Deadly Illusions (25 page)

“I see I have called at an inopportune time,” she said. Leigh Anne looked her way and their gazes met.

And for one moment, Francesca saw not the other woman's beauty, which had always disturbed her, but the cloak of sad ness she was enveloped in. As she gazed at Leigh Anne, she saw that her beauty had somehow dimmed, as if a blazing inner light had gone out. She was so stunned that she could only stare and it was Leigh Anne who smiled first.

“Francesca, please, come in. How nice of you to call. We were on our way to Central Park for a picnic, but we can delay. Or rather—” she glanced at the girls “—Mrs. Flowers can go on ahead. Peter, after you settle them, can you return for me?”

Before Peter could respond, Francesca hurried forward. “Do not delay on my account,” she said. “I do not want to upset your plans, as it is a stunning day.” She had to lean down to take Leigh Anne's hands and kiss her cheek. It was very awkward.

“It is so kind of you to call,” Leigh Anne said, a slight flush now adding to her flawless complexion. But once, her skin had glowed like mother-of-pearl. Now it was merely a woman's pale, unblemished skin.

“Frack!” Dot shouted, clapping her hands together in glee.

As Francesca scooped the impudent toddler up, kissing her cheek, she said, “I must confess that I went to Bellevue several times to visit you, but I lost my courage every time.” She smiled at Leigh Anne as she hugged Dot one more time and replaced her to her feet.

“I doubt you have ever lacked courage for anything,” Leigh Anne said, “and even if you did not come to my room in the end, thank you for thinking of me.”

Francesca did not hesitate. “How could I not?” she asked simply.

Leigh Anne lowered her voice and her eyes. “And this is why my husband has fallen in love with you.”

Francesca started, about to protest. Surely Leigh Anne referred to the past, to that brief moment in time when they had almost fallen in love. Surely she did not still think a flame burned! Francesca knelt beside Leigh Anne's chair and finally her knees touched the floor. “Your husband loves you,” she said low and urgently. “And I…” She hesitated, about to blurt out the extent of her feelings for Hart. “I am very happily engaged to another man, a man I intend to wed.”

Leigh Anne smiled at her. It was soft and sad. “We both know why I came to New York. Bartolla wrote me and claimed that Rick was in love with you. I realized I could not lose him to someone else…now, how I regret my decision.”

Francesca was aghast.

And Leigh Anne flushed. “What I mean is that you two be long together. He does not belong with me.” Suddenly she looked very upset and she turned her head, but not before Francesca saw tears shining in her eyes. “Katie, darling,” she called, extending her hand.

Katie ran to Leigh Anne and instantly hugged her. Leigh Anne buried her face in the child's soft brown hair. Francesca wanted to cry. She could feel the other woman's pain and misery and she could also feel how much she loved the girls. She would swear Leigh Anne also loved her husband.

Leigh Anne looked up, smiling now, but her eyes remained moist. “But if I hadn't returned I would not have my girls, now, would I?”

Francesca remained kneeling in order to be on a level with her and she took her free hand. “There is a saying, and for good reason, not to cry over spilt milk.”

“I am not thinking about my accident. Rick deserves happiness and I cannot give it to him.”

“Why not?” Francesca exclaimed. “He loves you!” She almost added that he had told her so, but she also recalled his despair of late and his evident confusion, and she knew she must not meddle. It was so hard not to do so.

Leigh Anne became pink. “Francesca, dear, please, get off the floor. By now, your knees must ache.”

They did, and Francesca stood, trying to sort matters out. Dot grasped her hand, beaming up at her and Francesca smiled back at the beautiful blond child. Dot demanded, “Park! Park! Go park!”

“Mrs. Flowers will take you, Dot, and I will join you soon,” Leigh Anne said gently but with firm authority.

Dot pouted but did not have a tantrum. Francesca was impressed.

Katie tugged on Leigh Anne's hand. “Mama, can Francesca come to the park with us?”

