Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  Julia must never learn about the portrait. “I will reassure her over supper.”

  Connie lifted a skeptical brow. “She is demanding details, Francesca, regarding your entrapment on Saturday. She has been interrogating me as if I were some witness in one of your investigations—as if she somehow knows that I know the truth.”

  Francesca took her hand. “Don’t panic,” she said softly. Then she turned to Joel. “It is so late for you to be here.”

  He grinned at her. “A sleuth’s work’s never done, is it? An’ it’s no different fer a sidekick. Miz Cahill, Mr. Moore was at his gallery Saturday morning, mebbe at ten or eleven.”

  “What?” Francesca exclaimed. “Why, if that is true, it confirms his involvement with the thief! Who told you this?”

  “Them two children that helped you get out after you got locked in. They were playing with their dog in the yard, and a ball hit the window you tried to get out of. Bobby—that’s his name—saw Moore inside when he went to get the ball fer the dog. He was with another fellow, Miz Cahill.”

  She was excited. “Are you certain Bobby saw Daniel Moore and not someone else? Is he certain? Did you question him thoroughly, Joel?”

  “He jist said it was Mr. Moore,” Joel replied. “I can ask again tomorrow.”

  Francesca thought quickly about it. “I am beginning to believe that Moore is involved with our thief, but not the theft. I must not leap to the conclusion that he was at the gallery with the thief on Saturday morning. Joel, do you know of a brothel run by a pair of gentlemen on the west side, in the forties?”

  Joel blinked. “Nope. You want me to snoop around?”

  “Let me think about it. Raoul has left, but Francis will hail you a hansom to take you home.” She retrieved her purse and handed him two silver dollars, although the fare would probably be a half dollar at this hour. “I will pick you up tomorrow morning at half past eight, on my way to police headquarters.”

  Connie coughed.

  Francesca felt an unyielding stare on her back, and she flushed guiltily before turning to face Julia. “Hello, Mama.”

  “I cannot believe your marriage is hanging by a thread and you are running around town with Rick Bragg on a tawdry investigation!” Before Francesca could respond, she added, “Not to mention that your reputation is hanging by a thread, as well.”

  “You will be pleased to know that Hart and I ran about the city this afternoon, looking for clues so we might apprehend whomever wished to stop our marriage.” Julia started. “Joel, I will see you in the morning.”

  He thanked her but avoided looking at Julia, whom he was clearly intimidated by, and hurried out with the doorman. Francesca continued, “I hope you offered him a decent meal.”

  “Of course I did. Don’t you dare criticize me and change the subject.” Julia’s blue eyes seemed moist. “So, does this mean that you and Hart are back on?”

  She hesitated. “He still cares about me. He is very concerned. But I am afraid he has gotten it into his head that he must protect me from his past.”

  Julia flung up her hands. “I am going to speak with him tomorrow. Dinner will be served shortly.” There was warning in her tone as she turned and strode out the black-and-white marble entrance hall.

  Francesca decided to wait until another time to attempt to dissuade her from approaching Hart. She looked at her sister. “He is so set against me now,” she whispered.

  Connie pulled her into the intimate salon, furnished in gold and ivory, which she and Joel had just come out of. “I believe he loves you, Fran, but right now, he is ruled by his male pride.”

  “I wish you were right. Connie, he has decided that it is in my best interests to marry someone else. We spent the entire afternoon together, searching for clues, and it was so clear that he remains terribly fond of me. But when I went over to his house a moment ago, he would not let me in. We used to share a scotch at this hour and discuss the day, his business affairs and my investigations. He refused to have a drink with me, a simple drink!”

  Connie picked up her hand and stared at the magnificent engagement ring Francesca wore. “Maybe you should take that off.”

  “What?” She was aghast at the notion.

  Connie gave her a look. “I think it very encouraging that Hart ran about the city with you today, helping you with this case. But if you already spent the afternoon together, what possessed you to call on him tonight?”

  “I love him.” Francesca stiffened.

  “And he loves you. But he remains humiliated by your so-called jilting of him at the very altar. He probably remains angry. He might even be hurt. I was not making a jest about male pride.”

  “I hope you are right on all accounts,’ Francesca said. “But what am I supposed to do? I love him and I want him back!”

  Before Francesca could react, Connie twisted the engagement ring around and removed it. “You must play him, Francesca. And I would begin by locking this in Julia’s safe.”

  Francesca gasped.

  “Fran. You can’t throw yourself at him. You can’t pursue him or beg him to take you back. You must not even attempt to persuade him to see the error of his decision to break things off. He must realize that he is losing you. He must be the one to pursue you.”

  Francesca stared at her, almost gaping. Connie was right.

  “I am going to lock this up for you,” she said sweetly. “And do run about tomorrow with Bragg—the whole world knows Hart is jealous of his brother. If you must have a scotch before supper, do so with Rick. The next time you see Hart, tell him you have realized you have no choice but to accept his decision.”

