Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  She reined in her delight. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she had come face-to-face with her portrait in the gallery. It was floating about the city somewhere. She thought about Daniel Moore’s statement that two ladies had visited his gallery on Thursday. Could one of the women have been Solange Marceaux?

  Couldn’t Chief Farr have tracked down Moore on Saturday night, after she had escaped the gallery? He was clever, and it wouldn’t have been all that hard to learn where Moore lived. But if that were the case, then who had Marsha seen lingering outside the gallery on an earlier weekday night? Farr wouldn’t have even known of the gallery’s existence until yesterday. The obvious conclusion was that the big, dangerous man hadn’t been Farr after all.

  Francesca got out of Hart’s coach just as the tracks from the Sixth Avenue El overhead began to rumble and groan. Beneath the elevated railway, it was dark and dismal. Aware that a train was approaching, she tensed. A moment later she heard the roar of the locomotive, and the screaming of its iron wheels. She clapped her hand over her ears as Raoul held the lead carriage horses, until the last cars had passed.

  She lowered her hands, coughing from the smoke. Hart had insisted she use his coach for the remainder of the day. He had taken a cab uptown; he had told her he needed to bathe and change his clothes, as he remained in the same garments he’d worn last night. She had so wanted to ask him what he had done last night, and with whom, but she hadn’t dared.

  The brownstone she now faced was nondescript. It was an unusual location for a bordello, she thought, as the neighborhood was mostly factories, sweatshops and warehouses. The few pedestrians crossing Fourteenth Street under the El were clearly factory workers, the women plainly dressed in simple gingham, the men in dark breeches and cotton shirts. All of the traffic was comprised of wagons and drays, loaded with boxes and barrels. Francesca wondered at the brothel’s clientele. She could not imagine Rose entertaining a common laborer.

  Hoping that was not the case, Francesca started up the steps and rapped the door knocker loudly several times. Eventually a peephole was revealed, and she met a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes. “We’re closed,” a woman said, slamming the peephole shut.

  Francesca knocked again. “I must speak with Rose Cooper. If you do not let me in, I will return with the police.”

  The lock clicked a moment later and the door opened. Francesca saw a very tired, plump woman of forty or so, clad in a dressing gown, her hair dyed garishly red. She found herself in a small, barren hallway, a staircase to her left. At the far end of the hall, she glimpsed a dark red parlor.

  This establishment was a far cry from the elegant mansion Solange Marceaux had occupied, and it even made Madame Pinke’s brothel seem luxurious in comparison. Once, Hart had been one of Rose’s clients, although those days had ended with their engagement. She knew he had only frequented the most exclusive brothels. Those establishments had a clientele consisting of the city’s elites and powerbrokers. No one from those circles would visit this house of ill repute.

  “I don’t know any girl named Rose,” the woman said.

  Francesca sighed. It was getting late and she was looking forward to taking off her shoes, sipping a very good scotch while discussing the day with Hart. She wondered if she could finagle that. She was very good at persuasion, as Hart had said.

  She opened her purse, took out her gun and pointed it at the woman. The madam paled.

  “I am in an unpleasant mood. My reputation hangs by a single thread. I will wait for Rose in the parlor. Tell her it is Francesca Cahill and it is of the utmost urgency, please.”

  Sending Francesca one last glare, the woman slammed the front door and locked it, then thudded up the stairs, mumbling under her breath. Francesca was certain that she was being accused of being high, mighty and mad. She had to smile.

  She glanced around carefully and opened the only other door between her and the parlor. It was a dining room, the walls papered in olive-green, the draperies an equally atrocious shade, a very faded gold rug underfoot. The oval table could seat six or eight. She supposed the room was sometimes requested for supper parties. She backed out slowly.

  “Well, hello, Francesca,” Rose said, a sneer in her tone.

