Deadly Vows (6 page)

Then she had tried to imagine what Hart's mood had been.

The cabbie had opened one of the front gates, wide enough for his cab to go through. He climbed back into the driver's seat, above her closed cubicle. She was filled with dread. She could no longer tell herself that Hart was worried about her. She simply knew him too well.

He had a terrible, explosive temper and a jaded, cynical worldview.

As the gelding trotted forward onto the graveled driveway, she gave in to her overwhelming distress. She always saw the glass as half-f; she always gave everyone the
benefit of the doubt. Hart never did either of those things. He trusted no one and nothing.

Except, he had come to trust her, hadn't he?

It didn't matter. She was afraid he was going to be very angry.

But it was even worse than that. She had glimpsed, just once or twice, a terrible vulnerability hiding behind the facade of arrogance and disdain, wealth and power. She hoped she hadn't hurt him. She almost laughed, somewhat hysterically. How many times had she been warned that he would be the one to hurt her?

All relief at escaping the gallery had vanished. She had to explain to Hart what had happened, calm and reassure him, if need be, and then they had to go downtown and retrieve her portrait from the gallery. That last action could not wait! She hadn't said a word to the roundsman, as she had not wanted him to go inside and look at it. When she had been leaving Waverly Place, she had seen him closing up the gallery, a single, small consolation. But now, in hindsight, she wished she had found an object with which to destroy the painting before leaving the gallery.

She paid the driver. The downstairs of the mansion was not lit up. Every now and then, Hart's mood was so black that he dismissed his entire staff, only to wander about his mausoleum of a home by himself, a scotch in hand, admiring his art—and brooding. She would almost believe that he was doing that now, except that she happened to know he had guests. Rathe and Grace Bragg were staying with him indefinitely, as they built a home on the west side of the city. Just then, so was Nicholas D'Archand and two other Bragg siblings.

She had a terrible feeling, and she did not even try to shake it off as she climbed the front steps of the house, passing two huge limestone lions at the top of
the staircase. On the roof, far above the front door, was a bronze stag. Before she even lifted the heavy brass knocker, the front door opened. She expected Hart to be standing there, but it was Alfred who let her in.

Francesca hurried inside. “How is he?”

Alfred's eyes widened. “Miss Cahill! Are you all right?”

She knew she was dirty, disheveled and scratched from having to shatter the glass window. “I am not all right, but I do not need a physician—I need to speak with Hart.”

“Mr. Hart is in the library, taking care of business affairs.”

She started. “Surely you are not telling me that he has taken my failure to arrive at the church in stride?”

“I do not know how he is at the moment, Miss Cahill. He is excessively calm.”

She stared, shocked. She lowered her voice. “Is he drinking?” Hart often sought refuge in alcohol when under extreme emotional duress, in an attempt to avoid pain. She found him frightening when drunk, but not because he was inclined toward violence. She knew he would never lift a hand toward her. His mood was always the blackest and he was always the most self-deprecating when he was drinking himself into a state of oblivion.

“No.”

She prayed that this was a very good sign—that he wasn't hurt—and that he would be eager to hear her explain what had kept her from their wedding. “Thank you,” Francesca said. “I can find the library myself, Alfred.”

He hesitated. “You look a sight, Miss Cahill. Do you want to freshen up?”

She shook her head and hurried down the hall, hoping she would not run into any of the family. The house was terribly quiet. It reminded her of a home in mourning. She did not like having such morbid thoughts and she
ignored them. She wanted nothing more than to be in Hart's arms.

The heavy rosewood door to his library was closed. Francesca hesitated, her heart racing with unnerving force. Finally she pushed it open.

Hart was seated at his desk, hunched over the papers he was reading. He lifted his head, his gaze slamming onto her.

She managed to smile. “Hello.”

The distance of a tennis court was between them. Francesca shut the door and hurried forward, her heart pounding wildly. “Hart, I am so sorry! I have had the most awful day!”

