Deadly Vows (32 page)

 

T
HE MOMENT SHE
got into his coach, Francesca saw that Hart was brooding. Raoul closed the door and leaped into the driver's seat above them. She looked at him and said, “What is wrong?”

He eyed her. “Is your father prepared to murder me?”

Her eyes widened, afraid he was having doubts about their reconciliation. “He would like nothing more, Calder.”

Hart looked grim. As the coach began to speed down Fifth Avenue, he stared out his window. Francesca said reluctantly, “I suppose I should have gone home last night.”

“You fell asleep.” He turned his black gaze on her. “You were exhausted, and not just from my lovemaking.”

She colored slightly. “It was a difficult day.” She thought about her confrontation with Bill Randall, which she hadn't mentioned yet. She was fairly certain Hart's dark mood had little to do with her father and everything to do with his brother's involvement in the theft of her
portrait. He was surely still excoriating himself for his role in the portrait's theft.

“Why are you wincing?” he asked.

He did not miss a trick. She managed a light smile. “I told Julia that we would come to the Springs as soon as possible, and spend the summer with them.”

Impossibly, his eyes darkened. “I am not spending the summer in Saratoga with your parents.” He was final. “You're still wincing.”

She bit her lip. “There is one small thing that I have failed to tell you.”

His eyes widened and he shifted in his seat, to sit up straighter. “Oh ho. This will be arousing.”

She inhaled. “Well, we are on our way to get a confession out of Bill.”

“What haven't you told me, Francesca?” His tone was dangerous.

“When I got home yesterday afternoon, before I went to Siegel-Cooper, Bill confronted me in Papa's library.” She kept her tone very calm.

He choked. “What happened?”

She reached for his hand but he pulled away. Grimly, she said, “He didn't admit anything.” Actually, he had admitted to intending to destroy her and Hart, but she wasn't going to tell him that. “But he did know that I had been locked up.”

“So do most of the newsmen in the city, as unsavory gossip spreads swiftly.” Hart stared. “What aren't you telling me, Francesca?”

His words suddenly echoed.
You have destroyed my family.… Why would I steal a painting?

“What happened?” Hart demanded.

“He assaulted me,” she said quickly. “But I called for help and the staff heard, so in the end no harm was done.”

Hart cursed.

“This is not your fault!” She seized his hand.

He flung her off. “He wants revenge against me, not you!”

“He wants revenge against us both!” she cried in return. Then she wished she hadn't spoken.

“Ah, so now we get to the truth.” He stared out his window as they crossed town on Fourteenth Street. There was no traffic to speak of, except for one empty trolley. Francesca settled against the luxurious squabs grimly. “Francesca?”

She sighed. “Yes, he admitted that he wants to hurt us both.”

Hart made a harsh sound.

When he did not speak, she finally said, “He must be our thief. Mary knew the portrait was a nude, so she has seen it. Mary must have been at the gallery earlier in the week, arguing with Moore—Marsha mentioned seeing a dark, angry woman there. He must be the thief, Calder.”

Hart finally looked at her. “What about Rose? I do not believe in coincidence, not in a circumstance like this one.”

“What is your point?”

“They are all involved.” He was firm. “We simply do not have all the facts.”

Was he right? Was Rose somehow involved? “It is odd that Rose knew about the portrait—although I don't think she knows it was a nude.”

“Farr obviously told her about it, after it was stolen in April.”

“No, Daisy told her that you had commissioned my portrait,” Francesca corrected. “In February.”

Hart straightened. “And how would Daisy know such a thing?”

They had turned onto Mulberry Street, which was almost as quiet as crosstown. Francesca stared. “You didn't tell Daisy that you had asked Sarah to paint my portrait?”

“I would never discuss such a thing with Daisy. Our affair was very brief and ended with my engagement to you.”

Her gaze was riveted to his now. “The commission was common knowledge,” she began.

“Daisy does not run in those circles. She would have never heard about the portrait.”

As Raoul halted the carriage behind Bragg's black Daimler, Francesca and Hart stared at one another. “What are you saying?”

