Deadly Vows

Julia sat on the sofa with Andrew and Connie, an alcoholic drink of some sort on the table in front of her. It was obvious she had been weeping; Julia never wept, or not that he had ever seen. It was warm in the room, but someone had thrown a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. She sat up stiffly as they entered the room. “Has there been any word? Any clue? Is she back?”

Bragg was grim. “I am sorry, Julia, but my answer is no to all your questions.”

She cried out. Andrew put his arm around her and held her close. “Oh, God! Francesca is reckless and impulsive, but she would never be this irresponsible, Rick! What has happened to her? Where is my daughter?”

“Darling!” Andrew said sharply. “Francesca is fine. She will return at any moment—with some cockamamy explanation for what has occurred today.” But he was as pale as his wife.

“Francesca will be fine, Mama,” Connie said. “You know Fran. She is unstoppable.”

Julia moaned. “And when she does return, then what? Three weeks ago her fiancé was accused of murder! We have hardly gotten over that scandal—and now, there is this! Everyone will be gossiping about Francesca jilting Hart at the altar for months to come.”

“Let’s worry about the scandal another time,” Andrew said firmly.

Evan couldn’t agree more.

Bragg stepped forward. “The police will be here shortly. I have to leave, but I will return in two hours.”

“In two hours?” Julia gasped in disbelief. “Do you have to leave?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bragg said.

Andrew rose and strode to him. “Can I have a private word, Rick?”

Andrew was as much an advocate of reform and as politically active as Rick. They had met years earlier, when Rick’s father was in Grover Cleveland’s administration. Now they were close friends. The two men stepped into the hall.

For one moment, a heavy silence filled with fear and dread fell over the small salon. Julia seemed frozen. Connie got up and walked into her husband’s arms. Montrose was as worried as anyone. Evan tightened his grasp on Maggie, turning to her and lowering his voice. “I will get you a cab.” He didn’t want her to go, but he imagined she had left her other three children with a neighbor, and surely had to return home.

As they left the salon, Maggie murmured, “I hate leaving you now, in crisis. You have been so helpful to me.”

Her concern thrilled him, but he was careful to remain poker-faced. “It’s all right. Joel?” he called. He realized Joel had gone outside. “Did he leave?”

“He told me he would help the police tonight. I have never been able to keep him from running around as he pleases,” Maggie said with dismay. “I know he wants to find Francesca.”

Joel had more courage than most grown men, and shrewd wits. Evan wondered if he had run off to try to find Francesca on his own. At that point, he didn’t truly care who found her—as long as she was found.

The doorbell sounded. Evan could not imagine who would call upon them now. As he and Maggie turned, the doorman opened the door, revealing Bartolla Benevente.

His tension knew no bounds.

Maggie flinched.

His ex-mistress strolled into the front hall, holding a pastry box wrapped in ribbon. She was still dressed in a very daring ruby-red ball gown for the reception that had not taken place. She was a stunning, statuesque woman with auburn hair. Once, her face and figure had driven him mad with desire. Now, he found her distastefully obvious.

Bartolla smiled slowly at them. “Hello, Evan.” She ignored Maggie, coming forward with the sweeping stride of royalty. In reality, she had no royal blood, although at sixteen she had married a sixty-year-old Italian count. “Has your sister been found?”

“No, she has not. What are you doing here? This is a very difficult time, Bartolla.”

“I am aware of that! I must say, I never dreamed Francesca would jilt Hart. I have always thought that he would be the one to break her foolish heart—sooner than later.” She laughed, clearly amused by the events of the day. “I do not think Hart will be very happy with your sister when she returns, Evan.”

“You are wrong. He is smitten. Francesca has gotten herself into trouble, otherwise, there would have been a wedding today. Once she is found, I am certain they will plan another wedding day.” He realized he had come to despise her. He did not know how he would manage a relationship with her after their child was born.

Bartolla laughed again. “I know Hart very well, my dear, and he loves to hold a grudge. There will never be a wedding now.”

Evan realized she still hadn’t looked at Maggie even once—as if Maggie were not standing there with them. “I am not going to argue with you. I must get Mrs. Kennedy a cab.”

“Perhaps you should put her on the El, instead.” She smiled. “After all, that is the fare a seamstress can afford.”

He trembled with anger; Maggie touched his hand. He looked at her and she sent him a silent message with her eyes. She did not want him upset by the countess. He inhaled. “Bartolla, this is not the time to call. My family is very distraught. My mother is not receiving tonight.”

“Balderdash. I have brought cakes, Evan. I am so very fond of Julia and I wished to commiserate with her. Surely she needs a shoulder to cry on now.”

Evan knew she only wished to gloat.

Maggie tugged on his hand, clearly wanting to leave. Then Bragg appeared, his strides long and brisk. He and Evan went outside together as Bartolla swept into the other room in search of Julia.

“What do you really think?” Evan asked him tersely.

Bragg hesitated. “I think Francesca has gotten into some trouble. But I am going to find her, Evan. You may count on that.”

SHE WAS AFRAID to get out of the cab.

Hart’s home was a huge, neo-gothic mansion, consisting mostly of charcoal-hued stone. Recently built, it was a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. He had no neighbors as of yet, and his grounds took up half a city block. Lawns and gardens surrounded the house, while a brick stable, servants’ quarters, tennis courts and a large pond were all set farther back on the grounds. A tall, wrought-iron-and-stone fence bounded the entire property.

Francesca did not move as the cabbie got down from the driver’s seat. The front gates were closed, although it was only six o’clock in the evening.

She trembled, fighting tears of exhaustion and dismay. She had spent the past thirty minutes traveling uptown, trying to imagine what the scene had been like at the church when the bridal march should have begun. Her mother would have been hysterical, her father grim. She couldn’t imagine the reaction of her guests.

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-full; 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.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Saturday, June 28, 1902

7:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA 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.