Deadly Vows (29 page)

Francesca stepped back against the desk, groping for a paperweight. “Your sister murdered your father, Bill. I merely solved the crime!”

“You have destroyed my family,” he said. “I intend to destroy you and my brother now!”

“Did you steal the painting? It was you, wasn't it?” she cried.

He slowly smiled at her. “Now you accuse me of being a thief? Why would I steal a painting, Francesca?”

Was he as insane as his sister? “Hart and I are over. It's in all the newspapers.”

He laughed. “You are only over because someone locked you up on your wedding day. I wonder who that could be. I wish I had been there to see Hart jilted in front of three hundred guests.”

“It was you, wasn't it? You locked me up—you stole the portrait. Where is it?” she cried desperately. How else would he know that she had been locked up? Or had he bribed a police officer to learn the fact?

He approached. She cringed against the desk, crowded there by him. His body pressed against hers, making her want to retch. He cupped her jaw, then slid his hand around her neck. “One snap is all it would take,” he murmured roughly. “I would love to come to the funeral and watch Hart crying over your coffin.”

He was going to kill her.
She managed to close her right hand over the paperweight. “Where is the portrait?”

“I don't know.” He smiled viciously at her. “For my sister, Francesca, and my poor, dear mother.”

As his hand slowly tightened on her neck, she raised
the weight and slammed it at his temple. He saw it coming and dodged the blow, releasing her to do so. Francesca screamed at the top of her lungs. “Help!”

For one moment, Randall crouched before her, clearly debating murdering her anyway. Then he ran for the closed doors, unlocking them. They flew open. The doorman and a maid stood there. He shoved past them, vanishing down the hall. Francesca felt her knees give way. Francis and Bette would never be able to stop that madman.

“Miss Cahill! Are you all right?” Francis reached her first.

She was already recovering and reaching for the phone. By the time Bette had brought her a scotch whiskey, Farr was on the line. “Bill Randall just left my home.”

“I'll get right on it.”

Wednesday, July 2, 1902
4:15 p.m.

S
IEGEL
-C
OOPER AND
C
OMPANY
took up an entire block on Sixth Avenue, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets. When Chicago-based Siegel-Cooper had first arrived in New York City, it set an entirely new standard for department stores in the city. Every competitor had imitated the great emporium, taking up vast retail spaces and filling them entirely with merchandise. The fountain was in the exact center of the store, a replica of the French sculpture
The Republic
in its center. It had become a popular meeting place for ladies on their way to have lunch, tea, shop or go to the afternoon theater. The refrain “Meet me at The Fountain” was often heard.

Francesca stood rigidly by the edge of the fountain, able to see the main Sixth Avenue entrance, as well as the entrances from the side streets. The store would close for the evening at five, but it was still relatively busy with customers, all of them women. Everyone seemed to be in a rush that afternoon, and she supposed a great deal of the present company would be outward bound on the morrow. She began to fidget, her tension high. It was fifteen minutes past four. Where was Solange Marceaux?

She clutched the small penknife Hart had given her as a wedding gift in the palm of her right hand. Her pistol was tucked in the waistband of her skirt, beneath her jacket,
instead of in her purse. Of course, she was not wearing gloves, the better to handle either weapon. She supposed she was very nervous.

And why wouldn't she be? She had just had a frightening encounter with Bill Randall. He was clearly mentally unstable.

Francesca knew she must forget about the terrible encounter. She had to remain on guard. She was about to confront a very ruthless woman, who despised her just as much as Randall.

Francesca stared at the glass doors that opened onto Sixth Avenue. No one came in. She inhaled. From her past experience with the madam, she felt certain that Solange would not think twice about murdering her on the spot. Or, she would bring her thugs with her and order her dumped in the East River, with shackles on her wrists and ankles.

With her ungloved left hand, she wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. Her anxiety increased. She hadn't seen a glimpse of Hart or Bragg, so she assumed she was working alone. But she was armed. She was ready. Whatever Solange intended, she would be on her toes, anticipating her every move.

A beautifully dressed woman in royal blue was coming up the aisle from the Eighteenth Street entrance. Francesca tensed, for she had Solange's proportions and pale hair, but as she came closer, she finally saw her face. Her heart sank. It was not Solange.

Someone tapped her shoulder from behind…a woman's soft touch.

Francesca whirled, her heart exploding in fright.

“Hello, Francesca.” Mary Randall smiled at her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

For one moment, Francesca glanced wildly past Mary for Bill. But her brother was not present. Mary laughed
with real delight. She was a thin, dark-haired woman. Malice danced in her eyes. “He's not here. It's just you and me—you bitch.” And Mary pointed a tiny derringer at her heart.

Francesca did not move, shocked.

