Deadly Illusions (12 page)

“I think you need to speak to her, Miz Cahill. I know ye got fancy plans fer tonight, but mebbe they could wait?” He was hopeful.

She touched his wool cap. “I think you're right. Hart and I can dine a bit later. And while we are at it, we can give you a ride home.” She smiled at him and then turned to Hart. “Calder? We need to make one stop before we dine. Can we possibly do that?”

“Gwen O'Neil's?” he asked.

She nodded, praying he would not mind. “I have no curfew,” she said earnestly, “so we can dine later.”

Hart shook his head, but with tolerant affection now, for he was smiling. “Are you certain you even wish to bother with supper, Francesca? Instead of spending our romantic evening sipping champagne and nibbling on caviar, we can spend it sleuthing by candlelight in the slums downtown.”

She heard the humor in his tone and was terribly relieved that they had weathered their brief crisis. “Thank you. Thank you for being so understanding.”

He approached her and took her arm. “Empathy is not my forte, but with you, I shall try.” And he seemed far too reflective again.

Which made her far too uneasy. She wet her lips. “I do hope you are not too hungry.”

He laughed and guided her to the entry hall, where a doorman promptly opened the front door. “Frankly, I am famished,” he said. “But I must admit, I am intrigued. Accompanying you on your investigation should prove far more interesting than our previous plans.”

“Do you mean it?” she cried.

“I do,” he said, amusement in his eyes. And he added, “The evening suddenly promises to be an extremely unusual one.”

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 7:00 p.m.

P
ETER APPEARED ALMOST
magically in the front hall the moment Bragg stepped inside. He took Bragg's duster without a word; the huge manservant, who was a jack-of-all-trades, rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. Bragg paused as Peter went to the hall closet. He strained to listen and finally, from upstairs, he heard Katie's gentle laughter.

He was too tense to smile.

He then heard Dot shriek in glee, but did not hear a sound from his wife.

“Peter.”

The six-foot-four Swede paused. “Sir?”

“I take it all went well when you brought my wife home from the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Bragg felt more guilt. He had insisted that she come home, and so had the doctors. Perhaps to punish him for not allowing her to remain at Bellevue, Leigh Anne had requested that he send Peter to bring her home and that he not interrupt his busy schedule on her account. How polite she had been. How calm, how detached. He had agreed, knowing damn well that it wasn't his schedule motivating her. Even if she did not wish to punish him, she certainly wished to avoid him as much as possible. And maybe she was right.

He wondered now if he was right in forcing her against her will to come home. He thought it was best for her and for the
children. Here she was loved, here he had newly hired staff to see to her special needs.

But maybe he was being selfish. He had his own needs. And in spite of the crushing burden of his guilt, he wanted her home, where she belonged. Although he was torn, the urge to take care of her was far stronger than the urge to flee.

Besides, he had already learned that he could not flee his own remorse.

“Mrs. Bragg was very happy to see the children,” Peter said quietly. He hesitated.

Bragg was surprised. Peter clearly had something more to say. “What is it?”

“She does not know how to use the chair you ordered for her, sir. She is distressed about it. And she sent the nurse home.”

Bragg started. “She dismissed Mr. McFee?”

“No, sir. She told him to return in the morning.”

That was a relief. They could not manage without the male nurse. “She will become accustomed to the wheeled chair in no time,” he said, more to reassure himself than Peter.

Peter inclined his head. He was blond and blue-eyed, his hair thinning, his face round. “Will you be taking supper, sir?”

“No, thank you,” he declined. He had no appetite. How could he, when his heart felt as if it had sunk into his stomach? Slowly, his hand on the worn banister of the narrow Victorian staircase, he went upstairs.

Conversation drifted from the girls' small bedroom. Bragg approached with care, his nervous state increasing, glancing inside before he was even on the threshold. Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, excruciatingly beautiful in a pastel green silk dress and a jade necklace. Her hair was pinned up and she was smiling, an angel in their midst. Dot was on her lap, Katie seated on the floor and snuggled up to her feet. She was reading them a children's bedtime story and in the small room, the wallpaper a beige-and-gold print, the furniture darkly stained and old, the scene was a charming and cozy one.

He smiled and his heart ached. He should be in that room, too, a welcome part of the family. Instead, he had somehow become the outsider.

But Katie saw him. She stood and hurried to him, flinging her arms about him, hugging him hard. “You're home!”