  Francesca turned. The woman stood behind her, hands on her hips. Rose Cooper was a striking woman, with olive skin, green eyes and dark hair. She was quite tall, perhaps five foot eight or nine, with a perfect figure. She was wearing a very simple shirtwaist and a dark skirt; Francesca had never seen her dressed as a shopgirl before. “How are you, Rose?” she asked softly, aware of the belligerence in Rose’s eyes.

  “Nothing has changed,” Rose snapped, breathing hard. “Daisy is dead. I will be alone forever!”

  Francesca’s heart broke for the other woman. “I am so sorry. I know how hard this is. I wish I could somehow help.”

  Rose remained sullen, but grudgingly, she said, “You did help. You found her killer.” Tears welled. Abruptly, Rose swatted at them and glared. “What do you want? You are a very unpleasant reminder of a part of the past that I want to forget.”

  Francesca was not affronted by Rose’s rudeness. She was truly sad for her. “I’m sorry I bring back unhappy memories.” When Rose simply stared coldly, she said, “I need your help on an investigation, Rose.”

  “We are even! I don’t owe you anything!” she cried.

  Francesca touched her arm kindly, but Rose jerked angrily away. “Just leave,” she said. “Go away and never come back.”

  “I can’t do that. You see, I am looking for a stolen painting, and time is of the essence. I must find the portrait immediately.” As she spoke, she thought about the fact that Hart had believed Rose capable of stealing that portrait, to use it against either her or him. But Rose couldn’t have known that the portrait was a nude.

  “Does the damn portrait belong to Hart?” Rose cried. “As if I would ever help him in any way!”

  Francesca hesitated. She hadn’t expected Rose to have softened toward Hart. She thought that Rose would hold a grudge until she died. “Hart did commission the portrait. But I am the one desperate to find it—it is my portrait, actually.”

  Rose stared. “So paint another one. I don’t know anything about a portrait, Francesca.”

  Francesca hesitated. She did not want Rose to know more than was essential. Rose hated Hart with a vengeance and she always would. But she had more questions for her. Two months ago, Rose had still been entertaining Chief Farr. She must be thorough now. “Rose, I know you are still grieving. But how are you, otherwise?”

  Rose stiffened. “Don’t pretend that you care, Francesca.”

  “I do care. Rose, why are you in this house?”

  Rose made a harsh sound. “It is temporary.”

  Francesca hoped so. “Are you still seeing Chief Farr?”

  Rose’s eyes widened. “No.” Her tone was a bit sharp. “Being as I did not like that cop at all—he is a pig—it is good riddance.”

  While she didn’t like Farr either, she thought that Rose despised men in general. Given her vocation, she could hardly blame her. Still, Francesca was relieved. She decided that Farr hadn’t discussed the portrait with Rose. “Do you happen to know where Solange Marceaux is now?”

  Rose was incredulous; then she laughed. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I know that the police have issued warrants for her arrest. We whores stick together.”

  She ignored that. “Do you know if Solange is angry enough to seek vengeance against me?”

  Rose started. “No, I don’t. I was in her brothel, Francesca, but I wasn’t there as her friend. She never confided in me.”

  “I really must locate her,” Francesca said.

  Rose shrugged. “Well, I can’t help.”

  She fell silent, wondering how to move Rose. If she asked about Dawn now, she felt certain she would get nowhere. Rose said, “What does Solange have to do with the painting?”

  “It is complicated.” Francesca was not about to rev
eal the nature of the portrait or that she believed Solange capable of its theft.

  Rose made a sound of indifference. “Why not have Hart find her? After all, he must know every decent establishment in the city.”

  She froze. “That is cruel.”

  She looked pleased with herself. “Hart is cruel, Francesca. I happen to know.”

  Her mind raced. It sounded as if Rose didn’t know about the wedding. Could she use it to her advantage? “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “I haven’t heard what?” Rose was wary.

  “I was supposed to marry Hart yesterday, but I was lured away—by the painting’s thief—and then trapped in an art gallery. I missed my own wedding.”

  Rose’s eyes widened. Then she began to smile. “Oh, my. You missed your wedding. Please tell me you jilted Hart right at the altar.”

