Deadly Illusions (31 page)

She somehow managed to do so, shaking now. She hated
Calder having even the briefest glimpse of her very real insecurity.

He touched her face. “The one thing I am sure of is that I will never find you boring! And how many times must I reiterate that if I wanted to pursue other women, I would not shackle myself in marriage? I am sick of that life!”

She met his steady gaze. “How sick of it are you, really?”

His smile was derisive. He stood. “Sex has bored me for some time, Francesca. It has become rather like a drug, I think, addictive, but with each dose, less intense. As a result, the addict must constantly find ways to make each act more exciting. That is why I strayed to women like Daisy and Rose, among other less usual fare.”

She was wide-eyed. “You find sex boring?” But it began to make some sense now.

He smiled a little. “I have for a number of years, yes. But recently, that has changed.”

She continued to stare. Her eyebrows felt as if they had risen to join her hairline.

“There is nothing boring about you,” he said, kneeling again. “And I have never felt as excited as when I am with you.” He smiled a little, but she thought he was blushing, for the top of his cheekbones had become tinged with pink. He hesitated and added, “I think it's the fact that I genuinely care about you. It seems to have changed everything.”

“Oh,” she managed to say. She was stunned.

He stood, looking very pensive now and not quite pleased. “So you do not need to listen to anything Daisy has to say. What a troublemaker! The least of our problems will be my wandering the town in pursuit of other women.”

Francesca stood, continuing to reel from Calder's confession. “So why did she upset you so much? She is the reason you almost broke off our engagement Friday night, isn't she?”

He turned to face her. “Yes.”

“Why? You forced me to be utterly honest with you. You can at least do the same with me,” Francesca said.

“She knows me too well,” he said flatly.

“I don't understand,” she began, and there was more dread, again.

“Daisy's entirely accurate point was I am by nature a cad, and I will never be able to change that, not for you, not for any woman. And she is right. I can never reform,” he said harshly. “I am sexually depraved. Inside, I am black and hollow, and we can both pretend I am noble and good, but the truth is, I am not that man.”

“No! Stop!” She took his hand very firmly. “The one thing I do know is that you are a good man, Calder Hart.”

“That is what you are determined to believe, and that is why I—” He stopped. And he flushed from ear to ear. “That is why you are so sweet,” he said hoarsely.

She could only stare, amazed. Every instinct told her that he had been about to tell her that was why he loved her. “I will not lie now, Calder. I am afraid you will wander one day, but I know that there is nothing black inside of you. I know it.”

He took her in his arms. “Don't you see? Daisy, your father and Rick are right. I am simply not worthy of you. I do not want to taint you. I do not want my depravity to rub off on you, not in any way.”

“What are you saying?” she cried, trembling.

“This is the time for us to say goodbye—if that is what you want. Your father is against us and he is right. That portrait is missing and it is my fault. I suggested you pose nude, because of who I am. You deserve someone far better than I, Francesca. Admit it.”

She clasped his face in her hands. “There is no one better. I will admit nothing of the kind. Yes, you have a dark sexual side. But you also have a good side, and don't you dare deny it. I have seen as much nobility in you as I have in your half brother.”

“I will never believe that,” he said softly, “but oddly, I think that you really do.”

He had seemed almost sad as he spoke. She knew that she would never convince him that he was good enough for her. “That sexual side Daisy tried to seduce? Frankly, it is as alluring to me as your nobility, your intellect, and all the power you have amassed when you were born in a ghetto.” His eyes widened. “Of course I know about your dark side. When I met you, your alibi for your father's murder involved sleeping with two women at once. I have known all about you from the very moment we met. I was investigating you. I had heard every rumor and every fact before I ever fell in love with you.”

His eyes went even wider. His coloring vanished. “What? What did you just say?”

She released him, backing up. “I, er…I…” She stammered.

He seized her. “Like hell! You just said you love me! Do you love me? But how can you? You love Rick! You gave your heart to him first, and you told me yourself, when we first met, that you were a woman to give her heart away once and only one time.”

She swallowed, trembling. “I thought I loved him,” she whispered, “but now I have true love and I can feel the difference. I respected him, I admired him, I cared for him—and it was an infatuation. Calder, it was nothing like this. I have never felt this way about anyone, ever, in my life.” She felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

She had not wanted to tell him the real extent of her feelings. She knew this confession would give him so much power, but as afraid as she was, she was also relieved. “I am in love with you,” she whispered. “Head over heels in love with you.”

“Oh God,” was all he said, as white as a ghost. He held her face and kissed her, hard and deep. And abruptly he released her, stepping back.