Leigh Anne was briefly surprised and then she glanced ques
tioningly at Francesca. “Would you care to join us for a bit? You are more than welcome and I know the girls would love the company—and Joel may come, as well.”

Francesca thought of the interview she wished to have with John Sullivan's second flatmate. But that could wait. This woman was far more important. “I would love to,” she said. “And Hart's coach is large enough to accommodate us all.”

Dot shrieked happily, as she never missed a word, and Joel groaned.

 

“H
EY,”
J
OEL SAID,
hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Want to fish?”

Katie blinked at him in surprise. Francesca sat beside Leigh Anne on a red plaid blanket, nibbling ham sandwiches, while Dot played industriously with a small doll. As it was such a beautiful day, the park was filled with families and couples, some picnicking, others merely taking a stroll or a carriage ride. “I don't know how to fish,” Katie said, glancing at Leigh Anne.

“It's real easy,” Joel said. “We can make a hook out of a hairpin and dig up a worm. All we need is some string, and the napkins were tied with that.”

Katie smiled shyly, glancing again at Leigh Anne. Leigh Anne smiled at her. “Why don't you try it, darling? It sounds like fun.”

As the two children ran off to the lake, just a short distance from where they were having their picnic, Leigh Anne called, “But be careful, Katie, not to fall in!” Then she turned to Francesca. “Joel is such a clever boy.”

“He is, isn't he? He has been invaluable to my investigations, and he feels very much like another younger brother.” Francesca glanced at the children. Joel was tying a hairpin shaped as a hook onto a line. “I am very fond of him—and his entire family, as well.”

“How is your brother?” Leigh Anne asked pleasantly enough.
But the words were hardly out of her mouth when she turned starkly white, appearing terribly dismayed.

Francesca followed the direction of her gaze. Rick Bragg was approaching at a walk, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Warmth filled her, and just as she thought about what a pleasant surprise his appearance was, she realized that her reaction was distinctly different from Leigh Anne's. Francesca looked at the other woman, and found her nervously patting her skirts, her hands trembling, her face stiff with what could only be tension. What was this?

Bragg paused before them, his expression carefully neutral. “Hello,” he said, and he bent on one knee to kiss his wife's cheek as Francesca hopped to her feet.

Leigh Anne did not look up as he touched Dot lightly on the head in greeting and straightened, facing Francesca. She smiled at him as he kissed her cheek. “How wonderful that you can join us,” she cried, glancing again at Leigh Anne.

“It is certainly the perfect day for a picnic,” he remarked, gazing at Leigh Anne and then past her. “Ah, Katie is fishing with Joel.”

Francesca did not speak. She was utterly stunned by the tension she was witnessing and she simply could not understand it. Of course, she must make an exit, and quickly. Or would leaving them alone be worse?

Finally Leigh Anne looked up. How miserable she seemed. “You're not at headquarters?” she asked, her tone strained.

His answering smile was even more miserable. “I thought to work this afternoon at home,” he said. “When Peter told me you had gone for a picnic, I decided to play hooky.”

“You never work at home, except when it is midnight,” she breathed, her lashes lowered, making it impossible to read her gaze.

“I think it is time to change that,” Rick said, clearly forcing lightness into his tone. “Is there a sandwich to spare?”

Francesca could not bear it. She saw his hurt and his pain
and Leigh Anne's answering anguish, and she wanted to hold him, comfort her, and then maybe bang their heads together. What was this mess? And how to straighten it out? “There are plenty of sandwiches left,” she said quickly. “And I must go, actually, as I have yet to interview Sullivan's second flatmate.”

“We questioned Josh Bennett thoroughly this morning,” Bragg said. “He has shed no light on the situation, as his statement was almost identical to that of Ron Ames. He said Kate left her husband about a year and a half ago. John Sullivan was a drunk and an angry one. Not a night went by that he did not proclaim his hatred of his wife.” He nodded at her. “But if you wish to interview him, feel free. I suspect it will be a waste of your time.”

