Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce Page A

down, Maggie? It’s not acceptable. I must insist that you take my sister up on her offer.”
    A mulish expression appeared on Maggie’s face. “I know that Francesca means well, as do you, but we are not a case for charity.” Her tone rose with some anger.
    And he was as angry. Still, he fought to keep his voice down. “This is not about charity. This is about the safety of your children and your own safety, too.”
    â€œI have thought about it. On Monday we will stay with my brother-in-law.”
    He started, surprised. And while he would prefer her to be safe and sound in the Cahill home uptown, this was better than nothing. “Where does he live?”
    â€œA bit farther uptown, right on the East River at Twentieth Street. He won’t mind. Since my husband died, he is the only family we have here in the city. He’s a good man and very fond of the children,” she added.
    â€œYou would be safer uptown,” he said, and by that he meant Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first Street where the Cahill mansion and his own home, now abandoned, were.
    â€œI heard that all of the victims lived between Tenth and Twelfth Streets. My brother-in-law’s flat is far from this vicinity,” she said stubbornly.
    He sighed. “I can hardly twist your arm.”
    â€œNo, you cannot.” And then she softened. “Do not misunderstand. I truly appreciate your concern. Really.”
    â€œI will surrender—but only if you agree to have supper with me,” he said. The moment he realized how flirtatious his tone had become, he tensed. “With the children,” he added quickly.
    She stared. “I…I don’t know,” she said helplessly.
    He had been chasing and seducing women his entire adult life. Taking her hand was sheer instinct. “It’s only supper, Mrs. Kennedy. One you and your children shall thoroughly enjoy.” The same instinct widened his smile and intensified his persuasive stare.
    Her cheeks turning red, she tore her glance away. “While we wait for Joel,” she said, low, “I’d like to tidy up the children.”
    He had won. Grinning, he realized he held her hand and almost lifted it to his lips. Instead, he released it. “I’ll go see if I can find Joel,” he said, still smiling.
    Maggie nodded, slipped past him and called for the two boys.
    Â 
    â€œC AN I GIVE YOU a lift home?” Bragg asked as they paused before his motorcar. Night had fallen, a pleasant warm evening filled with winking stars and the remnants of last night’s full moon.
    â€œActually, I have to stop at Sarah’s.” Her friend, the artist Sarah Channing, had sent a note that morning asking Francesca to come by at her earliest convenience.
    â€œI’ll drop you there, then,” Bragg said with a smile. He walked around the car and held open the passenger door for her.
    Francesca got in, picking up the spare pair of goggles. He closed the door, cranked the motor and then got in beside her. Their interview of Bridget had not produced any further clues. The child had not seen or heard anything Monday afternoon, which was frankly a blessing. They did not need Bridget to have any knowledge of the murder that might put her in danger. Gwen had arrived home shortly after their talk with her daughter.
    As Bragg turned onto Tenth Street, she turned toward him. “I feel sorry for Gwen O’Neil.”
    â€œWhy? Because she fell foolishly in love with a man she should have never looked twice at?”
    They had spoken with Gwen, as well. “Lord Randolph was her employer! Any attraction on his part was as faulty as any on hers. But now I know why she does not have references,” she said. Still, it had been apparent from Gwen’s expression andtone that she had fallen in love with the Irish aristocrat and that she loved him still. Francesca felt certain that he was a cad. She had quickly sensed that they had been