Deadly Illusions (22 page)

And he was angry now. “Again, I have had a difficult day, and I am sorry if I have upset you.” His tone was harsh and ab
rupt, final. “I have no intention of boring you with the details, either.
Leave well enough alone.
”

She recoiled. How would they get along for an entire lifetime if he intended to behave like this when something went afoul?

He seemed to read her mind. “You knew my reputation when you accepted my proposal. No one forced you to accept. If you wish to change your mind, I will not object.”

She was so stunned that she gaped. Then she cried, “What are you saying? You…are you saying that you wish to end our engagement?” She was too shocked to feel anything but monumental surprise.

He stared, his expression so brittle it appeared in danger of cracking apart. It was a moment before he spoke. “We need to stop pretending,” he said. “I am not a noble man. That is a script I wrote for you because you wanted me to write it. But it is only a goddamn script, Francesca. The facts of my life speak for themselves. I am a selfish, self-serving man and I am not Rick Bragg. You may take it or leave it, my dear.”

She cried out, horrified, wanting to protest his description of himself, but she could not get a single word out.

“I'm sorry,” he said flatly, his face now devoid of emotion. “I'm sorry I am not who you want me to be.” He bowed. “I'll go get us champagne.”

 

“Y
OUR SISTER IS ONE
of the finest hostesses in the city,” Bartolla said, beaming with pleasure as she held on to Evan's arm. They had arrived at the Montrose residence and she had just handed off her velvet wrap. Now, glances were turning her way, both male and female. The male glances were startled and longing, the female glances were green with envy. Triumph filled her.

She smoothed down the dark burgundy velvet gown she wore, having next to nothing underneath. Small straps en crusted with diamantés held the plunging bodice up; burgundy velvet gloves, the buttons diamanté, covered her arms well past the
elbows. As she walked, the gown clung to her hips and thighs. She knew that because she had admired herself in a full-length mirror for some time before leaving the Chandler household.

“Connie is a fabulous hostess,” Evan said, seeming distracted.

She pressed her bosom against his arm. “You are such a dear to bring me here, when we are immersed in our own personal crisis.”

His jaw flexed and he glanced at her. His voice very low, he said, for the hundredth time, “Are you sure, Bartolla?”

And for the hundredth time, she nodded, looking dismayed, whispering, “Please, Evan, please. You don't have to do this. I can return to Europe to have our child and no one will ever know.”

His jaw looked ready to crack apart. “You will do no such thing,” he said flatly.

She turned away, hiding her smile. He had insisted that they would elope immediately. “There's your sister, and Lord Montrose. Come,” she said, leading him over.

“Connie, my lord, how wonderful to see you both. And how lovely the decor is!” she cried.

Connie smiled, kissing her cheek, while Neil Montrose, a very tall, handsome man, kissed her hand. Bartolla strutted a bit before him, smiling warmly at him, as well. But his regard merely skimmed her low-cut bodice once, a reflex most men had. She realized he had his arm around his wife and his body pressed closely to hers. “I'm glad you made it,” he said to his brother-in-law.

Evan smiled grimly. “How could I refuse an invitation from you and Con?”

Bartolla pushed out her chest, wishing she could poke Evan in the ribs, for his expression was so morose. Connie noticed her action; amazingly, her husband did not.

“That is a stunning dress,” Connie said. “You wear it so
well, Bartolla.” She spoke without malice. In fact, she seemed incredibly content.

Bartolla suspected they had recently made love. “Thank you.” Bartolla smiled and decided not to waste her time on Neil Montrose.

Neil said to Evan, “Julia and Andrew are here. I hope the evening will not become uncomfortable for you.”

Evan clasped his hand. “Neil, thank you for your concern. But I have other matters on my mind now, matters that do not involve my father.”

Neil released his wife and put his hand on Evan's shoulder, briefly stepping aside. Bartolla strained to listen to them. He said, “I had lunch with Andrew the other day. He is upset, Evan, and rightly so. Can you not think about some kind of compromise? You are his only son.”

“Neil,” Evan warned, “I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I am afraid that the issues between my father and me are not your affair.”

Montrose hesitated, his very turquoise eyes unwavering on his brother-in-law. “I am afraid I cannot be indifferent to your plight. Connie and I are both, frankly, worried.”

“I am happy,” Evan said, looking anything but. “So you need not worry about me.”

Bartolla knew she must take her lover aside and chastise him for his lack of social graces. She sighed and suddenly noticed Calder Hart, standing in the other room with several women, all of them stunning and all vying for his attention. Hart's expression was hard to read. Bartolla could not decide if he was indifferent, bored or interested. She glanced around, but saw no sign of Francesca. “Where is your sister?” she asked Connie, and found that Connie's gaze had also veered to Calder Hart. Her expression was openly concerned.

