Deadly Illusions (29 page)

Francesca knew that there was no reason for Daisy to be present at Kate's funeral. Then she corrected herself. There was a reason: Hart. But would she have guessed that Hart was attending?

Maybe Daisy was present because she, Francesca, was there. “Why are you really here?”

Daisy shrugged. “It's terrible, the Slasher murdering such good, honest, godly women, as Father Culhane said.”

She did not care. Francesca wondered why she had ever, even briefly, liked this woman. “Why did you go to Hart's office?”

Daisy smiled at her and said softly, “He's my benefactor. We had matters to discuss.”

They were enemies, Francesca thought, deadly enemies. She didn't see it in the other woman's expression, but she somehow knew it in her heart. She knew it the way she knew that she loved Calder Hart with all of her heart and that she would not let this woman come between them. Francesca stared and said slowly, “Why don't you tell me what you want? Clearly, you came outside to speak with me. Clearly, you came to this funeral to see
me.
”

“No,” Daisy said softly. “It is Calder I came to see. It is Calder I want.”

The gauntlet had been thrown. “Did you go to his office to beg him to take you back?” Francesca demanded.

“I have never begged any man for anything,” Daisy said with vast superiority. “I have never had to beg any man for anything. I always get what I want, Francesca.”

She was as rigid as a board, uncomfortably so. “And you want Hart back?”

Daisy smiled at her. “When he tires of you, I expect him back,” she said simply.

Francesca wet her lips. “So you failed to seduce him. You
did
try to seduce him in his office, didn't you?”

“I am hardly that naive,” she laughed.

“Then what happened?” Francesca cried, shaking.

Daisy's eyes turned ugly. “Hart is no different from me, Francesca. He thinks to reform. He is smitten with you, for some reason, and he thinks to become a gentleman like all
the others. Well, he can't! This man has an appetite for very unusual fare. Feed him a constant diet of beef and chicken and he will die for lack of variety! Your bed will soon bore him, Francesca. How much clearer do I need to be?”

Francesca hugged herself. “Maybe he was once that way. But he is tired of that life.” She heard how hesitant and uncertain she sounded, because in truth, she believed Daisy. It was not that she thought that Hart was depraved, but that he would soon come to find her boring. With such a man, it simply seemed inevitable.

“I don't think so. A leopard cannot change his spots.” Daisy said, and she was far too sure of herself. And then she laughed, shaking her head. “You are so innocent! Hart is jaded, terribly jaded, and he cannot reform, not for you, not for anyone. Give him time and you shall see the real Hart return. You have created a mere impostor and you clearly know it as much as I do.”

Her heart beat with sickening force and she turned away. She could not find her voice to insist that the Hart she knew was good, even kind and noble. In fact, she could not think of a single reply.

Daisy laughed. “Enjoy him while you can, my dear. Enjoy his bed while you can, as he
is
so magnificent. And continue to lie to yourself. I am sure you will do so for a long time.”

She almost clapped her hands over her ears. “You're wrong,” she managed to say knowing how pitiful her response was. “I know you are wrong.” But even her tone seemed weak.

Daisy seized her wrist. “That night will come that he does not return home when you expect him. And he will have a perfect excuse. And you will accept it, of course you will, but deep in your heart you will know he was with someone else.” And she smiled tightly at her.

Francesca jerked away. “How can you be so cruel? Once, we were friends!” She reached for the door of the church, only too late realizing that the last place she wished to go was inside.
She did not want Hart to even guess at the conversation that had just taken place.

Daisy pressed on the door before she could pull it open. And she leaned so close Francesca felt her arm against her and her breath on her ear. “You are so upset,” she whispered maliciously. “So distraught! Why? Because your little fairy tale is over? Because you must now hold on to Hart with your finger tips as he slips slowly but surely away?”

“What do you want?” Francesca cried furiously, twisting to face her. But now they were face-to-face and far too close for comfort.

Daisy never stopped smiling. “I told you.”

“No, I don't believe it. If you really wanted Calder, you would simply wait this out.” She sucked down air. She was shaking. “This is about revenge, isn't it?”

Daisy stared, no longer smiling. Then she leaned close, her lips almost on her cheek.
“You haven't seen anything yet.”

 

D
AISY HAD LEFT AND
Francesca stood alone on the church steps, shaken to the core. She finally gave up and sat down, as her knees and legs seemed useless.

Daisy was dangerous, oh yes. That morning at the Lord and Taylor store, she had made Francesca doubt her own value and her relationship with Hart. Today, it was even worse. No matter how she might try to convince herself otherwise, Francesca knew that Daisy was right and that Hart was going to quickly tire of her.

