Deadly Vows (27 page)

An image of the two of them dining in an empty restaurant came to mind. Shaken, she started past him. “Yes, we do.” And she faltered, as her way up the staircase was barred.

“Hello, Francesca,” Hart said, his tone mocking.

Her heart raced. “What are you doing here?” she cried. His expression was as dark as thunderclouds.

He stared and she began to realize that he might have been standing above them on the stairs for some time. Tension began. Had he heard their conversation? Had he overheard Bragg asking her out? Did it matter? Why hadn't he stopped by or sent her a note—it had been a day and a half!

Hadn't he missed her at all?

“Sarah Channing called this morning and mentioned that Maggie's daughter had been abducted.” His cold gaze moved over her from head to toe, then fixated on Bragg. “Hello, Rick. I can see that the two of you are busy sleuthing away.”

Clearly annoyed, Bragg did not answer. Instead, he stepped past Francesca, no easy task as the stairwell was so narrow. She shrank against the wall to allow him to move up the stairs. As she did, Hart shrugged past her as well, going down. Francesca did not move, shaken by the sexual look Hart had given her. It had been dismissive. Bragg gave her a grim look before continuing up to the third floor, where Maggie's flat was. Below, the front door slammed. Francesca turned and raced down the stairs after Hart.

“Wait,” she cried, rushing outside.

He turned and stared, his expression cool. “I hope you enjoy your weekend with my brother. As a matter of fact, I hope you enjoy spending this day with him, as well.” But he did not turn to go. His eyes were black upon hers.

Her heart lurched with dread. “That isn't fair. We are friends and we are on a case.”

He made a disparaging sound.

“I haven't heard from you since Monday night.” She tensed. Too well, she recalled their boundlessly passionate lovemaking—and his rejection of her. Being there with him reminded her of how much she loved him and how much she had missed him. His powerful presence was consuming. “I have been worried,” she added.

“We are estranged,” he said flatly.

“But we are friends,” she said pointedly.

His stare never wavered. Finally, almost upon a sigh, he said, “Yes, Francesca, we are friends.”

She smiled nervously. “Have you come to help find Lizzie?”

“Yes. I am fond of Joel, Francesca.” He was grim. “I am fond of Mrs. Kennedy.”

She bit her lip. “And you happen to know how fond I am of them both.” His expression did not alter. “You do not have to be angry, Hart. Bragg and I are investigating, that is all. My feelings haven't changed.”

He folded his arms. Had his expression softened ever so slightly? “I am hardly angry. I have expected a reversal from you all along. I want you to run about town with my brother. In fact, you should accept his supper invitation.”

“You cannot mean that.”

“I never say what I don't mean, Francesca, damn it.”

“If we dine together, it will be as friends. But that is the last thing on my mind.”

“Really? Because your heart is breaking for him, of course. He is in anguish, and your shoulder will be the one he cries upon.” He shrugged as if he did not care, but his gaze was blacker than before.

“I will always be there for Rick—and I will always be there for you—and anyone else I care about who needs me,” she cried.

Suddenly he touched her cheek. “And that is your allure, is it not?”

His caress vibrated through every inch of her body.

Hart's fingertips slipped down her neck. “He is pursuing you, Francesca,” he said softly and seductively.

She inhaled as he dropped his hand, desire slamming through her. He had aroused her on purpose—but why? To prove he could? “He is doing no such thing. We are friends. He is married. Even you have remarked how moral he is. What we are doing is desperately trying to find Lizzie!”

He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Even
someone as virtuous as my brother must sometimes give in to temptation.”

She choked. “Stop throwing me at him!”

“I'll think about it. Has there been a ransom note?”

She was startled by his abrupt change of topic. “No, there has not. Evan swears he has not been gaming again, and I believe him.”

“I hope he is telling the truth. If our thief has done this, there might never be a ransom, Francesca.”

She hadn't reached such a horrific conclusion. “Please don't tell me you think that our thief continues to torture me by striking at those I love.”