“She went outside onto the terrace,” Connie murmured, tearing her gaze from Hart with obvious reluctance.

“He is certainly a magnet, is he not?” Bartolla laughed but wondered why Hart was not fawning over his future bride.

Connie looked at her oddly. “I think he is in love with my sister.” And she turned to glance at Hart again.

All kinds of interest flared. Were Hart and Francesca arguing? A very young and very pretty brunette, whom Bartolla did not know, was clinging to him now. Her gaze narrowed. Hart could take care of himself. He must be enjoying that young lady's attentions or he would have disengaged himself. “I doubt Hart has ever been in love,” Bartolla said. Then she quickly smiled and added, “Until now.”

Connie turned her back on the scene in the salon, clearly displeased with her future brother-in-law.

Evan and Neil stepped back to them. Evan said, “Is Francesca here?”

“She is on the terrace, I think,” Connie said.

“I need to speak with her.” He glanced at Bartolla, and then said to his sister, “She is on another case.”

“I know. Apparently the Slasher struck again last night.”

Evan turned white. “God, I didn't read it in the
World!
”

“It was in the
Tribune,
” Neil remarked.

Bartolla did not like Evan's reaction.

“Who was it? I mean, surely it wasn't Maggie—Mrs. Kennedy—Francesca would have told me immediately!” He was aghast.

Bartolla slipped her arm in his, furious and hiding it. Did Evan have some kind of affection for that horrid little homely seamstress? She was certainly beginning to think so!

Connie touched his arm. “Of course it wasn't Mrs. Kennedy. She has moved into Hart's home with her children. The woman's name was Sullivan, I think.”

Evan made a huge sound, clearly of relief. “Mag—Mrs. Kennedy has moved into Hart's home?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “She will be safe there.”

Bartolla pressed close. “Darling, don't you think your concern for your sister's seamstress is a bit…out of place?”

He seemed startled. “She is a friend of the family, Bartolla, and you know I am very fond of her children.”

Connie and Neil exchanged a glance, which Bartolla did not miss. Her cheeks started to burn with humiliation. Would he display his absurd and misplaced affections to the entire world?

“How kind you can be,” she said, smiling. “I am so proud of you.” She kissed his cheek.

He did not seem to notice. “Can I get anyone a drink?” he asked.

“We're fine,” Neil said. Then he turned to his wife, smiling into her eyes. “All of our guests have arrived and we should separate and mingle. Will you promise me the first dance after we dine?”

Connie beamed. “You know I will.”

He leaned down and kissed her far too intimately for a husband and wife in a public room.

“Can you get me a glass of champagne?” Bartolla asked Evan.

“Certainly,” Evan said.

Feeling vicious now, her glance strayed to Hart. “I'll be outside, with Francesca,” she said.

Friday, April 25, 1902 9:00 p.m.

F
RANCESCA WAS FAR
too upset to be cold. She leaned on the plastered terrace railing, shaking terribly as she gazed down at Madison Avenue and the coaches and carriages below. She had been standing outside for the longest time, and Hart hadn't come looking for her.

Did he really want to end their engagement?

Francesca was so upset that she could not think straight. She was certain of one thing. Something was wrong with Hart. He was cold and distant, and it seemed as if he wished to push her away. Was this merely a black mood that would pass? Or had he changed his mind about them?

The thought of losing him now hurt unbearably.

She wiped moisture from her face. This morning he had been himself and everything had been fine. Somehow, within a few hours, everything had changed.
What had happened?

She began to think clearly now. Surely something had happened! One did not walk away happily from one's fiancée and a few hours later try to break things off. But did it even matter? Her heart was breaking at the very idea of losing him. She was such a fool. She should have heeded her father's advice, Daisy's warnings, and even Hart's own claims about himself. Instead, she had chosen to believe he was someone fine and noble, a sheep in wolf's clothing. But it was too late now. She was in love—and she had never been more vulnerable.

But the real problem was that a part of her continued to be
lieve that he was good and noble—not selfish and depraved. A part of her would simply never give up believing in him.

She wiped her eyes roughly. She was going to have to fight, somehow, for his heart. She simply could not cave in and give up. Too much was at stake—she loved him too much.

The thought of chasing Calder Hart was beyond terrifying. So many women had done just that and they had all failed.

“Francesca? Is that you?” a man's voice said.

She didn't recognize the intruder, although the voice was familiar. Francesca quickly wiped her eyes again with the back of her hand and turned, smiling widely at the stranger.

A lanky man came forward, smiling. “It's I, Richard Wiley,” he said. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“Mr. Wiley, hello,” she said, relieved it was someone she could easily manage. Once, Julia had tried to get her to accept Richard's courtship. That seemed a lifetime ago. “I am on another investigation, and I am trying to sort out some clues,” she lied.

