crank up his black Daimler motorcar in the driveway below the house. A moment later he had put on his goggles and was motoring down the long, graveled driveway toward the open iron gates at its west end.
The doorman closed the front door and Francesca faced her elegant, perfectly groomed sister. Julia had raised her in her own image: Connie was a proper lady, a caring mother and wife, and the perfect hostess. Like Julia, she was an adept socialite. “I see you are already dressed for the wedding,” Francesca teased, fully aware that Connie would rush home to change into something even more elegant than the blue pin-striped suit she was wearing.
Connie’s eyes widened. “Hardly. Francesca, what was Rick doing here?”
Francesca took her sister’s arm and led her back into the salon she and Rick had just vacated. “He came to wish me well,” she said a bit too firmly.
Connie gave her a disbelieving look, then walked over to the mahogany doors and closed them. She turned. “You aren’t on another case, are you?” It was a mild accusation.
“No, Con, you need not worry on that score.”
Connie sighed. “I believe I feel sorry for him.”
“Connie, don’t!”
“Why not? He was in love with you until his wife materialized out of thin air. And I see the way he looks at you. Everyone does.”
She was uncomfortable now. “Con, he loves Leigh Anne.”
“Does he? He is certainly fulfilling his duty toward her, and they make a striking couple. But I must say, the few times I have seen them together, I have noticed how tense their relationship is.”
Francesca shook her head. “You know that Leigh Anne has suffered a terrible carriage accident. She will never walk again. They are going through a very difficult time. Yes, Bragg is fond of me. I am fond of him.” Her heart lurched as she thought about Hart. She bit her lip and looked at her sister. “But, Connie, tonight I am going to be Hart’s wife.”
Acute desire came suddenly. She had spent hours in his arms—and in his bed. But he had refused to entirely do the deed. For some blasted reason, he insisted on being noble with her.
Connie’s smile was knowing. “As your sister, I know you have somehow managed to restrain your passions. I am so excited for you, Fran. Hart is smitten and you are head over heels. God only knows how Mother and I managed to organize this reception in a mere two weeks!”
Francesca laughed, her worries vanishing. All she could think of was Hart watching her with that dark, intense gaze he had as she walked down the aisle. “God only knows how you convinced Father to agree to a wedding in two weeks.”
“I think Hart did that,” Connie said. “Neil saw them at Delmonico’s, having lunch. By the way, he said Father looked apoplectic.”
Francesca bit her lip. Hart hadn’t said a word about meeting with her father before he’d left town, but clearly he had done just that. She happened to know how adept Hart was at negotiation. Obviously Andrew Cahill, no slouch when it came to business affairs—he had begun his career as a butcher and now ran a meatpacking empire—had been vastly outmaneuvered.
“Have you seen your fiancé since he returned from Chicago?”
“We had a wonderful supper the night before last.” She blushed, thinking about it.
“I wish we had been able to organize an affair for last night, but it was difficult enough to prepare the wedding,” Connie said. A knock sounded on the closed salon doors and she turned to answer it.
Francesca murmured, “Hart was given a small bachelor’s party last night.”
Connie blushed and said, “I do not want to know.”
“Neither do I,” Francesca lied. She couldn’t wait to find out where he had been taken and what kind of entertainment he’d been given.
The doorman, Jonathon, was holding an envelope in his hand. “Miss Cahill? This just came. I was told to deliver it directly to you and no one else.”
Flowers wouldn’t have surprised her, but such a delivery did. Francesca couldn’t imagine what the envelope would contain, or why it had been hand delivered. As Jonathon walked past her, Connie glanced at the envelope. She lost some of her coloring.
Francesca saw her reaction and was bemused. She reached for the envelope and froze. It wasn’t addressed to her. Instead, a single word in heavy block letters was hand-written upon it: URGENT.
Francesca was assailed with unease. Connie cried sharply, “Fran, do not open it!”
Francesca took the envelope, thanking Jonathon. “That is all,” she said. She waited for him to leave and turned it over. The back was blank.
Connie came over to her. “I know you. That must be the beginning of an investigation. It is your wedding day, Fran. Do not open it!”
“I am not going to start an investigation today, Con,” Francesca said calmly. She walked away from her sister, ostensibly to stand in the light coming through a window. In fact, she did not want her sister to see the contents of the envelope until she had done so first.
A printed invitation was inside. It read:
A private preview of the works of Sarah Channing
On Saturday, June 28, 1902
Between the hours of 1:00-4:00 p.m.
At No. 69 Waverly Place
Francesca felt her heart drop as if to the floor. Her knees buckled. She could only stare at the invitation in horror.
“What is it?” Connie cried, rushing forward. “Has someone died?”
Francesca quickly held the card to her bosom so her sister could not see. She looked at Connie, but her mind spun and she did not see her sister at all. Instead, she saw the portrait Sarah had painted of her last April, at Hart’s request. In it, she was stark naked, seated on a settee.
Her stolen portrait had surfaced.
Someone had just invited her to view it.
She inhaled. Francesca had no doubt what this terrible in vitation was about.
“Fran? Let me get you a glass of water.”
Francesca sat down, hard, in the closest chair. Her sister knew that Hart had commissioned her portrait and that it had been stolen, but she did not know that it was a nude. Only a handful of people knew.
Her heart thundered. If that portrait were ever displayed in public, she was ruined. Her family would be more than horrified and shamed—they would be ruined by association with her.
Of all days for the thief to come forward. What did he or she want?
“Con, no, I am fine!” Francesca leaped to her feet. It was only half past eleven. She could be at 69 Waverly Place in an hour—maybe less, considering a great deal of the city was already gone for the summer. Surely she could be at the church by three, with plenty of time to dress for her wedding.