“Our thief is very clever and very ruthless. I am worried about Lizzie.”

She reached for his hand. For one moment, he allowed her to grip it. “So am I.”

He withdrew his palm from hers. “I remain worried about you, Francesca.”

She was relieved. “I have been surprised that you did not call, to find out if we have turned up any new leads.”

He was wry. “I did call—just not you. I already know that Randall was in town the weekend the portrait was stolen and that Rick has a warrant out for his arrest.”

She gaped.

“I have a telephone, Francesca, not to mention a coach and driver, and I am hardly shy about demanding details from my brother.” His gaze held hers. “I spoke with Rick twice yesterday, at some length.”

Rick hadn't said a word. “Then you also know about Rose? That she knew about the portrait? Daisy told her.”

“It is such a small world,” he mocked. “I did not trust Rose in April, and I do not trust her now. You and Rick should speak with her again.” A tinge of anger was in his
tone. “Isn't it fortunate that fate continues to throw you and my brother together?”

“I want you, not Rick,” she said immediately, without thinking.

A terrible pause ensued. Then he said slowly, “I did not hear you turn him down, Francesca.”

She felt her heart thudding. “He is one of my dearest friends. That is all.”

“Do you really believe that?”

That image flashed, of her and Bragg dining together in some deserted establishment. No, she did not believe that—the affection between them was simply too strong.

“I thought so,” he said harshly. He started past her.

She ran after him. “Please wait. I will admit how fond I am of him. But damn it, Hart, you are the man of my dreams.”

He whirled. “No, I am not, and I have never been the man of your dreams! You rescued me—as you do everyone. And I used all of my charm and appeal to seduce you.”

She seized his arm. “And I am glad!”

His eyes blazed and she realized he was absolutely furious, just as she also realized he was an instant from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. She went still, her heart thundering, as he stared at her mouth. “Goddamn my black soul.”

She cried out. “Don't you say that this is all your fault!”

“But it is. Have you ever considered that if you had not posed nude for that portrait, you and I would now be man and wife?”

He was right. “Damn that portrait!” she cried.

“Ah, so finally, you admit the portrait is a damnable thing.” He pulled away from her. “I am not leaving the
city either, Francesca, until we have recovered the damn portrait and thrown the thief in jail.”

She inhaled. “You would never abandon me in my time of need. I had no doubt.”

“No, I would never walk away, not at a time like this.”

She touched his jaw. “Then we can dine together this weekend. After all, you are my champion and my defender—you have said so yourself. I need you, Calder.”

“That is not possible, Francesca,” he warned. He caught her hand, but did not remove it. “Do not think to seduce or manipulate me.”

“I miss you terribly,” she breathed. “I miss our evenings. I miss being in your arms—you know it. And I believe you miss me, too.”

Grimly, he removed her hand from his face. “There will be no such confession.”

Francesca did not hesitate. “Yet.”

And for an instant, the dark light in his eyes softened.

She smiled. “You are here, Hart. And you called Rick.”

He made a sound. “I have an inherent instinct to protect you, Francesca. I will freely admit it. And I doubt that will ever change.” But before she could become thrilled, he continued. “Even though the writing is on the wall.”

“There is no writing on the wall.”

“We will see.”

They stared at one another. Hart finally said, “Are you going up?”

Francesca didn't pause to think. “Will you come with me? I could use your help, and I am being sincere.”

He hesitated, then abruptly nodded.

Wednesday, July 2, 1902
11:00 a.m.

S
HE HAD WON
this round, Francesca thought, acutely aware of Hart as they started toward the brownstone where Maggie lived.

“Don't gloat,” he said. She felt his breath on her ear and the warmth of his body behind hers.

She smiled to herself. “I am not gloating, Hart. You happen to bring very useful insights into an investigation, jaded as you are.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“No. I need a good dose of healthy cynicism now and then.”