“For whatever reason, Rose is lying. Daisy did not tell her about the portrait because Daisy did not know about it—I am certain.”

Francesca was aware that a clue was staring her in the face and she was missing it. “Rose has lied quite a bit,” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes, she has,” Hart said flatly. “We're here.” But he did not move to get out of the coach.

He was deeply and quietly angry, she thought, but not with her—with himself. Would he always torture himself this way? “Hart,” she murmured. She moved closer and kissed his cheek. “I love you so much. You are not to blame for your half brother's insanity.”

His gaze met hers. “I suppose I must accept your faith.”

“Yes, that is exactly what you must do.”

His mouth softened. “You are a handful, Francesca.”

She smiled a little, glad he was thawing. “The better to keep you on your toes,” she teased.

He grudgingly smiled.

Raoul had opened the coach door and was waiting
there. As they alighted, Francesca glanced over her shoulder at the brownstone across the street. Sure enough, several newsmen were gathered there, never mind the holiday weekend. Kurland waved at her. She turned her back on him.

Hart guided her inside the lobby, muttering, “He needs to be taken care of, sooner rather than later.”

“He is harmless,” Francesca said.

“Really? So is paying him off.”

They entered the cage. As it began to ascend, Francesca decided to argue the morality of bribery another time. She said, “We still don't know how Bill learned about my portrait.”

“I am sure we are about to find out.”

They lapsed into silence, each thinking their own thoughts. The cage settled with a bump against the third floor. Hart pulled open the iron door and they left the elevator and strode down the hall, past Bragg's office. Francesca hoped they hadn't missed Randall's confession, and her strides increased. Hart knocked once on the closed door to the interrogation room, and she stole a quick glance at him. He was simmering with anger now. Worry began. “We should let Bragg handle this,” she whispered.

He gave her an incredulous look.

Bragg opened the door, stepping out of the room. He allowed them a glimpse inside before he closed the door behind him. Randall was seated at the long wooden table, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his appearance ravaged. Farr was present, standing, his expression rather smug. Inspector Newman and a roundsman completed the assembly.

“How is your arm?” Bragg asked her.

“Sore. Has he confessed?” Francesca asked quickly.

“No. He has a single refrain—that he does not know where the portrait is.” Bragg stared at her before glancing
briefly at Hart. “I brought Mary in yesterday afternoon after she tried to shoot you. She has said the same thing—neither will admit to stealing the portrait.”

Francesca was in disbelief. “Well, has either one explained how Mary knew it was a nude? I do believe she has seen it!”

Bragg touched her arm to calm her. “We will get to the truth, Francesca.”

“There are other charges we can press,” she began, about to tell him about Bill's assault.

Hart interrupted. “Leave me alone with him.”

“Absolutely not,” Bragg said.

“You are a fool, a virtuous fool.” Hart shoved open the door and strode in. Alarmed, Francesca followed with Bragg.

“Hello, little brother,” Hart said coolly, approaching.

Randall leaped to his feet, his chair falling over. “Go to hell—and take her with you.”

Hart never broke stride. “When I do, I am sure I'll meet you there.”

“Hart, no,” Francesca tried.

But she was too late. Hart slammed his fist into Bill's nose. Blood spurted. And neither Farr, Newman nor the police officer moved a muscle. Worried, Francesca glanced at Bragg. Although a muscle ticked in his jaw, he did not say a word.

Hart smiled coldly at Randall. “Did you take the portrait from Sarah's studio?”

Bill spit at him. “Don't you want to know!”

Hart took something out of his pocket. Francesca choked in horror at the sight of the derringer in Hart's hand. “Yes, I do.”

Bill cried out as he was struck across the face with the gun.

Before Francesca could protest, Bragg had reached
Hart and Randall. But he didn't order Hart to cease. Bragg said, “You might want to reconsider, Randall. I have patience, but my brother does not.”

Randall was breathing hard. “I told you—I do not know where the portrait is.”

Hart seized his shoulder and pressed the tiny gun to his right temple. “You son of a bitch. Do you know your sister played Russian roulette with Francesca?” And he pulled the trigger.

