Deadly Vows (18 page)

“A payoff from our thief—to use his gallery?”

“I would assume so,” Hart said. They were on Lexington now. The traffic was always heavy on that avenue, where huge wagons laden with retail merchandise and industrial supplies vied for the right-of-way with electric trolleys and mostly empty cabs. Theirs was the only private coach in sight.

Moore knew who they were pursuing. It was time to drag him downtown and make him break.

“We're here,” Hart said abruptly. As they all alighted, he clasped Joel by the shoulder. “By the way,” he said to the small boy, “I am proud of how you tried to protect Francesca from that cyclist.”

Joel beamed at him. “I saw him change direction and knew he meant to run her over.”

“You have good instincts, Joel, and more importantly, you are terribly brave. Francesca is fortunate to have you at her side.”

Joel flushed with more pleasure. Francesca hid a smile and said, “We are looking for any clues relating to the blackmail note, the theft of my portrait or Bill Randall having been in the city. Joel, why don't you take the upstairs. Hart and I will nose around the ground floor.”

They started for the redbrick home, which was just off Lexington Avenue. A large For Sale sign was posted on the iron gate. Hart unlatched it and they walked inside. “Did you know the house was for sale?” Francesca asked.

“No, I did not,” Hart said.

He sounded so grim. Francesca imagined that his memories of this house, which he had been to only a few times, were not pleasant. She hated the fact that his own father had rejected him. Impulsively she reached for his hand.

For one moment, he let her take it, before he slipped his palm free. “I don't care about Paul Randall,” he said flatly.

She grimaced, wondering if he truly believed that, while trying the front doorknob. Of course it was locked.

Several moments followed, with Joel attempting to pick the lock. Hart went to walk around the house, hoping for an open window. Francesca tried to pretend that nothing was amiss, but several shopgirls looked at them oddly
as they passed, as did the street vendor on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. He was selling candles, but he gave that task up, instead watching with interest as Joel kept jimmying the lock.

Hart appeared from inside the house, opening the front door for them. “The back door is unlocked.”

They hurried inside. “That street vendor might rouse up a roundsman.”

Hart shrugged. “I got in through the parlor. Francesca, come look.”

He took her arm and they walked into the small parlor where she had interviewed various members of the family after Paul Randall's murder in February. Joel ran upstairs. Francesca hesitated, a memory of poor Henrietta coming to mind as she had been while the matriarch of this small house, and as she now was, at the Blackwell's Island Workhouse. She had lost her husband, her family and her life.

The parlor remained dark and dreary, as if in mourning, with wine-colored draperies and wine-and-cream-striped walls. She glanced past the sideboard, with its bric-a-brac and photographs, ignoring those of Bill, past the candelabra and small painting on the mantel of the fireplace, to the main seating area. A moss-green sofa faced two red chairs. There was an empty drinking glass on one side table, some newspapers on the occasional table in front of the sofa. The glass, of course, could have been left there months ago—or by one of the family's real estate agents. Francesca rushed to the low table and picked up the topmost newspaper, which was the
New York Times:
Walkout Order Goes into Effect Today. She gasped, wondering if this article was in reference to the much-anticipated strike at Union Pacific in Omaha. She glanced at the date on the paper. Monday, June 30. “It is today's paper.”

Hart's brows lifted.

She looked at the two other papers. They were both from Sunday. Hart said mildly, “Bill is the only one capable of trying to sell this house. But anyone could have been here today—an agent, a buyer, anyone.”

“Yes—and Bill might have been here today,” she exclaimed. She hurried into the kitchen and he followed her. She could feel his mood softening. But now, she hesitated—this was where she had encountered Bill after escaping, and where she had knocked him out with a cast-iron pan. She turned and saw a plate with some bread crumbs on it on the small kitchen table. A knife and fork were on the plate. She went forward and touched a crumb—it had been left recently, she was certain. Then she went to the sink and saw several dirty dishes. “No agent would leave such a mess behind.”

Before Hart could respond, Joel ran into the kitchen. “Some one's sleeping in the bed upstairs in the man's bedroom!”

Francesca turned to Hart. His eyes were dark with anticipation. She was fairly certain that Bill Randall was staying in the family home. As much as she wanted to apprehend him, she truly hoped he would not walk in the door. She did not trust Hart just then.

“An' someone's staying in the other bedroom, too,” Joel added, his eyes alight with excitement.

Francesca started. “Are you certain?”

“Follow me!” He grinned.

They trooped up the narrow staircase and Joel led them to Mary's small, spartan bedroom. It was unchanged from when Francesca had been imprisoned in it. But the bed was not made, the blankets were tossed back, the pillow was dented as if recently slept in. And the room's single window was open.

