Deadly Vows (8 page)

He was right. She glanced at him, trembling. His expression was odd.

“You have given me several long looks tonight. Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, returning his gaze to the street. “You have been calling me Bragg all evening. You haven't called me that since my reconciliation with Leigh Anne.”

Her heart seemed to erupt in her chest. She wasn't sure what to say and she thought of Hart, his words cruelly echoing.
It is over.

As if reading her mind, he said, “Are you going to tell me what happened with Hart tonight?” His tone was terse.

They were already at Eighth Street. Washington Square and Waverly Place were one block down. She saw the shiny police wagons ahead, illuminated by the city's gas lamps, with their bright brass-plated sides and wheels. Three of them were lined up on the street between the park and the gallery. A number of roundsmen were milling around. A slight crowd had gathered, with several children running about, as if it were a carnival. She glanced at Bragg.

He sighed, making a right on to Waverly Place and pulling up behind one of the police wagons. A tall, familiar figure detached itself from the group of policemen. Francesca stiffened in dread.

Bragg let the motor idle as Chief Farr approached. When he stepped into the light spilling from one of the cast-iron streetlamps, Francesca saw that he was smiling. He held a small lantern in one hand.

Farr despised her. And he was not trustworthy—Bragg knew that for a fact. Had he seen her portrait? If he had, she was finished.

“Hello, C'mish. Miz Cahill.” He nodded politely at them. “Sorry about the wedding,” he added with a half smile, and she knew he wasn't sorry at all.

Her heart was pounding with explosive force. “Thank you. I am sure we will tie the knot another day.”

“Sure.” He did not sound as if he thought so. He opened her door for her. She got out rigidly, her gaze slamming to the gallery. It was cast in blackness, but she could see wooden barricades on the sidewalk, preventing anyone from going down the steps to the gallery's front door.

Then she took a quick look at the crowd. Thank God the city's carnivorous press corps wasn't present.

Had Farr seen the portrait? she wondered once more.

She glanced at Bragg as he came around the front of
the motorcar, but his gaze was on the gallery. He said sharply, “Is that door open?”

“I'm afraid so,” Farr drawled. “It was open when we got here, C'mish.”

Francesca started running, her horror escalating. When she reached the barricade she saw that the front door of the gallery was entirely open. She cried out. Anyone could have walked inside!

“Did you go inside?” Bragg demanded of Farr from be hind her.

Francesca did not wait for his answer. She shoved past the barricade and started down the steps, stumbling.

“Didn't have a choice. Clearly, someone broke in. The glass is all busted up.”

She realized that the glass on the front door was broken, which made no sense—unless someone had thought to reach in from the outside to unlock the front door. But the front door hadn't been locked when she had left.

“Hand me the lantern and everyone stand back,” Bragg ordered. As she pushed open the front door, she felt him behind her. He held up the lantern and light illuminated the gallery.

She froze.

The wall where the portrait had been hanging was empty.

Saturday, June 28, 1902
Midnight

F
RANCESCA SAT IN
the passenger seat of Bragg's car as it idled on Fifth Avenue, just outside the open gates of the driveway leading to her family's home. She was finally, truly, exhausted.

Chief Farr had explained that when he had arrived at the gallery with a police detail, the front door had been open—he hadn't touched it. The gallery had been in darkness. He had taken a lantern and gone inside with two men, in case a burglar was present. The gallery had been empty. But it had instantly been obvious that a painting had been ripped from the wall it had been nailed to. Farr had been careful that he and his men hadn't touched anything.

Farr had ordered a search of the premises, the surrounding grounds, and he had sent several officers to speak to the neighbors. No one, according to the chief, had seen or heard anything unusual.

Bragg was putting Inspector Newman on this case. Tomorrow morning Newman and Heinreich would go over the gallery with a fine-tooth comb, looking for clues. They had already dropped Joel at his mother's flat on Tenth Street and Avenue A, and tomorrow he would canvass that neighborhood.

“Are you all right?”

Francesca started at the soft sound of Bragg's voice. She glanced at him. “How can I be all right? Our thief has the portrait again.”

“We do not know that it is the same thief,” he said quietly.

“No, we do not. But it is probable that it is the same person.” She truly doubted some passerby had walked into the gallery and taken her portrait. She stared ahead, through the open iron gates, at her house. Only a few lights were on downstairs.

“Everyone is probably asleep, but that isn't what is bothering you, is it?”

Hart's cold image came to mind. Her reputation remained in dire jeopardy and the man she loved had turned his back on her. Was he even at home? “I was afraid, briefly, that the chief had seen my portrait.”

“I know. I was afraid of the same thing. Are we ever going to discuss what is really amiss here?”

She blinked back sudden tears. “I don't know if I should—or if I can.”

She tried to stare straight ahead at the limestone mansion. Her hands were on her lap, and suddenly, she felt his large, strong hand covering hers. She stiffened, the heartbreak acute. How could this be happening?