Francesca almost screamed as a loud click sounded. Randall turned white, his knees buckling, but Bragg caught him, holding him up. Francesca was in disbelief. Bragg meant to aid Hart in torturing Randall for answers!

She glanced at Farr, who did not seem upset with the method of interrogation.

Hart smiled cruelly, the derringer still pressed into Randall's temple. “How does it feel to be on the verge of death?”

Randall cried out incoherently.

Sweat poured down Francesca's body. Hart was not a killer—or was he? He did know which chamber that bullet was in, didn't he?

I would kill to protect those I love.

He had been speaking about his foster sister, Lucy, at the time, but she would never forget his words—or the moment when he had spoken them. They had both known he had meant it. He was capable of murder if he had to protect a loved one.

Francesca glanced wildly at Bragg, hoping he would stop Hart. Bragg shook his head slightly at her. Did Bragg know Hart better than she did? He would never let Hart murder Bill Randall.

“Isn't this amusing?” Hart purred. “I would prefer everyone to leave the room, Rick. So there are no
witnesses…just in case.” He shoved his mouth against Bill's ear. “I want to kill you, you bastard. Give me the excuse.”

Bill cried out, “Fuck you! I took the damn portrait—there—I have confessed! We have been planning revenge on you and that bitch ever since our father was murdered! I stole the portrait from Sarah Channing's studio! It was so easy to snoop around—I followed Francesca one day and discovered her posing nude.” He laughed then, hard and wildly.

Hart pulled the trigger, Francesca screamed. But only a loud click sounded.

Sweat poured down Randall's face. “I watched, you fucker, I watched her posing, yes, I did!”

Francesca now realized that everyone in the room knew the truth about her portrait. She glanced at Farr wildly. Calmly, he returned her gaze. If he hadn't guessed the truth about her portrait, he knew it now. But he did not seem surprised.

Hart lifted the gun.

“Hart, stop!” Francesca screamed.

Instead of pulling the trigger, he struck Randall across the face with the barrel of the small gun. Randall crashed to the floor. Hart got on top of him and hit him again. “Where is it?”

“I don't know,” Randall shouted, sobbing. “Someone else took it from the gallery Saturday night! But if I had it, I'd put it on display—after taking you for all the money I could!”

Hart jammed the gun into his ear. Francesca screamed, “Please don't! Hart!”

Hart growled, “Did you send Francesca that invitation, you bastard, to preview Sarah's works? Did you and Mary lock her in the gallery? Did you?” He jammed the gun harder into his ear.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Randall half screamed and half sobbed.

Hart went still, his gun still jammed inside the man's ear. And Francesca knew he was ready to kill him.

“He is telling us what he knows,” she cried. “He is telling us the truth! Hart, stop!”

“You don't deserve a trial,” Hart began coldly.

Randall sneered, tears streaming.

Bragg seized Hart's shoulder. “He doesn't know where the portrait is. And if he does, killing him won't help us find it.”

Panting, Hart slowly looked up at Bragg. Then he flung the gun viciously across the room. He leaped up and strode out, not even glancing at her. His face was dark with rage.

A terrible silence fell.

The chief broke it. “Boss?” Farr asked pleasantly.

And she was even sicker. Farr had just learned the truth about her portrait. Francesca was rooted to the spot. And Bill did not know where it was.…

“Let him go. No one saw anything that just happened.” He looked at Randall. “There were five witnesses to your confession, Randall.” Francesca realized he would pretend that Hart hadn't ever been in the room. “Newman will take your confession.” He glanced at Farr. “Chief, I'll see Mary again. I think we can break her now.”

Randall did not get up. He was crying like a child.

The chief grinned, already crossing the room. He glanced at Francesca. “Hope you find your portrait soon, Miz Cahill.”

Their gazes met. His eyes were filled with mockery and laughter. She inhaled as he left.

Her mind raced, but her thoughts were uselessly jumbled. Farr hadn't batted an eye when he'd heard that her portrait was a nude, but then, he was a master at playing
poker.… Had he known for some time? Or had he known since Saturday night? He had been racing them to be the first to discover it, hadn't he?