“Yes, you do. And you are gloating, Francesca, I can feel it. I have never denied that we are friends or that I wish to aid you in your various endeavors, nor will—” He stopped before finishing his sentence.

Francesca turned. Hart was looking toward the street in sharp surprise. She followed his glance and saw a burly fellow in a plaid shirt climbing from a wagon, carrying a package in his arms. Except the package was squirming.…

“Lizzie!” she screamed.

Hart was already rushing toward the ruffian. The gray-haired man dropped Lizzie, who fell on her hands and knees and started to howl in a toddler's shrieking rage.
The stranger was reaching for the back of the wagon to jump in; another smaller fellow was in the driver's seat. As Francesca rushed toward Lizzie, she saw the rough grab the back of the wagon bed with both hands, hauling himself into it. As the driver yelled, “Giddap,” to the horse, Hart seized the man by one shoulder. The wagon began to move. Hart pulled the man off the cart, throwing him down into the street.

“Lizzie!” Francesca cried, kneeling and sweeping the crying child into her arms. “It's all right,” she soothed, but she was watching Hart as he descended upon Lizzie's abductor. And instantly, she knew he was a man bent on vengeance. “Hart! No!”

If he heard, he gave no sign. He reached down, hauled the man to his feet and slammed his fist into his face. Francesca heard a bone crack. “Hart!” she screamed.

Hart held the rough up and drove him across the sidewalk into the building. He hit him in the face again. “I despise bullies and cowards,” he said coolly.

Francesca held Lizzie tightly as a crowd gathered. She saw the big German grocer amongst the gawkers. “Mr. Schmidt! Please—get Bragg. He is at Maggie's!”

“Is that the bastard who took Lizzie?” a young man exclaimed angrily.

“That's the crook who stole Maggie's girl!” a boy about Joel's age cried, holding a baseball bat and a glove.

The thug was surrounded now, his nose and eye bleeding. Francesca knew he was frantically looking for a possible means of escape. She bent and kissed Lizzie's soft blond hair. “It is all right. Your mother will be here shortly.”

Lizzie looked up at her, her face tear-stained, and smiled angelically. “I have a new doll,” she said, showing Francesca a tiny porcelain figurine with blond hair.

Tears welled. If Lizzie had been given a toy, then she
hadn't been mistreated, and she certainly did not look upset now. In fact, she looked clean and happy. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” Francesca asked, cuddling her.

“Mama,” Lizzie said fiercely. “I want Mama to see Fran.”

It took Francesca a moment to realize that Lizzie wanted to show the doll to her mother—and that she had named it after Francesca. Francesca straightened, holding the little girl tightly. Hart glanced at her. She shivered, because the look in his eyes was frightening.

Hart said to the thug, “Don't even think it. I should love to break open your skull.”

“I ain't done nuthin' except follow orders,” the man cried, wiping blood from his face.

“Whose orders?” Hart calmly asked.

Francesca knew he was going to hit him again. She knew he should not. She didn't speak—neither did the thug. Francesca quickly covered Lizzie's eyes. Hart slammed his fist back into the man's nose. Bones broke. The man screamed.

“String him up!” someone cried. “Hang him for stealing Lizzie!”

“Whose orders?” Hart asked again.

The thug was panting. Hart did not look away from him, but he said, “Boy, give me your baseball bat. I need to borrow it.”

Francesca cringed as the boy rushed forward to hand Hart his bat. Before she could tell him to stop, the door to Maggie's building flew open, and Bragg, Maggie, Joel and his brothers, and Evan came rushing out. Maggie saw Lizzie in Francesca's arms immediately. She ran forward to take her daughter, crying out.

Keeping one eye on Hart and the thug as Bragg quickly strode through the crowd, she said to Maggie, “I don't think she was hurt.”

“No one is getting hanged today,” Bragg told the crowd, which roared in protest. He looked at Hart. “In this city, judges in courts dispense justice.”

