Deadly Illusions (15 page)

“How wonderful of you to call,” Leigh Anne said. She smiled slightly at the handsome, dark-haired man who was her nurse. “I'll call you if I need you, Mr. McFee.”

He smiled, blushing a little, and left.

Bartolla recovered and swept forward, beaming, but inwardly she was furious. How could Leigh Anne make being a cripple so glamorous? “How are you, darling?” she cried, clasping her hands. “I tried to call on you at Bellevue, but you were asleep every time and they would not let me in.”

“I know,” Leigh Anne said with the same slight smile. “That was very nice of you. Do sit down. Peter is bringing us brioche and coffee.”

“Ah, those were the days, when my dear husband the count was still alive—when we would meet in Paris and shop together until we were ready to expire!” Bartolla laughed, recalling those two years of her marriage very vividly. She had married the Italian count at the age of sixteen—he had been in his sixties. Then he had died, leaving her with next to nothing, the bastard. He had left his grown adult children everything, except the smallest pension that came to her, one which she had already spent. Of course, no one in the city knew her little secret—that she was living on her American family's charity and was desperately impoverished.

But when she married Evan Cahill—once he was reconciled with his family and his inheritance—that would all change.

Leigh Anne's smile never faltered, though now Bartolla realized it did not reach her amazing green eyes. “I'm afraid
you did all of the shopping, my dear. I never had that kind of credit, if you recall.”

Bartolla took a chair. “Bragg kept you well while you were separated.”

“He was as generous as he dared to be. I quickly learned to excel at pretense,” Leigh Anne said. “Some of the gems I wore were nothing but paste, the gowns hand-me-downs.”

Bartolla was uncomfortable, as she wore paste and a hand-me-down gown. But of course, Leigh Anne could not know that. “I had no idea. No one did. That necklace is beautiful,” she added.

Leigh Anne's expression softened. “Rick gave it to me when we were newly wed. I have always treasured it. It was so hard for him to afford this.”

Bartolla was annoyed now. “Oh, please, all he had to do was ask for a check from his father. He might have chosen to work for a living like a common man, but let's be frank, one day he will inherit quite a fortune when Rathe Bragg dies.”

Leigh Anne's eyes widened in shock and distress. “I am very fond of his father, and I hope that day is decades away!”

Bartolla had to glance at the appalling room. “Well, Rathe does seem rather vital for a middle-aged man. So why don't you appeal to him for a, er, different residence? You surely could use a larger ground floor,” she said, implying that with Leigh Anne's handicap, she did not need to be bothered with stairs. “In fact,” she said, recalling that Leigh Anne had two young girls and a nanny in the house, “you must need a larger living space.”

Leigh Anne flushed. Very carefully, she said, “If Rick likes this house, which is conveniently located, as police affairs often call him out in the middle of the night, then I have no wish to relocate.”

“How noble you are,” Bartolla laughed, wondering if Leigh Anne really was that selfless. She doubted it. No woman would
want to wheel that awkward chair about the narrow halls of this awful house.

Peter entered, setting a sterling tray with their cups of coffee and plates of pastries on the table between them. “Thank you,” Leigh Anne said. Then, as she reached for a cup, she said, “I am hardly noble, Bartolla. Rick is the noble one.”

Bartolla didn't respond, because she had realized that Leigh Anne was going to have some difficulty reaching the cup of coffee. Peter had placed the tray squarely in the table's center, but that had been a mistake, as Leigh Anne's unwieldy chair prevented her from sitting as close to the table as one usually would. Her fingertips barely grazed the saucer beneath the cup.

Bartolla watched, her breath suspended, suddenly reminded that this woman was not normal and she never would be again. Leigh Anne was now completely focused on seizing the saucer so she could hand her guest the refreshment. Her cheeks were red and her breathing had accelerated. Bartolla knew she should help, but for one more moment she watched, savagely satisfied. Then she said, kindly, “Oh! Do not bother yourself, darling. I can do that,” and she took the cup and saucer into her hands, waiting to meet Leigh Anne's gaze.

