Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  “Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away from me!” He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. “A witness saw the entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was so distraught she never saw or heard the run away carriage until it was too late. And we both know why she was crying,” he added darkly.

  A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. “Even if she was crying, you do not know why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd.”

  “I wished her dead,” he said suddenly, his tone raw. “I did, Francesca, I did, and my wish was almost granted.”

  The horn blared repeatedly now.

  Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “It doesn’t matter what you wished. It doesn’t matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to your feelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not! You must stop blaming yourself.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered. “And do you know what makes matters even worse?”

  She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes.

  He inhaled harshly. “What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I still love her.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, April 23, 1902 6:00 p.m.

  THE CHANNING HOME stood alone on a large lot, a huge affair of eclectic design. Three towers jutted out from the roof, and from the oddly placed parapets and balconies, gargoyles frowned viciously down. The mansion was partly gothic, partly neoclassic, and Francesca could never quite decide why it had been so designed. But the entire Channing family was eccentric, which might explain it. Sarah’s now-deceased father had studded the interior walls with animal heads and the floors with exotic skins, despite the gilded walls and European furniture, as he had been an avid trophy hunter. Mrs. Channing stood out from society for her very guileless and equally foolish manner, although she always meant well. Sarah, who had once, briefly, been engaged to Francesca’s brother, was renowned as a recluse. She was also a brilliant artist.

  Having thanked Bragg for the ride, she was let inside the Channing home. Sarah materialized almost instantly.

  “Francesca!” she cried in delight.

  Francesca was as pleased to see the young woman who had become one of her best friends. Sarah was truly remarkable—in a way, she and Francesca were kindred souls. Sarah’s passion was her painting, and when she had been engaged to Evan, she had been miserable. Of course, the match, concocted by both families, had been truly ill conceived, as both parties had nothing in common. Sarah was small, plain and considered shy and timid, clearly not the kind of woman to catch Evan Cahill’s eye. In fact, Sarah was thoroughly independent and unconventional. Unlike most young women of marriageable age, Sarah had no interest in shopping, dreaded social engagements and gave not one thought to romance or marriage. Her life was her art. Francesca empathized completely.

  Now, Sarah had smudges of paint and charcoal on her face, hands and the bodice of her green dress. The moss-hued garment might have been flattering on another woman, but Sarah had olive in her complexion and her hair was chocolate brown, so that the gown washed her out. Francesca had never, not even once, seen Sarah appropriately garbed. Sarah did not care what she wore and her choice of clothing—usually decided by her mother with the best of intentions—made that clear. The styles in her wardrobe, while expensive, overwhelmed her small stature and the colors usually dulled her coloring, her eyes and hair.

  “I am so glad you could come by,” Sarah cried breathlessly.

  Francesca looped her arm in hers. “What has put that sparkle in your eye? I know it is not a man! Let me guess. Some thing to do with a painting?” she teased.

  “Hurry with me,” Sarah said with a grin. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a loose ponytail, and some paint had gotten into the stray curls around her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes, long-lashed and round, positively sparkled. The more time Francesca spent with her, the more she changed her initial opinion of Sarah. Sarah no longer seemed plain or timid at all. She was one of the most vibrant and interesting women Francesca had ever met.

  “Are we going to your studio?” Francesca guessed as they hurried down a long corridor leading to the back of the house.

  “Of course,” Sarah said with a grin. The door was open. The large room was filled with canvases, some finished, others in various stages of execution. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, although two landscapes were also present. She had clearly, at one time, been influenced by the romantics, and later by the impressionists. Her work now was bright and bold—she clearly adored color—but her strokes were far more realistic than one would expect. “I have finished your portrait,” Sarah said, pausing before an easel that was draped with cloth.

  Francesca’s heart leaped with excitement. Hart had commissioned her portrait some time ago, when she had thought her self in love with Bragg. He had only done so because he had wanted to annoy her, and he had done just that. Francesca had no time for any sittings at the beginning, but as their relation ship had changed, sitting for a portrait he wished to hang in his private rooms had become thoroughly exciting. A month ago he had asked Sarah to make the portrait a nude. Francesca had agreed, and every sitting had become exhilarating.

  Now, on pins and needles, she asked, “How is it?” Shamelessly, she could not wait for Hart to hang her nude likeness in his rooms.

  Sarah laughed with happiness. “Why don’t you decide for yourself?” And she swept the cloth from the canvas.

  Francesca started in surprise.

  The naked woman who sat with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder, was stunning. Francesca knew she was no beauty, yet the woman in that portrait most definitely had her face. Her features were classic, her lips full, her nose tiny. But there was nothing ordinary about her face. Somehow, Sarah had made her captivating. Francesca simply gaped.

  In the portrait, her gleaming, honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed, as if for a ball, and she wore a pearl choker about her throat. The fact that it was all she wore was infinitely seductive as well. Francesca realized her cheeks had grown warm. She finally found the courage to look at the rest of the portrait.

  Her body was as alluring as her face. Francesca was amazed. The line of her back was long and elegant, but her buttocks were sensually full. The intriguing profile of one breast escaped her arm, and not far from where she sat, a red ball gown lay in a puddle of opulent fabric, clearly abandoned in haste.