“You have been so busy since we first met,” he exclaimed, smiling down at her. He had brownish hair and an oval face that was pleasant enough, if unexciting. “I have read so much about you these past few months.”

She smiled in a more genuine manner. “I seem to have found my calling,” she said. “I enjoy investigative work.”

“And you do it so well. May I congratulate you on your recent engagement to Mr. Hart?”

Somehow Francesca continued to smile. “Thank you.” Another guest stepped outside and when she saw that it was the countess Benevente, she was dismayed. She did not want Bartolla to even suspect that anything was amiss with her and Hart.

“Can I escort you inside?” Wiley asked. “You must be cool standing out here in that gown.”

Bartolla was approaching and she clearly wished to speak. Francesca knew the countess would not be dissuaded and in
the dark it was less likely that she would surmise anything. The terrace had only two widely spaced gaslights. “I am so enjoying the fine April evening.” Francesca smiled at him.

Wiley left after nodding at Bartolla. Shivering, the countess cried, “Francesca, why are you out here alone? Where is that dastardly man you call a fiancé? You will catch your death!”

Francesca plastered a smile on her face, inhaled hugely and said, “I am on a new case and I am trying to piece together some clues. I am afraid I am not in the mood for a fête.”

Bartolla put her arm around her. “Darling, no matter what your mood, do you think it wise to leave Hart unattended?” And she smiled, laughing.

Francesca briefly closed her eyes. Somehow, she knew this woman was going to take a knife and twist it in her heart. Then she opened them and faced Bartolla. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Bartolla stared at her, her smile slowly fading. Then she touched Francesca's hand. “You are very upset,” she said.

Francesca tried to appear disdainful. “A very good woman was murdered yesterday, Bartolla. I am preoccupied with her death—and with preventing another murder, if I can.”

Bartolla studied her for an interminable time. “You know, Francesca, you are the bravest woman I have ever met, and probably the most sincere.”

“I doubt that,” Francesca said warily, taken aback.

Bartolla rubbed her arms, a reaction to the cool April breeze. “You have always been honest with me. You have always been kind. You are hiding out here, aren't you?” she said quietly.

Francesca started. “No, I'm not!” she cried far too quickly.

Bartolla studied her in the darkness. A pause ensued, making Francesca uneasy. But when Bartolla spoke, her tone was different, subdued. “Did you really think that being attached to Hart in any way would be easy?”

Francesca bit her lip. She knew she must not discuss her
private life with Bartolla, whom she did not trust. But she so desperately needed someone to talk to and Bartolla knew Hart as well as anyone.

“Only a very foolish woman would have ever thought such a thing,” she said with an attempt at a smile.

Bartolla smiled back. “A wiser woman would have told him to go to hell, wouldn't she?”

Francesca had to agree. Nodding, she said, “He is very difficult to resist. He is persuasive when he chooses to be.”

“And tonight, he is enjoying a flirtation with someone else. Are the two of you arguing?”

Francesca stiffened instantly. So Bartolla had noticed. Had the entire world seen his lack of attention to his future bride and the attention he was directing elsewhere? She said, “I hardly mind his flirting. It does not affect me—or us—at all.”

“I came here tonight feeling rather catty,” Bartolla said thoughtfully now. “I thought to make myself feel better at your expense. I was going to join you on the terrace and pour salt in your wounds. But I do like you, Francesca. And instead, I think I should give you some advice.”

Francesca froze. What ploy was this?

“Go back inside, darling, and fight for what you want,” Bartolla said. “But do not stand out here alone, sulking in childish tears.”

Francesca gaped. But Bartolla was terribly right. She was hiding and sulking and, in general, feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to fight for Hart, but she was afraid to compete with Darlene Fischer and her like. “I don't know if I can,” she whispered. “I am half as beautiful as all the women he has always preferred in his bed.”

Bartolla pulled her close. “Nonsense! You could improve your daytime fashion, of course, and get rid of those ugly blue suits. But you are every bit as alluring as the rest.”

“I don't know how to do what you are suggesting,” Francesca said, wide-eyed.

“Of course you do. You
are
wearing that dress, aren't you?” Bartolla smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “It is all a game, Francesca, even if you dare to really fall in love. It is the right dress, the right sway of the hip, the right glance, the right moment.”

“But I am hardly a seductress,” she whispered.

“Any woman is a seductress. You just must be better at it than the others, and as you are far more clever than us all, it should not really be a problem, now, should it?”

She had been very seductive in that oil painting, she thought. And more times than she could count, Hart had responded to her as if she was a femme fatale. “But something is wrong. Something has set him off.” She hesitated. “And I feel certain it is not desire for Miss Fischer.”