But Leigh Anne quickly put her hands in her lap, clasping them, her lashes lowered, her full bosom heaving from the brief exertion. Her cheeks remained flushed.

She couldn't even serve a guest properly anymore, Bartolla thought. She sipped her coffee. “This is delicious, thank you.”

Leigh Anne made no move to take her own cup and saucer, as she clearly would not be able to reach them. She looked up. “I am glad you think so,” she said quietly.

Bartolla savored another sip then set the cup and saucer down. “So, does Rick really take care of police affairs in the middle of the night?”

“From time to time, yes, he does,” Leigh Anne said, her hands still in her lap.

“Does he still work closely with Francesca?” she asked, somehow keeping a straight face.

Leigh Anne met her gaze. “Of course. She is a sleuth—and a very good one, I might add.”

“I would not want my husband running about the city in the middle of the night with another woman,” Bartolla said, meaning it. “How generous you are.”

“Francesca seems very happy,” Leigh Anne said, more color blooming in her cheeks, “now that she is engaged to Calder Hart.”

And Bartolla had to laugh. “That is a coup, is it not! Our clever bluestocking and Calder Hart! I wonder, how long will that unlikely match last?”

“I think Calder is in love, finally,” Leigh Anne murmured, eyes downcast.

“Oh, please! He wants to bed her and she is clever enough to deny him—undoubtedly the only woman to ever do so. I wonder how he feels about her dashing around the city with your husband?”

Leigh Anne stared. “I doubt he is worried. Hart is one of the most secure men I have ever met.”

“Hart is no fool. I imagine he will put a leash on Francesca very shortly. Admit it, dear, it will be a relief once she is wed and out of the picture.”

It was a moment before Leigh Anne spoke. “I like Francesca. I imagine that, one day, we will be friends.”

For one moment, Bartolla thought she meant it, and then she realized that she was in jest. She had to be. Bartolla laughed.

“How is Evan?” Leigh Anne asked, cutting into her laughter.

Bartolla grinned. “Wonderful.” She hesitated, leaning close. “He is an amazing man—if you know what I mean,” she whispered, indelicately referring to his sexual prowess.

“How happy I am for you,” Leigh Anne said. Then, “Yes, he seems unique. Leaving his family in order to find his own way in life, giving up that inheritance—he reminds me a little of Rick. I hear Evan's father has disowned him completely,” she added.

“It is a temporary family spat, let me assure you of that.”

Leigh Anne did not seem to hear. “And he is so generous, is he not? My friend Beth Tyler called earlier. She saw him last night, you know.”

Bartolla stiffened. “How nice,” she smiled, and then heard herself demand, “Where?” For last night Evan had sent her an odd note, canceling their plans.

“She saw him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

She was relieved. “That is where he currently lives.”

“He was with a lovely redheaded woman and three small children. Apparently they all had supper together.” Leigh Anne smiled sweetly.

Bartolla froze. And the blood drummed in her ears, almost deafening her.
“I beg your pardon?”

Leigh Anne's delicate, dark eyebrows lifted. “I'm afraid I don't know any more than that. Beth did not know the woman and Evan was so involved with her and the children that he never even saw the Tylers. I heard he was so rapt he never saw anyone or anything in the dining room—other than his company, of course.”

“Maggie Kennedy,” Bartolla breathed, almost seeing red.

“I beg your pardon?” Leigh Anne asked.

Bartolla did not hear her. It was impossible, unbelievable, that Evan would cancel their plans to be with that faded, unhappy seamstress. Bartolla was a countess, for God's sake!

But it wasn't impossible, not if Leigh Anne was telling the truth. In that case, he had jilted her last night for the other woman. Once, briefly, she had thought she had glimpsed the spark of romance kindling between her lover and that homely harpy, but she had been certain she was wrong.

Now, she knew she had been right.

Now, she must put an end to this nonsense, once and for all.

Fortunately, the timing could not be better.

Thursday, April 24, 1902 3:00 p.m.

