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.
No one must ever see that portrait!
Connie faced her, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
Francesca managed a smile. “I need a favor, Con, a huge favor—”
“No. Whatever is in that note, it can wait.” Connie was frowning. Her mild-mannered sister was becoming angry.
She kept smiling. “I need you to bring my dress, my shoes and my jewelry to the church. I will meet you there at three.”
“Absolutely not,” Connie cried, horrified.
“Connie, if I do not take care of this—this matter now, I will be in terrible trouble!”
“Take care of this matter after you are married.”
“Connie, I am going downtown. I will be at the church by three, I swear. Nothing can keep me away!”
CHAPTER TWO
Saturday, June 28, 1902
12:00 p.m.
RICK BRAGG STARED at his Victorian home, the engine of the Daimler idling, but he did not really see the quaint brick house. Instead, the interview he’d just had with Francesca kept replaying in his mind. He was very afraid for her.
He knew Hart would eventually destroy her. His brother had a black, selfish soul. He was cruel and self-involved. From time to time he could rise to the occasion, briefly showing the honorable side of his nature, but in the end, he always reverted to serving only his own interests and ambitions. Francesca was selfless. Hart was selfish. No match could be worse.
But he was hardly an impartial observer. Bragg was afraid to recall the past he had shared with Francesca. He feared that too many old feelings would return. He knew he must not think of the time they had first met, when he had been smitten with her—and she had returned his passionate interest. He must not think about their debates, their discussions, their investigations—or the kisses and caresses they had shared. That was wrong. His wife had returned after leaving him four years ago, and as uneasy as it was, as angry as he had been, they had reconciled. Besides, before Francesca had become charmed by his brother, she had utterly rejected the notion of his ever divorcing. Although he never spoke openly about it, in the most elite political circles it was assumed that one day he would run for office, possibly even for the United States Senate. A divorce would ruin his political prospects.
He had made his own bed, which he now slept in. Leigh Anne had insisted on moving back in with him—and when she had, he had insisted on his marital rights. He had been furious with her for both leaving him and then returning to him. What had begun as an unfriendly reconciliation had turned into a passionate one, but his lust had been fed by his anger.
He had spent half of last night working, the other half thinking about the fact that Francesca was actually going to marry his heartless half brother on the morrow. He did not know where the past few weeks had gone. He had been overwhelmed at headquarters. There had been a series of civilian arrests in the Tenderloin—organized, of course, by the radical reformer Reverend Parkhurst, whose motives were political. Parkhurst vociferously claimed it was his duty as an American citizen to do what the police would not, which was to close the saloons on Sundays, while the press sensationalized every detail of every civilian