Deadly Vows Page 5

  Julia said hoarsely, “Connie. Francesca asked her sister to bring her clothing here. She told her she would meet her here at 3:00 p.m.”

  “I begged her not to go!” Connie cried.

  Hart heard, but vaguely, as if from a distance. Something odd was happening inside his chest, but he was determined to ignore it. How could she have done this to him?

  More images flashed in his mind of the many moments he has shared with her—over a good scotch whiskey in his library, or inside his coach in the dark of night, or at a supper club by candlelight. There had been debate and discussion, levity and laughter, lust and love. He had committed himself to her completely. He had trusted her completely. Or had he?

  He was her second choice and he had always known it; he had never forgotten it.

  The odd feeling in his chest intensified, as if something within the muscle and flesh was snapping—no, ripping—apart. He was determined to ignore it. He should not be shocked or surprised. He should have realized how this day would end.

  Connie was speaking to him, he realized. “I don’t know what the note said. She wouldn’t show it to me. I begged her not to go! She swore she would be here at three!”

  “Did she leave the note in the salon?” his half brother was asking.

  “She had it with her when she ran upstairs to get her purse,” Connie said, wringing her hands. “Only Francesca would respond to whatever was in that note on her own wedding day!” She looked pleadingly at Hart.

  He stared coldly back. He did not care about any note.

  “Did she say anything about the note, anything at all?” Rick asked.

  “No,” Connie said tearfully. “But she seemed very distressed.”

  And he almost laughed, bitterly. Francesca had received a note that had distressed her—enough for her to fail to attend her own wedding. He had meant to spend his life with her. He had looked forward to showing her the world, offering her any experience she wished to have, when she wished to have it. He had wanted to open her eyes to the pyramids of Egypt and China’s Great Wall, to ancient Greek ruins and the temple of David; he had wanted to share with her the greatest works of art in the world, from the primitive drawings in the caves of Norway, to Stonehenge of Great Britain, and the medieval treasures cloistered in the cellars of the Vatican. How could she have done this to him?

  He had taken her friendship to heart. Having never had a friend before Francesca, he had thought her friendship an undying profession of loyalty and affection. How wrong he had been. Friends did not betray one another this way.

  He realized Rourke was offering him a drink. He had given her his trust—his friendship—his absolute loyalty—and her desertion was his reward.

  In front of three hundred of the city’s most outstanding citizens.

  “Calder, take the scotch. You clearly need it.”

  He took the glass, saw that his hand trembled and hated himself for being a weak, romantic fool. He downed the entire contents of the glass, handed it back and walked away from everyone.

  Hadn’t he expected this? Wasn’t that why he had kept staring out the window, waiting for her to arrive? Hadn’t he known on some subconscious level that this marriage was not to be?

  Of course she didn’t want him.

  He refused to remember being a small boy, scrawny and thin and always hungry, sharing a bed with Rick, in the one-room slum that was their flat. He did not want to think about their mother, Lily, before she died, standing at the stove, smiling not at him but at his brother, telling Rick how wonderful he was. Nor would he recall her last dying days, when he had been so terrified that she would leave him. It was Rick she was always asking to see, Rick she was always whispering to.

  He was an adult now. He knew that she had made Rick swear to take care of his younger brother, but that knowledge didn’t change anything. Lily had loved Rick greatly; to this day, he wasn’t sure that she had ever wanted him, much less loved him. The more troubling his behavior had been, the more distant she had become, looking at him with sorrow. She had never looked at Rick that way.

  “You were a mistake!” his father, Paul Randall, had said.

  Hart had been accepted at Princeton University at the age of sixteen. Rathe had been a personal friend of the university’s president, but his test scores were superior anyway, allowing his early admittance. Yet instead of going to New Jersey and registering for his first term, he had gone to New York City. Returning to Manhattan as a young man in a suit with a few dollars in his wallet had been strange—and exhilarating. He liked the fact that when he stepped out into the street and raised his hand, a cab instantly pulled up. He liked walking into a fancy restaurant and being called sir. But the trip to the city was hardly impulsive; he had hired an investigator to find his biological father. He had not only found Paul Randall, he had been shocked to learn that he had a pair of siblings.

  Randall had been living in the same house, on Fifty-seventh Street and Lexington Avenue, where he was murdered last February. Hart had succumbed to uncharacteristic nervousness as he approached the brownstone. In spite of having rehearsed a nonchalant introduction, he was speechless and perspiring by the time he reached the front door. He had imagined their first meeting while on the Manhattan-bound train. No optimist, he had nevertheless imagined various scenarios that ended on a happy note.

  When he had told Randall who he was, the man had turned deathly white with shock. Instead of inviting him in, he had stepped outside onto the front stoop where Calder stood, closing the door behind them. “Why are you here?” he had cried. “What do you want? My God, my wife must never know.”

  Instantly understanding that his father did not want him, he had come to his senses. “For some odd reason, I thought it appropriate for us to meet.”

  “It is not!” Randall had exclaimed. “Please leave—and do not come back.” He had shut the front door in his face. Stunned, trying not to feel anything just then, Hart had heard his half siblings behind the door, asking their father who that was.