  The portrait was suggestive, terribly so. Francesca tugged at her shirt collar. The humming became a drumming in her ears. Was that really how she looked? Was this what Hart saw when he looked at her? Surely Sarah, being so fond of her, had exaggerated all of her features.

  “What do you think?” Sarah whispered.

  Francesca bit her lip. She still could not quite speak. The portrait was an amazing feat—to take a sensible, professional woman like herself and put her features together in the manner that Sarah had. It was her face, but the expression did not belong to an innocent woman, or a skilled sleuth—it belonged to a passionate lover, a creature of the bedroom and the night.

  “Don’t you like it?” Sarah asked tersely now.

  Francesca whirled. She thought she might be crimson. “I love it,” she cried. “But Sarah, how did you do it? That’s not me—yet it is! In that portrait, I am almost as alluring as Daisy.”

  Sarah smiled in relief. “For a moment, I thought you did not like it,” she exclaimed. “And painting your likeness was easy enough. It’s what I do,” she added. “Do you think Hart will be pleased? Have I gone too far? The theme is frankly sensual. It might be too risqué, considering you will one day be his wife.”

  Francesca knew Hart would like the painting. But Daisy’s image had loomed and her words echo
ed painfully.

  You know his reputation—you know it is not false. Do you really think to keep his attention where it belongs—on you and only you?

  “Francesca?” Sarah interrupted her terrible memory of that afternoon.

  “It’s not too risqué for Hart, I am quite certain.”

  There will be someone after you, Francesca. Sooner or later, his gaze will wander, his gaze and his interest, and we both know that when that happens, his promises will mean nothing.

  “If you like it, and you feel certain that he will like it, why do you look so distressed?” Sarah asked, plucking her sleeve. Her forehead was creased with worry. “You must be honest with me, Francesca.”

  She did not really hear Sarah. Instead, she stood at the glove counter in the Lord and Taylor store, facing Daisy, who was every bit as lovely and seductive as the woman in the portrait, but who, unlike the woman in the portrait, actually existed and had already warmed Hart’s bed.

  How could she compete with such a rival? And to make matters worse, there were hundreds of rivals just like Daisy Jones. The city was filled with lovely women with whom Hart had dallied. Her spirits, briefly so high, sank.

  Francesca looked at Sarah. “If I really looked like that, then maybe I would have a chance,” she said with some despair.

  Sarah searched her gaze. “What are you speaking of? Of course you look like that. It is you that I painted, not some figment of my imagination. What do you mean, maybe you would have a chance?”

  Francesca inhaled, the sound harsh, and looked at the portrait. In spite of her fear, she had to admire the painting and the woman in it and she felt that tingle of excitement in her veins. Hart would like it, oh yes. “Sarah, I am a sleuth, a woman of common sense, a woman with a business, a woman of intellect. I am hardly that seductive creature.”

  Sarah squared her shoulders and pursed her lips. “I beg to differ with you,” she finally said. “What?”

  “When you sat for me, you were not the city’s most infamous amateur sleuth. You were thinking about Hart, not some cold-blooded killer and all kinds of clues. And that was how you looked,” she added stubbornly. “I worked very hard to capture your expression as precisely as I could.”

  “Really?” She so wanted to believe Sarah.

  “You do not see yourself clearly, Francesca, perhaps because Hart has awakened a side of you that you are unfamiliar with. I have portrayed that side—that seductive creature you have spoken of—and because it is so new to you, you simply fail to recognize it.”

  Francesca started. There was no question that Calder Hart had aroused her to a passion she had never before dreamed of. When she was in his arms, she quite frankly lost herself. There was no thinking, no present, no past, no future, there was only Hart’s touch, his taste, his kiss and the side of heaven that awaited them both. What if Sarah was right? What if she did appear that passionate when the moment was right?

  Francesca touched her throbbing temples. But whom was she fooling? She was an intellectual, not a seductress. She knew that she was the first sexually innocent woman Hart had ever pursued.

  “What’s wrong?” Sarah asked quickly.

  Francesca sighed and walked over to the small table in one corner of the studio, sitting down. “I saw Daisy today.”

  “Oh.” Sarah hurried to her and sat, taking her hands. “Clearly she upset you.”

  Francesca nodded. “Very much. Sarah, I’m not sure what to do. Daisy pointed out that eventually Hart will lose interest in me and find someone else. She is right! Isn’t she? I mean, he has had so many lovers, all far more intriguing than myself. I am so happy right now and simply could not bear his straying.”

  Sarah stared at her, wide-eyed. “I am not sure what to say,” she began.

  “There is nothing to say.”

  “No, there is plenty to say. First, Daisy has been jilted—and replaced by you. I know you like her, but I do not think an ex-mistress and a bride should speak at all.”

  Francesca almost smiled. “How conventional you sound.”

  “No, hear me out. Daisy would be very happy if Hart broke your engagement, as she could then warm his bed and receive more of his gifts. I doubt she wants to leave that house he bought for her. And didn’t you tell me once that you thought she was falling in love with him herself? How she must envy you. Perhaps she even hates you.”