And in the future, either near or far, that night would come—a night of lies she would choose to believe, a night spent in the arms of another woman.

She closed her eyes, desperately wishing she could find some faith in her fiancé. And a part of her stubbornly refused to cave in. A part of her shouted back that Hart was fine and good and misunderstood, and he was as noble as any other gentleman.

She inhaled hard, opening her eyes and seeing a cheerful blue sky with cotton-candy clouds. And she began to think and analyze, which was what she did best. Hart had been fine on Friday morning. He had not been fine that evening, at her sister's charity affair. They had been at odds ever since. And he had seen Daisy on Friday afternoon in his offices.

Clearly he had refused to be seduced. But had he been tempted? Francesca did not know what to think. But somehow Daisy had upset him, too. He had been having grave doubts about their future ever since that time, but was this all Daisy's doing? Just what, exactly, was he thinking—and why?

Behind her, the church doors suddenly opened and a dozen people began coming out. Francesca quickly stepped to the side to let them pass. Randolph was one of the first gentlemen to leave the church and he paused on the sidewalk, hands in his trouser pockets, watching the funeral guests as they left. Francesca assumed he was waiting for Gwen.

Hart walked out. He came directly to her, his regard searching. “What happened?”

She forced a smile. “I needed some air.”

“You were with Daisy,” he exclaimed. “I am hardly a fool. What happened?”

She opened her mouth but no words came out, as she had not a clue what to do or say.

He took her arm. “You are very distressed,” he said harshly. “Francesca, that woman is not to be believed or trusted.”

“I know,” she whispered, and impulsively she hugged him, burying her face against the rock-solid wall of his chest.

He held her loosely, one large hand cradling the back of her head beneath her hat. “I am going to take care of Daisy,” he said.

She looked up and smiled at him. He wiped what must have been a stray tear from her cheek and they stepped apart. As she turned, she saw Bridget and Gwen walking past them, David Hanrahan directly behind them. If Gwen knew her husband
was there, she gave no sign. She had eyes only for Randolph. She smiled at him, her pace increasing as she went down the steps.

Randolph stared at her.

Someone shouted—it was David Hanrahan. He rushed past Gwen and seized Randolph, throwing him backward against a parked carriage. “Fucking bastard!” he cried, his hands on Randolph's throat.

Randolph tried to break his grip.

“David!” Gwen screamed. “Stop! Stop, please, stop!”

Hart rushed down the steps, Francesca reacting a moment afterward and following him. As Hart reached Hanrahan, Bragg raced past her, and together they pulled him off Randolph. Hart stepped back as Bragg threw Hanrahan down on the street.

Two officers in uniform appeared, standing ominously over him. Hanrahan sat up, panting. “You stay away from her!” he shouted past Bragg and the policemen at Randolph.

Randolph gave him a disdainful look and turned to Gwen. “I'm all right,” he said very quietly.

Gwen's face was a mask of anguish, her feelings terribly clear. She was obviously in love.

Francesca had reached Hart's side, but she strained to hear. Randolph said, low, “Can I give you a lift home?”

Gwen nodded, smiling, the stars shining in her eyes.

Francesca was very dismayed for Gwen. Now she prayed Randolph was not their man. “Are you all right?” she asked Hart.

“I'm fine,” he said, also glancing at the unlikely couple. Randolph was greeting Bridget with a smile. The girl did not seem to know what to do. Her gaze kept wavering between the handsome Irish nobleman and her father, who was now standing and in handcuffs.

Francesca hurried over to Bragg. “Take him downtown,” he said in disgust to the officer holding Hanrahan.

“I done nothing wrong!” Hanrahan was incredulous. “That fancy bastard is after my wife and daughter.”

Bragg ignored him, facing Francesca. “I'm going to lock him up for the night and let him ponder his poor temper,” he said.

She nodded. It seemed like a good idea, especially considering Gwen might very well be in Randolph's bed before the hour was out. “Where is Randolph's tail?”

“He's here, but in civvies. Francesca, don't worry,” he said quietly. “We won't lose him.”

She nodded, but all she could do was fret. It was hard to gauge if she was worried about Gwen or herself.

You must now hold on to Hart with your fingertips as he slips slowly but surely away.

Francesca inhaled harshly, hating the echo of Daisy's words, so cruel and loud and clear in her mind.

“Miss Cahill?” a woman whispered from behind.

