Deadly Vows (33 page)

Her mind sped. Rose had lied when she had first asked her about the portrait, which made no sense—why not admit that she knew of it? Hart hadn't told Daisy about the portrait. And Rose had once entertained Chief Farr. For all she knew, she had been lying when she had said she no longer did.… And she had lied again when she had made her odd confession to Francesca about knowing there was a portrait all along, while never revealing if she knew it was a nude. Hadn't she said something about Francesca not deserving to be hurt?

Why would she say that, unless she had known the painting was a nude?

Lovers talked. Farr had been her lover last spring. He'd known the portrait was compromising—Sarah had told him. And Rose was a big, strong woman, capable of removing an oversize painting from the wall, all by herself.…

“Bragg!” she cried.

Thursday, July 3, 1902 Noon

R
OSE LET HERSELF
into the beautiful old Georgian mansion that Hart had bought for Daisy last winter. She was tense as she entered the spacious, parquet-floored foyer. The moment she closed the front door, she became aware of the haunting silence in the house. A tear fell. She glanced at the stairs, feeling Daisy acutely, almost expecting her to appear.

But she'd never walk down the stairs again, because she was dead. Even though Hart hadn't murdered her, he had killed their love. She hated him!

She started for the gracious staircase, looking for the fresh white lilies on the pedestal table in the entry hall. Then she realized the table was vacant. But Daisy had always kept a vase of lilies there. They had been her favorite flower, her favorite scent.

She started up the stairs, sick with the heavy sense of loss. She glanced behind her, almost expecting Brendan Farr to enter the house. He was a sick pig, and he still liked meeting her there. He liked to fuck in Daisy's bedroom.

She had never refused him. How could she? She was a whore, he was a cop. He'd toss her in jail, then throw away the key and simply leave her there to rot and die. He'd been shoving himself at her when he'd told her that.…

Filled with bile now—she could not understand how she continued to survive sexual relations with him—she increased her pace. She hated Chief Farr more than she hated Hart, and that said everything. One day, she meant to somehow turn the tables on him. One day, she meant to somehow screw him over. But then she'd probably wind up dead.

He was a scary, dangerous man—and he had it in for Francesca.

She couldn't imagine what Francesca had done to arouse his hatred.

She glanced downstairs again. The hall was empty, the front door closed. She reminded herself that Farr was busy today—he wouldn't bother her until late that evening.

To stop her disturbing thoughts, she focused on Daisy. She imagined being in her arms, laughing. She imagined strolling the Ladies' Mile together, browsing the storefronts, as they used to do. She imagined riding the carousel at Coney Island with her—they had only talked about it, but they had meant to go. She reached her bedroom door, smiling a little now and trying not to cry. She knew she would never get over Daisy's death. She had loved her that much.

Rose walked into the beautiful gold bedroom. The other day, she had wanted to tell Francesca the truth. Francesca was a kind person. Francesca had helped her and she had helped Daisy more than once. But she hadn't dared. And she had hated lying to her! Now, she slowly closed the bedroom door.

Biting her lip, she faced Francesca's portrait, which was propped up against one wall.

 

B
RAGG PUSHED THE FRONT
door open. “It isn't locked,” he said.

They were about to enter the stately Georgian home
where Daisy had lived; Hart had bought the house for her when he had made her his mistress. Even though that affair had been short-lived, due to their sudden engagement, Hart had let Daisy continue to live there. She had been murdered in the study in the back.

Once, Hart had thought Rose vengeful enough to be their thief—and he had thought she would hide the portrait in Daisy's house. But Francesca knew that Rose hadn't known about the portrait until after its theft in late April. Daisy couldn't have told her; Daisy wouldn't have known. No, Rose had only learned about the nude portrait from Chief Farr, once he had begun to investigate its theft. Lovers talked. Of course they did. The only thing she didn't know was how Farr had learned of its existence—and theft—in the first place. But he despised her and he had been butting into her affairs and investigations for months now. She assumed he'd been snooping.

Francesca knew in her bones that Rose was involved. And if Rose had stolen the portrait from Gallery Moore, which is what she believed, what better place to hide it? Daisy's house was less than ten minutes away on foot. Of course, Rose couldn't have carried the portrait for ten entire minutes. But she could have hailed a cab.

