Deadly Vows (5 page)

“It is not!” Randall had exclaimed. “Please leave—and do not come back.” He had shut the front door in his face. Stunned, trying not to feel anything just then, Hart had heard his half siblings behind the door, asking their father who that was.

“Just a boy selling encyclopedias.”

Now, Hart stared down at Fifth Avenue, his hands clenched so tightly on the sill that his knuckles were white. Francesca had jilted him. He would always have been the man she had settled for. Except, in the end, she had realized she did not want to settle.

He turned. To his amazement, Rick was still interviewing Connie, as if this were one of his criminal investiga
tions. Well, it was hardly that. As far as he was concerned, the drama was over.

Rick saw him staring and walked over, his strides decisive. “Francesca must be in trouble.”

He raised his brows. “Really? Why would you reach that conclusion—when you begged her this morning to postpone our wedding?”

Rick's eyes widened. “Are you blaming me?”

Hart said, scoffing, “Hardly. But don't pretend to care. Don't pretend that you are not delighted by Francesca's sudden change of heart.”

Bragg was somber. “I'm not delighted, Calder. I can see you are hurt. But I am worried about Francesca.”

He clapped his hands. “Of course you are. And is your white steed outside?”

“Haven't you heard a word Lady Montrose has just said? Francesca meant to be here. She received an urgent summons.”

She had received an urgent summons on her wedding day. He laughed coldly. It felt good. “I am hardly hurt, Rick. The truth of the matter is, I am relieved. I have come to my senses. What could I have possibly been thinking? I am not a marrying man.”

Everyone was staring at him now. Julia seemed ready to faint. He almost cursed them all, but they hadn't done this—she had done this.

Slowly, Rick shook his head. “Fine. Tell yourself what you will. Do you want my help?”

“No.” He did not have to think about it.

“She would never do this on purpose,” Julia cried, staggering. Rathe caught her, putting a strong arm around her. “I must sit down!”

Connie took her from Rathe. “Mama, let's go to our lounge.” She sent Hart an incredulous, angry look. “Evan, Father is downstairs with the guests. I think he could use
your help just now, calming everyone—and averting a full-blown scandal.”

“Of course,” Evan said, striding forward. He went to their mother and helped Connie guide Julia down the hall.

Hart knew what was coming, now that Francesca's family was gone. He smiled coldly at Rick.

Rick's amber eyes were dark. “You know what? I am glad this has happened. Because we both know that this marriage would have been a disaster. We both know that Francesca deserves far more than you can give her. Maybe she did come to her senses. She was very nervous this morning.”

He trembled with anger, but he kept his tone even. “And what will you give her, Rick, now that you are so happily reconciled with your lovely wife? Undying friendship? Unrequited love? Or…a sordid affair?”

“I am her friend,” Rick said harshly. “Not that you would understand what that means.”

He sent the staggering agony away. “You are so right,” he said coldly. “I do not have a clue about what friendship means, nor do I wish to. Enjoy your friendship, Rick.” He nodded and stalked past him.

Rourke fell into step beside him as he traversed the hall. “What do you think you are doing?” Hart asked, his tone still cold.

“I am keeping you company. You have had a shock,” Rourke said flatly.

“Hardly. I do not need a nanny or nursemaid.” He rapidly went downstairs, Rourke remaining abreast of him.

“Then you will have a friend,” he said calmly. “Whether you want one or not.”

He decided to ignore his near relation. Too late, he realized he was about to descend into the crowd of
three hundred tittering, exhilarated wedding guests. He faltered.

The ladies wore ball gowns, the men black tie. Everyone had been speaking, the din hushed yet excited. A terrible silence fell. He saw Andrew Cahill near the church's oversize double doors just as Francesca's father saw him. Cahill seemed incredibly dismayed and distressed. But as their gazes met, he flushed with anger.

“Let's get out of here,” Rourke said softly. “If you don't need a drink, I do.”

He did not care. Andrew stared at him with accusation—as if this was his fault.

Hart smiled and said pleasantly but loudly, “I am afraid this is your entertainment for the day. The wedding is off and, apparently, I am to blame.”