“He's a man. A very virile one. Men like him wander. So even if tonight he is preoccupied with some other matter, one day he will genuinely stray. I know you know that! But you can pull him right back.” She smiled then. “I've seen him watching you. It's so much more than lust. If it were mere lust, I'd tell you to break the engagement and have some simple fun. He admires you immensely and I've seen it in his eyes. There is hope, darling—if you are strong enough to weather the ups and downs of a relationship that will undoubtedly be very stormy.”

Francesca hated the fact that Bartolla, like Daisy, believed in Hart's eventual disloyalty. But she wondered if she had the strength to do as Bartolla had described. And suddenly, in that moment, she was determined to take up just such a battle. It felt as if her entire life was at stake, and perhaps it was. She couldn't imagine living without Calder present in her every waking moment, her every thought.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “Thank you for being sincere.”

Bartolla winked. “Don't tell anyone! I shall be ruined.”

Francesca smiled, about to reply, but then she could not speak.

Hart stepped onto the terrace, and even shadowed as he was, she knew his form and felt his presence instantly. He came forward, his strides filled with purpose.

Francesca watched him emerge into the moonlight. His expression was hard and determined. He glanced at Bartolla just once, dismissively. He disliked her and did not offer even a polite greeting.

Bartolla clearly didn't care. She gave Francesca an encouraging look and hurried inside.

Francesca felt paralyzed.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Will you stand outside all night?” he asked quietly.

“I have been considering doing just that,” she said, impossibly aware of his hands as they slipped off the jacket and her shoulders. She searched his eyes. Had she heard a normal resonance in his tone?

“I have behaved in the most reprehensible manner,” he said. “Francesca, I am sorry. There is simply no excuse for my harsh words earlier this evening.”

Relief flooded her, making her knees useless—she found herself clutching his lapels as he gripped her waist, offering her his strength and support. “Why? What has happened? What is wrong?”

He shook his head, but his hands pulled her close. “I don't know,” he murmured, and his eyes closed. He kissed her cheek several times, her jaw, her throat.

She shivered, desire an instantaneous flood, no matter how upset she was. She realized he was shaking as his mouth moved over the swell of her breasts. She held on to him as if he were a ghost that might vanish at any time. “Can't you talk to me? Calder, how will our marriage ever succeed if you shut me out this way?”

He flinched, meeting her gaze, now holding her face in his hands. “I don't want to talk, not now, not about anything,” he said. And his mouth claimed hers.

It would have been so easy to cave into his desire—as there was no mistaking his raw need—and be swept away to a very safe place. Instead, her mind raced as he kissed her, again and again, hungry and insistent. They could not solve their problems this way. She pushed him away. “No.”

He was out of breath. His eyes widened. “No?” And suddenly she saw a gleam in his eyes.

She knew him well enough to know that he thought her refusal a challenge. She braced her hands against his chest. “You have given me a terrible fright,” she said slowly. “And I think I have every right to know why.”

He stepped away from her now, raking one hand through his hair. “You do have every right,” he said finally. “But I also have the right not to share every single aspect of my life, every single thought, with you.” He became wry. “You really do not want to know.”

She was very still, in some disbelief. “Actually, I do. But you are right—there is no law, no rule that says I must be privy to your private thoughts.”

He smiled at her, just slightly, but it was genuine enough.

At least their crisis was over, she thought. “Why did you tell me that I could end our engagement?”

He hesitated. “I was in a very black mood. I regret my words. And I am more than sorry. If you let me—” and he smiled far too seductively “—I will show you just how sorry I am.”

“Is that it?” she asked incredulously. “You indicate that you wish to end our engagement—that you wish for me to back out, sparing you the cruelty of doing so—and you will offer me no explanation?”

“No,” he said flatly. His smile was gone. “Do not push me now.”

The warning was clear. His good mood and the Calder Hart she had come to know and love was clearly in jeopardy. But she could not help herself.
If he was having doubts about their future, she simply had to know.

She went to stand before him, laying her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Do you want to end our engagement?” she asked.

He did not react with surprise; he did not protest or deny it. His jaw flexed, hard, his eyes turned black and he stared.

Oh my God. He wanted to end it.

Her hand fell from his chest. She stepped back, away from him.

“Let's go inside,” he said roughly. He smiled a little at her. “I promised you that champagne.”

“No,” she whispered, refusing to move. “We have been honest with one another from the start. We agreed there would never be any lies between us. If you have doubts about us—about me—you owe me the honesty we agreed upon.”

He wet his lips. “I never want to hurt you. It still remains the last thing I ever want to do.” He added, “Please, Francesca, leave this alone.” And it was a plea, the first he had ever made to her or anyone that she knew.

But she could not hear him now.
He had doubts, grave doubts.
“You wish to end our engagement,” she heard herself say. It wasn't a question. Her world began to blacken and spin.