He slowly rose to his full height, which was an inch or two over six feet. There was something controlled about the way he rose to tower over his desk and she faltered. Surely he noticed how untidy and scratched she was. Surely he was worried about her! “I have been locked up,” she cried. “And I found my portrait!”

He did not give her his characteristic once-over. Unblinkingly, as if he hadn't heard a word she said, he said calmly, “I see you have had a change of heart, Francesca. I see that you have seen the light.”

She was very alarmed. “Didn't you hear me? I was locked in a gallery—that was why I missed our wedding. I am so sorry!” she cried. “I have not had a change of heart!”

He was as still as a statue. She couldn't even tell if he was breathing. “I am well aware that you missed the wedding.” He spoke as if they were discussing the summer rain. His calm monotone never changed. “Are you hurt?”

Didn't he care that she had been locked up? “No! Not in the way that you mean!”

“Good.” He looked down at the papers on his desk and
reached for one. Francesca was shocked. What was he doing? Wasn't he going to look at her face, her hands, and ask what had happened? Didn't he want to know where the blasted portrait was, so they could retrieve and destroy it?

He glanced at her as if she were a stranger. “Is there something further you wish to say? As you can see, I am quite occupied right now.”

“Calder, aren't you listening? I found that damn portrait—that is why I was late.” She almost sobbed. “This was to be our wedding night! We must talk about what happened!”

He shuffled the papers, but his gaze was on hers, and it was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling. His face was carved in stone. “I don't care what happened. We have nothing further to discuss.”

She froze. “I beg your pardon?”

He looked down at the papers on his desk again and began to slowly rearrange them.

She ran forward. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he angry? Why wasn't he shouting at her? “I know you don't mean that. I know you care about what happened to me today.” When he did not look at her, she cried urgently, “We must plan another wedding.”

He finally set the papers down and stared at her. “There is not going to be another wedding.”

She choked, her heart exploding with sickening force in her chest. Only his desk stood between them now. “You can't mean that!”

“But I do.” And finally, she heard the twinge of anger in his tone.

It was a moment before she spoke, and it was an effort to control her tone. “You must be very hurt and very angry, even if you are not showing it. I shouldn't have mentioned another wedding, not now.”

His gaze black, not even flickering, he did not respond.

“No one stops loving another person in an hour or a day, Calder.” She tried reason now. “You cared about me this morning—of course you care now.”

Finally, he spoke. “You are assuming that our relationship was founded on love.” He stared. “Let me offer some advice—you do not want to have this discussion with me.”

No one could miss the warning in his tone. Her heart thundered with more alarm, more fear. “I never meant to stand you up!”

His gaze finally flickered. “It is for the best.”

She cried out. “What? I love you. Missing my wedding was not for the best!”

“Good day, Francesca.” He sat abruptly down, pulling a folder forward.

She was disbelieving. “Is this your response to what has happened? To pretend you don't care—to refuse to discuss it—to dismiss me as if I am not your fiancée?”

She saw him tremble, but he did not look up.

She had struck a nerve and she meant to strike more. “Have you even looked at me? I have cuts all over my face from broken glass! My nails are torn, my fingers scratched from trying to hold on to a wall while I crawled out of a window!” She was rewarded when he raised his eyes to hers. His expression was dark, like thunderclouds. “I received a strange note this morning, Hart, an invitation to a preview of Sarah's works! The moment I read it, I knew that I was being invited to view my own portrait. Of course I had to investigate!”

His black gaze was unwavering. “Of course.”

She rushed on. “When I got to the gallery, the door was open and my portrait was there. But before I could do anything, someone locked me in from the outside. I spent hours and hours trying to get out. Finally—at four
o'clock—some small children heard my cries for help.” She realized she was trembling incessantly.

Hart steepled his hands and looked down. “You said you were not hurt.”

“I'm not!”

When he refused to look up, she cried, “Of all days for the thief to play his hand! Clearly he did not wish for us to marry. I was lured downtown. Can't you see that? Don't you believe me?” She had never been more desperate. Why was he behaving this way?

