Chapter 25
Evan stood at the window of his hotel suite, staring down at Fifth Avenue.
From where he stood he could glimpse most of Madison Square.
It was the beginning of the week, and even though it was midmorning, pedestrian traffic was heavy.
Gentlemen in their business attire were hurrying down the street, attending to urgent affairs.
The street was also congested with vehicular traffic.
Numerous drays were heading downtown, loaded with wares, causing hansoms and coaches to fight for the right to pass and move on more swiftly.
His temples drummed painfully as he watched.
How had his life come to this—estranged from his family, lacking sufficient funds and on the verge of wedlock to a woman he did not really care for?
And then he saw a woman with pale reddish-blond hair alighting from a hansom. His heart skipped erratically.
Evan leaned on the sill, thinking it was Maggie Kennedy, his pulse now racing swiftly with excitement. He quickly realized that the woman was a very elegant lady and he straightened, the tension in his body instantly vanishing. Watching her disappear into the hotel, he was disappointed.
He closed his eyes.
Bartolla was having his child and they had agreed to elope at the end of the week.
He could hear the roll of the die, the spinning of the roulette wheel, the shuffle of cards, the hushed, intense conversation, the tinkle of fine glassware.
Sweat trickled from his forehead.
He desperately needed to go down the block and to the club, but he still owed his creditors well over fifty thousand dollars.
On the other hand, the entire world knew Hart had paid off almost half of his debt, so maybe his credit was good.
It would be good, he decided stubbornly, if he made the right case for himself with the proprietor of the establishment.
His blood heated and rushed.
He only needed one game, he thought, one more game and then he would quit, this time forever.
But he knew it was a lie.
If he went back to the tables, he would play until he was incarcerated by his creditors.
Bartolla would then bear his child alone.
Maggie smiled at him, but her blue eyes were so sad. “Of course you have to marry her. She is having your child. One day, you will look back and realize this was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
How in hell had this happened? he thought, at once furious and despairing.
He had used protection, goddamn it, but that had failed, and now he was going to have to marry Bartolla.
He had tried to convince himself that it was a good match—she was a wealthy widow, after all, and he would never go crawling back to his father—but he had long since given up.
He dreaded the day they would tie the knot.
He did not want to marry her and while he knew he would love their child, he wished desperately that another woman carried it.
“Damn it,” he cursed, livid with himself. He couldn’t take it anymore, and if he wanted to gamble his life away, he had every right. He whirled and stormed across the suite, shrugging on his jacket. He found his hat and cane and was on his way out when Bartolla Benevente walked in.
“Darling!” She smiled widely at him, dressed in some ruby-red ensemble that was hardly appropriate for day, as it left no doubt as to the extent of her charms. But he was immune now to her lush, exposed bosom, her narrow waist, her extraordinary eyes and lips.
“Are you on your way out? Have you forgotten? You promised to buy me a ring!” She laid her gloved hands on his shoulders, her rouged lips seeking his.
He stiffened, pulling away. Damn it, he had to get her a ring.
She stiffened, too, her eyes wide and wary. “Evan? What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” He was rude and abrupt but could not help himself. “I have to go out.”
“But…but we have a noon appointment at Harry Winston.”
“I’m afraid you will have to reschedule,” he said coldly. He knew he was being a boor, but he could not prevent himself. He bowed. “I am sorry, but I have a pressing matter that I must attend.” He turned and strode out.
She ran after him. “What pressing matter?”
He did not answer, sweating now. The roll of the die, the shuffle of cards, the spinning wheel were a symphony in his mind. One game, he told himself, it would be just one game and he would escape the misery of his life.
But Maggie’s blue eyes filled his mind, not accusing, merely sad.
“Francesca! You are on your way out? I heard the news and I was hoping to talk to you,” Connie cried.
Francesca was in the front hall, about to pull on her gloves.
Joel had walked in a moment ahead of her sister, as he was to accompany her downtown.
She beamed at her sister, who was lovely in a rose hued skirt and jacket.
“Good morning!” Her hearty greeting was followed by a bearlike embrace that left Connie blinking.
Connie shrugged off her lightweight mauve coat. “My! You are in quite a good mood. Either you and Calder have made up, or Papa has changed his mind about the wedding.” She smiled at Joel. “Hello there.”
