Deadly Illusions

For a long moment she stared, terribly desperate for reassurance. “What do you really think?” she finally asked.

He was grim. “I like Hart. I think he is very fond of you. But…he is the most jaded man in town. I can’t help but worry about the future—the way that Father does.”

She nodded, hating what he had said.

He said, “If you break this off, though, you will never know what might have been.”

Francesca looked at him. “I don’t want to break anything off.”

“Then don’t. Give him the benefit of the doubt. So far he has treated you with the utmost respect.”

That was true. She nodded, feeling a bit better. “And he has never even considered marrying anyone until he met me,” she added.

“That is true, and it does speak volumes.” Evan smiled again and stood. “I have to get back to work. Is that why you called?” He became teasing. “To ask your black-sheep older brother for his questionable advice?”

She also rose, relieved to change the subject. “Actually, no. I came to tell you about the case I am on, because I am just a bit worried about Maggie.”

His reaction was instantaneous. “Is Maggie in danger? Are the children in danger?” he demanded.

Francesca was so surprised by his vehement tone that she blinked. “I don’t know. I hope not. Have you read about the Slasher, Evan?”

His eyes widened impossibly. “Damn it, Francesca, get to the point! Is Maggie in any way involved with the Slasher?”

She touched him. “Calm down. She is not involved with the Slasher. There was a third victim on Monday, and she died. She also lived two doors from Maggie. I merely want Maggie to be cautious. I suggested that she and the children stay with us next Monday, as we suspect the Slasher will adhere to his pattern and strike again then.”

Evan was quite pale. Then he said grimly, “I hate the circumstances she lives in! How can she raise those children in such a hovel? Before I walked out on my fortune, I had wanted to get her and the children situated in a better area. But it was not my place and she is so proud, I knew she would refuse. Now I have no funds. Francesca, it is simply intolerable for her to live in that slum.” His blue eyes blazed.

His passionate outburst amazed her. “Evan, I know you are fond of the Kennedy children, but is there something more? Are…are you more than fond of Maggie herself?” Francesca heard herself boldly ask, in real confusion.

And he was clearly startled. He backed up. “What? I mean, of course I am fond of Mrs. Kennedy. How could I not be? She is a wonderful woman, so kind, so compassionate, so caring. And my God, she has raised those children on her own, working herself almost to death to give them a good home. But what, exactly, are you suggesting?” His disbelief grew. “Surely you are not suggesting some kind of romantic attachment on my part?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca said carefully.

He laughed in disbelief and walked away, then began to pace in consternation.

Francesca watched him carefully. Was it possible that Evan did have a romantic attachment but that he refused to admit it, even to himself?

He turned. “I want her to move uptown, now. I will speak with Mother and make certain there is no issue.”

Francesca felt certain that Evan cared far more than he was admitting. But he was also very involved with the countess, so she did not know what to really think. “She is proud, as you have said. She dislikes charity, which we both know. She isn’t even certain she will move uptown on Monday, Evan. I doubt she will pack up and go today.”

He glared. “Yes she will,” he said. “I am taking the afternoon off—to hell with everything. She will not refuse me—you watch and see.”

Francesca began to smile. It had become clear which way the wind blew. Carefully she hid her smile and her satisfaction as she watched her brother storm from the room.

SOMEHOW, MOSTLY THROUGH tearful pleading, she had gained permission from her supervisor to leave work an hour early. All day, Gwen had thought about little other than her daughter as she poured tallow into mold after mold. She had not wanted Bridget to miss another day of school, so she had dropped her there that morning. Within five minutes of leaving her daughter on the public building’s front steps, she had begun to worry.

A killer was on the loose. He was in their neighborhood. Bridget’s school was only a few blocks from where the killer had last struck. Would Bridget be safe in school? Gwen thought so. But she did not want her daughter setting one foot out on the street by herself—not after school, not before school, not ever. If anything happened to her daughter, she would die. Bridget was her life.

Standing in the aisle of the horse-drawn omnibus, Gwen clung to the safety strap, surrounded by strangers. Bridget had already walked home from school and she prayed that she was safe. Maybe they shouldn’t have left their home in Ireland. With everything that had happened in the month and a half since their arrival in America, Ireland seemed far safer than New York City, which had become cold and lonely, a dark and threatening place.

She bit her lip so she would not cry. There was no going back and she knew it. They were trapped here, in the merciless city, trapped in poverty, hopelessness and, now, real danger.

Briefly she closed her eyes as she swayed in tandem to the rocking omnibus. Briefly, she saw the vast, manicured green lawns that swept up to the imposing, stone-gray palatial residence where she had once been employed. For one moment, it was as if she stood at the foot of the long, winding, graveled driveway, watching the gardeners tend the various blooms. And in that moment, she watched the master of the house appear on the wide, flat front steps, a tall, dark man in a riding coat, breeches and high boots—a handsome man who had never smiled in the entire first year she had worked there.

Her heart still ached with the memories and it was an ache that would never go away.

Gwen inhaled hard, forcing the past far away, and that was when she felt eyes boring into her back.

She straightened, her grip on the safety strap tightening as the bus lurched to a stop to discharge a passenger. The feeling of being watched did not disappear. It became hard to breathe. Very slowly, she turned around.

But the men seated behind her on the crowded bus were reading dailies. She looked down the aisle at the other standing passengers. No one was looking her way, no one at all. The back doors swung closed and the omnibus lurched forward.

Glancing wildly around, she thought, I must be losing my mind.

On the sidewalk, he watched the bus disappearing.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 5:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA SMILED AS her cab halted in front of the building where Gwen O’Neil lived. Bragg’s black roadster was parked on the street, a conspicuous sight amidst the drays and wagons on the block. Bragg stood leaning against the hood, his hands in the pockets of his brown wool suit jacket, appearing thoughtful.

As the bay in the traces lowered his head, the driver turned around and opened the small window behind his back. The front seat was elevated and he smiled down at her. “Twenty cents, miss.”

Francesca handed him twenty-five. She reached for the door but Bragg was already opening it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

“I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

He stopped and looked at her.

“I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

“Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

“Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

“He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O’Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.