Francesca now thought so, too. She found Leigh Anne watching them and quickly smiled. “I think I will try my hand with Bennett anyway. And what of that photograph Farr found in the flat? Have you identified the gentleman in it?”

“Newman is working on it.”

Francesca nodded. “Very well.” She turned to Leigh Anne to thank her for her hospitality, but was not given the chance to do so.

“No, don't go!” Leigh Anne said vehemently.

Francesca started. Before she could respond, Leigh Anne said, flushing, “Rick, I do not feel well. I have a terrible migraine. I am going home to bed. Please help me up.”

As Rick rushed to help her into her chair, Francesca wrung her hands. She felt certain that this was a ploy to escape.

“But you should stay here and have a pleasant picnic with the girls,” Leigh Anne said, now seated in her wheeled chair. “I mean, you have taken half the day off, and it would be a shame now that you are here not to take advantage of it. Peter can see me home. Francesca, there is no need to rush off! Joel is having a good time with Katie, and you and Rick can dis cuss your investigation while he eats his lunch.” Leigh Anne smiled but it was terribly forced.

Francesca was dismayed, wondering if Leigh Anne thought to push her and Rick together, and she looked at Rick and saw that he was resigned. No, it was worse than that—she saw defeat in his eyes. He touched Leigh Anne's hair. “I'll take you home,” he said.

“No! You enjoy yourself. We all know you deserve it. Peter! Please wheel me to the carriage.” Her face was taut with determination and her eyes shone with unshed tears.

Francesca felt her own tears forming. She did not move.

Bragg dropped his hand as Peter hurried forward. Rick nodded and the big Swede began pushing Leigh Anne toward the carriage path where a buggy waited. Leigh Anne turned to look at Francesca, smiling so brightly it had to be painful. “Thank you for such a lovely afternoon,” she said.

For once, words escaped Francesca completely. As Leigh Anne was wheeled away, she could only think that she should be the one leaving.

“Mama?” Dot said, but not with any distress.

Bragg knelt. “Mama is tired and she is going home.” He stroked her hair. “We will finish our picnic and then go home and join her.”

Dot grinned and held up her blond doll. “Dolly Frack!” she said.

Bragg cupped her cheek and then straightened, facing Francesca. “I believe she has named Dolly after you.”

Francesca could not stand it. He was miserable, and so was Leigh Anne. “How can I help?” she cried. “Surely there is something I can do!”

He shrugged helplessly, turning away. Francesca ran to him. “What is happening?” she demanded, grasping him by the arms.

He met her gaze, his haunted with sadness. “I don't know.”

Francesca pulled him into her arms. He laid his cheek against
her shoulder and his arms went lightly around her. She held him close, aching for him. “Rick, I am so sorry,” she whispered.

“I don't know what to do,” he said, choked.

Francesca held him hard. “Neither do I,” she answered, and laid her cheek against his.

 

H
E KNEW JUST HOW
clever and bold Francesca Cahill was, for he had read all about her exploits in the newspapers. He had admired her terribly for her courage and daring, for helping the police bring killers to their just deserts. But now he stared in absolute shock. She was in Rick Bragg's arms and engaged to another. She was a faithless bitch just like all the rest.

His fingers itched.

His heart raced.

He fondled the knife, barely aware of it.

How could this be? How? How could she be a whore like the others?

He did not know what to do. He had made his plans. He knew the bitches he must punish. Now he began to consider the question burning in him. Just what should he do about her?

And when she laid her cheek on Bragg's, he knew.

Saturday, April 26, 1902 6:00 p.m.

“M
R
. H
ART, SIR?”
a very cautious female voice said.

Hart was in his library, at his desk, his jacket gone, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was recalculating the expenses he would incur from his upcoming Hong Kong venture and he was so engrossed it was a moment before he realized that Maggie Kennedy stood in the doorway. He looked up, startled.