As he stepped onto the ground floor, the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He refused to focus on any single face, but he knew just about everyone present. He had slept with a dozen of the assembled socialites, with many of the other matrons' daughters shoved his way; he had concluded business with many of the gentlemen. He saw the Countess Bartolla, who was gleeful, and Leigh Anne, who seemed both vacuous and surprised; he saw Sarah Channing, who was in abject concern—for him? for Francesca?—and her mother, who looked shocked.

To hell with them all.

As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.

He did not care.

 

F
RANCESCA DIDN'T CARE
how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.

Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.

She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.

Panting, half crying, Hart's image assailing her, she gripped the concrete ledge.

Then she heard a child's cries.

She froze, afraid she was imagining the sound, when she heard a second child's laughter.

There were children outside!

“Help!” she screamed. “Help me! I am locked in the gallery.… Help!”

A moment later a boy's tiny freckled face peered through the window opening. His blue eyes met hers and he gaped.

“Can you help me get out of here? I'm in the Gallery Moore! It has been locked from outside!” Francesca cried frantically.

His eyes popping, he nodded. “I'll get me dad.”

Francesca was overcome with relief as he ran off, apparently another child with him. She swallowed hard, praying for help. A moment or two later—which felt like an eternity—a man's face appeared in the window opening. Perhaps in his thirties, he was cleanly shaven, with graying temples. He was incredulous. “I didn't believe Bobby! Are you all right, miss?”

“Not really!” Francesca quickly explained that she was locked in. Remaining calm, the gentleman told her to go to the front door, and that he would find a way to get her out.

Francesca slowly climbed off the cabinet and the desk, every bone in her body aching. She picked up her purse and shoes, aware that her gun was outside, and realized that her nails were broken, her fingers scratched and
bleeding slightly. She pulled out the pocket watch. It was half past four.

Frightened, she left the office, hurrying through the gallery. She glanced at her portrait, wishing she had thought to destroy it. She was afraid to leave it behind. The moment she saw Hart, she would tell him what had happened and he would send someone to retrieve it.

At the front door she found the gentleman who had offered to help her with a roundsman, who was busy trying to pick the lock. There were far more shadows inside now. Her portrait was lost in the darkness, one small relief.

The lock clicked about ten minutes later.

Now in her shoes, Francesca rushed outside. “Thank you!”

“Are you all right, miss?” the uniformed policeman asked her, his gaze taking in her untidy appearance.

Francesca imagined that she looked like a bedchamber sneak. She nodded, about to move past him. “I am very late,” she began, but he barred her way.

“Are you a relation of Mr. Moore?” the roundsman asked pointedly.

He thought her a burglar or thief! She froze. “No, I am not. Sir, my wedding is today.” She flushed, beyond all dismay. “In fact, I was to be married by now. I must go!” Surely Hart would understand. Surely he would be waiting for her.

“The gallery is closed. It says so right there, on the door sign. I'm going to have to take you in, miss, on suspicion of breaking and entering these premises.”

Francesca cried out. “I was invited here!”

As if he hadn't heard her—or didn't care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”

She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:

As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with the police commissioner—who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

He looked at her, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I've heard of you, ma'am.” Respect filled his tone now.

“Good. Right now, Rick Bragg is at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, awaiting my arrival there—along with three hundred other guests.” She felt tears well. “Along with my groom, Mr. Calder Hart. You have heard of him, surely?”

“Wasn't he locked up for murdering his mistress?” the gentleman said, standing behind the officer.

She cried, “Hart is innocent—the killer confessed and awaits conviction. Now, I need a cab!”

“I'll get you a cabbie,” the roundsman said quickly. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, for delaying you, but you have to admit it was suspicious, you being inside the closed gallery like that.”

“May I have my gun, please?” He handed it to her and she started for the street at a run. She had never been as desperate—and there were no hansoms in sight. Behind her, the cop put his fingers to his mouth and a piercing whistle sounded. Moments later, a black cab turned the corner from Broadway, the gelding in its traces trotting swiftly toward her. Francesca sagged with relief.

Forty minutes later, the tall spires of the church came into sight. Francesca leaned forward, praying.