She glanced at Hart. He murmured, “Someone is most definitely using this room.”

She was uneasy. “Joel, where is the man's bedroom?”

He led them across the hall. The bed was made, but toiletries were on the adjacent table, as was a two-week-old issue of
Harper's.
As she approached the bed, she smelled a man's cologne. Her stomach churned—she thought she recognized the scent. In any case, it reminded her of Randall.

“I have no doubt that Bill is in residence, with an accomplice,” Hart said, staring at her. “It's getting late. Let's take Joel home and then I am taking you home. You have been up since dawn.”

He cared enough to want her to get home and rest? Hiding a smile, she said, “Bragg needs to have this house under surveillance.”

“I'll call him when we get home.”

She wondered if his words were a slip of the tongue. “Maybe we should make a brief detour to Bellevue and speak with Mary. If Bill has a habit of visiting his mother, I would wager he calls on his sister, as well.”

“I'd rather not,” Hart said flatly.

As they returned downstairs, Francesca realized she was exhausted. The last person she wished to spar with was Mary Randall. She had never met an angrier or more bitter woman. “It has been a very long day,” she said, angling for some sympathy.

She gave him a sidelong look, which he pretended not to see. They locked the front door and left the house through the parlor. When Hart didn't comment, she added, “Not only was I up at dawn, I barely slept at all last night.”

Had Hart's mouth quirked? He looked at her, taking her elbow and guiding her from the small yard to Fifty-
seventh Street, Joel following behind them. “What is it you want, Francesca?”

She smiled at him. “I would love nothing more than a good stiff drink.”

Monday, June 30, 1902
6:00 p.m.

S
HE STARED AT
the clothing scattered across her bed. She had dresses for every occasion—for teas and luncheons, for a stroll down the Ladies' Mile, for shopping at B. Altman's or the Lord & Taylor store, for charity lunches and supper balls. Leigh Anne stared helplessly at the pile of gowns, Katie hovering anxiously by her right side. The new maid, Nanette, waited expectantly.

Why couldn't she choose which dresses to pack for their holiday weekend? She couldn't imagine the upcoming weekend with Rick and the girls in that little cottage on the beach, much less summon up a decision about her clothing. Her brain felt befuddled and fogged. She couldn't even decide whether or not to take the girls out for a stroll.

“You should take the pale blue, the dark pink and the one with green stripes,” Katie whispered.

Leigh Anne glanced at the child, whose mouth was curved down, her dark eyes filled with anxiety. She somehow reached for and found her hand. “What a lovely choice,” she said, smiling as brightly as she could. But the anguish was burying her alive.

She needed new clothes, she thought dully. She needed gray and beige dresses, or even black—sober colors more suited to a crippled matron in a wheelchair. Her right leg
ached. Where was her tea? It was laced very liberally with brandy.

“I will pack these pretty dresses right up,” Nanette said cheerfully. “Is there anything else you wish to bring for your holiday? It might be cool on the beach, Mrs. Bragg.”

The Frenchwoman was always smiling. Why was she always so happy? Didn't she know that tragedy could strike in a single heartbeat, forever changing one's life?

Katie suddenly brought her teacup. As she handed it to her, Leigh Anne flushed, afraid to look the child in the eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. Katie had seen her pouring brandy in her tea.

Leigh Anne knew she had become a terrible mother. How had that happened, when she so loved the girls? Of course, they had Rick, whom they could always depend upon. Except, he was never home now.

He claimed he was working late hours in order to be ready to leave the city for their holiday on Thursday. She had reassured him that she understood his preoccupation, his schedule and the rigorous demands of his job. But she also knew he was spending a great deal of time with Francesca, investigating. She didn't care—did she?

“Can we go downstairs?” Katie whispered.

Leigh Anne focused. “We certainly can.” She managed to smile as Peter was called. She hated being carried downstairs, more so now than ever. This day was worse than most—some days were so dark, there simply was no hope.

A few moments later, the children were in the dining room, beginning their supper. The doorbell sounded. Leigh Anne couldn't imagine who would be calling at the supper hour, as none of her acquaintances ever visited now. It was as if she had conveniently left town—or as
if she no longer existed. She was still reeling from how awkward it had been to attend Francesca's wedding.

The fact of the matter was that Leigh Anne no longer existed—a stranger had taken her place.

She nodded at Peter to get the door, even though she had no desire to entertain. “Dot,” she told the rambunctious two-year-old. “Don't you like the meat loaf? It is not meant to be toyed with—it is meant to be eaten.”

“I'll help her,” Nanette said quickly, taking her fork from her.