“You can't stay,” he said, pointing at her. His hand trembled.
He saw, and slipped it into his pocket. “I have a very serious loss of control,” he added more calmly.

She could only gape.

His eyes were black. “Francesca, if you don't turn around and walk out that door, I am going to more than make love to you, and I know I will regret ruining our wedding night for the rest of my life.”

He was shaking. She had never seen him at such a loss. She nodded, biting her lip. “Then you had better go while I get dressed,” she said.

He raked his hair with his hand. “Yes. Yes, that is a good idea.” But he did not move. He stared. “Did you mean it? How could you mean it?” he demanded.

She began to glimpse the small, abandoned boy who had never grown up, a boy who was frightened and vulnerable and who lived still inside the powerful, arrogant man. “I meant it.” And suddenly she realized that she had not just handed Calder the keys to their kingdom.
He needed her as much as she needed him. And he needed not just her genuine love, but her genuine faith.
“I mean it.”

He inhaled harshly and suddenly whirled and walked out of the room.

She stared at the closed doors. And then she began to smile, sitting down, clasping her corset and shirt to her chest. Life with Calder Hart would never be easy, she thought, but it would always be interesting. Her smile grew.

And clearly, the wedding was on.

 

S
HE WAS THE MOST
faithless bitch of them all. He stood at the window, staring into Calder Hart's library, watching Francesca Cahill smiling like the whore she was as she dressed. His fingers gripped the hilt of the small penknife so hard that they ached.

And the little bitch dared to call herself a sleuth, dared to think she could outwit him.

She would have to go, he thought. But not yet. Eventually, but not yet.

Clearly, she wanted to play games.

He smiled, unhinged the three-inch blade and touched it with his thumb.

Blood spurted. He had honed the blade last night, and it was no longer dull.

Let the games begin, he thought with real relish. For he knew who to strike next, oh yes, and his next victim would make Miss Cahill weep.

He could barely wait.

Monday, April 28, 1902 11:00 a.m.

E
VAN STOOD AT THE
window of his hotel suite, staring down at Fifth Avenue. From where he stood he could glimpse most of Madison Square. It was the beginning of the week, and even though it was midmorning, pedestrian traffic was heavy. Gentlemen in their business attire were hurrying down the street, attending to urgent affairs.

The street was also congested with vehicular traffic. Numerous drays were heading downtown, loaded with wares, causing hansoms and coaches to fight for the right to pass and move on more swiftly. His temples drummed painfully as he watched. How had his life come to this—estranged from his family, lacking sufficient funds and on the verge of wedlock to a woman he did not really care for? And then he saw a woman with pale reddish-blond hair alighting from a hansom. His heart skipped erratically.

Evan leaned on the sill, thinking it was Maggie Kennedy, his pulse now racing swiftly with excitement. He quickly realized that the woman was a very elegant lady and he straightened, the tension in his body instantly vanishing. Watching her disappear into the hotel, he was disappointed.

He closed his eyes.

Bartolla was having his child and they had agreed to elope at the end of the week.

He could hear the roll of the die, the spinning of the roulette
wheel, the shuffle of cards, the hushed, intense conversation, the tinkle of fine glassware.

Sweat trickled from his forehead.

He desperately needed to go down the block and to the club, but he still owed his creditors well over fifty thousand dollars. On the other hand, the entire world knew Hart had paid off almost half of his debt, so maybe his credit was good. It would be good, he decided stubbornly, if he made the right case for himself with the proprietor of the establishment.

His blood heated and rushed.

He only needed one game, he thought, one more game and then he would quit, this time forever.

But he knew it was a lie.

If he went back to the tables, he would play until he was incarcerated by his creditors.

Bartolla would then bear his child alone.

Maggie smiled at him, but her blue eyes were so sad.
“Of course you have to marry her. She is having your child. One day, you will look back and realize this was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

How in hell had this happened? he thought, at once furious and despairing. He had used protection, goddamn it, but that had failed, and now he was going to have to marry Bartolla. He had tried to convince himself that it was a good match—she was a wealthy widow, after all, and he would never go crawling back to his father—but he had long since given up. He dreaded the day they would tie the knot. He did not want to marry her and while he knew he would love their child, he wished desperately that another woman carried it.

“Damn it,”
he cursed, livid with himself. He couldn't take it anymore, and if he wanted to gamble his life away, he had every right. He whirled and stormed across the suite, shrugging on his jacket. He found his hat and cane and was on his way out when Bartolla Benevente walked in.