  She sighed. “Not on purpose.”

  Rose gloated openly. “Hart must have been humiliated. Ha! Is he still in a rage?” She laughed. “Oh, I know he is. He hates being crossed. He can give orders and commands, but he only tolerates absolute obedience. He must be furious with you.”

  All her sympathy for Rose vanished. “I am glad you are so happy with this turn of events. I love Calder and he has ended things. So, yes, he is very angry, and I am distraught.”

  Rose sobered slightly. “He hates you now, I am sure of it. You do know, Francesca, that this is really for the best. You are a nice woman. He is a bastard. You’ll find someone else.”

  “We will get through this,” Francesca said, and the moment she spoke, she wished she hadn’t.

  Rose shook her head, amused. “He’ll never truly forgive you. If you patch things up, he will always hold this against you.”

  Francesca held her temper. It was no easy task. “Your glee is terribly unbecoming.”

  Rose shrugged. “I’m a whore. Who cares?”

  “I certainly cared a moment ago, about your grief, and I cared when I sleuthed tirelessly to find Daisy’s real killer,” she flared.

  Rose stared. “You know I am grateful, not that I would have cared if Hart had been bagged for Daisy’s murder.”

  “As far as I am concerned, you owe me now,” Francesca said fiercely. “I have always treated you with respect. I have always cared. I solved Daisy’s murder. Now I am in some trouble. That portrait must be recovered, Rose.” An idea struck her and she said, “It has special relevance for me. Hart commissioned it when we were falling in love. I am truly desperate.”

  Rose shrugged, unmoved.

  “Please, Rose. This is so important! Are you certain you will not tell me where Solange Marceaux has set up shop?”

  Rose sighed. “You can be persuasive when you want to be, Francesca. I don’t know where Madame Marceaux has gone. And I can’t understand what she could have to do with your stolen painting.”

  “Do you know where Dawn is employed?”

  Rose hesitated. “I have heard that Dawn is working on the west side, in the forties, in a bordello run by a pair of gentlemen. I heard it is conveniently located and not far from the El. But I have no idea where, exactly—that is all I know.”

  Francesca had already taken out her pad, and was making notes. It might take a while, but if Rose was telling the truth, she would find that bawdy house sooner or later. She finished writing and looked up. “Thank you, Rose.”

  Rose shook her head. “So much fuss over a painting.”

  FRANCESCA LEANED FORWARD in her carriage seat as Hart’s huge home came into view, set back behind stone walls and iron gates. She smiled. Things were going very well, indeed. She had a lead on Dawn—and Dawn might know where Solange Marceaux had relocated. Rose did not know anything about the portrait, but Daniel Moore was definitely hiding something. She wanted to access his bank accounts and learn how dire his finances were. And tomorrow, to make certain that she could definitively cross both Randalls off her list of suspects, she would visit Henrietta in prison. She expected the interview to be routine, but of course, one never knew. Since Philadelphia University was closed for the summer, she would try to learn where Bill was. She would have to speak with him eventually, too.

  The coach turned onto the long pale driveway leading to Hart’s house. Francesca was aware that she was very nervous, but the beast had gone back to its lair, at least for a while. They were friends, after all, although he might regret having admitted that. She smiled, sighing. Then she pinched herself. Until her portrait was recovered and she and Hart were engaged again, she must not be too content.

  A moment later, the coach stopped in front of his house. Francesca alighted and hurried up the front steps.

  Alfred greeted her at the door.

  He seemed very pleased to see her. “Mr. Hart is in the library, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca beamed at him, taking off her gloves. “It has been a very good day, Alfred.”

  “I can see that. Shall I show you to the library, then?”

  “I can show myself in. How is Mr. Hart? Is anyone home?” She knew she would have to face his family eventually.

  “He seems to be back to normal, Miss Cahill. There are no dark clouds hanging about him today. And no one else is in just now.”

  Pleased, she hurried down the hall, wondering if Hart had enjoyed sleuthing with her as much as she had enjoyed sleuthing with him. But she faltered as Hart stepped into the hall.

