Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  “He is despised. When they whisper about him, they will also whisper about you.”

  “I realize that. I grew up in society and I am well aware of how vitriolic it can be. Of course I do not enjoy the gossip. Of course I wish it would end. We will definitely go through a rough patch. It will be some time before society forgets about Daisy’s murder. But he is innocent, has been proven innocent, and I will stand by his side steadfastly. That is what a wife does for her husband.”

  “He broke off his engagement with you when he was accused of Daisy’s murder,” Bragg said harshly. “And he broke your heart. I know you haven’t forgotten. He was selfish then as he is selfish now. Think, Francesca!”

  She trembled. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. But he was trying to protect me from the scandal—and from himself.”

  “You have become adept at making excuses for him!” His tone was urgent. “You know, as I know, that he will hurt you again and again, in little ways, if not the biggest possible way. God only knows what demons live within him. He is selfish and cruel. I have seen him deliberately try to hurt you! You deserve someone kind.” He took a breath. “I am not asking you to end your engagement. But I am asking you to delay the marriage. I cannot understand this mad rush to the altar.”

  She trembled, finally tearing her gaze from his. “Why are you doing this?”

  He said, “You know why. Because I have never stopped caring about you.”

  She blinked back sudden tears. Once, long ago, he had been the man of her dreams. And maybe, if his wife had not returned, they would be together now. But she had fallen madly in love with Hart. She hadn’t thought it possible to love so deeply, so intensely. And she had made her choice months ago. But his comments hurt now, and she didn’t dare analyze why. It was a moment before she could speak. “I can hardly delay now.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  She looked up somehow. “He would be terribly hurt if I did so—and I am in love.”

  His achingly high cheekbones flushed. “And he would recover, if you batted those blue eyes at him. Right now, you have my brother enthralled.”

  “I want to marry him today, Rick.” There was a warning in her tone.

  “Do you? I saw worry and doubt in your eyes—do not try to deny it. I know you too well.”

  She hugged herself. It was a moment before she spoke. “I admit I am apprehensive. Hart is a difficult man. I fully expect our marriage to have its ups and downs, as most marriages do. My expectations are realistic.”

  “Ups and downs?” He was incredulous. “When he causes you pain, he does so deliberately—and it is a knife to your heart. I know. I have seen. Francesca, I want to protect you from him!”

  She backed away. “Please don’t do this today. I am not delaying our wedding. I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I can’t wait to be his wife, no matter that you have upset me.”

  He grimaced. “I am sorry. I simply care too much. Very well. But I will kill him if he doesn’t reform and become the husband you deserve.”

  She inhaled, relieved. “So you will wish us well? I need your blessing!”

  He reached for her, and as inappropriate as it was, she went loosely into his arms. “I wish you well with every breath I take, and I always will. Francesca, you deserve to have all of your dreams come true.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Rick,” she said softly. “So I will see you at four?”

  Warmth finally showed in his eyes. “Yes, you will see me at four.”

  CONNIE SAILED THROUGH the heavily polished front doors of the house. Surprised, she halted midstride as Bragg nodded at her in greeting. As he left, Francesca walked over to her blonde sister and the two of them paused to watch him crank up his black Daimler motorcar in the driveway below the house. A moment later he had put on his goggles and was motoring down the long, graveled driveway toward the open iron gates at its west end.

  The doorman closed the front door and Francesca faced her elegant, perfectly groomed sister. Julia had raised her in her own image: Connie was a proper lady, a caring mother and wife, and the perfect hostess. Like Julia, she was an adept socialite. “I see you are already dressed for the wedding,” Francesca teased, fully aware that Connie would rush home to change into something even more elegant than the blue pin-striped suit she was wearing.

  Connie’s eyes widened. “Hardly. Francesca, what was Rick doing here?”

  Francesca took her sister’s arm and led her back into the salon she and Rick had just vacated. “He came to wish me well,” she said a bit too firmly.