“Darling!” She smiled widely at him, dressed in some ruby-
red ensemble that was hardly appropriate for day, as it left no doubt as to the extent of her charms. But he was immune now to her lush, exposed bosom, her narrow waist, her extraordinary eyes and lips. “Are you on your way out? Have you forgotten? You promised to buy me a ring!” She laid her gloved hands on his shoulders, her rouged lips seeking his.

He stiffened, pulling away. Damn it, he had to get her a ring.

She stiffened, too, her eyes wide and wary. “Evan? What is wrong?”

“Nothing.” He was rude and abrupt but could not help himself. “I have to go out.”

“But…but we have a noon appointment at Harry Winston.”

“I'm afraid you will have to reschedule,” he said coldly. He knew he was being a boor, but he could not prevent himself. He bowed. “I am sorry, but I have a pressing matter that I must attend.” He turned and strode out.

She ran after him. “What pressing matter?”

He did not answer, sweating now. The roll of the die, the shuffle of cards, the spinning wheel were a symphony in his mind. One game, he told himself, it would be just one game and he would escape the misery of his life.

But Maggie's blue eyes filled his mind, not accusing, merely sad.

 

“F
RANCESCA!
Y
OU ARE ON
your way out? I heard the news and I was hoping to talk to you,” Connie cried.

Francesca was in the front hall, about to pull on her gloves. Joel had walked in a moment ahead of her sister, as he was to accompany her downtown. She beamed at her sister, who was lovely in a rose hued skirt and jacket. “Good morning!” Her hearty greeting was followed by a bearlike embrace that left Connie blinking.

Connie shrugged off her lightweight mauve coat. “My! You are in quite a good mood. Either you and Calder have made up,
or Papa has changed his mind about the wedding.” She smiled at Joel. “Hello there.”

He blushed wildly. “Miz Montrose,” he murmured, looking away.

Francesca smiled at Joel's vivid reaction to her very beautiful sister. Even her father's disapproval could not shake her current state of happiness. “I have yet to sit down with Papa and explain to him that I am marrying Calder Hart no matter what,” she said. Then she gripped Connie's arm, lowering her voice, even though Joel could certainly hear. “I think he loves me!”

Connie began to smile, amusement in her eyes. “Francesca, a man is usually in love when he asks a woman he barely knows to marry him, and on the spur of the moment at that.”

“Calder asked me to marry him because I am his best and only friend,” Francesca said. “But that has changed, I think.”

Connie slipped her arm around her. “Fran, did you really believe that lame excuse? No man marries a woman for
friendship.
”

Francesca suddenly realized that her sister was right. “But he has insisted all along that we are simply well suited, that he is tired of his womanizing life and merely wishes to settle down with me.”

Connie raised an eyebrow. “I doubt Hart could ever get down on one knee and profess to having fallen in love like the rest of us mere mortals.”

Francesca had to stare. “You think he has been in love with me from the moment he proposed?”

“Of course I do. I just assume he refuses to admit it—to you, to anyone and especially to himself.”

“He almost admitted it last night,” Francesca said with a blush. Could her sister possibly be right? “In a way he did admit it, but of course, indirectly.”

“And what will you do about Papa?” Connie asked bluntly.

Francesca sighed, glancing at Joel, who was, of course, all
ears, while pretending with poor results, not to hear. “I need your help. In fact, the entire family must form a united front and convince him to change his mind,” Francesca said firmly.

“I will gladly help,” Connie said. “Where are you off to? Are you sleuthing today?”

Francesca nodded. “I must speak with one of the suspects again—Sam Wilson. It turns out the alibi his fiancée gave was a lie. I also want to speak somewhat further with Kate Sullivan's brother and other family members.” She grew thoughtful. “How odd it is to suddenly learn that Kate came from a wealthy background. And her brother hardly seems to be grieving.”

“You suspect her brother?” Connie wondered.

“I have three suspects, but yes, that includes Mr. Pierson, although he has some rather convincing alibis. Con, the killer has struck on subsequent Mondays and I am very afraid he will strike again today or tonight.”

Connie appeared uneasy. “I am not comfortable with you running around today, not if the killer is out and about looking for another target, Fran.”

Francesca smiled at her. “Don't worry. I not only have Joel, but Hart gave me Raoul as a bodyguard. And Bragg is joining me. In fact, I am running late—I am supposed to meet him at headquarters at noon.”

“Then I won't keep you,” Connie said. She smiled. “I am so glad you and Hart have made up.”

Francesca drew on her gloves. “So am I,” she murmured, and she blushed, thinking about last night.

“Miss Cahill?” Goodwin, the doorman, spoke. “An envelope was dropped off for you after you finished your breakfast. Do you want it before you leave or shall I send it up to your rooms?”