  He was so straight-faced she did not know if he was annoyed, angry or amused. “Have you been defending me to Rathe and Grace?” she tried. Her smile felt anxious.

  He did not smile back. “I have told them a portion of the truth.”

  “Honesty is always the best policy, as is staying as closely as possible to the facts.”

  “Are you nervous?” he purred.

  “Hardly! Hart, I am in need of a good scotch.” She was suddenly uncertain and almost intimidated. “May I come in?”

  “No.”

  She inhaled. “Don’t be silly, Hart. We are friends now, remember?” She walked past him toward the library, her heart thundering.

  He seized her arm, turning her abruptly around to face him. “You have more audacity—and courage—than anyone I know.”

  “Friends share a good drink with one another.” She smiled at him. “You cannot resist me.”

  And she thought amusement flickered in his eyes. “Do you really think to attempt to manipulate me?”

  “You like your scotch as much as I do, if not more, and no one likes to drink alone. And I just saw Rose.” She felt rather triumphant. Surely he would take the bait.

  But he did not. “Oh, ho! You do think to con me.” He released her.

  “A drink will hardly hurt either one of us, Hart,” she said, teasing.

  He folded his arms across his chest and she thought he remained just slightly amused with her antics. “Yesterday you jilted me at the altar—do I have to remind you of that? Today, we searched for clues together, but we are no longer affianced and undoubtedly, your mother has plans for the evening. Those plans might even include some very eligible gentlemen. You should go, Francesca.”

  She scowled. “Oh, please. We will reconcile shortly and you know it.”

  “I know no such thing,” he said, his mouth firm. “One day, you and I will be able to spend an evening together, but that day is not now.”

  She was stunned. “You will really send me home?”

  “It is suppertime. So, yes, I will.”

  He wasn’t going to invite her in. “Don’t you want to hear about Rose?”

  A brow lifted. “My darling, I still know you better than you know yourself. If you had a good clue, you would have blurted it out long ago. And, Francesca? You do pout adorably, but I will not change my mind.”

  She felt like a small, spoiled child, denied a tempting treat. “Fine,” she said grouchily. “I will con my sister into a forbidden drink, while you spend the evening alone.”

  He just looked at her.

  She stared back. What were his plans?
“You are going to be alone tonight, aren’t you?”

  He took her arm and guided her back into the spacious entrance hall. “Is Raoul still outside? Good, I see that he is. He can drive you home.”

  That afternoon she had been certain that he still loved her. She had been certain enough to dare to call on him—and she had expected to have her way. She hated this impasse. She wanted to curl up on his sofa beside him, and then wind up in his arms. She refused to believe he would escort another woman about town. Surely he had no interest in anyone else. The city was deserted, anyway. The best restaurants were closed.

  Alfred had opened the front door. Still holding her arm tightly, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Don’t ask questions if you fear the answers, Francesca.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sunday, June 29, 1902

  8:00 p.m.

  FRANCESCA THANKED RAOUL, then turned and started for her front door. The bubble of happiness was gone. Clearly, Hart meant to hold to the decision he had made about them. She was, amazingly, more hurt. How was she going to break through his resolve? She had thought herself well on her way toward doing so that afternoon, but clearly, she had been wrong. She refused to dwell on his insinuation that he would not be alone that evening. He would never be unfaithful to her, not like this—not so soon after their failed wedding.

  The doorman opened the door for her and Francesca smiled at him. She must call Bragg, she decided, and fill him in on the afternoon’s events.

  “Lady Montrose is here, Miss Cahill,” Francis said.

  Even as the doorman spoke, Joel came ambling out of the closest salon, Connie behind him.

  Francesca hurried forward, laying her gloves and purse on a side table. “Hello, Connie,” she said, hugging her briefly. She decided she desperately needed her worldly sister’s advice.

  “Where have you been all day?” Connie asked, taking in her rumpled appearance. But she kept her voice down. “Mother keeps asking for you. She is highly suspicious.”