He stroked her soft, ash-brown hair. “Yes. And your mother's home,” he said softly. In the past he had not allowed himself to refer to Leigh Anne as the girls' mother. The children were fostering with them, after all, and he had not intended for Leigh Anne to stay with them for too long. But that had now changed.

Katie smiled up at him, nodding. “I'm so happy,” she said.

Just a few months ago, after her real mother was murdered, the eight-year-old had been withdrawn, sullen and depressed. He was thrilled at the change in her and he stroked her cheek. “It's a happy day,” he said, and slowly, he glanced at his wife.

She had been looking at him; now, she flung her gaze to the open book on her lap. Dot, an angelic toddler, blue-eyed and fair, clapped her hands and beamed. “Papa!” she shouted enthusiastically.

His heart beat wildly in the cage that was his chest. Leigh Anne refused to look up. Was this her way now of avoiding him, even when they were in the same room? And as he leaned down to greet Dot, who grabbed some of his hair and tugged, he wondered if he should have let Leigh Anne stay at Bellevue the way she had wished. He inhaled baby and woman, powder and something floral and spicy, something soft and seductive.

As he kissed Dot's soft cheek, he could see Leigh Anne's hands on the book, where they trembled. He began to straighten and then dared to feather Leigh Anne's cheek with a kiss. “Hello. Welcome home.”

When he was standing straight, she said, “Thank you.” She did not look him in the eye. “Girls? Let's finish the story and then, Dot, it's time for bed.”

He shoved his hands helplessly into his pockets, feeling un-
wanted. The fact that Leigh Anne did not ask him to sit down was glaring. He wanted desperately to join his family, but he lacked the courage to do so. His cheeks began to burn.

Katie jumped to sit down on the floor, careful not to touch Leigh Anne's legs, and Dot cried, “Read, Mama, read more!”

Leigh Anne cleared her throat and began to read. “‘So the little boy felt sad. Robert started to walk away…'”

Bragg turned and left the room.

In their bedroom, he stripped off his tie. It fell to the floor and he realized he was angry. He shrugged off his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. He had no right to be angry and he knew it. She was crippled because of him. There was simply no getting around it and she had every right to blame him, avoid him and even hate him.

But damn it, he wanted to be in the children's room, with Leigh Anne and the girls, not alone in the master suite, feeling caged up and enraged.

If only he could fix this!

Bragg flung his jacket to the floor but did not feel better. He stalked into the bathing room and paused, removing his shirt and dropping that as well. He leaned on the vanity, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, disheveled, grim, with the eyes of a haunted man. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, biceps bulging, and heard Dot shout with laughter. His heart hurt even more.

God, how was he going to manage this marriage now? He had thought his life a living hell before, when he had refused to accept a reconciliation with Leigh Anne, only doing so when his wife had forced his hand. He had hated her so much for denying him the divorce, for coming between him and Francesca and then for promising him that very divorce, providing he meet the conditions she laid down.

He had let her move in for the six months they had agreed upon. She had promised him that, if after six months, he still
wished for a divorce, she would not contest it. And that was when she had had the accident.

Now, divorce was out of the question. Not only would he never abandon Leigh Anne in her state, he didn't want to. All he wanted was to take care of her and the children. He wanted them to become a family. But God, that seemed like an impossible dream.

He needed a drink.

Bragg went into the bedroom. A brass bar cart was against one wall by the bookcase, and he poured himself a stiff bourbon. He was sipping it repeatedly, determined to find some mental and emotional relief, when he heard Leigh Anne telling the girls that she would be back to tuck them in after Mrs. Flowers readied them for bed.

He hesitated, knowing she would refuse his help, but the gentleman in him demanded he try.

He set the glass down, shrugged on a smoking jacket, and stepped into the hall. Leigh Anne sat in the wheeled chair in the children's room, looking grim and unhappy. He forced a smile. “Let me help,” he said, approaching. “No!”

He froze.

She smiled back at him. “I'm fine. I need to do this by myself, don't I?” Her tone was one of forced cheer.

Unable to dissuade her, he returned to the bedroom, straining to hear. But as the moments ticked by he heard only the sound of the nanny and the girls in the bedroom. There was silence in the hall. He slammed down the bourbon and walked to the door.

Leigh Anne sat in the chair, now in the center of the hall, tears on her cheeks. When she realized he was present she looked up, anger sparking in her eyes. “Don't,” she warned.

He realized she was stuck. One of the chair's wheels was jammed against one wall. He ignored her, rushing over.

“I don't want help.”