Leigh Anne recalled a time when she had helped Dot finish her food without allowing a mess to be made. Hearing footsteps, she tensed. A woman's high heels accompanied Peter's heavier footfall.

“Hello, Leigh Anne. My, what a charming family scene! All that is missing is the police commissioner.” Bartolla Benevente beamed.

Leigh Anne's heart sank. What did the other woman want? She no longer considered Bartolla a friend. It had been clear from the first that the countess delighted in Leigh Anne's new predicament. Once, they had dined and shopped together in Europe, frequenting the same supper parties and balls. Leigh Anne had never allowed the other woman's petty malice to bother her. And why would she? Bartolla had always been jealous of the attention she received. Now she struggled to find her dignity and indifference. No one was as catty as the countess. “Hello. This is a surprise, Bartolla. The children are dining, as you can see.”

Bartolla was a striking woman, and she was gorgeous in her royal-blue ensemble. “I forgot how early children dine. I wanted to call before I left for the Catskills. Darling, are you ill?” Her auburn brows lifted.

Leigh Anne knew that she was referring, inelegantly, to her poor, pale looks. “I have been having some slight
pains,” she said, too late realizing she shouldn't discuss this in front of the children. Katie had stopped eating to listen to her every word. “Finish up, darlings. I will entertain the countess in the parlor.”

Peter was already behind her and wheeling her chair out the dining room, down the short hall and into the parlor. Leigh Anne said, “Why don't you bring us two sherries.”

“I am so sorry you aren't well,” Bartolla exclaimed as he went to the bar cart. “Leigh Anne, you have lost so much weight.”

She did not know what to say to that. “Who are you visiting in the mountains? I have heard the Catskills are lovely at this time of year.”

Bartolla sat on the sofa, accepting her sherry. “I have been invited down by the Rutherfords. Dear, I must be atrociously bold. That dress no longer suits you.”

Leigh Anne took a very large sip of sherry as Peter left. “I must call in a modiste.” She took another calming sip of sherry and stared at Bartolla. She knew all about her failed affair with Evan Cahill. “I think I will try that Irishwoman, Maggie Kennedy. She has done such wonderful dresses for Francesca.”

Bartolla put her glass down, her eyes gleaming hatefully. “I cannot believe you would give her your business!”

“And why wouldn't I?”

Bartolla stood. “She is a harlot, Leigh Anne. She has been carrying on with Evan right under my very nose.”

“Really? She seemed like a fine and decent woman to me.”

Bartolla spat. “I cannot believe he is sleeping with her! He will realize, sooner or later, that it is his fortune she is after.”

“As he did with you?”

Bartolla stiffened. “My, my, you still have claws. I have never liked rivals, my dear, as you may remember.” The innuendo did not escape Leigh Anne. They had been rivals once, but never again. Then Bartolla smiled. “How is Rick, darling?”

“He has so many burdens, as you know.”

“Yes, I see that the newsmen in this city write about him every day. You will lose him, Leigh Anne, if you keep on this way.”

Leigh Anne stiffened. She did not want to discuss Rick Bragg—or her marriage—with this hateful woman.

“You are still pretty. I am sure if you wore some rouge and a different dress you could attract his interest as you used to.”

“My husband is devoted to me,” she said tersely.

“I have heard that he is running all over town with Francesca, now that her engagement to Hart is off.” Bartolla laughed. “Did you see Hart's face at the church? He finally got his comeuppance. It was priceless, that moment of humiliation.”

“I have always liked Calder.”

“Hmm, I suppose that is because you are the only woman he hasn't slept with.” Bartolla blinked with feigned innocence. “For that would have ended your relationship with Rick—once and for all.”

Leigh Anne wished she had another drink. “They get along better now,” she finally said.

“Ha! They hate one another. Francesca has always been deeply in love with Bragg. She did love him first, before you returned to claim your marriage. I know. I was here.” She gloated. “Don't you see what is about to happen? Rick will turn to her if you continue this way, as a despondent cripple.”

Leigh Anne had no response to make. Bartolla was right.

“I do not want you to lose him,” Bartolla said, taking the seat closest to her chair. “You must fix yourself up.”

Leigh Anne wished she could get up and walk out of the room. A part of her didn't want to lose him either, she realized. But she hated the woman she had become. Francesca Cahill was perfect for him. If Rick left her for the sleuth, it would be best for everyone—except, of course, for poor Calder Hart. “Would you pour me another sherry?”

Bartolla leaped up to do so. “You don't seem very distressed at the idea of Rick leaving you, Leigh Anne.”

“I am too tired to be upset.”