He finally glanced up at her. “Oh, I believe you. But does it even matter? It is over, Francesca.” And he began to read the papers on his desk.

She knew he had chosen to retreat behind this wall of icy calm. Because his behavior was a pretense, wasn't it? A careful and clever facade? Hart was the most volatile man she knew. “Oh, God. I expected you to be angry, but you're not, are you? When you are angry, you explode—and you drink. I have hurt you.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at her. “If you are expecting a rage, you will be sorely disappointed. And surely you do not expect tears?”

She did not like that last mocking note which had emerged. She had hurt him, hadn't she? There could not be another alternative. “You have decided to pretend indifference, perhaps even to yourself.”

“I have decided that our relationship was a mistake.” He was final. “It is over.”

She reeled. The one thing she had not expected was this. “I will quote you now. ‘It will never be over!'”

“I have never enjoyed clinging women.”

She gasped.

He stood up. “Please show yourself to the door.”

She did not move. As dazed as she was, a tiny voice in her head screamed at her to leave and come back another
time. Men like Calder Hart could not be chased. She spoke unsteadily now. “Hart. I love you.”

“Do you know how many times women have declared their love for me?” He was cool.

She cringed. His gaze was scorching and she knew he was in his most ruthless mood. “Don't do this to me.”

“Do what? You are the one who did not show up today.”

“You have admitted to me that you love me!”

He laughed, the sound mirthless. “You are so unique, Francesca, that I undoubtedly deluded myself for a while, but we both know that I do not believe in love. It was lust, Francesca, and nothing more. You see, I have come to my senses, as well. What was I thinking, to shackle myself to a woman for what might be an entire lifetime? When the lust is gone, all that would remain is the ink on our marriage license.”

She inhaled. “I know you don't mean anything you have said tonight.”

“I am not interested in what you think—or in attempting to convince you that I have meant my every word.”

He could not be serious. “How can you be so cruel to me? How can you dismiss me after all we have shared?”

“And what have we shared, other than some conversation, some danger…and several nights in my bed?”

She felt tears well.

“I cannot stand women who cry,” he warned.

She somehow shook her head. “You are trying to make me feel as if I were one of your passing amusements—one of your play toys!”

His stare was filled with innuendo, his silence an affirmative. She was shaken to the core of her being.

“This cannot be happening. We are meant to be, Hart.”

He walked out from behind his desk—and past her. “Nothing is meant to be. And darling? I have no intention of being the one to ruin you. My position hasn't changed. Your desires will remain unrequited. Luckily, I'm sure Rick will be more than happy to oblige you on that particular matter.”

“Your words are killing me!” she gasped.

“Really? Have no fear. This heartbreak will pass. It always does.” He opened the library door and stood there, waiting for her to leave.

She wasn't sure how she approached him. She felt as if she had been cut up into so many tiny, bleeding pieces. “I have hurt you. I am sorry! I love you and I always will—even now, when you are trying to destroy that love.”

“Do I appear hurt? I am not. I am relieved.”

She choked.

“God, I hate theatrics. Would you mind? This drama has become more than sordid or distasteful, it has become tiring. I have affairs to attend.”

She hugged herself. His gaze was as frigid as the Arctic Ocean. “I am not taking off this ring. I am not giving up on us, either.”

“Then I feel sorry for you. But you may keep the ring. Use it to buy the portrait, darling.”

She could not withstand his cruelty anymore. Francesca ran past him. As she started to stagger down the corridor, blinded by tears, she heard him behind her. She tensed, sensing a final devastating blow.

It came instantly. “Francesca? Do not bother to come back. When I am done, I am truly done. You are no longer welcome here.”

Saturday, June 28, 1902
7:00 p.m.

F
RANCESCA WAS BEYOND
shock. Could it truly be over? Had he really meant his cruel words? Hadn't Bragg warned her what she was in for if she tried to go forward with Hart—if she dared to love him?