Francesca turned in surprise and met Francis O'Leary's wide brown eyes. “Hello,” she said with a smile.

Francis did not smile back. She glanced over her shoulder and Francesca followed her gaze somewhat curiously. She quickly realized that she was looking at Sam Wilson, who was chatting on the church steps with Father Culhane. “What is it?” she asked, realizing that Francis wished to speak with her alone.

Francis looked ready to cry. “I lied,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry! I lied—Sam did not spend the night at my flat like I said he did on Thursday night.”

Francesca stared in surprise and then her eyes veered to Wilson, who was now leaving the steps.
Sam Wilson had no alibi for the night of Kate's murder
.

And then she tensed. A gentleman had just emerged from the church, and while she felt certain she did not know him, he was vaguely familiar.

Bragg had come to stand beside her. “What is it?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she murmured, staring at the young man. And then comprehension came in a blaze of light, shocking her with its utter clarity.

The photograph in Farr's hands…at John Sullivan's flat…the photograph of Kate Sullivan and a young man!

“Who is that?” she cried, but she was already racing toward him as he came down the gray stone steps. Bragg followed. She paid no mind. “Excuse me, sir!” she called.

He paused before her, an elegant eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon?” He had the cultivated tone of one who had at tended the finest Eastern schools.

It was him, the gentleman from the photograph. “Sir, I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth. I am investigating Kate Sullivan's death, among others,” she said. “How did you know the deceased?”

He tugged on his kidskin gloves until they were without a single wrinkle and only then did he look up. His eyes were bright blue. “Once, a long time ago, she was my sister,” he said.

Sunday, April 27, 1902 2:00 p.m.

F
RANCESCA BLINKED IN
disbelief. “Kate was your
sister?
”

Hart had joined her and Bragg. The gentleman shrugged. “I'm afraid so.”

Now, Francesca could only stare. How had working-class Kate come from the same family as this gentleman?

Bragg stepped into the fray. “I'm Rick Bragg, commissioner of police,” he said. “I'm sorry about your sister.”

“Thank you,” the man said. “I'm Frank Pierson.”

“Would you mind explaining how Kate wound up a shop girl and the wife of John Sullivan?”

Pierson's jaw tightened. “I'd rather not. This is a dismal day, sir.”

Bragg reached out to restrain him before he could turn and leave. “Sir,” he said very softly, “I am afraid I was not clear. I am not giving you an option. Please explain why a woman from such a genteel background married a man like Sullivan and lived in the financial circumstances that she did.”

Pierson smiled. “I'm sorry. I am distraught. You see, I haven't seen Kate in years, not until now.”

“How many years?” Bragg asked.

“She ran off with a scoundrel, sir, five years ago. He was from a good family, but disowned for his absolutely immoralways. The day she left was the day my family disowned
her,
” he said with some vehemence. “She broke our hearts,” he added.

“What happened to this scoundrel?” Francesca asked. “Surely it wasn't Sullivan?”

“Of course not,” Pierson said quickly, smiling a little. “His name was Bradley Hunter. He left her shortly after. I believe he resides in Paris. She, of course, was ruined, and I imagine that she had no choice but to marry Sullivan.”

“You imagine?” Francesca's own heart began to break for Kate. “Did you not speak to her when Hunter left her? Surely you went after her and tried to bring her home.”

“I did no such thing,” he said coldly. His eyes had turned to ice. “She may be buried today, Miss Cahill, but the fact is my family buried her five years ago, on February 14, the day she chose to run off with Hunter. That morning at breakfast was the last time I saw her and the last time I spoke to her.” His face was rigid. He nodded at Bragg. “Have I sufficiently answered your questions, sir?”

“In a moment,” Bragg said. “Where were you last Thursday night, Mr. Pierson?”

 

B
RAGG LED THE WAY
into his office, but paused at the door. Francesca followed him inside, barely aware of her surroundings, her mind racing. She was analyzing every moment spent with Frank Pierson. When Hart walked in, Bragg shut the door behind him.

Francesca faced both men thoughtfully. “His alibi is ironclad.”

“Yes, it is ironclad,” Bragg said.

“And convenient,” Hart murmured. “Having supper at home with his dear elderly mother while his sister was murdered.”

“There was a house filled with staff,” Francesca said. “The cook, the housekeeper, the butler and a valet.”

“And two housemaids.” Hart was wry.

“He has an alibi forevery night the Slasher attacked,” Francesca cried. “On Mondays, he always attends the Lions Club.”

Bragg went to his desk but did not sit down. “Newman is verifying every alibi, but I feel certain no one will admit that Pierson was not where he said he was when he said he was there.”