“Have I stunned you into speechlessness?” Mary laughed again.

Francesca recovered. She considered a way to escape. There were customers moving about the fountain and the store's various aisles, but if she screamed, she had no doubt that Mary would shoot her in the heart. Mary's wide grin spoke volumes, as did the fervor in her eyes. Somehow, when she spoke, she kept her tone calm. “Mary, I would like to talk to you. But you must put the gun away. We will attract attention.”

Mary was mocking. “I may be mad, but I am very, very clever, Francesca. I am not putting the gun away. We will certainly attract attention when I kill you, you lying, scheming, immoral bitch. You know I am capable of it.”

Francesca knew that she must not discuss their past. Mary had been put behind bars because of Francesca's success in solving Paul Randall's murder. Fighting for calm, she said, “How on earth did you know to reach me with such a ruse?”

“I have learned to be adept at bribery, Francesca. How do you think I got out of Bellevue? You have destroyed my family, but Bill still has means—and he would never leave me to rot in an asylum!”

“He loves you very much,” she said. Her heart was hammering with terrific force. Perspiration trickled from her temple, but she did not attempt to wipe it away.

“Oh, stop patronizing me! You have been pursuing Bill. Apparently you have also been after Solange Marceaux. We can sleuth just as you do, Francesca.” Her eyes
held a brilliant, fanatical light. She added softly, with a grin, “I think you have met your match.”

Francesca wet her lips. “I have just seen your brother. He is very angry, and I don't blame him. But more violence doesn't solve anything. I am very sorry about your mother, but you do know she will be released in the fall?”

“Shut up!” Mary jammed the gun into her breast and Francesca heard the trigger click. Her heart stopped—but no shot sounded.

Francesca thought she might faint. Sweat poured down her body.

“It's called Russian roulette, Francesca. Even I don't know which chamber my bullet is in.” She laughed. “You should see your face!”

She was dizzy and ready to faint. Mary only had one bullet, but was it in the next chamber? It was clear she didn't care if she killed Francesca. “Mary! The police will be here at any moment. Put the gun away!”

“I don't believe you—and if they show up, so what? I will simply pull the trigger—and pull the trigger—and pull the trigger—until you are dead.” She spat.

The spittle struck on Francesca's cheek, but she didn't dare wipe it. She clutched the penknife more tightly, yet how could she go up against this madwoman, who had a pistol pressed into her heart? “Why do you hate me so?” she cried unthinkingly.

“Because of you, I have no family! And you love that bastard who destroyed my mother! The two of you deserve one another.”

She knew that pleading with an insane woman was a lost cause. But she said, “Hart is your brother. Nothing that has happened is his fault!”

“Hart is a bastard!” Mary screamed, flushing red.

A movement caught her eye and her gaze went from Mary's rabid grin to Hart's fierce expression.

Hart had come! Her relief was consuming, but it vanished as instantly as it had come. He stood several feet behind Mary, near some potted palms. He had obviously seen Mary pull the trigger—he was as white as a ghost. She felt certain he had also overheard them. He shook his head immediately at her. His warning was clear—engaging Mary was a mistake. She could not be reasoned with.

Francesca looked back at Mary, so she would not comprehend what was happening, but not before she thought she saw Hart produce his own gun.

If Hart shot Mary from behind, Mary would shoot her, because Francesca felt certain her finger was on the trigger, unless his aim was perfect, killing her instantly. She doubted he was such a marksman—he had never mentioned being adept as a sniper. “Why don't you take your finger off the trigger, Mary?” Francesca asked loudly. It was so hard to breathe.

She didn't dare look Hart's way again. She prayed he had heard her.

“Because I want to watch you at my feet, bleeding to death and begging for mercy!” Mary's eyes bulged. “You have destroyed my entire life! Because of you, I am locked up and called insane! You are the insane one, Francesca, to pose naked for a painting, for the entire world to see!”

Mary knew about the nude portrait. In that moment, she didn't care. She only wanted to get away from the barrel of Mary's gun, which continued to press into her breast. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said desperately. “Your father was dead. I wanted to help!”

“You wanted to help Hart!” Mary accused.

Mary was right. Francesca just stood there, sweating and panting.

Then Mary smiled slyly. “I must admit, you are a very beautiful woman, Francesca.”

Francesca licked her lips. Mary had seen the portrait. She and Bill had to be the thieves. “Where is the portrait?”

“As if I'd tell you!” she crowed.

“You locked me in the gallery, Mary, didn't you? You and your brother lured me there on my wedding day.”

“Oh, poor Francesca, she missed her wedding!” Mary laughed. Then she jammed the gun deeper into Francesca's bosom. “Let's go. If I have to, I'll kill you here, but I prefer to do so in an alley. I don't like Bellevue, Francesca. I am not going back. I'd rather die.”