Oh, God, her heart was breaking apart!

When he had broken their engagement a few weeks ago, it had been entirely different. He had been motivated by the desire to protect her from the scandal of Daisy's murder. He had put her welfare above his love for her. Somehow, their love had emerged even stronger. His feelings had never been in doubt.

But now, he seemed to be completely indifferent to her. As if he had cut her out of his heart—and his life—in one fell, effortless swoop.

“Miss Cahill? Let me help you to a chair.”

She realized that she had somehow wandered into the front hall and that she was still crying. Alfred faced her, his dark gaze filled with concern. She struggled for composure, no easy task.

If Hart did not love her—if their relationship had only been based on infatuation and lust—then it was over and there was nothing she could do about it. But if he was as hurt as she suspected, if he had retreated into this pretense to avoid his feelings, if she was really his best
friend, then there was hope. She had aroused his passion and love once; she could do so again.

But she could not do anything about their current dilemma now.

And her damn portrait remained downtown in the Gallery Moore.

She wiped her eyes with her fingertips, feeling just slightly better. At least she had a task to accomplish; she desperately needed a new focus. “I am afraid I cannot linger, Alfred. I am on a case.”

He started.

“I have had a terrible falling-out with Mr. Hart, but I believe it is only temporary. Tomorrow is another day.” She managed a smile. “Hopefully he will be more kindly disposed toward me then.”

“I am so sorry, Miss Cahill.”

She shuddered. “I was well aware of his occasional moods when I accepted his proposal,” she said. She inhaled, finding more resolve. “Can a doorman hail me a cab?” She could not go home. She was not up to facing her mother. Julia would undoubtedly be relieved to see her, but only for a brief moment. Then she would be furious with her for failing to attend her own wedding, never mind the danger she had been in. And she would not be able to tell her parents what had really happened—they could never learn of the portrait.

Worse, Julia would get to the heart of the conversation that had just happened. She was clever and shrewd, and she adored Hart. She would want to know if Francesca had gone to him to explain herself and seek his forgiveness. Julia Cahill was determined to see this marriage come to fruition. Francesca did not want to discuss this new terrible impasse with Hart with her mother.

However, her family needed to know that she was all right. Francesca asked Alfred to send word that she
was unharmed, and would be home as soon as possible. The butler assured her he was only too eager to do so. As Alfred sent a doorman out for a hansom, Francesca thanked him and stepped outside into the warm June night. Amazingly, there was a bright crescent moon and a canopy of stars overhead. There was even the whisper of a silken breeze. It had been the perfect night for a wedding. She remained sick at heart from the recent confrontation. She briefly closed her eyes, trying hard to shove the memory away. She had known how cruel Hart could be, but she had never expected him to be that cruel with her.

“Miz Cahill? Are you all right?” a small boy asked worriedly.

Her eyes flew open as Joel Kennedy tugged on her hand. She had never been so pleased to see anyone. She was fond of Joel; he had become a little brother to her. Impulsively she bent and swept him into her arms, hard. “Hart is very angry with me,” she whispered before releasing him.

“You stood him up. Of course he's mad, but he loves you and he'll forgive you.” His dark eyes were huge in his pale face.

Out of the mouths of babes, she thought, praying he was right.

“You're all scratched an' cut. What happened?”

“We have a case, Joel. Can you help me tonight?”

He nodded, remaining wide-eyed with concern, not surprise. “Do we need the flies? You missed the c'mish. He was here an hour ago—helpin' look fer you.”

She smiled just a little, then. “Of course I need Bragg.”

In that moment, she had never needed him more.

 

“P
ETER
,” L
EIGH
A
NNE
said softly, “would you mind getting me a brandy? I'm afraid my leg is bothering me right now.” She wondered if he would refuse her.