  “Just a boy selling encyclopedias.”

  Now, Hart stared down at Fifth Avenue, his hands clenched so tightly on the sill that his knuckles were white. Francesca had jilted him. He would always have been the man she had settled for. Except, in the end, she had realized she did not want to settle.

  He turned. To his amazement, Rick was still interviewing Connie, as if this were one of his criminal investigations. Well, it was hardly that. As far as he was concerned, the drama was over.

  Rick saw him staring and walked over, his strides decisive. “Francesca must be in trouble.”

  He raised his brows. “Really? Why would you reach that conclusion—when you begged her this morning to postpone our wedding?”

  Rick’s eyes widened. “Are you blaming me?”

  Hart said, scoffing, “Hardly. But don’t pretend to care. Don’t pretend that you are not delighted by Francesca’s sudden change of heart.”

  Bragg was somber. “I’m not delighted, Calder. I can see you are hurt. But I am worried about Francesca.”

  He clapped his hands. “Of course you are. And is your white steed outside?”

  “Haven’t you heard a word Lady Montrose has just said? Francesca meant to be here. She received an urgent summons.”

  She had received an urgent summons on her wedding day. He laughed coldly. It felt good. “I am hardly hurt, Rick. The truth of the matter is, I am relieved. I have come to my senses. What could I have possibly been thinking? I am not a marrying man.”

  Everyone was staring at him now. Julia seemed ready to faint. He almost cursed them all, but they hadn’t done this—she had done this.

  Slowly, Rick shook his head. “Fine. Tell yourself what you will. Do you want my help?”

  “No.” He did not have to think about it.

  “She would never do this on purpose,” Julia cried, staggering. Rathe caught her, putting a strong arm around her. “I must sit down!”

  Connie took her from Rathe. “M
ama, let’s go to our lounge.” She sent Hart an incredulous, angry look. “Evan, Father is downstairs with the guests. I think he could use your help just now, calming everyone—and averting a full-blown scandal.”

  “Of course,” Evan said, striding forward. He went to their mother and helped Connie guide Julia down the hall.

  Hart knew what was coming, now that Francesca’s family was gone. He smiled coldly at Rick.

  Rick’s amber eyes were dark. “You know what? I am glad this has happened. Because we both know that this marriage would have been a disaster. We both know that Francesca deserves far more than you can give her. Maybe she did come to her senses. She was very nervous this morning.”

  He trembled with anger, but he kept his tone even. “And what will you give her, Rick, now that you are so happily reconciled with your lovely wife? Undying friendship? Unrequited love? Or…a sordid affair?”

  “I am her friend,” Rick said harshly. “Not that you would understand what that means.”

  He sent the staggering agony away. “You are so right,” he said coldly. “I do not have a clue about what friendship means, nor do I wish to. Enjoy your friendship, Rick.” He nodded and stalked past him.

  Rourke fell into step beside him as he traversed the hall. “What do you think you are doing?” Hart asked, his tone still cold.

  “I am keeping you company. You have had a shock,” Rourke said flatly.

  “Hardly. I do not need a nanny or nursemaid.” He rapidly went downstairs, Rourke remaining abreast of him.

  “Then you will have a friend,” he said calmly. “Whether you want one or not.”

  He decided to ignore his near relation. Too late, he realized he was about to descend into the crowd of three hundred tittering, exhilarated wedding guests. He faltered.

  The ladies wore ball gowns, the men black tie. Everyone had been speaking, the din hushed yet excited. A terrible silence fell. He saw Andrew Cahill near the church’s oversize double doors just as Francesca’s father saw him. Cahill seemed incredibly dismayed and distressed. But as their gazes met, he flushed with anger.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Rourke said softly. “If you don’t need a drink, I do.”

  He did not care. Andrew stared at him with accusation—as if this was his fault.

  Hart smiled and said pleasantly but loudly, “I am afraid this is your entertainment for the day. The wedding is off and, apparently, I am to blame.”

  As he stepped onto the ground floor, the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He refused to focus on any single face, but he knew just about everyone present. He had slept with a dozen of the assembled socialites, with many of the other matrons’ daughters shoved his way; he had concluded business with many of the gentlemen. He saw the Countess Bartolla, who was gleeful, and Leigh Anne, who seemed both vacuous and surprised; he saw Sarah Channing, who was in abject concern—for him? for Francesca?—and her mother, who looked shocked.

  To hell with them all.

  As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.

  He did not care.

  FRANCESCA DIDN’T CARE how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.

  Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.

  She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.

  Panting, half crying, Hart’s image assailing her, she gripped the concrete ledge.

  Then she heard a child’s cries.

  She froze, afraid she was imagining the sound, when she heard a second child’s laughter.

  There were children outside!

  “Help!” she screamed. “Help me! I am locked in the gallery.… Help!”

  A moment later a boy’s tiny freckled face peered through the window opening. His blue eyes met hers and he gaped.

  “Can you help me get out of here? I’m in the Gallery Moore! It has been locked from outside!” Francesca cried frantically.