“If you murder me, you will never be free again,” Francesca tried desperately.

“But you will be dead and I will be overjoyed. And I am not going back to jail. Let's go. Turn around, bitch. And if you scream, I will shoot you.”

Francesca looked into her wild eyes and knew there was no reasoning with her. As she turned, Mary kept the gun pressed against the side of her breast. How was she going to get away?

She glimpsed Bragg on the fountain's other side, crouched down by a counter, a gun in his hand. He nodded his head once, hard.

He wanted her to leave the emporium, or at least move for ward.

Did he have officers outside? Or did he intend to take a shot at Mary once he had a better angle?

She wanted to glance backward over her shoulder at Hart to see what he wanted her to do, but she didn't dare.

“Move!” Mary screamed.

Francesca's heart lurched with dread as several women with shopping bags turned to glance at them. A pair of shopgirls was passing by, as well. One turned to look at them. “Are you all right, miss?” the dark-haired girl asked with concern.

“Mind your own business,” Mary spat. “Move, Francesca, now!”

Francesca saw the dark-haired girl pale; she thought she had seen the gun. “I am fine,” she tried.

Both shopgirls ran away from the fountain, and Francesca heard one scream, “She has a gun! The lady has a gun!”

And suddenly, she heard a gunshot from her right. Women ran past the fountain and through the aisles, some screaming. Shopping bags went flying. Instantly Francesca realized that Bragg had fired his gun to create pandemonium. Mary hesitated, her eyes wide with surprise. Francesca saw Hart standing ten or twelve feet behind them. He was aiming his revolver at the back of Mary's head.

His expression was twisted, and she knew why. If he missed Mary, he could hit her.

It was time to do something. Francesca still held the penknife in her right hand. She clicked it open and jammed it upward into Mary's ribs, then tried to twist away from Mary and the gun she was holding.

Mary's eyes widened as she was stabbed and she cried out, “Bitch!”

Two shots sounded. Francesca felt the impact and she stumbled, going to her knees. The burning pain was along the side of her shoulder. Mary gasped and her gun clattered to the floor. She took off at a run.

Francesca tried to hold herself up on her hands and knees, but it was too painful and she fell onto the floor.

“Francesca!”

Hart steadied her, pulling her against his chest. She cried out, his touch on her right arm causing so much pain. “You will be all right,” he said roughly.

She somehow opened her eyes to look up at him, wanting to smile and tell him she was fine. But his image was hazy, swimming oddly, and she couldn't seem to smile at all. “Mary?”

Bragg appeared in her distorted line of vision. His expression was incredibly concerned as he ripped her sleeve open. She fought not to weep. “It's a graze, Francesca.” To Hart, he said, “Put pressure on it. I'm going after Mary.” He leaped up and ran off.

The burning was unbearable. She wanted to whimper; she refused. Somehow, she looked up at Hart.

“I shot you,” he said, his eyes stark.

But Bragg had said it was a graze. She thought she told him that. She wanted to reassure him. But he was spinning now, far more rapidly than before, and she knew she was about to faint. She tried to tell him, but there was only darkness.

 

“Y
OU WILL HARDLY
realize you have a wound in a couple of days.” Rourke Bragg smiled cheerfully at her.

Francesca lay on the sofa in Hart's most intimate salon, a lavish red-and-gold affair that his extended family tended to gather in. She had been propped up with pillows, and he'd given her a scotch the moment they'd arrived at his home. There was little pain now—just a dull throbbing. She smiled at Rourke, who had cleaned, disinfected and bandaged the wound. As Bragg had said, it was a mere graze. But it was Hart who consumed her attention.

He stood behind Rourke, having shed both his jacket and vest, his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His tie was gone. He held an untouched drink, and
she thought it his second. He looked very grim. When she had first glanced at him upon awakening from her faint in Siegel-Cooper, his expression had been ravaged with worry and concern. There was one obvious conclusion to draw—he had been terrified for her.

He loved her still.

Francesca smiled at him.

He did not smile back. He said to Rourke, “Thank God you were home.”

Hart had taken her into his arms the moment she had awoken and carried her to his coach outside. He hadn't asked her where she wished to go; he had directed Raoul to his mansion, using his tie to bandage her bleeding wound. She understood. If Rourke were home, she would be treated far more swiftly than if they went to a public emergency room at a nearby hospital. But what truly pleased her was that he hadn't considered sending her to her home, not for an instant.

Rourke snapped closed his satchel and stood. “Francesca would have been fine even if you had treated the wound yourself. Now, would you mind telling me what happened?”

Before she could open her mouth, Hart said, “As always, Francesca rushed off to save the world by herself without a thought of the danger.”