His hands were on the chair's handlebars and he flinched as if burned. “It is going to take some time to get used to moving about,” he said more quietly. “There's no reason for you to expect to master the chair the first time you try it.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Please,” he added, and he heard the anguish in his tone. Not waiting for a response, he moved the chair down the hall and into the bedroom. His wife's seductive fragrance enveloped him.

She dropped her hands, wiped her eyes. “I apologize. That was rude.”

He walked around the chair so he could face her. “Don't treat me as if I were a stranger,” he heard himself say.

Her gaze slipped down and he realized he had belted the smoking jacket so loosely that a good deal of his bare chest and abdomen were revealed. She flushed, looking away as he quickly pulled the lapels closed and tightened the belt, although she had seen his chest bare a dozen times since their reconciliation. And suddenly he thought about being in bed with her—about holding her gently in his arms and stroking her hair, her face, until she slept. Unfortunately, desire slammed over him, stiffening every inch of his body.

He ignored it. “It will get easier,” he said to her. “I feel certain of it.”

“That's easy for you to say,” she said, refusing to look at him.

And he couldn't stand it any longer. “If I could undo it all, Leigh Anne, I would. Right back to four years ago! I wish I had paid attention to you then! I wish I hadn't taken that damn job defending crooks and indigents. I wish I'd gone to that fancy law firm the way you wanted, the way we'd planned, I wish we'd bought the mansion next to my parents, I wish we'd started our own family! I wish I'd brought you back from Europe when you left instead of turning around and coming home alone! I would undo it all if I could.”

She stared, her face suddenly devoid of color.

He started. “Are you all right?”

It was a moment before she managed a small, uncertain smile. “Yes.” She looked away, closing her eyes and trembling.

He knelt and took her hands. “Please. I don't mean to dis tress you any further. But that is how I feel. I regret every choice I have made since we married,” he said earnestly.

Leigh Anne suddenly turned her face aside, wiping her eyes. “It doesn't matter anyway, not now,” she said. Her smile was odd.

He didn't stand. He was terribly aware of her and wanted to lay his cheek on her lap. “Yes, it does matter, because my regrets are sincere. I have treated you terribly since you arrived in the city. I'm sorry.”

She bit her lip and said nothing.

He got up. “I know you blame me for this. And I don't blame you. I know the accident was my fault, just as I know that my apology changes nothing. Still, I am so sorry.”

She stared, two bright spots of color appearing on her cheeks.

“I can't fix what happened. I can't undo the damage to your leg. But I am determined to take care of you,” he said, and he managed a smile. “I swear it.”

She looked away, closing her eyes tightly. And he had no idea of what she was thinking or feeling.

He reached for her small, cold hand. “Just let me take care of you,” he whispered. “Things will be different now, I promise.”

Tears slid down her cheeks, escaping her tightly closed eyes.

“Leigh Anne?”

She swallowed and looked at him. “You don't have to take care of me, Rick.”

She had spoken so softly he thought he had misheard. “What?”

“The accident wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. I don't blame you for what happened at all.”

He stared in disbelief. And then he felt the relief begin to well. “Do you mean it?”

She nodded. “How could you blame yourself for an utter accident?”

But he did blame himself—and he always would. He was beyond relieved, though, that she did not. “If you don't blame me for the accident, then why didn't you want to come home? Then why are you avoiding me every moment we are together?” he heard himself ask.

She hesitated. “It's too late, Rick.”

Comprehension began. “Too late?”

“You can wish on the moon, but the past is real. The misunderstanding, the lies, the lovers, that hate. It's all very real,” she said. She was starkly white and she began to shake.

“What are you saying?” he cried, but he knew.

She shrugged, more tears falling. “It's simply too late for us to have a second chance. Not now. Not like this.”

 

“Y
OUR SIX-IN-HAND IS
drawing undo attention,” Francesca remarked, having just climbed down from the large, handsome barouche. Pedestrians passing by had paused to stare, as had several men leaving the corner saloon.

“I think it is you receiving the undo attention,” Hart murmured, his hand firmly grasping her arm. His gaze met hers and then slipped over her stunning turquoise evening gown. The velvet shawl she wore, a deeper, darker shade of blue, concealed very little.

They were out of place, Francesca realized, both of them in their elegant evening clothes and having come by such a lavish coach. The men going into the saloon wore shabby wool shirts and patched trousers. Many were drunk. And she happened to be the only woman present on the sidewalk. “Joel? We'll walk
you to your door before we speak with Mrs. O'Neil. It's late. Your mother must be worried.”