She was blushing. “I can see I am interrupting,” she said. “I'll come back at another time.”

Hart leaped to his feet. “No, please!” He smiled, quickly rolling down his sleeves and reaching for the gold and ruby cuff links on his desk. “How may I help you, Mrs. Kennedy? Is everything to your satisfaction?”

She became somewhat wide of eye. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hart, your hospitality has been wonderful—if not somewhat overwhelming.” She continued to stand in the doorway and he saw that she toyed with her skirts with one hand anxiously.

“Please, come in,” he said, having managed to insert one cuff link in his sleeve.

She took two steps forward. “How may I repay you for your generosity, sir?” she asked, avoiding looking at what he was doing.

For a moment, surprised, he did not respond. Then, as he began to protest, Joel came skidding into the room, grinning and flushed. “Hey, Mr. Hart,” he said. “Ma, I'm home.”

Maggie laid a restraining hand on her son's shoulder. “This is hardly your home,” she chided softly. “Where have you been all afternoon?”

Hart had been about to ask that very question, as he knew that Joel had been with Francesca, sleuthing about the city. He stepped out from behind his desk, giving up on the left cuff of his shirtsleeve, although his arm was now covered. “Did you and Miss Cahill just get in?” he asked, knowing very well that as it was already six and he had to pick her up at seven, she would be late. It was her only flaw and he did not mind, not at all, as the cause was her pursuit of justice and not the vain primping other women indulged in before their mirrors.

“Yes, sir.” Joel grinned. He turned to his mother. And just as Hart was going to ask if the afternoon had been a productive one from the point of view of Francesca's investigation, Joel said, “We spent the afternoon in the park, having a picnic. I taught Katie how to fish!” Then he sobered. “But we didn't catch nuthin'.”

Hart felt himself still. In fact, the entire room became motionless, terribly so, and he felt a burn begin deep inside of him. He hardly had to be a genius to know that Katie was Bragg's fostering child. He reminded himself not to overreact; no one worked more diligently than his half brother and undoubtedly Bragg had spent the afternoon at headquarters. Out of kindness, Francesca had somehow gone to picnic with his wife, he told himself. No one was kinder than his fiancée. “You and Miss Cahill enjoyed a picnic with Mrs. Bragg and the children?” he asked casually. But he did not feel casual at all.

“Yes, sir,” Joel said eagerly. Then, “I mean, Mrs. Bragg didn't stay for very long. Mr. Bragg came an' joined us an' she went home. I ain't never had a picnic like this before! He tried to help me and Katie catch a fish and he taught Miz Cahill how to fish, too.” He grinned. “Miz Cahill caught a fish—her very first!”

Calder was in disbelief. He could only stare.

 

F
RANCESCA ACTUALLY RAN INTO
the front hall of the house, breathless and dismayed. It was just past six and Hart was taking her to supper at 7:00 p.m. After their crisis of the night before, she wanted to look her very best. She intended to wear a new gown, a pale green silk he had yet to see, with jewelry she had borrowed from Connie. She knew she barely had time to tong her hair. “I need Bette,” she cried, asking for the maid as she spotted her mother entering the hall at the far end.

Julia came forward and did not reply.

And even as Francesca raced forward, she was haunted by the terrible afternoon she had spent. In the end, she had not been able to leave Bragg alone with the girls in the park. Far too acutely aware of his anguish, she had stayed as he had eaten a sandwich, changing the subject to that of their investigation. They had spent several hours rehashing every clue and analyzing every suspect. They had not come to any new conclusions, but the light in Bragg's eyes had changed by the time they had begun to pack up their picnic basket. Before she had left with Raoul, he had taken her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

Francesca had smiled as brightly as possible, not wanting to send him back into the dark tunnel of his marriage. “You have nothing to thank me for,” she had said.