But the avenue was deserted. Not a single coach was parked outside the church.

She did not have to go inside to know that everyone was gone.

Saturday, June 28, 1902
6:00 p.m.

E
VAN
C
AHILL CLOSED
the door to his sister's bedroom, Rick Bragg pausing in the corridor with him. They had just thoroughly searched every inch of the bedroom and adjacent boudoir, but had not produced the note Francesca had received that morning.

Evan adored his youngest sister, but he knew her better than almost anyone. Leave it to Fran to help some poor sod in need—and miss her own wedding. While he admired his sister's generosity, intelligence and ambition enormously, this new penchant for sleuthing kept getting her into harm's way. She had been burned, knocked out, locked up and stabbed, all in the past few months. A cat had nine lives. How many did his reckless sister have? His heart filled with dread.

Bragg said, “I would like to use the telephone.”

Evan nodded, remembering that he had not turned off the electric lights inside the room. He quickly did so. “It's downstairs, in the library.” As they left the bedroom, he said, “I am terribly worried, Rick. Will you begin an official investigation?”

Bragg clasped his shoulder briefly. “Do not worry yet. Your sister is not only intelligent, she is resourceful. She will be fine.”

Evan did not think Bragg believed his own words.
A vast concern was reflected in his eyes. He was aware that Rick Bragg had romantic feelings toward his sister. Although he liked Bragg, he did not approve—the man was married. He now thought about the unlucky groom as they went downstairs. “Hart was furious.”

“Yes, he was.”

Evan knew he would be furious if he were stood up at the altar, as Hart had been. The humiliation would be consuming. He could barely imagine the shock of having one's bride not show up, especially if he were in love. By now, though, Hart must be as worried about Francesca as everyone. Yet he had not come by, demanding to know if they had discovered anything, nor had he called.

As he led Bragg into the library, he could hear his mother's high, distraught tone. Julia was a formidable force and never panicked. She was in a panic now.

He felt his heart lurch as Bragg picked up the heavy black receiver. He was in a bit of a panic himself, he decided. Fran loved Calder Hart. Only something terrible would have kept her from her own wedding.

“Beatrice, it's the police commissioner,” Rick Bragg said. “Please connect me to HQ.”

Evan jammed his hands into the pockets of his evening trousers. He'd shed his tuxedo jacket the moment they had arrived at the Cahill mansion, about an hour ago. He was a tall, dark, handsome man of twenty-six. Unfortunately, he liked to carouse and was obsessed with gaming, and as a result he had accrued some monstrous debts. Recently he had had a grave falling-out with his father. Andrew Cahill had decided that the time had come to refuse to pay his son's debts—unless Evan married a respectable young lady. Their battle had become terrible and Evan had moved out. Recently, though, he had reconciled with his father, returning to the family business and his own home, adjacent the Cahill mansion.

It should have felt wonderful to be back in the family fold, to be living like a prince and to have a handsome cash flow again. It did not. He hated being ordered about as if he did not have a brain in his head, as if he were a hired—and dim-witted—lackey.

He realized Bragg was asking a desk attendant at police headquarters if Chief Farr was in. He sighed. His own problems could wait—and he did have problems. His mistress claimed she was having his child. He did not want to think of the flamboyant Bartolla Benevente now. He had refused to speak with her at the church.

A moment later, he heard Bragg speaking with an inspector, requesting a police detail. “We will treat this as a missing person's case.” Bragg replaced the receiver on the hook.

“What now?” Evan asked grimly.

“We currently have no leads. However, I will let Newman and his team do what they are trained to do—find clues, no matter how small. In the meantime, I suggest you comfort your mother. I am going to make a quick stop at my home and then return to interview your staff at great length.”

They left the hall and were about to enter the marble foyer, when Evan saw Maggie Kennedy standing there with her son, Joel.

He halted. They were really only friends, but her blue eyes instantly locked with his. He knew she was there not just because of Francesca, but out of concern for him.

Evan felt himself smile. Tentatively, Maggie smiled back. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

Evan felt his heart turn over, hard. Recently, he had had to admit that he had become very, very fond of Mrs. Kennedy. He had met her some time ago through Francesca. Maggie was a seamstress, and she had been making
gowns for his sister. And then she had become the target of a killer.