But why was the front door open? “Are we alone?” she asked softly.

“Are you expecting company?” His smile was brief, but he pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster

Francesca had been very surprised to see him arm himself before leaving headquarters. Bragg almost never carried arms of any kind, but then, he could summon a police detail to accompany him anywhere, if necessary. Bragg meant to protect her, of course. No one else must see the portrait.

Before she could admit that she did not know what to expect, a floorboard creaked. The sound came from
the staircase. She and Bragg froze, still on the threshold, the front door open, staring at the staircase, which faced them.

A moment later Rose appeared on the stairs. She saw them and stumbled, one hand on the railing, her expression shocked.

The shock turned to fear.

Francesca thought she would try to flee. “Rose, wait!” she cried.

Rose glanced wildly around, as if trying to decide how to escape. Realizing that they barred her way out the front of the house, and that Bragg would obviously catch her if she tried to run out the back, she sagged against the banister. “Are you looking for me? I haven't done anything!”

Bragg strode to her. “We are looking for the portrait, Rose. But you already know that, don't you?”

Tears filled her eyes. She turned to look at Francesca. “I am sorry.”

She had been right? “You took it?”

Rose inhaled. She looked back and forth between them, her visage pale. “Where is Farr?” she asked hoarsely.

It took Francesca one second to realize what she meant. “Farr took it?” she cried in disbelief. The anger began, and it was fierce.

Fear followed. What had he meant to do with it?

Rose began to cry. “He will kill me.”

“He won't hurt you, Rose,” Bragg said firmly. “Did you take the portrait from Gallery Moore on Saturday?”

“No,” she whispered. Then she looked at Francesca. “I'm sorry. I lied. Daisy didn't tell me about it…Farr did. He showed me the portrait on Tuesday when…when we met. I lied about that, too. I still see him. He was gloating…he was so pleased…so smug.… He hates you!”

She had been mistaken. Rose hadn't known about the
portrait until last Tuesday. Farr had taken the portrait on Saturday, somehow, without the police knowing—unless they were all as terrified of him as Rose was.

Had he sent her the blackmail note? she wondered. Francesca asked hoarsely, sickened, “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.” Then she cried, “Does he have to know that I told you? Can't you claim you found it by yourself? Please!”

Francesca looked at Bragg. “We need to protect her.”

“I agree.”

Francesca was surprised. How could he press charges against Farr without Rose's statement?

“You can't protect me! Even if you lock him up, he will get to me!” Tears fell. “I will have to leave the city!”

She was probably right, Francesca thought. Francesca exchanged a grim glance with Bragg. She imagined Farr capable of violence, especially against a prostitute. “If you decide to leave the city, I will help you,” Francesca said.

Rose seemed ready to faint with relief. “How can you still be kind to me?”

“It is her nature,” Bragg said. “I am going to need a statement from you, Rose, but it will be unofficial, for my eyes only.” When she nodded, he gestured at the stairs. “Please, go up.”

Rose turned and led them up the stairs. Francesca followed, Bragg behind her. Her heart began to pound. Rose paused on the second floor, her expression taut. “It's in there.”

But Francesca didn't need Rose's comment to know that. The door to a beautiful gold bedroom was wide open. A canopied bed faced the hall. Her portrait was propped up on one wall, clearly visible from the hall and even the top of the stairs.

She felt sick as she went forward. It was as if someone had punched her in the abdomen. Farr had seen it.

Behind her, she heard Bragg make a harsh, surprised sound.

And suddenly she realized that he had never seen the portrait.

She had been in his arms, long ago, with half her clothing gone, but this was entirely different. She was provocatively posed on that canvas, and her expression had been meant for Hart, and Hart alone.

Her cheeks flamed. She faltered, not knowing where to go.

“It is beautiful,” Rose said, breaking the awkward silence.

Francesca bit her lip, daring to turn and glance at him.

Bragg immediately jerked his gaze from the canvas. He avoided her eyes. She watched him as he walked over to the bed, ripped the covers off and draped a gold sheet over the painting. Finally, Francesca breathed.

He slowly turned.

She wondered what he was thinking. He was undoubtedly in disbelief that she had ever posed in such a manner. She cleared her throat. “What will you do about Farr?”

