beautiful women in the world. She was hardly the kind of sultry seductress he was renowned to associate with. She was romantic, naive and somewhat inexperienced still. Mostly, she was far too clever, far too outspoken and opinionated, and far too ambitious for her gender. Women were not supposed to have high intellect, professional aspirations and vociferous opinions. Nor were they supposed to covet independence, as she did.
Donning a blue skirt and shirtwaist, Francesca turned away from the mirror, shoving all fear aside. The past two weeks had been a frenzy of activity, frantically preparing for a society wedding. Her mother, Julia Van Wyck Cahill—who was not a relation to the crooked former city mayor—would not have it any other way. Julia had railroaded her husband into agreeing to the marriage— Francesca had witnessed moments of the powerful persuasion—and she and Connie had immediately set about the task of organizing the wedding. The ceremony would take place at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church and then they would go downtown to the Waldorf Astoria hotel for the reception. Francesca had been shown guest lists, floral arrangements, color schemes, seating plans, dress designs and fabrics. She had simply agreed to whatever her mother and sister thought best. There had been a whirlwind of evening engagements, too, which she had reluctantly attended. Hart had gone to Chicago to take care of as many of his affairs as possible, as he had no wish to attend to business while they were on their honeymoon in Paris, and had only returned a few days ago.
Francesca was pinning up her hair when a knock sounded on her door. She was expecting her sister, who intended to spend the day with her and later help her dress, but it was one of the housemaids. “Who is it, Bette?”
“It is the police commissioner, miss. He says he is sorry to bother you, but he was hoping for a word.” The pretty French maid smiled at her.
She was not expecting callers on her wedding day, not even Bragg. Her heart leaped. What had happened?
She hesitated. She had worked closely with Rick Bragg these past months. They had become a formidable team, indeed. He was her dear friend. In fact, before she met Hart—before she had learned that Rick was married, although separated—she had had very strong romantic feelings for him. He had been the first man she had ever kissed.
And he was Calder Hart’s half brother.
She refused to think about that ancient romantic attachment now.
Instead, she thought about the fact that a holiday weekend loomed. Many in high society were already gone for the summer, but the city was hardly deserted. While Coney Island and its beaches were a popular destination for merchants and their families, most of New York City would remain occupied over the Fourth. The city’s slums were teeming and crime never took a holiday.
Bragg must need her help on another investigation, she thought. But she could hardly help him now!
Francesca stuck another pin into her hair and hurried down the wide, winding carpeted staircase of the Cahill mansion. Bragg was standing in a smaller salon off the large marble-floored reception hall, staring out a window. Bright June sunlight poured into the salon. Outside, beautifully manicured lawns surrounded the house. Francesca could glimpse several hansoms and a small gig on Fifth Avenue, while a few ladies with their parasols strolled on the sidewalk. Across the avenue, dotted with black iron gas lamps, Central Park was clearly visible, the trees behind its dark stone outer walls shady, lush and green. It was a beautiful summer day—the perfect day for a wedding.
For one moment, she had the chance to watch Rick before he saw her, and warmth stole through her. She would always care deeply about him. He was tall, golden and very striking in appearance, but it was so much more than that. He was even more committed to reform than she was; he had spent the past decade in Washington, D.C., as a lawyer, representing the indigent, the mentally incompetent and the poor. He had turned down a partnership in a prestigious law firm to do so. In January, he had been appointed by New York City’s new reform mayor, Seth Low, to clean up the police department, which was notoriously corrupt. A recent study estimated that the police took in four million dollars every year from gambling, prostitution and other vices—all from illegal payoffs. Even small merchants like grocers and shoemakers gave their local roundsman a dollar or two a week for protection.
In the six months since Bragg’s appointment, he had done his best to break the stranglehold of graft and corruption in the department, mostly by reassigning, demoting and promoting the force’s officers. But he was caught between the warring forces of politics and progressivism. Mayor Low had begun to back away from Bragg’s reform policies, afraid of losing the next election. The city’s progressive elites and clergy had begun to howl for even greater efforts from Bragg. The German Reform Movement, allied with Tammany Hall, kept pushing back. Bragg remained on a terrible seesaw. But he was determined to clean up his police force. Consequently, he’d made far more enemies than friends in a very short time.
She doubted there was a man alive whom she admired and respected more. Except, of course, for her fiancé.
Bragg turned and smiled, coming forward with long strides to greet her. “Francesca, am I intruding?” He kissed her cheek as she took his hand. “I know this is your wedding day.”
Releasing his hand, she smiled into his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten. “I hope so, as you are on the guest list. I would be crushed if you were not present.”
He studied her, his smile fading.
She realized he looked very tired. “You could never intrude. What is wrong?”
“Thank you for meaning that. You seem very happy, Francesca.”
She became wary. Bragg had not hidden the fact that he disapproved of Hart entirely. “I’m a bride. Of course I am happy, although I am also nervous.” Suddenly she knew why he was there. “You haven’t come to share the details of a new case with me, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.” He was somber.
Her smile vanished and he caught both her hands. “My feelings about this wedding have not changed,” he said with urgency. “I am so worried about you.”
She tried to tug her hands free and then gave up, as he wouldn’t let her go. “I am marrying Calder this afternoon.”
“Three weeks ago, Hart was in jail, at the top of our list of suspects.”
She pulled free. “No, he was at the top of your list. I never doubted his innocence.”
“He has you mesmerized.”
Hart and Bragg were bitter rivals in every possible way. No two brothers could be more different. They had been raised in the poverty of the city’s worst tenements—until Rathe Bragg, Rick’s father, had taken them both in. Now, Rick sacrificed the pursuit of the finer things in life in order to help others; his life was dedicated to the reform of society and government. As police commissioner, he lived on a very modest income—and did not care. Hart had taken away an entirely different lesson from his childhood. He was a millionaire, and he displayed his wealth with shocking arrogance. While Hart gave lavishly to several charities and the arts, his ambition had been to acquire power and never suffer poverty and powerlessness again. He had amassed a fortune through hard work and superior intelligence, mostly in shipping, insurance and the railroads. An objective observer would label the one brother the epitome of selfless virtue, the other, selfish and self-serving.
Francesca knew it wasn’t true. Hart had his noble side, and she knew that firsthand. With her, he had been nothing but selfless and good. She had come to believe that his arrogance was a facade.
None of that mattered