Evan had actually been the one to find her in a struggle with Father Culhane, and he had rescued her from the madman. But even before that moment, he had been so admiring of her. Maggie Kennedy was an angel. A widow, she worked tirelessly in order to care for her four children by herself. He had never met a woman as gentle and kind, as solid and determined.

He had begun to visit her and her children, bringing gifts and cookies and cakes, and he had even taken the family on several outings. The very last time he had seen Maggie, he had asked her if he could kiss her, and she had said yes.

He wished he could stop thinking about that single, very chaste kiss, but he could not. He hurried to her. He had seen her and her children at the church, but hadn't had a chance to say hello. Had the wedding gone as planned, he would have danced with her at the reception. Instead, he had been busy with his father, explaining to their guests that Francesca was suddenly ill and that the wedding was postponed. No one had believed them. “Hello.”

“Has there been any word?” Maggie asked anxiously. She was a few years older than he was, with very fair skin, a splattering of freckles, vivid blue eyes and shocking red hair. He knew she was wearing her very best Sunday dress.

“I'm afraid not,” he said, flinching.

She took his hand. “No one is as resolute as your sister.”

He stared into her eyes, feeling the strength of will and purpose in her tiny hand. He raised it to his lips briefly. “I am very worried.”

“I know,” she said. She glanced past him.

He followed her glance. Bragg was asking Joel if he
had any idea about what had happened to Francesca. Joel was eleven years old, and he knew the underworld far too well. He had been apprehended many times for picking purses. Of course, his cutpurse days seemed to be over, as Francesca paid him a salary for his assistance. Joel shook his head soberly. “Miz Cahill never said a word about any note. She loves Mr. Hart an' only the worst sort of rough could keep her away today.”

Bragg tousled his hair, but he did not smile. Evan wondered if his odd expression had more to do with Joel's statement about Francesca's feelings for Hart than it did with her disappearance.

Evan realized he had stepped even closer to Maggie, as if her warmth could comfort him now. “Come inside,” he said softly.

“I don't want to intrude. But I am worried about Francesca—and you.”

Had the situation not been so dire, he would have thrilled at her words. “You cannot intrude. Mother adores you—as do I.” He could barely believe what he had said and he felt himself blush. She blushed as well, and he took her arm and led her into the salon.

Julia sat on the sofa with Andrew and Connie, an alcoholic drink of some sort on the table in front of her. It was obvious she had been weeping; Julia never wept, or not that he had ever seen. It was warm in the room, but someone had thrown a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. She sat up stiffly as they entered the room. “Has there been any word? Any clue? Is she back?”

Bragg was grim. “I am sorry, Julia, but my answer is no to all your questions.”

She cried out. Andrew put his arm around her and held her close. “Oh, God! Francesca is reckless and impulsive, but she would never be this irresponsible, Rick! What has happened to her? Where is my daughter?”

“Darling!” Andrew said sharply. “Francesca is fine. She will return at any moment—with some cockamamy explanation for what has occurred today.” But he was as pale as his wife.

“Francesca will be fine, Mama,” Connie said. “You know Fran. She is unstoppable.”

Julia moaned. “And when she does return, then what? Three weeks ago her fiancé was accused of murder! We have hardly gotten over that scandal—and now, there is this! Everyone will be gossiping about Francesca jilting Hart at the altar for months to come.”

“Let's worry about the scandal another time,” Andrew said firmly.

Evan couldn't agree more.

Bragg stepped forward. “The police will be here shortly. I have to leave, but I will return in two hours.”

“In two hours?” Julia gasped in disbelief. “Do you have to leave?”

“I'm afraid so,” Bragg said.

Andrew rose and strode to him. “Can I have a private word, Rick?”

Andrew was as much an advocate of reform and as politically active as Rick. They had met years earlier, when Rick's father was in Grover Cleveland's administration. Now they were close friends. The two men stepped into the hall.

