Deadly Vows (15 page)

A small fire crackled in the hearth and she saw papers and newspapers on his desk, a cup of coffee there. She already knew that Hart was very devoted to the management of his business empire. He slept little and worked long hours—he enjoyed negotiations and trades far more than the daily minutiae of running insurance and shipping companies.

He walked swiftly over to a gilded bar cart and poured her a black coffee from a sterling-silver coffee pitcher. He returned to her, handing her the cup. “It is very early, Francesca, even for you.”

“Yes, it is.” She accepted the cup and wondered if the knots in her stomach would increase if she drank the
coffee. It was one thing to investigate someone else's case. With her fate on the line, this felt entirely different.

If she could recover the portrait, they could pursue the thief at leisure. And she could focus most of her efforts on winning Hart back.

Hart was staring at her unadorned left hand again. Francesca felt a brief satisfaction, wondering if he would remark on it so she could be flippant about their circumstances. But he didn't speak. She tried to take a sip of coffee. Her stomach tightened and hurt. She set the cup down. “I hate to ask you for a very large favor, but I must.”

“Whatever it is, my answer is yes.”

She wanted to hug him; she did not move. “You haven't heard me out yet.”

“My answer is yes.”

She inhaled, so relieved her knees buckled. He steadied her. She opened her eyes and said softly, with dread and dismay, “I'm afraid I must ask you for a considerable sum of money—when I already owe you so much.”

His unblinking gaze never changed. “You owe me nothing, Francesca. I gave you the fifty thousand to aid your brother. How much do you need?”

She cringed. When Andrew had refused to pay any more gambling debts, Evan had been assaulted by some thug. The vicious attack, which had left him bedridden with several broken ribs and a black eye, had been a warning from one of his creditors. Francesca had asked Hart for fifty thousand dollars. Evan owed far more, but they had decided that partial payment would be enough to ward off any further attacks. Hart hadn't hesitated to give them the sum.

He had also insisted on taking it to Evan's creditor himself. Francesca knew he would never accept repayment.

He said softly, “You need never be afraid to ask me for my help.”

She inhaled. “I am afraid I need seventy-five thousand dollars,” she said grimly.

“I see.” A deadly pause ensued. He finally said, “What are the funds for?”

“I would prefer not to say,” she said firmly.

“You know I am going to give it to you no matter what it is for.”

She couldn't smile. “I am so grateful.” This was not the behavior of an ex-fiancé, she thought. This was the behavior of a trusted and loyal partner.

He was studying her far too closely. “You seem exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not really.”

“Is the money about recovering the portrait?”

“No.”

For one more moment he stared and she could not look him in the eye. “Please trust me,” she whispered, but the moment she spoke, she thought about how he had trusted her—and how she had missed their wedding.

But he didn't make a rebuttal. He turned and walked away from her. She watched him take a huge painting down from one wall. The safe was behind it, and he quickly turned the lock. The iron door swung open and Hart began taking stacked bills out. He took them to his desk. “It is not a loan. You could never pay it back, and even if you could, I wouldn't accept repayment. But I do want to know what this sum is for. For you can trust me as well, Francesca.”

Francesca walked over to the desk, clutching her purse. “Evan has been gaming again,” she lied. She prayed her brother would never hear of her atrocious deception. But she knew he would forgive her, if he understood what was at stake.

Hart sighed. He went back to the safe, closing it, and then replaced the oil on the wall. Francesca suddenly realized that the painting was not the Constable landscape that had been there so recently. It was a dreamy, somewhat abstract cityscape. “You have purchased a new painting.”

“I am very impressed with this young artist. His name is Henri Matisse and that is his rendering of Notre-Dame,” Hart said, turning. He retrieved her coffee cup and took it to the sideboard. There, he poured a dark liquor into it. He returned to her. “This should ease your nerves.”

“It is half past six in the morning.”

“You are frightened, Francesca.”

“No, I'm not. I am…worried.”

He suddenly tilted up her chin with his strong hand. “Do you want to tell me what the funds are really for?”