  Connie gave her a disbelieving look, then walked over to the mahogany doors and closed them. She turned. “You aren’t on another case, are you?” It was a mild accusation.

  “No, Con, you need not worry on that score.”

  Connie sighed. “I believe I feel sorry for him.”

  “Connie, don’t!”

  “Why not? He was in love with you until his wife materialized out of thin air. And I see the way he looks at you. Everyone does.”

  She was uncomfortable now. “Con, he loves Leigh Anne.”

  “Does he? He is certainly fulfilling his duty toward her, and they make a striking couple. But I must say, the few times I have seen them together, I have noticed how tense their relationship is.”

  Francesca shook her head. “You know that Leigh Anne has suffered a terrible carriage accident. She will never walk again. They are going through a very difficult time. Yes, Bragg is fond of me. I am fond of him.” Her heart lurched as she thought about Hart. She bit her lip and looked at her sister. “But, Connie, tonight I am going to be Hart’s wife.”

  Acute desire came suddenly. She had spent hours in his arms—and in his bed. But he had refused to entirely do the deed. For some blasted reason, he insisted on being noble with her.

  Connie’s smile was knowing. “As your sister, I know you have somehow managed to restrain your passions. I am so excited for you, Fran. Hart is smitten and you are head over heels. God only knows how Mother and I managed to organize this reception in a mere two weeks!”

  Francesca laughed, her worries vanishing. All she could think of was Hart watching her with that dark, intense gaze he had as she walked down the aisle. “God only knows how you convinced Father to agree to a wedding in two weeks.”

  “I think Hart did that,” Connie said. “Neil saw them at Delmonico’s, having lunch. By the way, he said Father looked apoplectic.”

  Francesca bit her lip. Hart hadn’t said a word about meeting with her father before he’d left town, but clearly he had done just that. She happened to know how adept Hart was at negotiation. Obviously Andrew Cahill, no slouch when it came to business affairs—he had begun his career as a butcher and now ran a meatpacking empire—had been vastly outmaneuvered.

  “Have you seen your fiancé since he returned from Chicago?”

  “We had a wonderful supper the night before last.” She blushed, thinking about it.

  “I wish we had been able to organize an affair for last night, but it was difficult enough to prepare the wedding,” Connie said. A knock sounded on the closed salon doors and she turned to answer it.

  Francesca murmured, “Hart was given a small bachelor’s party last night.”

  Connie blushed and said, “I do not want to know.”

  “Neither do I,” Francesca lied. She couldn’t wait to find out where he had been taken and what kind of entertainment he’d been given.

  The doorman, Jonathon, was holding an envelope in his hand. “Miss Cahill? This just came. I was told to deliver it directly to you and no one else.”

  Flowers wouldn’t have surprised her, but such a delivery did. Francesca couldn’t imagine what the envelope would contain, or why it had been hand delivered. As Jonathon walked past her, Connie glanced at the envelope. She lost some of her coloring.

  Francesca saw her reaction and was bemused. She reached for the envelope and froze. It wasn’t addressed to her. Instead, a single word in heavy bloc
k letters was hand-written upon it: URGENT.

  Francesca was assailed with unease. Connie cried sharply, “Fran, do not open it!”

  Francesca took the envelope, thanking Jonathon. “That is all,” she said. She waited for him to leave and turned it over. The back was blank.

  Connie came over to her. “I know you. That must be the beginning of an investigation. It is your wedding day, Fran. Do not open it!”

  “I am not going to start an investigation today, Con,” Francesca said calmly. She walked away from her sister, ostensibly to stand in the light coming through a window. In fact, she did not want her sister to see the contents of the envelope until she had done so first.

  A printed invitation was inside. It read:

  A private preview of the works of Sarah Channing

  On Saturday, June 28, 1902

  Between the hours of 1:00-4:00 p.m.

  At No. 69 Waverly Place

  Francesca felt her heart drop as if to the floor. Her knees buckled. She could only stare at the invitation in horror.

  “What is it?” Connie cried, rushing forward. “Has someone died?”