For one moment, a heavy silence filled with fear and dread fell over the small salon. Julia seemed frozen. Connie got up and walked into her husband's arms. Montrose was as worried as anyone. Evan tightened his grasp on Maggie, turning to her and lowering his voice. “I will get you a cab.” He didn't want her to go, but he imagined she had left her other three children with a neighbor, and surely had to return home.

As they left the salon, Maggie murmured, “I hate leaving you now, in crisis. You have been so helpful to me.”

Her concern thrilled him, but he was careful to remain poker-faced. “It's all right. Joel?” he called. He realized Joel had gone outside. “Did he leave?”

“He told me he would help the police tonight. I have never been able to keep him from running around as he pleases,” Maggie said with dismay. “I know he wants to find Francesca.”

Joel had more courage than most grown men, and shrewd wits. Evan wondered if he had run off to try to find Francesca on his own. At that point, he didn't truly care who found her—as long as she was found.

The doorbell sounded. Evan could not imagine who would call upon them now. As he and Maggie turned, the doorman opened the door, revealing Bartolla Benevente.

His tension knew no bounds.

Maggie flinched.

His ex-mistress strolled into the front hall, holding a pastry box wrapped in ribbon. She was still dressed in a very daring ruby-red ball gown for the reception that had not taken place. She was a stunning, statuesque woman with auburn hair. Once, her face and figure had driven him mad with desire. Now, he found her distastefully obvious.

Bartolla smiled slowly at them. “Hello, Evan.” She ignored Maggie, coming forward with the sweeping stride of royalty. In reality, she had no royal blood, although at sixteen she had married a sixty-year-old Italian count. “Has your sister been found?”

“No, she has not. What are you doing here? This is a very difficult time, Bartolla.”

“I am aware of that! I must say, I never dreamed Francesca would jilt Hart. I have always thought that he would
be the one to break her foolish heart—sooner than later.” She laughed, clearly amused by the events of the day. “I do not think Hart will be very happy with your sister when she returns, Evan.”

“You are wrong. He is smitten. Francesca has gotten herself into trouble, otherwise, there would have been a wedding today. Once she is found, I am certain they will plan another wedding day.” He realized he had come to despise her. He did not know how he would manage a relationship with her after their child was born.

Bartolla laughed again. “I know Hart very well, my dear, and he loves to hold a grudge. There will never be a wedding now.”

Evan realized she still hadn't looked at Maggie even once—as if Maggie were not standing there with them. “I am not going to argue with you. I must get Mrs. Kennedy a cab.”

“Perhaps you should put her on the El, instead.” She smiled. “After all, that is the fare a seamstress can afford.”

He trembled with anger; Maggie touched his hand. He looked at her and she sent him a silent message with her eyes. She did not want him upset by the countess. He inhaled. “Bartolla, this is not the time to call. My family is very distraught. My mother is not receiving tonight.”

“Balderdash. I have brought cakes, Evan. I am so very fond of Julia and I wished to commiserate with her. Surely she needs a shoulder to cry on now.”

Evan knew she only wished to gloat.

Maggie tugged on his hand, clearly wanting to leave. Then Bragg appeared, his strides long and brisk. He and Evan went outside together as Bartolla swept into the other room in search of Julia.

“What do you really think?” Evan asked him tersely.

Bragg hesitated. “I think Francesca has gotten into some trouble. But I am going to find her, Evan. You may count on that.”

 

S
HE WAS AFRAID
to get out of the cab.

Hart's home was a huge, neo-gothic mansion, consisting mostly of charcoal-hued stone. Recently built, it was a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. He had no neighbors as of yet, and his grounds took up half a city block. Lawns and gardens surrounded the house, while a brick stable, servants' quarters, tennis courts and a large pond were all set farther back on the grounds. A tall, wrought-iron-and-stone fence bounded the entire property.

Francesca did not move as the cabbie got down from the driver's seat. The front gates were closed, although it was only six o'clock in the evening.

She trembled, fighting tears of exhaustion and dismay. She had spent the past thirty minutes traveling uptown, trying to imagine what the scene had been like at the church when the bridal march should have begun. Her mother would have been hysterical, her father grim. She couldn't imagine the reaction of her guests.