  Francesca was now wide-eyed. “Apparently I cannot see clearly, or think clearly, when it comes to my personal life.”

  “Who can?” Sarah smiled. “She cannot wish you well. She might even think to cause trouble. And why else would she be so cruel? I would dismiss all that she has said. And you are more intriguing than Daisy Jones and all her ilk. The city is filled with beautiful women, but you are beautiful and clever and kind and brave! Hart is smitten. I can tell. For a man of his reputation, that speaks volumes.”

  Sarah is right, Francesca suddenly thought. She might not be quite as pretty as the others, but she had so much more to offer a man like Hart. She felt vastly better. “My brother advised me as you have.” Then, “I knew when I agreed to marry him, it would not be easy to be with such a man.”

  “How is Evan?” Sarah asked with such a pleasant manner that it was clear she had no ill feelings at all for him or second thoughts about their failed engagement.

  “He is fine. Apparently he spends most of his free time with Bartolla.” The countess Benevente was Sarah’s cousin and friend.

  “I know. Bartolla speaks of him constantly.” Sarah grinned. “I am happy for him. I am happy for them both.” Her tone became brisk. “So? When do we unveil the portrait for Calder?”

  Francesca hesitated, and perhaps it was her sensual side that Sarah had so skillfully captured on her canvas that won. “Tomorrow?” she heard herself ask, her heart racing. And she recognized the growing heat in her body. It was explosive. How would Hart react when he saw that incredible portrait?

  “I’ll send him a note tonight,” Sarah cried in delight.

  Francesca leaped to her feet, wringing her hands, her courage suddenly vanishing. “God, what if he doesn’t like it?” she cried. “Oh, I do hope I am not fooling myself.”

  Sarah ran to her. “Francesca, do not let that harlot Daisy interfere with your feelings for Hart. I sense she wishes to cause trouble for you both. Ignore her, please!”

  Francesca nodded, but with the hour of the unveiling now approaching, she was too nervous for words.

  “He loves you,” Sarah said softly, smiling.

  “He is fond of me,” Francesca corrected, her mouth dry, her temples throbbing.

  “Fond enough to want to marry you,” Sarah said flatly. “That is very fond, indeed.”

  Francesca smiled at that. She turned her gaze upon her likeness, thinking about Hart gazing at it, too, and lost her ability to breathe. “I do have one request. You must promise me, Sarah.”

  “What is that?”

  “I want to be here when you unveil it.”

  Sarah grinned. “Of course.”

  FRANCESCA CHANGED INTO AN evening gown in record time. She had donned the new one, made by Maggie Kennedy, a turquoise silk. Grabbing her purse, she dashed toward the stairs, amazed that Calder had not yet arrived. She was about to descend when she saw Julia coming up.

  She skidded, panting, to a stop.

  Her mother frowned at her as she ascended to the landing where Francesca stood.

  Francesca grimaced. She was in trouble now.

  She had not spoken a single word to Julia since the prior evening when she had arrived late for the supper party—since Hart had used that foolish excuse that she might faint to take her from the party so that they could have a private moment to gether. When he had decided he should leave, preparing to make his excuses to her mother, Francesca had simply fled upstairs.

  Dressed for supper in a dark red evening gown, rubies at her throat, Julia looked her up and down. “Calder just arrived. So has that little hoodlum, Joel Kennedy.”


  Francesca promptly forgot about the way she had avoided her mother last night. Had Joel found a lead? Why else would he have come all the way uptown to see her? “Joel is here?” she asked, starting past her mother eagerly.

  Julia detained her. “You aren’t wearing any jewelry, Francesca.” Her tone was brisk.

  Francesca touched her throat and found it bare. She sighed, knowing full well that her lack of jewels was not the real issue. “I did not want to keep Hart waiting,” she began.

  “I have wanted to speak to you all day,” Julia exclaimed. “But you were gone at the crack of dawn and arrived home just moments ago. You are on another investigation, aren’t you?” Julia accused, her blue eyes darkening.

  Francesca grimaced. “Mama,” she began.

  “Do not Mama me!”

  “I guess I had better get a necklace and some earrings,” Francesca cried, hoping to avoid a battle. There was no winning if she dared to take a direct stand against her mother.

  Julia took her wrist. “Are you going to answer me?”

  Francesca met her gaze. “Please don’t worry. This case won’t be dangerous, I assure you.”

  Julia cried out in dismay, turning pale.

  “Mama, please consider that I have successfully solved several cases since the new year and I am in one entire piece,” Francesca tried brightly. “And your dearest dream is coming true—soon I shall marry, and the best catch in town at that.”

  “You are barely in one piece! You have been held prisoner, you have been shot at, a knife has been held to your throat and you have been burned! You will wind up a corpse before a bride!”

  Francesca paled. “Mama, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

  Julia realized it, because she clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “I love you so,” she whispered. “And you terrify me with your reckless adventures. Why was there blood on your jacket and skirt last night? Why? And need I add that several of the ladies remarked on your appearance? The gossip at lunch today was simply delightful. Mrs. De Witt suggested that Hart would break off the engagement if you continue your sleuthing ways.”