“I am so sorry, Francesca,” Bragg said intensely. “I know he was a bastard when you went to see him.”

She somehow nodded, feeling all her resolve crumbling.

“And I apologize for prying into a very private matter. It is just…that I care.”

She slowly looked at him. “I know you do.… He was horrid, absolutely horrid. He was so cruel.…”

He reached for her. She wasn't sure how it happened, but she laid her face on his broad chest, his arms going around her, and allowed herself a moment to weep. She
felt him tense and she told herself that she must stop this nonsense. She fought and managed to turn the tears off. “Do you think he will ever forgive me?”

His hand moved to the nape of her neck beneath her hair, which remained in a haphazard knot. “He is not a forgiving man. Never mind that there is nothing to forgive.”

Being in Bragg's arms felt perfectly safe. But she was also reminded of the romantic times they had shared; she was reminded that he was a handsome and virile man. She loved Hart acutely. Francesca pulled away and he let her go. “I am sorry for being a simpering, self-indulgent and silly woman.”

“You are none of those things. You are strong and brave, and Hart is a goddamn fool.”

She wiped her eyes and gazed at him. “He said it was over. He told me he does not care about what happened today. He told me that he never loved me.”

Bragg's eyes widened in shock. “My God! He has no shame! Damn it, he is rotten and selfish to the core, to be so unfeeling—to only care about his own feelings!”

Just then, she did not feel like defending him. “If he doesn't love me—if he has never loved me—then it is over and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Bragg's gaze was dark and hard. Francesca expected him to insist that Hart did love her, but he did not. He finally said, “I hate seeing you hurt like this. Francesca, I know you will not believe me, but I also know that you trust me. You will be fine. Maybe not tomorrow or even the day after, but you will get through this.”

He was insinuating that she would get over Hart. She turned away. She loved Calder, but if her love was not returned, then she had been in love with an illusion—and she wanted that illusion back. “I had better go in. It is late and we have so much to do tomorrow.”

“Yes.” He put the motorcar in Drive and it inched forward. “Where will you start your investigation?”

She smiled wanly. “Joel will canvass the neighborhood downtown. He might turn up some interesting witnesses to last night's affair. I think I will start at the very beginning and pay a call on Sarah.”

“Perhaps that's a good idea. Why don't you stop by police headquarters when you are done with her, let me know what you have discovered, and we can plan the next step together.”

She glanced at him. The police were already involved, and she knew he would stay on top of the investigation in order to protect her. Maybe Newman and Heinreich would have uncovered a new clue by tomorrow. “All right.” They had reached the end of the driveway and the wide stone staircase leading to the front door. Francesca hesitated. “Thank you for everything, Rick.”

His gaze was sharp. “You don't have to thank me for anything,” he said firmly.

She smiled and said good-night and got out of the automobile, hurrying up the steps. She was aware that he waited for her to get safely inside before driving away; in previous investigations she had been accosted both in her driveway and outside her own front door. As she let herself in, she finally heard the car leave.

She thought of Hart as she closed and locked the door, and there was so much heartache and despair. She didn't know how she would have managed without Bragg. He had become a better friend than she had ever dreamed possible. He had always been as solid and dependable as a rock. He would not abandon her now, in her time of need.

A hall light came on.

Francesca jumped, glimpsing her father in his navy blue silk robe, matching pajamas and slippers, standing
at the foot of the stairs. He was clearly wide-awake. She bit her lip. “You didn't have to wait up for me, Papa.”

Andrew Cahill was a gray-haired man of chubby proportions with huge side-whiskers and a kindly face. He came rushing forward. “What happened today, Francesca? And what happened to your cheeks?”

Francesca smiled tearfully as he took her hands. “I am afraid that someone wants to hurt me, Papa. Someone wanted to prevent my marriage to Calder, and I fell for the bait. I am so sorry!”

He embraced her briefly. “Your mother was hysterical, fearing the very worst. She is asleep now, of course. The moment Rick called and said you were all right, she collapsed.”

“I am sorry,” Francesca said again, meaning it.

“Who did this? What exactly happened?” Andrew asked, his brown gaze intent.

She trembled. “I was given a note and told that it was urgent that I go downtown. I should have ignored it. I was lured to an art gallery—and locked inside. I never saw the culprit. I tried to get out by breaking a window, but it was very high up and I failed. By the time help arrived, it was well after four o'clock. I am not hurt.”

“Thank God,” Andrew said grimly.

“I have asked Bragg to help me find and apprehend the person responsible.”

Andrew hugged her again, briefly. “I am sure Rick will get to the bottom of this terrible affair. Have you seen Hart yet?”

She tensed.

“Francesca?” Andrew demanded. “Surely you explained yourself to your fiancé!”

She knew she had to tread with care now. Andrew did not like Calder Hart at all. Apparently, he did not think Hart good enough for her. Nor did he trust him
to give up his womanizing ways. She procrastinated by taking a deep breath. “Yes, I have seen Calder. He has suffered a shock, as well. It is not every day that a man decides to marry, then ends up jilted at the altar.”