Now, Francesca reached her mother, vaguely noting that Julia looked distinctly somber. She simply could not bear any more bad news. “Mama! I need Bette! I have to bathe and do my hair and dress, all in an hour! I refuse to keep Hart waiting tonight.”

“Your father wishes to see you in his study, Francesca,” Julia said quietly.

Francesca had been about to hike her skirts and run up the stairs. She faltered and looked directly at her mother. And suddenly she recalled the fact that Hart had intended to visit her father to request an earlier June wedding. But would he have done so after the fiasco of last night? She felt certain he would not, but then, Hart was so unpredictable that she simply could
not know. “Mama? You look worried,” she said with the utmost wariness.

Julia suddenly hugged her. “You know how much I love you and how much I want you to be happy,” she cried.

Francesca jerked away, knowing that such an expression and statement on the part of her mother could only bode ill, in deed. “What is it?” she asked sharply. “What has happened? I feel certain that no one has died.”

“Your father is waiting,” Julia said abruptly.

“Mama!” Francesca protested in real alarm.

“Very well. Andrew has called off the wedding.”

Francesca gasped, shocked, barely able to comprehend what her mother was saying.

“We were both so upset to see the two of you at odds last night,” Julia said. “I tried to calm Andrew down, but then Roberta Hind told us about his mistress. Dear God, Francesca, even I cannot support your engagement if he is carrying on openly with such a woman.”

Francesca cried out in horror as the words sank in. She managed to say, “But he isn't. This isn't what you think.”
Her father had called off their engagement.
She remained dazed, and tried to summon up a coherent thought.

“The whole of society knows he keeps that Jones woman in the house he just bought for her!” Julia cried. “How could he do this to you? How? I had truly believed that he cared.”

Francesca stared, aghast, knowing Julia would never believe her if she explained the matter. But Papa could not do this—not without her consent, not without her opinion, not without her feelings being considered. And then she lifted her skirts and ran down the hall and into her father's study.

She did not knock, but the doors were wide open. Andrew was reclining on the sofa in a smoking jacket and slippers, reading the
Sun.
A fire blazed in the hearth and a glass of red wine was on the occasional table. He looked up over his newspaper as she halted before him.

“You cannot have possibly broken my engagement without speaking to me first,” she said, beginning to shake. This could not be happening—she would not allow it to happen.

Calmly, Andrew set the paper aside. “Come sit with me, Francesca,” he said, patting the sofa beside him as he sat upright.

She refused. “I love him. I am going to marry him. And it is not what you think—he isn't with Daisy Jones!”

“I am thinking as I always have,” her father said, standing. “He is a self-serving cad. He is currently somewhat fascinated by you—and it is nothing more. Last night he was far more interested in another woman than he was in you, his fiancée. Last night you were hurt by his behavior—I saw it on your face, so do not deny it. The two of you have barely begun a life together and already he is showing his true colors. Is this the kind of life you want to have? By God, Francesca, I will not allow it. This man isn't good enough to sweep the floors you walk on.”

She was trembling almost convulsively and shamelessly close to tears. “Papa, don't do this. Hart is good, I know him as no one else does, and you are wrong about last night.”

“I have broken off the engagement,” Andrew said firmly. “I know that right now you are smitten, but in time, you will recover. In time, you will find someone else.”

“No,” Francesca cried. “Papa, please—”

He cut her off. “My word is final. And Francesca, consider this—when I told him the engagement was off, he did not object.”

 

S
TILL SHAKEN,
F
RANCESCA
rang Hart's bell several times. She knew she should
not
be at his door in such a state of fear and panic, for her sister's words advising her never to pursue him were somewhere in the shadowy background of her mind. But she
had
to know what was happening.
He had not objected to the breaking of their engagement.
She did not believe it.

Surely he had protested. Surely they had recovered from the awful tension of the night before. Surely Hart would greet her warmly and hold her and kiss her and, in his usual arrogant manner, remind her that nothing would come between them, as his mind was made up.