He blushed wildly. “Miz Montrose,” he murmured, looking away.
Francesca smiled at Joel’s vivid reaction to her very beautiful sister.
Even her father’s disapproval could not shake her current state of happiness.
“I have yet to sit down with Papa and explain to him that I am marrying Calder Hart no matter what,” she said.
Then she gripped Connie’s arm, lowering her voice, even though Joel could certainly hear. “I think he loves me!”
Connie began to smile, amusement in her eyes. “Francesca, a man is usually in love when he asks a woman he barely knows to marry him, and on the spur of the moment at that.”
“Calder asked me to marry him because I am his best and only friend,” Francesca said. “But that has changed, I think.”
Connie slipped her arm around her. “Fran, did you really believe that lame excuse? No man marries a woman for friendship.”
Francesca suddenly realized that her sister was right. “But he has insisted all along that we are simply well suited, that he is tired of his womanizing life and merely wishes to settle down with me.”
Connie raised an eyebrow. “I doubt Hart could ever get down on one knee and profess to having fallen in love like the rest of us mere mortals.”
Francesca had to stare. “You think he has been in love with me from the moment he proposed?”
“Of course I do. I just assume he refuses to admit it—to you, to anyone and especially to himself.”
“He almost admitted it last night,” Francesca said with a blush. Could her sister possibly be right? “In a way he did admit it, but of course, indirectly.”
“And what will you do about Papa?” Connie asked bluntly.
Francesca sighed, glancing at Joel, who was, of course, all ears, while pretending with poor results, not to hear. “I need your help. In fact, the entire family must form a united front and convince him to change his mind,” Francesca said firmly.
“I will gladly help,” Connie said. “Where are you off to? Are you sleuthing today?”
Francesca nodded. “I must speak with one of the suspects again—Sam Wilson. It turns out the alibi his fiancée gave was a lie. I also want to speak somewhat further with Kate Sullivan’s brother and other family members.
” She grew thoughtful. “How odd it is to suddenly learn that Kate came from a wealthy background. And her brother hardly seems to be grieving.”
“You suspect her brother?” Connie wondered.
“I have three suspects, but yes, that includes Mr. Pierson, although he has some rather convincing alibis. Con, the killer has struck on subsequent Mondays and I am very afraid he will strike again today or tonight.”
Connie appeared uneasy. “I am not comfortable with you running around today, not if the killer is out and about looking for another target, Fran.”
Francesca smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I not only have Joel, but Hart gave me Raoul as a bodyguard. And Bragg is joining me. In fact, I am running late—I am supposed to meet him at headquarters at noon.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” Connie said. She smiled. “I am so glad you and Hart have made up.”
Francesca drew on her gloves. “So am I,” she murmured, and she blushed, thinking about last night.
“Miss Cahill?” Goodwin, the doorman, spoke. “An envelope was dropped off for you after you finished your breakfast. Do you want it before you leave or shall I send it up to you rooms?”
“I’ll take it now, thank you.” Francesca came forward, hardly surprised by the missive.
She received notes every day, mostly from Sarah, who disliked using the telephone.
In that moment, she realized that she had not told Connie that her portrait had been stolen.
But the moment she saw her name scripted on the envelope’s creamy vellum, she knew the note was not from Sarah and she decided she did not want to broach the distasteful subject of the missing painting.
Curious, she slit the envelope with her nail and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
Miss Cahill, I know who the Slasher is. Meet me in front of the Sherry Netherland at noon.
Francesca gasped.
“What is it?” Connie asked quickly as Joel ran over, trying to peer over her arm at the note.
“Someone claims to know the identity of the Slasher,” Francesca said, racing away from the front door and down the corridor to her father’s study.
Had the killer just contacted her? Was it Francis O’Leary, referring to Sam?
But why would Francis not identify herself?
Or was it someone else, someone who had somehow stumbled onto the Slasher’s real identity?
Connie ran after her. “Oh, God, this is too dangerous, I am certain!”
Francesca picked up the telephone, Joel at her elbow. “We had better git downtown, Miz Cahill,” he said.
She gestured at him to be silent.
“Yes, Miss Cahill?” the operator asked.