J
ULIA HAD DRESSED
with care for her appointment with Calder Hart. Not only had she donned a dark red suit and some modest diamonds, her ruby-red velvet hat trimmed in black, she had sent Hart a note well before the breakfast hour, requesting the interview. Being proper was in her nature, and with so much at stake she had no intention of jettisoning protocol.

His offices were at No. 1 Bridge Street, directly across from the wharves. The five-story, square building was handsome and stately, as she had expected, the bricks worn but washed clean, the design clearly Georgian, for most of this part of the city had been built in the eighteenth century. She suspected that he occupied the top floor and with it, had a fine view of the city's harbor and the famous monument given by the French, the Statue of Liberty. Julia entered the lobby, which boasted gleaming wood floors, magnificent Persian rugs, huge crystal chandeliers and several seating areas. A clerk sat at a fine wood desk across the room not far from a sweeping staircase. Julia crossed the expanse, approaching him.

The gentleman stood, extending his hand. “Mrs. Cahill, I presume?” He smiled at her. “Mr. Hart is expecting you.”

“I am a bit early,” Julia said, glancing now at the artwork on the walls. Hart's passion was art and his collection was infamous, as he possessed some shocking works that he dared display in public. She had heard he had a terribly provocative life-size nude sculpture in his entry hall, but she had not yet
been to his home and could not confirm the rumor. She had also heard that he had a frankly atheistic oil painting hanging there as well, but she was certain Hart was not an atheist—or she prayed he was not, as Francesca would be so intrigued by that quirk. She hoped the rumor was ill founded, as well.

The art in his lobby was, for the most part, very tasteful. There were several huge landscapes, one Romanesque war scene and some fine portraits. The periods clearly varied. Julia only recognized art that dated from the early nineteenth century, but she was pleased nevertheless that there were no scandalous nudes and no sacrilegious displays.

“Mr. Hart instructed me to bring you upstairs the moment you arrived,” the clerk said. “I'm afraid we have no elevator,” he apologized as they took to the stairs.

“I appreciate a good walk,” Julia said, meaning it. She had found some years ago that the more she walked and the less she sat about, the easier it was to maintain her youthful figure. She had trouble sympathizing with those peers of hers who had gone to fat and never ceased moaning about the fact, while sitting on their rumps all day.

She so hoped she was doing the right thing.

Andrew remained uncommitted to the engagement. His belief that the facts of Hart's past spoke for themselves and he was simply not suitable for their daughter had actually caused Julia more than a single sleepless night. A part of her truly wished not to meddle, but to sit back passively was against her very nature.

As she had assumed, his private offices were on the uppermost floor with breathtaking views of the harbor, the Statue of Liberty and the ocean. And as he came forward, clad in a dark suit and tie, smiling, she took in his elegance and the elegant surroundings and she felt herself melt for the hundredth time. She could
not
be wrong about him and this match, she thought, smiling back at him.

“Julia, good day,” Hart clasped her hand firmly, looking very
pleased to see her. His smile was wide and his eyes sparkled. He was an undeniably seductive man.

“Good day, Calder, thank you for making the time to see me,” she said, taking the seat he offered her but refusing any refreshments.

Hart seemed curious as to the purpose of her visit, but he was in no haste as he walked behind his large desk, the top in laid with dark leather, the borders gilded, and sat down in a handsome carved chair that was clearly Spanish. “And what brings you so far downtown? I do hope you had other errands to run and did not come so far out of your way just to speak with me.” He leaned back in the chair, relaxed but not indolent, seemingly confident but not arrogant.

“Actually, you are the sole cause of my journey downtown to the waterfront,” she said.

“I would have called on you tonight, Julia. You had only to ask.”

She had known he would, of course, as he was a gentleman, but she'd had no wish to be interrupted by either Francesca or Andrew. “I prefer a moment of privacy.”

“I confess, I am intrigued.” He smiled, a slight dimple appearing in his right cheek.

Julia became somber, but she did not have to decide where to begin, as she had rehearsed this speech for some time. “I have come to discuss Francesca.”

“Of course,” he said, clearly not surprised.