  Francesca quickly held the card to her bosom so her sister could not see. She looked at Connie, but her mind spun and she did not see her sister at all. Instead, she saw the portrait Sarah had painted of her last April, at Hart’s request. In it, she was stark naked, seated on a settee.

  Her stolen portrait had surfaced.

  Someone had just invited her to view it.

  She inhaled. Francesca had no doubt what this terrible in vitation was about.

  “Fran? Let me get you a glass of water.”

  Francesca sat down, hard, in the closest chair. Her sister knew that Hart had commissioned her portrait and that it had been stolen, but she did not know that it was a nude. Only a handful of people knew.

  Her heart thundered. If that portrait were ever displayed in public, she was ruined. Her family would be more than horrified and shamed—they would be ruined by association with her.

  Of all days for the thief to come forward. What did he or she want?

  “Con, no, I am fine!” Francesca leaped to her feet. It was only half past eleven. She could be at 69 Waverly Place in an hour—maybe less, considering a great deal of the city was already gone for the summer. Surely she could be at the church by three, with plenty of time to dress for her wedding.

  No one must ever see that portrait!

  Connie faced her, her eyes wide. “What is it?”

  Francesca managed a smile. “I need a favor, Con, a huge favor—”

  “No. Whatever is in that note, it can wait.” Connie was frowning. Her mild-mannered sister was becoming angry.

  She kept smiling. “I need you to bring my dress, my shoes and my jewelry to the church. I will meet you there at three.”

  “Absolutely not,” Connie cried, horrified.

  “Connie, if I do not take care of this—this matter now, I will be in terrible trouble!”

  “Take care of this matter after you are married.”

  “Connie, I am going downtown. I will be at the church by three, I swear. Nothing can keep me away!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday, June 28, 1902

  12:00 p.m.

  RICK BRAGG STARED at his Victorian home, the engine of the Daimler idling, but he did not really see the quaint brick house. Instead, the interview he’d just had with Francesca kept replaying in his mind. He was very afraid for her.

  He knew Hart would eventually destroy her. His brother had a black, selfish soul. He was cruel and self-involved. From time to time he could rise to the occasion, briefly showing the honorable side of his nature, but in the end, he always reverted to serving only his own interests and ambitions. Francesca was selfless. Hart was selfish. No match could be worse.

  But he was hardly an impartial observer. Bragg was afraid to recall the past he had shared with Francesca. He feared that too many old feelings would return. He knew he must not think of the time they had first met, when he had been smitten with her—and she had returned his passionate interest. He must not think about their debates, their discussions, their investigations—or the kisses and caresses they had shared. That was wrong. His wife had returned after leaving him four years ago, and as uneasy as it was, as angry as he had been, they had reconciled. Besides, before Francesca had become charmed by his brother, she had utterly rejected the notion of his ever divorcing. Although he never spoke openly about it, in the most elite political circles it was assumed that one day he would run for office, possibly even for the United States Senate. A divorce would ruin his political prospects.

  He had made his own bed, which he now slept in. Leigh Anne had insisted on moving back in with him—and when she had, he had insisted on his marital rights. He had been furious with her for both leaving him and then returning to him. What had begun as an unfriendly reconciliation had turned into a passionate one, but his lust had been fed by his anger.

  He had spent half of last night working, the other half thinking about the fact that Francesca was actually going to marry his heartless half brother on the morrow. He did not know where the past few weeks had gone. He had been overwhelmed at headquarters. There had been a series of civilian arrests in the Tenderloin—organized, of course, by the radical reformer Reverend Parkhurst, whose motives were political. Parkhurst vociferously claimed it was his duty as an American citizen to do what the police would not, which was to close the saloons on Sundays, while the press sensationalized every detail of every civilian raid, putting Bragg in the midst of the dispute. The mayor was furious with Parkhurst, but he was also displeased with Bragg. And Leigh Anne had begun to complain of pains in her leg.…

  And then he had received the damn wedding invitation, only a week ago!