Alfred opened the door and when he saw her, his calm demeanor vanished. He almost gaped.

Francesca tried to smile as she gazed past him, but no one was in the spacious foyer. “I must see Hart,” she said tersely. “Good evening, Alfred.”

“Miss Cahill, please, come in,” Alfred said, his eyes remaining wide as he let her inside. “Can I get you some tea, perhaps, while I tell Mr. Hart that you are here? He is not expecting you,” he added, and while she had often called impulsively in the past, the butler's statement seemed to be a reprimand.

He had noted her dishabille. But Francesca did not really care that her hair was coming loose or that her jacket was askew, that she wore no rouge and was undoubtedly as white as a ghost. She faced him, folding her arms across her chest. “Alfred, you do not have to be formal with me. Yes, I am distraught. Yes, I should go home and compose myself. However, I have just learned that Hart and my father have had a terrible falling-out and that my father has broken our engagement!” Alfred started. Francesca continued in a rush, “And surely Hart has not accepted the sudden demise of our engagement! I am not going home, Alfred, oh no. I must see Hart.”

“Oh dear,” Alfred said, his tone hushed. “Mr. Hart is in a drawing room with some of his family. Miss Cahill, please, why don't you sit down in the gold room. I shall bring you some tea and sweets—it will calm you, I think—and then I shall tell Mr. Hart that you are here.”

“Nothing will calm me and especially not chocolate and tea,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “Alfred, I must see Hart now. What is his mood? How is he? Has he indicated anything to you?”

“He seemed fine when he came in a bit earlier, Miss Cahill,” Alfred said reluctantly. “Miss Cahill, I respect you so. Would you mind very much if I dared to be terribly bold with you?” he asked, leading her across the huge entry hall.

Francesca and Alfred had reached a silent and mutually agreeable understanding some time ago. Alfred wholeheartedly wished for her to marry his employer and he had made it clear he thought that nothing could be better for Hart. “Of course,” she said.

“I feel certain that Mr. Hart will not appreciate a scene,” Alfred said, glancing at her with real worry. “I have seen him tolerate unhappy ladies in the past. One scene and they were never to be seen or heard from again.” A bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

Francesca touched his arm. “Thank you, Alfred, for your concern, and I shall keep that in mind,” she said. Even as panicked as she was, she was sane enough to know that Alfred was right. Hart would despise a scene, and if he had the same doubts he had last night, she might even put the final nails in the coffin of their union by carrying on recklessly. Still, their future was at stake and she had to know what he intended to do about it. “But let me remind you, he was not engaged to any of these other ladies.”

Alfred inclined his head slightly. “That is true.”

Francesca swallowed, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hat was crooked and she attempted to right it, but she dropped the two hairpins.
As if she cared about her hat.
She smoothed down her jacket hem and nodded at Alfred.

He opened the double door. “Mr. Hart, sir? Miss Cahill is here to see you.”

Francesca began to tremble. She glanced into the drawing room and saw Hart seated with a scotch, grimly staring at his drink. Clearly, his humor was black. That was a good sign, was it not? For surely it indicated that he was as upset with what Andrew had done as she was. And he slowly looked up.

For one moment, she stared back, aware of an incredible ten sion in him. And then he rose, setting his drink aside. Francesca became vaguely aware of the others in the room. Grace and Rathe Bragg sat on the sofa near his chair. Rourke was in another chair and Maggie was on a love seat with Joel, an open book between them. Although she knew Maggie continued to stay at Hart's house, she had not expected to see her just then.

All eyes were trained on her now. Clearly, everyone was remarking her unkempt appearance—or was it her nearly-hysterical state?

But Hart's eyes were the worst. They seemed cold and very black and somehow menacing, indeed.

Francesca forgot everyone else, staring at Hart, thoroughly taken aback.

Hart approached, his expression impossible to read. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, she said, “I would like a word with you, please.”