Hart looked at the gray-haired fellow, who was cringing against the wall of the building. “Ignore him—he is the virtuous one. I am the son of a bitch who is going to break your kneecaps with this baseball bat. Whose orders?”

“She calls herself Countess!” he cried. “She's one of them rich snobs over on the west side!”

Hart smiled at Bragg, triumphant. “You can thank me later.”

“You should ice that hand,” Bragg said tersely. “And you can thank me for not pressing assault charges, Calder. This is a civil society.”

Hart rolled his eyes and strode past Bragg. The crowd parted for him. Their gazes instantly met. Hart handed the bat back to the boy, never looking away from her. And in spite of knowing better, in spite of the values she treasured, her heart swelled.

Her pulse raced as she left Lizzie and Maggie in one another's embrace. She slowly walked forward. “Your hand is bleeding, Hart.”

“It's his blood, not mine.”

She doubted that. “Hart,” she began, about to reprove him.

“Don't. It will only remind me that you and Rick are perfectly suited.”

She bit back what she wished to say—that he shouldn't have taken the law into his own hands. Then she smiled. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For seizing that crook and—”

“And beating him until he identified Bartolla?” He brushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. The gesture
was so impossibly tender that she went still. “You know, Francesca, where you live, it is a ‘civil' society. We should all aspire to the rule of law. But this is a vast city—and an even vaster world. There are times when clinging to the law is sheer insanity. At times, might makes right—and an iron fist is all that separates good from evil.”

She hated admitting that he was right. Then the reality of Lizzie's kidnapping struck her, hard. Bartolla had paid that thug to abduct Lizzie. “It is suddenly sinking in.” She reached for his hand and he winced. “I cannot believe that Bartolla would do such a thing.”

“I can,” Hart said flatly. “And I'm not the only one.”

He wasn't looking at her. Francesca turned. And the expression on her brother's face was frightening.

 

A
S
F
RANCESCA GOT OUT
of her cab at 529 Broadway, she smiled to herself. Lizzie was just fine. It had taken her about an hour to tell her story, and it sounded as if she had spent the night in a hotel room with a young woman who might have been a housemaid. She had been well fed, read to and given the toy. She had been told that she was on a holiday.

Bragg had sent men to the Channing residence to bring Bartolla downtown for questioning. The thug who had abducted Lizzie had gone silent after being taken into custody. There wouldn't be any charges until a case could be proven in court. Bragg had had a meeting with the city council, so he had left Francesca to her own devices.

She still couldn't believe that Bartolla would stoop so low. Maggie was furious—she wanted Bartolla behind bars. Francesca did not blame her.

She trembled with ballooning joy. She had taken Hart over to the grocery, sat him down on a big barrel and provided him with an ice pack. As she had hovered over him, trying to hold the ice for him, he had looked at her
with the dangerously sensual gaze he so often had. It had been impossible keeping her hands to herself.

What are you doing?

I am icing your hand.

I am an adult, Francesca, I can hold the ice myself.

Her hands had fluttered over his shoulders. He had given her an intense look.

What are you doing?

There is dust on your jacket—no, dirt.

Can't keep your hands to yourself?

No, Hart, I can't.

For one moment, she had thought he would take her in his arms or upon his lap. Instead, he had stood, tossing the ice pack aside and thanking Schmidt for it. Then he had told her he had business matters he wanted to pursue. And he had put her into a cab.…

Now she faced the front door of the building where the Moores lived. He was thawing. Desire still raged between them. She loved him and she felt certain he loved her. He hadn't meant a word of what he had said to her on Saturday evening, after she had failed to show up for their wedding.

She was almost certain.

The only thing he had meant was that he wasn't good enough for her. She sighed. He might think that till the end of his days, but she did not believe it, not for a single second. But hadn't she known, going into the marriage, that Hart was complicated and dark and that their journey wouldn't be easy?

Today had proven to her just how powerful an ally he could be.