He finally looked at her. “Francesca, we need to keep this quiet. I can't press charges, unless you wish for me to confiscate your portrait as evidence. It will wind up in court. I can't open an internal investigation—not without keeping that portrait in my custody and allowing the investigators to see it.”

The portrait somehow loomed between them, even now, when it was covered and behind Bragg. It was a moment before she could respond. “What about his men? They obviously know he took a painting. Is it possible no one else saw it?”

He shifted, still uncomfortable. “I imagine they are afraid of him. They knew what he did, but mean to keep silent. Farr would never let anyone glimpse something so potentially useful to him.”

“Can you fire the chief?” But even as she spoke, she knew he could not. Farr could spread the rumor that a nude portrait of Francesca existed. That gossip would shock her mother and scandalize society—even if no one ever saw her portrait, even if the rumor was not confirmed. “We are being held hostage by that man,” Francesca whispered.

“Yes, we are,” Bragg agreed. “But there is something to be said for the adage, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

She stared. He stared back. His color remained high. She knew hers did, too. “Are you going to ask me why I did it?”

“No.” He was final.

And for once in her life, Francesca did not pursue a subject.

 

T
HE HOUSE WAS VACANT.
He had let all the staff off for the evening.

Hart clutched his whiskey and stared at the Matisse hanging over the fireplace in his library. But he did not see the spires of Notre-Dame. Francesca's golden image haunted him, her blue eyes filled with worry. Then he saw his half brother, sneering at him just before he'd pulled the trigger of the gun.

He had wanted to murder his own half brother. He truly wouldn't have cared if there had been a bullet in that chamber.

Hart! Don't!

But Francesca would have cared. Because she admired him, because she thought him noble, because she did not
believe him capable of cold-blooded murder. Francesca—the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Their estrangement was for the best, he thought savagely. And the glass shattered in his hand.

He glanced down at his hand, unperturbed by the broken glass he held or the scotch streaming over his skin. It burned. He welcomed the sensation. It might distract him from the burning in his chest.

Francesca was good and golden, he was dark and without morals. Her conscience was pure, his was littered with the unspeakable actions of his past. She deserved Rick—he believed it! What she did not deserve was a lifetime shackled to him, with the monsters of his past always arising to haunt them.

Hart released his fist and let the broken glass fall to the rug at his feet. Were Francesca and Rick even now hot on the trail of the goddamn portrait? Had they already recovered it? Were they joyously together, thrilled with the recovery? Were they in one another's arms?

Have supper with me this weekend.

He heard his brother's voice so clearly in his mind, and he recalled Francesca's surprised silence—and the fact that she hadn't refused him. He imagined them dining in a private room at the Plaza, Francesca in her daring red gown, Rick in his tuxedo, a white-coated waiter hovering over them, pouring the finest wine.

They were perfect for one another!

And he cursed. Because he was a selfish bastard to the very core…

“Hart?”

He had been expecting her. Of course he had. Her tone was strained with worry. Feeling very predatory now, he turned. He did not smile.

She was very worried. “You let the staff go.”

He felt his mouth curl. “Yes, I did.”

She started forward. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be fine?” he asked very calmly, when he wasn't calm at all. He felt like smashing some thing—preferably Rick's nose. And then he realized it wasn't Rick he wished to beat up; he wished to beat himself up.

“What happened?” she cried, rushing forward and taking his wet, cut hand.

“I broke a glass.”

She looked into his eyes, her gaze filled with moisture. “Why are you torturing yourself? We have the portrait, Hart. It is over.”

“I take it you didn't notice that I wished to murder my brother? And that I almost did so.”

She paled. “But you didn't, Hart. You would never murder anyone in a fit of fury. I am certain.”

He took her hands and removed them from his wrist, but he clasped them firmly. “Then you do not know me at all.”

“No. I know you better than you know yourself!” she cried.

He felt something in him soften. But he did not want to soften. “Where is the portrait?”

She tensed. “It is in the front hall.”

He debated how he would destroy it—perhaps with a knife.

“Stop blaming yourself. Please! We have the portrait. This crisis is over. Farr stole it from the gallery on Saturday night, intending one day to use it against Bragg or myself. For the sake of secrecy, we can't lay charges against him.”