world again. As she thought that, she recalled Hart’s cold black gaze, his deliberate cruelty