Francesca pinched herself, reminding herself that she was on a case, and she went up to the Moores' residence. It was early enough that she expected Marsha to be at home. The gallery was still the scene of a criminal
investigation, so she did not know if Daniel would be in or not.

His wife answered the door directly after her first knock. She appeared stricken to see Francesca, who smiled. “I am so sorry to call without advance notice. May I please come inside and speak with you, Mrs. Moore?”

Marsha was pale. “Miss Cahill, I have nothing more to say.” She began to close the door.

Francesca stepped forward, so the door struck her hip, and she winced. “If your husband is innocent, as I believe he is, don't you want to help prove it?”

Tears arose in Marsha Moore's eyes. “I am so tired of this! What have I done to deserve so much unhappiness?”

Francesca did not care for self-pity, but she felt sorry for Marsha. “You have already been a huge help. Don't you believe your husband is innocent of any wrongdoing?”

A moment passed. Then she opened the door, allowing Francesca inside. “Yes, I do. But—” She stopped.

“But what?” Francesca asked gently.

“These are hard, difficult times. It wasn't always this way.”

Her compassion escalated. Marsha seemed like a kind, solid woman. “I am sorry for all your troubles,” Francesca said, meaning it. “You do not deserve any of this.”

“Thank you.”

“Mrs. Moore, on Saturday night, when you saw a man on the street outside this building, waiting for your husband, was it dark out? The street is well lit at night.”

“It was late, so it was dark. When I looked out the window and saw Daniel below, speaking to that strange man, they stood by one of the oak trees. Daniel was entirely visible, but the other man was harder to see.”

“So you didn't see his face?”

She hesitated. “He was in the shadows, Miss Cahill, but not so much so that he didn't upset me. I recognized him from earlier in the week, and as I said, he looks like a dangerous man.”

“Was it also dark when you saw him outside the gallery?”

“No, it was only five or six, but he loitered by some trees then as well—he did not want to be seen.” She was firm.

Francesca decided that Bragg had been right. Marsha could not possibly identify the loiterer with certainty. It could have been Bill Randall outside the apartment and the gallery. “I am sorry for intruding and taking up your time.” She smiled. “If you remember anything else that has happened that you think odd, which might help us find the culprit who locked me in the gallery and stole the portrait, please do contact me or the police.”

Marsha Moore didn't move.

Francesca became alert. “Is there something else, Mrs. Moore? Something you have yet to reveal?”

She hesitated. “Maybe…I don't know.”

“Please, I will gladly take any clue.”

She inhaled. “There was a woman in his gallery earlier in the week.”

Francesca thought of Rose and stiffened. “Go on.”

“I do the books there every week. Daniel told me she was shopping for an oil, but…I didn't believe him.”

“Why not? Can you describe this woman?” Francesca cried.

“Because I heard them arguing. She was so angry. I peeked out from the back office just for a moment. She was dark haired, Miss Cahill. That's all I know. When they saw me, they became silent—as if hiding something. I went back to the books, and apparently, she left.”

Rose was dark; Rose was volatile and angry; and Rose
had known about the portrait. Had she been at the gallery, negotiating for its lease? Was she the thief, after all? Francesca thought her heart might explode with excitement over this new clue. “Would you recognize this woman again?”

“I think so,” Marsha Moore said.

 

G
RAND
C
ENTRAL
S
TATION
was in chaos. Dozens of passengers were alighting from private coaches, public taxis and the occasional motorcar before the Lexington Avenue entrance. Luggage was piled up on the sidewalk and in the street and adjacent portico. Porters were helping passengers navigate their way into the terminal with their bags. Evan shoved a dollar bill at his cabdriver and leaped from the cab.

Bartolla had not been home when the police had arrived at the Channing mansion to detain her. He had left Maggie happily ensconced in her flat, with milk and cookies for all her children, the moment he had heard the thug confess. She had rushed after him. “Leave Bartolla to the police!” she had cried, so in tune with him that she knew exactly what he was doing. He had smiled grimly at her, kissed her on the mouth and told her not to worry.