But the big manservant, who towered over almost everyone at six foot five or six, did not say a word. If he knew that she had already had a bit of brandy in her tea, she could not tell. His poker face did not change expression as he left the small, dully furnished dining room where Leigh Anne was sharing a light meal with Katie and Dot.

Katie had been eating, but barely. Now, she laid her fork down and looked at her with worry in her dark eyes. Leigh Anne wished she hadn't said anything in front of her. She reached out and covered her hand with hers. “Darling, I am fine, really, it is just a tiny twinge,” she lied. She did not know why her right leg—her good leg, the leg with feeling—bothered her so much. But that was nothing compared to the unbearable lump of anguish in her chest, which simply never went away. She woke up with it, lived with it and went to bed with it. She did not know what she would do without the brandy and the laudanum.

The first thing she had done upon returning home from the wedding was to take her tea. It was always liberally laced with brandy.

Leigh Anne did not want to think about the wedding that hadn't taken place. But it was hard to keep the unpleasant recollection from swimming in her mind. She had expected a life of balls and parties—a life of luxury—when she married into the Bragg family. Instead, they had leased a miserable flat while Rick worked night and day to represent indigent clients as a public defender. Feeling betrayed and abandoned, she had gone to Europe. She had thought he might chase her down and beg her forgiveness—but he had not. She had eventually adjusted to the fact that their separation would be permanent. Life on the Continent was glamorous, and she decided to forget her foolish debutante's dreams. She soon moved freely
in the best circles, and she was frequently pursued by ambitious financiers and dashing noblemen.

She had only returned to the States upon hearing how ill her father was. When she had learned that Rick was in love with another woman, she had been shocked—and she had given in to the immediate instinct for self-preservation. She had no wish to be humiliated by a love affair, or worse, ruined by divorce. She had immediately left Boston for New York, to claim her husband and her marriage.

At first, he had been furious with her return, but she had been determined. In a way, she had bribed him into the reconciliation. She had told him that if he lived with her as man and wife for six months and still wanted a divorce after that, she would give it to him. She had been very confident of his political aspirations, which a divorce would destroy, and even more certain of her powers of seduction. And she had been right.

But their marriage had been unhappy anyway. He refused to forgive her for the years of separation. And he had changed so much. He was a powerful man now, whom she respected and admired. She had realized that she still loved him. But then she'd been struck down by a runaway coach, and she had permanently lost the use of her legs.

Leigh Anne felt the black despair claim her then. She had been so close to attaining the life she had dreamed of as a young woman. Briefly, she had loved being Rick's wife again, in spite of his rage. She had been certain he would love and admire her in return, in time. He was such a catch now—he came from a good family, he was a gentleman and his political star was on the rise. He received more invitations than he could ever accept. She had loved poring over the cards, deciding whose function to attend—and whose invitation she would reject. She
had been shocked to realize the power a single rejection could have. And she had dreamed of the future they would have—they'd adopt the two girls and have more children of their own, while he became a state senator, and then a United States senator. They would move to Washington, the most exciting city in the world, where power and ambition ran riot amongst glamour and wealth…

She wanted to cry. Now, she dreaded his walking in the door. The despair was consuming. She hated being crippled and ugly; she hated her life now!

She had always taken for granted her ability to walk into a room and be the most beautiful woman there. No more. It had been awful entering the church today in her damn wheeled chair. Everyone had looked at her, and she had known what they were all thinking. There had been so much pity in the sidelong glances cast her way, in the whispers behind her back.

What was left for her, other than the two little girls?

Peter placed the glass of brandy before her, his timing perfection.

She inhaled, finding sudden composure, and blinked a tear back. She smiled at him, thanking him the way a lady should. Then she drank the brandy, closing her eyes as it burned its way into her belly, awaiting the release the alcohol would bring her.

The only thing left for her was being a good mother. She looked at the nearly empty glass of brandy. She was afraid to continue with her thoughts. Then she heard the front door. She tensed.

“Mama?” Katie whispered anxiously. “Do you want to read us a story?”