“I'll take it now, thank you.” Francesca came forward, hardly surprised by the missive. She received notes every day, mostly from Sarah, who disliked using the telephone. In that moment, she realized that she had not told Connie that her portrait had
been stolen. But the moment she saw her name scripted on the envelope's creamy vellum, she knew the note was not from Sarah and she decided she did not want to broach the distasteful subject of the missing painting. Curious, she slit the envelope with her nail and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

Francesca gasped.

“What is it?” Connie asked quickly as Joel ran over, trying to peer over her arm at the note.

“Someone claims to know the identity of the Slasher,” Francesca said, racing away from the front door and down the corridor to her father's study. Had the killer just contacted her? Was it Francis O'Leary, referring to Sam? But why would Francis not identify herself? Or was it someone else, someone who had somehow stumbled onto the Slasher's real identity?

Connie ran after her. “Oh, God, this is too dangerous, I am certain!”

Francesca picked up the telephone, Joel at her elbow. “We had better git downtown, Miz Cahill,” he said.

She gestured at him to be silent.

“Yes, Miss Cahill?” the operator asked.

“Beatrice, please ring up Mr. Hart at his Bridge Street office.” Her pulse was racing with excitement now. This was most definitely a new development and she prayed it would break the case.

“Certainly, Miss Cahill. You sound very excited. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Francesca said, tapping her foot impatiently. She should have called Bragg first, but it was too late now.

“Mr. Hart, your fiancée is on the line,” Beatrice said cheerfully.

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Hart said firmly, his tone indicating that he wished for her not to eavesdrop on their call.

“You're welcome, Mr. Hart,” Beatrice murmured as if she was rather smitten with him.

“Francesca? What's wrong?” Hart asked.

“I have just received a note from someone claiming to know who the Slasher is,” Francesca cried. “The note is not signed and he or she wants me to meet him at the Sherry Netherland hotel at noon.”

“It's a trap,” Hart said flatly. “You are not going—Bragg can handle this.”

“Of course I am going,” Francesca cried. “The note was explicitly addressed to me. Whoever wrote it wants to confide in
me.
”

“I don't care who they want to confide in. Has it occurred to you that the note might be from the Slasher himself?” Hart said tersely.

She ignored him. “Hart, I mustn't be late—call Bragg, I am heading downtown. Just make sure he is discreet when he arrives. Thank you!”

“Francesca!” he began furiously, but she hung up.

She realized Connie was pale and wide-eyed. She handed her sister the note. “Keep that safe. Now, don't worry, I will be fine.” She pecked her sister's cheek. “I am going to the Sherry Netherland.”

“Francesca, you can't,” Connie protested, ashen.

But Francesca was on her way out. “Don't worry, I have Joel, Raoul—and I have a gun.”

Connie cried, “Now I am really worried!”

 

S
HE PACED, FEELING TERRIBLY ALONE.

It was a pleasant spring day, the sun warm and bright, the sky blue, the overhead clouds puffy and white. If Bragg had come, she could not tell, as there was no sign of him or any detectives anywhere in sight. Joel was a bit farther down the
block, begging for coins and in general, appearing absolutely unremarkable. Hart had arrived by a cab, and he had disappeared into the hotel, looking madder than hell, but he had, somehow, refrained from even looking at her once. Francesca wished his temper was not so easily ignited but she would worry about mending that fence later.

Traffic was heavy in front of the hotel, with many hansoms and coaches pausing before the gold-and-cream-colored canvas canopy to discharge the various gentlemen arriving for lunch, as well as pairs of handsomely attired ladies, mostly middle-aged matrons. Francesca loitered by the lamppost, just a few steps from the hotel's entrance, watching every passerby and every hotel guest. No one bothered to look her way, other than the occasional single gentleman who hoped for some sign of interest from her. Of course, she gave none.

She paced, dismayed. Today was Monday and even though the Slasher had broken the pattern by murdering Kate Sullivan Thursday—and probably murdering her husband as well— Francesca felt certain that he would strike again that day. Every victim thus far had been female, poor and pretty. All had been Irish except for Margaret Cooper, but she had been Irish by descent on her mother's side. Everyone except for Margaret Cooper had attended Father Culhane's church—Margaret had been Baptist. Francesca could not help but go back to her original theory that Margaret had been a mistake—the killer had intended to strike at Gwen, but had mixed up his victims.

If that were the case, would he strike at Gwen again? But Gwen had police protection—and that would keep her safe.

Francesca tensed, an alarm going off inside of her mind, one warning her now that she had just missed an important clue. She felt strongly that Margaret had been mistaken for Gwen, but Gwen was now safe. So what was she missing?