Julia sighed. “I love my daughter so, as you know. I am terribly proud of her, too, of how clever and purposeful she is. You know, when she was a little girl, just a child of six or seven, she would stand on the street outside of our home, with the nanny, of course, and hand out cookies to every impoverished man, woman and child who passed by. When she was a bit older, the cookies became pamphlets. I'll never forget when she first became involved in politics and reform and started standing on the street, soliciting votes for the cause of reform.”

Hart smiled. “Let me guess, she was ten?”

“Eleven. She used to hide under Andrew's desk when the Citizens' Union had meetings at our home, listening to every word, every debate. Soon Andrew let her sit quietly in the corner, when she became too big to sit under the desk.”

Hart chuckled. “That sounds like Francesca.”

Julia also smiled. “There was never any doubt that she would be an activist like Andrew, really. She campaigned heavily with the goo-goos for Mayor Low's election, just as she campaigned heavily against Van Wyck four years ago.”

His eyebrow lifted. “I assume there is no relation?”

Julia was aghast. “Dear Lord, no! My mother's family has nothing to do with that scurrilous gang of hooks and crooks. We share not one drop of blood!”

Hart smiled.

Julia leaned forward. “Reform has always been the dearest cause to Francesca's heart, Calder.”

“And?”

She sighed. “Until she started with this investigative nonsense.”

He was somber now, as well. For a moment he did not speak. “I am aware that you do not approve of her sleuthing.”

“How can I approve? What mother wishes for their daughter to engage with thugs and rowdies? Francesca has been ab ducted and held against her will, she has had a knife put to her throat, she has been shot at! Dear God! I am amazed I am not already gray.”

He smiled. “I intend to keep her safe, Julia, you may count on that.”

“How? Do you intend to put your foot down and end this nonsensical investigative inclination of hers?”

His eyes darkened. “If you are asking me if I intend to marry Francesca and put her on a leash, the answer is no.”

Julia started. “So you do approve of her sleuthing?”

“Not exactly.” He stared thoughtfully. “I approve of her pas-
sion and dedication. In fact, I doubt I have ever met anyone, man or woman, more passionate in nature, and that I admire beyond words. I intend to support her in any cause she feels passionate enough to pursue. Indeed, I look forward to doing so,” he said with a smile, and Julia wondered at his private thoughts.

This was not going the way she had expected. Every man she knew set rules for his wife. “Then steer her back to her one true passion—the cause of government reform. It is far less life-threatening than chasing down murderers, Calder.”

He seemed amused. “I would certainly sleep easier if she gave up her sleuthing. But I will not ask her to do so and I won't manipulate her in any way, either. I'm sorry. I realize most husbands would—and do—dictate to their wives. I'm afraid I am not that kind of man. Maybe it is because I never had any in tention of ever marrying. I've never paid any attention to the conventions attached to the matrimonial state, except to wonder at the absurdity of most of them.” He shrugged. “I am marrying an independent woman.” He smiled. “The notion pleases me no end.”

“And if you wind up with a dead wife? Will that please you, as well?” Julia cried in frustration.

“Of course not!” Hart leaned across the desk, his expression grim. “Fortunately, as reckless as Francesca is, she is also clever enough to avoid the worst engagements. In any case, I intend to protect her to the best of my ability. And if that means I or Raoul, my bodyguard, accompanies her on her nefarious missions, then so be it. But I won't cage her, Julia. And, as I told your husband, that is why we suit.”

She knew a brick wall when confronted with it. Still, even bricks could come tumbling down, given the right push. “And what about Rick Bragg?”

Hart's expression never changed. He sat back and asked mildly, “What about him?”

“A few months ago my daughter decided that she was in love with him. She still runs about the city with him. She told me
they are working together trying to find this terrible Slasher. You don't mind?” Julia watched him very carefully.

If he did mind, it was impossible to tell. “I trust Francesca,” he said.

Julia felt despair. “My daughter only means well, and I know you know that. But she is impulsive, recklessly so. I really don't think it helps the cause of your engagement and your marriage for her to spend so much time in the company of a man she so admires. And she does admire Rick Bragg. Surely on that score you must agree with me.”