Francesca raced over to him. “This is too sweet! Here is our first suspect with solid alibis—which is exactly why I suspect him.”

Bragg smiled a little at her. “I agree,” he said softly.

She smiled back, her every instinct telling her now that they had their man. Kate Sullivan had been conned by a scoundrel and had foolishly run away from home. Apparently, her brother had never forgiven her. It was unbelievable that she had not been allowed back home when Bradley Hunter had abandoned her as swiftly as he had seduced her. According to Pierson, their father had died six months later of a broken heart, apparently losing his will to live. He had suffered a stroke a few months before Kate's lapse from propriety, but had been recuperating until then. And to this day, Mrs. Pierson, Kate's mother, suffered from grave melancholia. And it was all Kate's fault—according to her brother.

“I concur,” Hart said, moving to stand beside Francesca and interrupting her thoughts. “He probably put in an appearance at his gentleman's club, but I doubt anyone would know precisely when he arrived or when he left. His staff undoubtedly fear dismissal should they go against his word. His alibis are utterly pat.”

Francesca smiled at him, too. Then she turned to Bragg, “How will we proceed?”

“I will have a plainclothes officer keep an eye on him as well. I have only one problem,” he said. “What's that?”

“Why the hell would he come to Kate's funeral and reveal his hand?”

They stared at one another for a moment. Bragg's telephone began to ring. He went to get it. Francesca looked at Hart. “He
has made a mistake. They all do, eventually—or at least, the ones who get caught.”

Real warmth filled his eyes and she smiled, reaching for his hand. “I want to talk to you,” he said softly, so Bragg could not hear. “When we get home.”

Her eyes widened and her heart lurched. Her grip on his palm tightened. “Should I be afraid?”

“I don't want you to ever be afraid of me,” he said, “but I cannot answer that.” He hesitated while her mind scrambled and raced. “I want to discuss Daisy,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, that's a very good idea.”

He smiled a little at her then turned his gaze to Bragg. His smile faded. “What is it?” he asked sharply.

Bragg had walked over to them, his expression rather serious. “That was Sarah Channing,” he said.

Francesca gasped. “Is she all right?” There was no reason under the sun for Sarah to call Bragg, and especially at police headquarters.

“She is somewhat hysterical,” he said, his gaze dark and on her now. “It seems that your portrait is missing.”

“Missing?” she echoed in disbelief.

“Stolen,” he said.

 

S
ARAH WAS WAITING FOR THEM.
She was wringing her hands, appearing ashen, as they were ushered inside. Bragg hurried to her.

Francesca did not follow. She remained shocked and disbelieving. They had left the police station as if it were on fire and she could hardly recall the ride to Sarah's. “Calder. This is impossible,” she whispered hoarsely.

His jaw was so tight his face appeared in danger of cracking. He was as distressed as she was, and that was not reassuring. “Apparently not.”

“Calder, someone other than you, me or Sarah has seen that portrait.” Dread consumed her now. How vain and foolish she
had been to pose nude with such abandon for that portrait. She knew her cheeks were on fire. Who was staring at her portrait even now? Who had stolen it?
And why?

“Francesca, it is far worse than that,” Hart said.

“What in God's name do you mean?” she cried.

“I mean, that portrait may very well wind up on public display. Art is usually stolen in order to be fenced.”

The sound that escaped her was high-pitched and choked. She clung to him and he steadied her. “We won't let that happen,” he said firmly.

Her horror knew no bounds. She was mortified. It was one thing to pose for Hart nude, but another to have half the world gaze upon her in such a state. And society would hear all about it—no secret like this, once let loose, could ever be kept. Oh, God! She thought about her family. Julia would be horrified, Andrew ashamed…. They would all be ruined, she thought. They would be ruined by association. But it was embarrassment that consumed her now. If that portrait surfaced, how would she ever appear in public again?

Bragg and Sarah had approached. Bragg looked from Francesca to Hart and back again. Sarah suddenly blurted, “I am so sorry! I should have kept my studio locked! Francesca, please, forgive me!”

Francesca managed to nod. She could hardly form any words. She licked her lips. “It's not your fault.”

Sarah started to cry.

“All right,” Bragg cut in. “I see I am missing something. We seem to have a crisis at hand—one a stolen portrait hardly merits. What exactly is going on? Why do the ladies look as if someone has died, and why do you look ready to murder someone?” he asked, directing this last bit to Hart.