  His eyes popping, he nodded. “I’ll get me dad.”

  Francesca was overcome with relief as he ran off, apparently another child with him. She swallowed hard, praying for help. A moment or two later—which felt like an eternity—a man’s face appeared in the window opening. Perhaps in his thirties, he was cleanly shaven, with graying temples. He was incredulous. “I didn’t believe Bobby! Are you all right, miss?”

  “Not really!” Francesca quickly explained that she was locked in. Remaining calm, the gentleman told her to go to the front door, and that he would find a way to get her out.

  Francesca slowly climbed off the cabinet and the desk, every bone in her body aching. She picked up her purse and shoes, aware that her gun was outside, and realized that her nails were broken, her fingers scratched and bleeding slightly. She pulled out the pocket watch. It was half past four.

  Frightened, she left the office, hurrying through the gallery. She glanced at her portrait, wishing she had thought to destroy it. She was afraid to leave it behind. The moment she saw Hart, she would tell him what had happened and he would send someone to retrieve it.

  At the front door she found the gentleman who had offered to help her with a roundsman, who was busy trying to pick the lock. There were far more shadows inside now. Her portrait was lost in the darkness, one small relief.

  The lock clicked about ten minutes later.

  Now in her shoes, Francesca rushed outside. “Thank you!”

  “Are you all right, miss?” the uniformed policeman asked her, his gaze taking in her untidy appearance.

  Francesca imagined that she looked like a bedchamber sneak. She nodded, about to move past him. “I am very late,” she began, but he barred her way.

  “Are you a relation of Mr. Moore?” the roundsman asked pointedly.

  He thought her a burglar or thief! She froze. “No, I am not. Sir, my wedding is today.” She flushed, beyond all dismay. “In fact, I was to be married by now. I must go!” Surely Hart would understand. Surely he would be waiting for her.

  “The gallery is closed. It says so right there, on the door sign. I’m going to have to take you in, miss, on suspicion of breaking and entering these premises.”

  Francesca cried out. “I was invited here!”

  As if he hadn’t heard her—or didn’t care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”

  She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:

  Francesca Cahill

  Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

  No. 810 Fifth Avenue

  New York City

  No Crime Too Great or Small

  As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with the police commissioner—who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

  He looked at her, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, ma’am.” Respect filled his tone now.

  “Good. Right now, Rick Bragg is at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, awaiting my arrival there—along with three hundred other guests.” She felt tears well. “Along with my groom, Mr. Calder Hart. You have heard of him, surely?”

  “Wasn’t he locked up for murdering his mistress?” the gentleman said, standing behind the officer.

  She cried, “Hart is innocent—the killer confessed and awaits conviction. Now, I need a cab!”

  “I’ll get you a cabbie,” the roundsman said quickly. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, for delaying you, but you have to admit it was suspicious, you being inside the closed gallery like that.”

  “May I have my gun, please?” He handed it to her and she started for the street at a run. She had never been as desperate—and there were no hansoms in sight. Behind her, the cop put his fingers to his mouth and a piercing whistle sounded. Moments later, a black cab turned
the corner from Broadway, the gelding in its traces trotting swiftly toward her. Francesca sagged with relief.

  Forty minutes later, the tall spires of the church came into sight. Francesca leaned forward, praying.

  But the avenue was deserted. Not a single coach was parked outside the church.

  She did not have to go inside to know that everyone was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Saturday, June 28, 1902

  6:00 p.m.

  EVAN CAHILL CLOSED the door to his sister’s bedroom, Rick Bragg pausing in the corridor with him. They had just thoroughly searched every inch of the bedroom and adjacent boudoir, but had not produced the note Francesca had received that morning.

  Evan adored his youngest sister, but he knew her better than almost anyone. Leave it to Fran to help some poor sod in need—and miss her own wedding. While he admired his sister’s generosity, intelligence and ambition enormously, this new penchant for sleuthing kept getting her into harm’s way. She had been burned, knocked out, locked up and stabbed, all in the past few months. A cat had nine lives. How many did his reckless sister have? His heart filled with dread.

  Bragg said, “I would like to use the telephone.”

  Evan nodded, remembering that he had not turned off the electric lights inside the room. He quickly did so. “It’s downstairs, in the library.” As they left the bedroom, he said, “I am terribly worried, Rick. Will you begin an official investigation?”

  Bragg clasped his shoulder briefly. “Do not worry yet. Your sister is not only intelligent, she is resourceful. She will be fine.”

  Evan did not think Bragg believed his own words. A vast concern was reflected in his eyes. He was aware that Rick Bragg had romantic feelings toward his sister. Although he liked Bragg, he did not approve—the man was married. He now thought about the unlucky groom as they went downstairs. “Hart was furious.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Evan knew he would be furious if he were stood up at the altar, as Hart had been. The humiliation would be consuming. He could barely imagine the shock of having one’s bride not show up, especially if he were in love. By now, though, Hart must be as worried about Francesca as everyone. Yet he had not come by, demanding to know if they had discovered anything, nor had he called.