Bartolla shook her head, perplexed. “You have lost more than the use of your legs. I feel sorry for you. Francesca will walk off with Rick very shortly, if I do not miss my guess.”

Leigh Anne wondered if Bartolla was right. She wondered if she cared. She wondered if she could live alone with the girls. She needed her laudanum, she thought. Either that, or she would take the morphine her former male nurse had managed to procure for her. It was so much better than the laudanum.

“Of course, Francesca might wind up very much alone,” Bartolla said suddenly. “Sarah is so upset these days. She has been in a frenzy, really, all because of that stolen portrait.”

Leigh Anne could barely follow Bartolla.

“You do know that Hart commissioned a portrait of Francesca, and that it was stolen several months ago.” She laughed. “My God, what an uproar that has caused.”

Leigh Anne finished the sherry. “Yes, I vaguely recall Rick mentioning it.”

“And did he mention that if that portrait is ever displayed in public, Francesca will be ruined?”

Leigh Anne stared. “No, he did not.”

“Ah, of course he didn't tell you—he is protecting her.”

“I think you should go,” Leigh Anne said. She simply couldn't withstand these tactics any longer. She was tired. She wanted relief. She wanted to become mindless, to float through the rest of the evening.

Bartolla leaned over her. “The portrait is a nude, Leigh Anne. I saw it myself, in Sarah's studio. If it ever surfaces, she will never be able to set foot in polite society again.”

Leigh Anne was shocked.

“I can see you had no clue.” Gaily, Bartolla kissed her. “If I don't see you, have a wonderful Fourth.”

Rather stupefied, Leigh Anne watched her swagger to the door. There, she paused. “And do put on some rouge—unless you truly wish to send your husband into another woman's arms.”

Leigh Anne decided not to bother to try to form a reply. Bartolla was leaving. Everything would be all right. She simply needed to dose herself. Before she knew it, she would be floating in a world where there was no pain, no despair and no regrets.

 

F
RANCESCA WAS ACUTELY
aware of Hart. His masculine appeal, his power and sensuality, were impossible to ignore when they sat together alone in his coach, sharing the backseat. Joel had been taken to his flat a half hour ago. Only a hand's span separated them.

He glanced sidelong at her.

She felt her heart beating slowly. Francesca pretended not to notice his regard. Outside, the night was postcard perfect. A million stars glittered in the city's inky sky. They were traveling up Fourth Avenue, alongside the excavations for the railroad tunnel, and most of the buildings along the street were dark and unlit. There was no traffic,
and their pace was brisk. Francesca stole a glance at his hard, handsome profile. She knew exactly how she wished for this day to end.

She turned back to her open carriage window. Had she not gone downtown to Moore's gallery on Saturday, they would now be man and wife. They would be aboard a cruise ship, dancing every night away, sharing fine wines and champagne, on their way to France.

They would be making love till dawn.

His gaze strayed to hers, a flicker in his eyes. She smiled slightly, somehow biting back the words that so wanted to arise. She did not want to go home. She did not want to spend the rest of the evening alone, or worse, in her parents' company. She wanted to spend the rest of the evening with him—debating the merits of this new case before making love. It was so hard to hold her tongue. But she was going to follow Connie's advice.

His glance dropped to her hands. She hoped he would ask her why she wasn't wearing her ring so she could offer up the flippant, casual reply she had prepared, but he said, “Why aren't you wearing gloves?”

She smiled, facing him more squarely as the coach turned west on Fifty-ninth Street. They were passing the Plaza Hotel. She would be home in mere moments. “I thought I might need to use my gun when I confronted the blackmailer, and gloves would make the chore more difficult.”

He shook his head once. “Yes, I doubt you could effectively shoot a man while wearing gloves.”

Was he angry? “You know I carry a weapon with which to protect myself.”

“You know I have never approved of your doing so.”

She hoped they would spar. “It has come in handy.”

“One day, you will shoot off your big toe.”

She thought his mouth curved. “I hope not!”

He studied her, his mouth softer now. “I don't think Mrs. Kennedy will appreciate your having given Joel a weapon.”

“It wasn't loaded.” She hesitated. “That was wrong of me.”

“Yes, Francesca, it was.”

Their gazes held. She was well aware that they were almost abreast of the Metropolitan Club, as they had passed the Grand Army Plaza, which she had seen through Hart's window. Francesca thought he meant to remain silent. Her heart had picked up its beat. Her entire body had become languid. But he suddenly said softly, “What am I to do with you?”

She stared breathlessly, wanting to ask him if he would invite her to his house so they could continue the evening. Somehow she said, “In the end, while no progress was made, no harm was suffered, either.”