Francesca turned away, somehow moving into Hart's arms. He said, holding her close, “The portrait is a highly suggestive one.”

Francesca closed her eyes, hard.

“Highly suggestive?” Bragg echoed.

Sarah tugged on his sleeve. “It's a wonderful portrait, really. Francesca is lovely and the likeness is unmistakable…” She faltered and broke off miserably.

“It's a nude,” Hart said.

There was a moment of silence.

Francesca decided to be very brave and turned to face Bragg.

He gaped at her in shock.

She stared back. There was absolutely nothing to say.

“I see,” he finally said, color now flooding his cheeks. And then he directed his attention to Hart, and he was furious. “You taint everything you touch.”

Hart stiffened. “I take all blame,” he ground out. “The idea was mine, of course.”

Francesca whirled. “This is hardly your fault!”

Hart made a mocking sound.

“Like hell it isn't! He has never given a damn about anyone but himself. Even now, engaged to you, he only thinks about his own hideous appetites. What in hell were you thinking to expose Francesca this way?” Bragg demanded. His fists were clenched.

Hart made no attempt to defend himself.

“That's not fair.” Francesca stood between the two men, facing Bragg. “I didn't have to be persuaded. I wanted to pose…that way. Hart planned to hang the portrait in his private rooms…after our marriage,” she added lamely.

Bragg stared at her in disbelief. “Even if the painting hadn't been stolen, did it not cross your mind that even a whisper of such a portrait would compromise your reputation?”

She shook her head. How foolish she had been. “No.”

“You leave her alone.” Hart seized Bragg, who shook him off. “I suggest you focus your efforts on doing what you are paid to do. This theft is a crime and it needs to be solved before any damage is done.”

“I doubt there is any way to prevent the damage that will arise. It is hardly possible to conduct a secret investigation!” Bragg flared.

“Untrue. In fact, I think the police should not be involved at all,” Hart said slowly but very firmly. “I'm hiring my own detectives. I will get that painting back.”

Francesca turned to him. Maybe Hart was right. If they assembled a small, independent team, they could find the portrait before any word leaked out of its existence—much less before it was ever displayed. She turned to Bragg and bit her lip. “He's right. We should keep the police out of this.”

His expression tightened. “You don't want my help?”

She touched him. “Of course I want your help. But unofficially,” she said. “The fewer who know, the better.”

His jaw was hard, but he nodded. Then he glanced at Hart with sheer disgust. “I pray for the day when she comes to her senses,” he said. “You will never be good enough for her.”

 

B
RAGG PAUSED AS HE
stepped into the front hall of his house, the weight of dread settling upon his shoulders like a terribly heavy yoke. Instantly he heard the girls upstairs, Katie's tones soft and quiet, Dot alternately giggling and shrieking. His heart warmed, in spite of the fact that his wife was somewhere in the house and that he was afraid to see her. It was impossible to guess what kind of mood she would be in. The only thing he could be sure of was that every day was worse than the one before. Every day she grew more distant and sadder.

Bragg closed the door and started up the narrow stairs. Leigh Anne was waiting for him. She sat in her wheeled chair in their bedroom, appearing sad and pensive. Clearly, there was some matter she wished to discuss. Just down the hall, he saw that Mrs. Flowers was watching the girls, their bedroom door open.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I thought I would be able to come home directly after the funeral, but there was a new lead,
a major one, into the case of the Slasher,” he said, pulling off his tie.

She tried to smile at him and failed. “I know your work comes first. You don't have to apologize,” she said.

His heart lurched. She remained the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, even now in that wheeled chair, the light gone from her emerald eyes, and he wished that four years ago she had been as understanding. He turned away and hurried into the dressing room, the ache in his chest expanding. But when they had first been married she hadn't been understanding at all. She had refused to accept the importance of his work and his priorities—just as he had refused to recognize her needs, just as he had taken his bride completely for granted. Not for the first time, he had the most absurd yearning to go back in time and do everything correctly this time.

He dropped his suit jacket on a chair, his necktie with it, and stared at his reflection in the mirror as he began to remove his cuff links. There was no going back; there was only the present and the future. A month ago, he had wanted a divorce. Now, he hardly knew what he wanted. His emotions had never been more tumultuous. He certainly wanted the two little girls to be happy and in his life forever, and he also knew he wanted to spare Leigh Anne any more anguish and pain. If only he could comfort her. But he had only to look at her to see how unhappy she was. How in hell could he make her happy when she would not even give him a single opportunity to try?

If he could, he decided, he would fix everything, including their marriage. But he simply did not know where to begin.