  He was certain he could support Francesca’s marriage to someone else—someone worthy of her. Hart was not that man. But what could he do? He had tried to persuade her to delay, and she had refused. Now, he would have to stand aside and be ready to pick her up when Hart shattered her into tiny pieces. Bragg had not a doubt that was what his half brother would do.

  He realized that the automobile was still running and he turned off the ignition. Reluctantly, he got out of the roadster, placing his goggles on the driver’s seat. The holiday weekend loomed. He would take his wife and the two girls fostering with them to the tiny village hamlet of Sag Harbor, on Long Island’s north shore. He had spent all of the prior night at his office at police headquarters, taking care of paperwork that only he could manage—the perfect excuse to stay overnight at the office. It wasn’t the first time; he had begun keeping a change of clothing there. He was astute enough to realize that he dreaded returning home. He wasn’t sure when he had begun to avoid his marriage.

  The anger was long gone. It had been replaced by guilt. He had treated Leigh Anne terribly before she was injured. While she did not blame him for the accident, he blamed himself. His cruelty had put her in such a state of distraction that she had been run down.

  As for the lust, every time he thought about reaching for her, she would turn away, or feign sleep, or make some excuse that one of the girls was awake, needing her.

  He was hardly a fool. Leigh Anne was a passionate woman, but she was also vain and she couldn’t stand the changes the accident had wrought in her body.

  She had even told him to take a mistress; she had even asked for a divorce. How ironic it was. He had been the one who had wanted a divorce when she suddenly reappeared in his life in February, while she had insisted on reconciliation! He wondered what was left for them, if they didn’t have conversation, understanding, affection or sex. He would never turn his back on her now. Even if he knew rationally that the accident wasn’t really his fault, she was his wife. If he didn’t take care of her, who would?

  He walked grimly past a small black gig and gray horse parked in the driveway. He instantly recognized the vehicle, and his tension increased. Leigh Anne must have summoned Dr.
Finney.

  He focused on the fact that she must be in more pain—it was preferable to thinking about their volatile and unhappy relationship. He started up the brick path to the small house he had leased, hoping the girls were in the park with their nanny so they would not witness Leigh Anne’s distress. He stepped into the house, plastering a smile on his face. Instantly he heard a noise on the stairs. Katie came barreling down the staircase so swiftly he reached for her, afraid she would trip and fall. Her small face was taut with worry. His heart lurched with dismay.

  He knelt. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mrs. Bragg hurts so much,” she cried, looking at him as if he might be able to somehow save the day. She was dark haired and seven years old.

  Katie was always anxious. When she came to them after her mother’s murder, she had refused to speak or eat. Now she spoke, although not frequently, and ate like a little horse. She even smiled from time to time, especially when Leigh Anne was at her best and mothering her. But she worried about her foster mother all the time and he knew it was not healthy for her. He clasped her thin shoulders. “Katie, Mrs. Bragg was badly hurt in that carriage accident. Now and then, she will have some old pain, left over from her injuries.”

  “Why won’t it stop?” she whispered, her dark eyes huge and despairing.

  “She has her good days, too. I am going to go upstairs to see what Dr. Finney has to say. Where is Dot?”

  “She is having lunch.”

  “Why don’t you join her. Aren’t you hungry? Mrs. Flowers is a wonderful cook.” He managed a smile.

  Katie did not smile back, but she reluctantly turned. He hurried upstairs, his heart racing. Amazingly, he was anxious. He paused on the threshold of their bedroom, wondering how a man could live this way—in dread of going home, to a place without laughter and affection, without sex; in a state of constant apprehension. And then there was the guilt.

  Leigh Anne wasn’t dressed yet. She wore a modest blue silk wrapper, her jet-black hair piled indifferently atop her head. She had the covers up and a wool throw over her lap, as if she was cold. Finney sat by the bed, speaking with her, patting her hand. His wife remained terribly beautiful, but she appeared as fragile as china.