Read Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] for Free Online

brick home was left behind as the coach bumped down Broadway, passing an electric trolley that was empty. Hart remarked, “The police are right; people disappear every single day in this city. Even children.”
    “I know.”
    “Three days is a long time. Do not get your hopes up, Francesca.”
    “It isn’t me whom we must worry about. It is Emily—and her family.”
    “I will always worry about you, even if you can take care of yourself.”
    She felt her pulse leap in response to his words, as she was more than pleased, but she did not smile. “Most missing children are runaways, I think.”
    “I am inclined to agree.”
    She glanced out the carriage window and saw 14th Street ahead. Three hansoms were in the intersection, and Raoul, Hart’s driver, slowed the coach. She faced Joel. “How old is Emily, Joel?”
    “Thirteen. Her birthday was last week,” he said promptly.
    “Did she attend school?”
    He gave her an incredulous look. “No. She worked withme mom and Mrs. O’Hare, sewing at Moe Levy’s.”
    “Was she a happy child?” Francesca promptly asked. Working at such an age was common, never mind the education laws. And the Moe Levy sewing factory was actually a large room, not airy but not airless, the conditions quite bearable. Francesca had been there several months ago and had seen the premises for herself.
    “I think so,” Joel said, his brow screwing up. “Why d’you ask, Miz Cahill?”
    “Do you think she has run away?”
    He was startled. “No, I don’t. She fought a bit with her mom, but why would she run away? Where would she go?”
    Francesca had no idea, but Hart coolly said, “Was she pretty, Joel?”
    Francesca whirled to look at him.
    Joel nodded. “Real pretty. White skin an’ black hair, all curly and long, and real blue eyes—like Miz Cahill.”
    Francesca stared at Hart, wanting to know what terrible thoughts he was having, but she refused to ask in front of Joel. Hart said, “Was there a young gentleman that she liked?”
    Her heart sank. She looked at Joel.
    “A gent? I dunno.” He flushed now. “Gents were always lookin’ at her when she walked down the street, Mr. Hart. An’ the roughs would suggest things, if you know what I mean.”
    “Indeed I do,” he said quietly.
    “We are almost there!” Francesca cried, determined to stop the conversation.
    “You don’t think she ran off with one of them rowdies, do you?” Joel asked sharply.
    “No, I don’t,” Hart said calmly.
    Francesca wondered just what he did think. She could barely refrain from asking but did not want poor Joel further alarmed. He, however, asked shrewdly, “You think she been pimped by some fine dandy like yourself?”
    Hart shrugged. “Perhaps a
gentleman
offered her something she had no wish to refuse.”
    Joel was blushing. “Mr. Hart, sir! I didn’t mean no disrespect!”
    “I know you didn’t,” he said, smiling finally, slightly.
    “Hart! What do you mean, precisely?” Francesca demanded, no longer able to stand it.
    He settled his gaze on her. “There are a sort out there, Francesca, who are on the prowl for young, beautiful, innocent girls. She may have been offered money, clothes, an apartment. If she was very pretty, that is my first guess as to the cause of her disappearance.”
    Francesca could not breathe. The coach had stopped. Raoul’s weight above them shifted the chassis as he stepped down to the sidewalk. “She is a child. A child just turned thirteen.”
    “I am not condoning this kind of behavior,” he said. “But it is a fact of life.”
    She stared.
    He did not look away, not even as Raoul opened the door, not even as Hart said, “Thank you, Raoul.”
    A tug on her sleeve ensued. “He’s right; he is, Miz Cahill. I heard of Tammie Browne. She used to live down the block. She was real pretty, with dark red hair and big blue eyes, an’ when she was fifteen, she went away to live uptown with a gent. Her father disowned her, he did. He was only a