“Story, story!” Dot beamed, clapping her hands. Mrs. Flowers, the nanny, had just wiped them free of apple-sauce.

Before Leigh Anne could agree—she loved reading
bedtime stories to the girls—she heard Rick's footfall approaching. She froze, filled with dread.

He appeared on the threshold of the olive-green-and-gold dining room. He smiled tiredly at her, then went to kiss Katie and Dot on the forehead. He did not approach her, and she was relieved. He was terribly concerned about Francesca's disappearance, she thought. But of course he was. He was loyal to a fault, and he would always care about Francesca. Then she wondered if she truly believed her foolish thoughts. They would always be more to one another than mere friends.

“Did you find her?” Leigh Anne asked. She hadn't decided if she should be thrilled or dismayed that Francesca and Hart hadn't married. Just a few months ago, Rick had been in love with her.

Rick straightened, but as he spoke, his gaze went to her brandy glass. “No. I am very worried. Her disappearance is now an official police matter.” He turned to the nanny. “Could you take the girls upstairs and get them ready for bed?”

Katie stood, looking pleadingly at Leigh Anne. Dot cried, “Bed story!” Mrs. Flowers took her out of the high chair and set her down on the floor.

“I will be up in a moment or two,” Leigh Anne promised.

Bragg didn't move until the two girls and their nanny had left. She slowly looked at him as he sat down at the table, across from her. “I cannot imagine what could have happened to keep her away from her own wedding. She seemed so happy the last time I saw her. Do you think there is foul play?”

“Yes, I do. The one thing I am sure of is that Francesca did not suddenly decide to jilt Calder.” He spoke without emotion. She knew he hated the idea of Francesca marrying Hart. But if he was pleased by this sudden turn of
events, she could not tell. “Peter, may I have a scotch, please?”

The Swede nodded and left the dining room.

She looked at her glass, willing herself to have patience. “Chief Farr called. He was looking for you.”

“I guess he has heard the news,” Rick said grimly.

She wasn't sure what his odd tone meant. “He already knew that Francesca is missing. He said something about how there must have been a commotion today.”

Rick looked at her. “What did he say, exactly?”

She started, and finally pulled her drink toward her. “He made a comment about how there must have been a commotion at the church when the bride did not show up. I said it was quite chaotic.”

Peter returned and handed Rick a scotch. He took a sip. “Farr doesn't like her.”

Leigh Anne finished her brandy. “Surely he doesn't wish her ill, Rick.”

Rick grimaced, studying his drink. “I imagine he is pleased that something has befallen her.”

“That is a terrible thing to say.” He was very concerned, she realized. Carefully, she said, “I hope you are wrong and Francesca had an extreme case of bridal jitters. I hope she is not in jeopardy somewhere.”

He stood up abruptly. “I have to call Farr.”

“Rick, do not worry about me. I am going to read to the girls and put them to bed. Go find Francesca.”

He didn't hesitate. “Are you certain you do not mind?” His gaze strayed to the empty glass on the dining table in front of her.

“I have always liked her.” That much was true. Francesca was a pleasant, kind and even admirable woman. “I am worried about her, too.”

“Thank you,” he said, walking out.

She leaned back in her chair, beyond relief, aware that
she was already forgotten. He wouldn't bother her again that night, and after the girls were asleep, she could dose herself thoroughly with brandy and laudanum.

 

F
RANCESCA HAD SPENT
the entire carriage ride filling Joel in on every detail of that day. Joel, of course, already knew that her portrait had been stolen. Two months ago, when she, Hart and Bragg had decided to leave the police out of the investigation—no one wanted anyone to know about the portrait—Joel had wanted to know why everyone was so upset. She had told him that the painting was somewhat compromising.

He hadn't known what the word meant. Francesca had decided not to tell him the absolute truth. She had merely said that she had posed in a manner that society would frown upon. Joel hadn't cared after that. She knew he found the mores of society confusing, irrelevant and at times, just plain stupid, to use his own words.