His hand on her face felt like her undoing. She longed to blurt out the truth. Worse, she so wanted to move into his powerful arms. “I cannot, Hart. Please. Leave it alone.”

“I'm not sure that I can.” His eyes were dark now, and he glanced at her lips. For an instant, Francesca tensed, thinking he would kiss her.

But he released her. “You have taken up a vocation that is inherently dangerous. You consort, on a daily basis, with the worst criminals, not to mention madmen. I do not like it when you are in jeopardy, Francesca.”

“I am not in that kind of jeopardy,” she whispered, thrilling at his words. She reached up and touched his hard, clenched jaw.

He caught her hand and said, “Are you being blackmailed?”

She tried very hard not to glance away. She felt her cheeks warm as she whispered, “No.”

And for one more moment they stood that way, with
her hand pressed to his face as he held her wrist hard, there. She thought he would take her hand, turn it over and kiss it—as he had so often done. He did not. “I do not believe you.”

“Leave it alone, Hart, please,” she repeated.

“Does Bragg know that you are here, asking for seventy-five thousand dollars?”

She hesitated. He sighed. “I didn't think so. You will take Raoul today.”

She bit her lip, relieved. “Papa is using our carriage today, so thank you very much. I am picking up Joel on my way downtown to police headquarters.” She wanted to change the subject. “We will interview Henrietta Randall today. I want to make certain that Bill Randall is not a suspect.”

He paced and said, “My damnable half brother was at the university in Philadelphia the weekend your portrait was stolen. There are two witnesses.”

“I just want to make certain his alibi is genuine.” She knew how much he despised his half brother and his calm demeanor was being eroded by an increasingly dark, angry expression. “Did you speak to Randall?”

“No.” He faced her, seeming disgusted. “I left that unpleasant chore to my investigators.”

She hurried to him. “He isn't involved in this, Calder. I am merely being thorough.”

He caught her wrist before she could caress his cheek. “I cannot believe I commissioned that portrait.”

She knew where he was going. “Stop. I chose to pose nude. I enjoyed doing so!”

“Of course you did. You are putty in my hands.”

She was taken aback.

“I taint everything—and everyone—I touch, Francesca. You are no exception.”

F
RANCESCA HAD BEEN TO
the notorious Blackwell's Island several times, to do charitable work at its almshouse, but she had never become indifferent to the sight of the prison. As she stood with Bragg in the bow of the ferry that was steaming up the East River from the south—they had embarked from the ferry terminal adjacent to the Brooklyn Bridge—she shivered, and not just because it was cold out on the water.

“You need a shawl,” Bragg said softly. Before she could protest, he had shrugged off his suit jacket, placing it over her shoulders.

His masculine scent enveloped her, making her uncomfortably aware of him. It reminded her of a long-ago time, when they had been more than friends. Hart would hardly appreciate this gesture, she thought. “Thank you. Every time I come here, I think about how daunting the penitentiary is.”

The prison, built from the island's granite quarries, took up most of the landmass, running from the island's southern tip to its northern end. They were just passing East Forty-second Street on their left, where the traffic was fairly brisk for a late-June day. The steamer had taken less than a half hour to make the short trip from the South Street piers.

“It is certainly a forbidding and imposing structure. In any case, I am glad that Mrs. Randall is in the workhouse, as the conditions in the prison are deplorable.” He gave her a long look. “I prefer you do not visit those premises.”

She smiled grimly at him. “I already have, Bragg. I am a reformer, remember? I have heard Seth Low rail against the Blackwell's Island Penitentiary for its horrid overcrowding, drug dealing and lack of sanitation for almost a decade. When I came here to do my charity work, I made a point of visiting the prison.”

He rolled his eyes. “I cannot imagine how you were allowed inside.”

“I have my methods.”

“Yes, you do.” He sobered. They had had an entire hour to discuss the case. Bragg was up to speed. The only fact he did not know was that she was now the target of a blackmailer. He had apprised her of several new clues, as well: Daniel Moore was deeply in debt and six months behind on his rent for the gallery; he was two months late on his apartment. And a woman had come forward to claim that she had seen two gentlemen leaving the gallery on Saturday. She couldn't recall the exact time of day, but Joel's witness's statement had been corroborated.