He stood. “I won't pretend to enjoy the fact that she works so closely with my half brother, but I would rather she confront the unsavory elements of her sleuthing with him at her side than alone. For he will also do anything to keep her safe. Surely you realize that?”

Julia got to her feet. “Calder, you know how much I want this marriage. It frightens me, Francesca working with Rick Bragg! I don't like it. And never mind that his wife is back in his home, she is also terribly crippled, and how long will that last? Why can't you humor me? It is hardly leashing Francesca to ask her to behave with some decorum. It is not proper for her to sleuth with Bragg without a chaperon.” She was firm. “At least send Raoul with them.”

“Unfortunately, he is the police commissioner and he has vast resources at his disposal—resources she needs.”

“No. This isn't about resources! This is about keeping company with another man.” Julia stared, trembling and hoping she had not pushed Hart too far.

Hart stared back, the silence long, his face impassive. “So, in your opinion, knowing your daughter as you do, she sleuths with Bragg merely to spend time with him?”

“Not exactly,” Julia said, somewhat shaken. Would Hart never reveal his hand? “I know my daughter. I know how stubborn she is. I know that once she gives her heart away, she can never take it completely back. Rick Bragg is the first man she
ever looked at in a romantic way. It may have been a brief liaison, but nothing will ever change the fact that he was her first love.” Julia took up her gloves and purse. She had exaggerated deliberately but hoped Hart would not realize it. “I would recommend that you think about what I have said.”

He walked her to the door. “I appreciate your concern, Julia.” He smiled at her, apparently unshaken. “Please, do not worry yourself. Francesca's safety is my first and absolute priority. I will keep her safe but I won't disallow her anything. It's not my place to do so.”

She could have argued that every husband had every right to disallow a wife anything he chose. “And Bragg?” Julia asked tersely.

“Francesca is marrying me,” he said softly. “She chose me, not him.”

She smiled grimly at him. “Then I suppose it is fortunate that Leigh Anne did not die in that carriage accident.”

Hart's expression did not waver. If he understood her meaning, he gave no sign. “It would have been a terrible tragedy,” he said.

“Thank you, Calder, for your time,” she said, but there was no happiness in her heart. Worried no end, knowing she had failed, she left.

Hart closed the door and turned. His jaw began to flex and his temples visibly throbbed; his eyes had turned black. His heart pounded as hard as if he'd just had a mad dash around the block. Then he realized his gums actually ached and he tried to soften the jaw muscles in his face. But it was not to be done.

He cursed.

As if he did not know that he was Francesca's second choice.

As if he loved the fact that she spent hours every day—and sometimes at night—in the company of his perfect, oh so respectable brother, the man she had loved
first.

He stared unseeingly at the breathtaking view outside his office windows.

He wanted to trust Francesca. But Julia was more than right—she had given a piece of herself to Rick and he doubted she would ever take it back. Worse, she was as reckless and impulsive as she was passionate, and who knew better than he how easily lust could be kindled? Except that for Francesca and Rick it was not lust, it was love.

He cursed again and a portrait loomed in his mind's eye, a beautifully painted wedding portrait of him and Francesca in their bridal finery, smiling and happy. As he stared closer, into the background of the portrait, into the background of their lives, he saw his brother on a dark, smoky street, on the run, chasing a fugitive. The focus changed, widening and he saw now that Rick was not alone. There was a woman running at his side, a woman chasing the fugitive, and that woman was Francesca.

He wanted to trust Francesca, but he did not know if he could.

He didn't trust his brother, and why should he? They hated one another.

But mostly, it was their love that he did not trust.

 

F
RANCESCA PAUSED BEFORE THE
door of a clockmaker's shop, briefly confused. Francis O'Leary had given the police the home and business addresses of her fiancé, Sam Wilson. She glanced at her notepad and saw that this was the correct number. Apparently Wilson worked in a clock shop. Was he an apprentice to a clockmaker, then? It was a rare craft that required more than rudimentary training. Francesca realized it was far more likely that he was a sweeper.