“Let me hazard a guess. He doesn't care what you have gone through. He is furious with you.” Andrew was cold. People assumed him to be easygoing and benign, yet he was a farm boy from Illinois who had amassed a fortune in the very competitive meatpacking industry through hard work, relentless ambition and razor-sharp intelligence. He was not a man to be dismissed or taken lightly. When necessary, he was formidable.

“Of course he cares,” Francesca said, praying it was true. “But he is very upset, and right now, he is not kindly disposed toward having a dialogue with me.”

Andrew folded his arms across his chest. “And Rick just dropped you off, after spending the night trying to apprehend this villain with you?”

She did not know where he was leading. “Yes. Papa, I am exhausted. I must go to bed. Can we finish this discussion tomorrow?”

“Of course we can.” He softened and kissed the top of her head. “But, Francesca? I wonder if you were about to marry the right man.”

 

M
ORNING LIGHT POURED
through the oversize windows of his Bridge Street office. The office took up an entire corner of the fifth floor. Hart turned to gaze out at New York Harbor as the sun rose even higher in the red dawn sky.

A scotch was in his hand, his fifth or sixth of the evening—he had lost count and he did not care. Except, the evening was now gone.

Hart stood up, staring outside, his head pounding. He could see several cargo ships, a tugboat and a naval
destroyer, all at anchor. From where he stood, he saw the street almost directly below, which was vacant except for one lonely-looking carter. Within half an hour, he knew, the southernmost tip of Manhattan Island would come alive with frock-coated bankers and scurrying clerks, city lawyers and ill-suited accountants, rushing to their various places of business. Vendors would begin to sell iced oysters and hot chestnuts; cabs and trolleys, all occupied, would crowd the streets.

Holding his glass even more tightly, he cursed. For his mind was now, finally, made up.

It was definitely over.

She had failed to show up for their wedding. He would never forgive her such betrayal, but he understood. On some level, perhaps subconsciously, she had used that note as an excuse to avoid marrying him. Because she knew as well as he did that their marriage was a vast mistake.

All he could think of all night and this morning was their argument, when she begged him for forgiveness and claimed that she loved him. If she loved him, she would have never left the house to go downtown; her priority would have been their wedding. They could have gone downtown together, after the ceremony. She didn't love him and she never had. It was so painfully obvious. Rick was the one she truly loved, deep down. She had loved him first—she had even said so, not just to Rick but to Hart. He had remained nothing but her second choice.

Now, he wasn't a choice at all.

But he wondered if she had ever said those three words
—I love you—
to his brother.

The pain simmered in his chest in spite of the whiskey. It had bubbled there all evening long. Yet he would never acknowledge it; he much preferred the anger. He had never been hurt by a woman before, and he did not intend to start now.

He cursed and threw his glass hard at the wall. There was no satisfaction as it shattered; there was nothing except her tearful image and her protestations that she loved him. Damn her!

He paced to his desk, only to stare down at it unseeingly. He was such a fool. He would not blame anyone for laughing at him now. Maybe, one day, he would be able to laugh at himself.

But now, it felt as if he'd never laugh again. Her betrayal was that vast, that important, and goddamn it, it did hurt.

Francesca was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

It was true, but he didn't care. He was conditioned to reward betrayal with punishment. It was the law of the land, a matter of survival. He would never tolerate such betrayal, not from anyone, and not when he had given her his absolute loyalty. That was why she was no longer welcome in his house. That was why they would never be friends again. That was why he would never trust her again.

The sun suddenly intensified. He looked up at the wall of windows, but instead, he saw her as she had been last night, in tears. He tensed, not wanting to listen to the voice inside his head that told him that Francesca would never deliberately hurt anyone, much less him, and that he was being the fool now.…

He cursed and reined in the pain. He refused to entertain all the memories they had made, which threatened to engulf him.

Francesca had been his one and only friend. As he contemplated the future, he felt a moment of fear, when he was never afraid; he felt a moment of intense loneliness, when he was never lonely.

He shrugged the momentary weakness aside.

It was over, and he was relieved. He wondered, though, as betrayed as he felt, if he was even capable of giving up his faith in Francesca. Would a part of him always believe in her? Then he reminded himself that there was no other choice.

Despite himself, he recalled the times she had kept her faith in him. Even at the beginning of their relationship, when they had been strangers, she had refused to see the bad in him. She had fought for him tooth and nail, even when he had been accused of murdering Daisy, when the entire city had been lined up to hang him.…

Suddenly her tear-stained image came to mind, her cheeks scratched, her clothes torn.

Hart hadn't wanted to listen to her explanation last night. He had been too furious and too intent on controlling that fury to really listen to her. She had been completely disheveled when she had barged into his library, but she hadn't been hurt. As angry as he had been, he had taken a careful inventory the moment she walked in.