Bragg also believed that Moore was involved with Francesca's entrapment on Saturday. Now they meant to look at his bank accounts to see if he had recently received a significant sum of money. In any case, they agreed that it was time to bring Moore down to HQ for some serious questioning.

Francesca had decided to keep Joel in the Washington Square neighborhood, searching for more clues. She had asked Bragg to locate the brothel where Dawn might be working, and he had wired the appropriate precincts. Francesca was hopeful that by the afternoon, she might have located that particular bawdy house. If not, she would at least have a list of the brothels on the west side, in the forties, and in the vicinity of both elevated railroads.

Bragg remained skeptical of Solange Marceaux's involvement.

Their ferry was now steaming up the west side of the island. They would alight from the piers there. “So why are you so ragged this morning? I thought you and my brother were mending fences.”

She looked at him carefully. The moment she had arrived at his office, he had noticed that she was not wearing
her ring, but he hadn't said a word. “I thought so, too. But he is resolved to be noble now. He believes it is in my best interests that we do not resume our engagement.”

Bragg stared, his expression not moving. To his credit, he did not look at her left hand.

“I know you are pleased.”

“I am very pleased, but I prefer not to evince my pleasure, not when you are suffering such heartache, Francesca.” His gaze was searching.

“I remain optimistic,” she said.

He half smiled, their gazes holding. “You are the eternal optimist.”

She smiled back, but briefly. She sensed he wished to ask her about her engagement ring and that he was restraining himself. She bit her lip. Wasn't he her closest friend—after Connie? “I took off my engagement ring, as you can see. It is tucked safely away in Julia's safe.”

“I noticed. However, I suspect you have hardly given up on my brother.”

She hesitated. “Connie told me to take the ring off.”

His eyes widened with instant comprehension. “Do not think to manipulate Hart!”

She winced. “Connie is far more experienced than I am. She gave me sage advice, Bragg.”

“To do what? To play him, by pretending you are in agreement with him that things are off now? He will see through that con immediately.”

She was suddenly afraid that he was right, but her course was set now. She decided to change the subject. “How are things with you? We are always discussing my affairs, when I care as much about your problems as you do mine. Have you made any progress with Leigh Anne? Is she feeling any better?”

He started, then spoke carefully. “With the holiday
weekend looming, I have been entirely wrapped up in police affairs, Francesca.”

“Well, surely you have had a conversation or two with your wife.” She was joking.

He didn't smile. “I have barely been home for more than an hour or two at a time. Nothing has changed.”

She was now, finally, very concerned. Surely this was a slight bump in the road of their marriage, wasn't it? “Rick, you must make time for your family. You cannot live at police headquarters or hide from Leigh Anne in your work.”

He was cool. “I am not hiding from anyone or anything, Francesca. I remain a very busy man.”

She made up her mind. She must call on Leigh Anne before the Braggs left town for the July Fourth weekend. If she could help somehow, she would.

Bragg suddenly took her arm and as he did, the bow of the ferry struck the pier. Francesca stumbled and he caught her in such a manner that she was in his arms. Instantly, their gazes met.

It was just a bit too familiar, she thought, her heart lurching. She gently dislodged herself as lines were cast ashore, and she wondered if he was reluctant to let her go. The ferry captain was approaching. “Hope it was a good voyage, C'missioner.” He was ruddy cheeked and portly, with huge white whiskers.

“It was a very fine trip,” Bragg said. “Francesca?”

She handed him his jacket and thanked the ferry captain as he shrugged it back on. She glanced past him. The front hall of the penitentiary almost appeared gothic with its high sloping roof, and it jutted out from the rest of the building at a right angle. She knew that the prison's eight hundred cells were to the left, the workhouse, penitentiary hospital and the asylum all to the right. At the most northern end of the island was the almshouse, where
she had often gone to visit the city's poorest widows and orphans.