  Francesca felt her mind spinning. “You are brilliant, Connie, truly brilliant.”

  “Men are not that hard to comprehend—some of the time.” She smiled. “Do you want to freshen up before supper? I am staying, by the way, to help you survive Julia’s assault.”

  Francesca hugged her again. “I love you. I will be right back.” She lifted her skirts and charged across the hall, up the gracefully winding staircase to the second floor, where the family had their bedrooms. She began to exult. She imagined how shocked Hart would be if she told him that she agreed with him, and their breakup was for the best.

  Oh, she would give anything to have him pursuing her again.

  In her bedroom, she rushed to change into a simple supper gown and redo her hair. The dress she put on was dark green, and she wondered where her emerald teardrop earrings were. She had worn them recently to a supper party with her mother, while Hart was away.

  They weren’t on her dressing table or on the vanity, nor were they in her jewelry box. She had a terrible habit of taking off her earrings while in motion, and leaving them carelessly about on this piece of furniture or that. Francesca glanced at her bedside table and the occasional table in front of the sofa before the fireplace. Finally, she ran to her antique secretaire. She saw the eardrops instantly, glittering with green fire.

  And then she froze.

  They were set on an envelope with large, hand-written block letters.

  She rushed forward. Only an idiot would fail to recognize those letters.

  The envelope was addressed to her. Below her name was the single word URGENT.

  She sank into the chair, seizing the envelope, the earrings sliding to the desk and scattering there. She did not notice. Instead, she slit the envelope open with her fingernail. The same weight and color of vellum was inside. She unfolded it, her hands shaking.

  If you want the portrait back, be at the bridge in Central Park at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow.

  Bring $75,000.

  Finally, she was being blackmailed.

  She wanted to skip the family supper, but there was no possible way to do so. Instead, she pretended to listen to the dinner conversation, while turning over the fact that she must appropriate seventy-five thousand dollars immediately. As Andrew and Evan chatted about the terrible revolt in Haiti, and Connie and Julia discussed the merits of a new modiste, h
er mind raced. Did the thief really want money? Why hadn’t this blackmail threat come sooner? How was it related to the fact that she had been trapped on the day of her wedding? Something was so very wrong!

  How was she to access so much money? Did she dare ask her father for it? She instantly knew she would not— Andrew would never give it to her, and he would ask a hundred questions.

  Hart, however, would give her the funds without thinking twice.

  She realized that she could count on him, even now.

  She was tempted to rush back to Hart’s to discuss borrowing the money, but by the time supper was concluded, she knew that nothing was going to be accomplished until the next afternoon. She had begun to consider blackmail suspects. She ruled Moore out—if he had acquired the portrait, she was certain he would have demanded the reward immediately.

  Could Chief Farr be involved? He knew her portrait was compromising, and he would certainly stoop to blackmailing her without having it in his possession. But why do that? He would never put his job with the NYPD on the line, not for those funds. Unfortunately, he probably took in that much money from graft and corruption—most police officers did.

  She was down to two possible suspects: Solange Marceaux and Bill Randall. She could imagine Solange Marceaux being greedy enough to blackmail her—and she had no doubt that the madam would attempt to take the money and then display the portrait publicly, destroying Francesca anyway.

  She had to definitively rule out Bill Randall from any involvement in the theft of her portrait, she thought. She must make certain his alibi hadn’t been fabricated. She would interview his mother, Henrietta, in the morning with Bragg, as planned, and then see what the afternoon would bring.

  She could depend on Bragg, but he looked like the policeman that he was, and he had been in the news on an almost daily basis. Most of the city could recognize him. If she allowed him to come with her and the blackmailer saw him, she would not recover the portrait.

  Francesca knew she could not go to Central Park without backup. Just before finally falling asleep at half past three in the morning, she decided she would see if Hart would let her use Raoul again. And she would bring Joel. As she fell asleep, her last thoughts were that if something went awry, she would instruct Joel to go directly to Bragg. She might even arm him.…

  Now, banging on Hart’s front door the next morning, she thought, nothing was going to go awry. She was determined. By late afternoon, she intended to have her portrait back, and hopefully, she would have identified the thief, as well.

  It was very early, but the staff was surely up. Francesca knocked again. As she did, the door swung open and she came face-to-face with Hart. She started with surprise.

  He started as well, both brows lifting. “Francesca?”

  For one moment, she allowed his powerful presence to wash over her. In that moment, she was tempted to tell him the truth and have him go to Central Park with her. She so wished they were not estranged. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked.

  “No. Come in,” he said, clearly concluding that something was amiss.

  “I am sorry it is so early, but obviously you are up.” She managed a smile. “Good morning, by the way.” She was almost cheerful!

  He did not smile back. He pulled her inside. “What has happened, Francesca?” He closed the front door.

  She removed her gloves and avoided eye contact, thrilled by his concern. “I need a private word with you, Hart. It is somewhat urgent—and personal.”

  She dared to glance up at him. He was staring intensely and she kept smiling, until his scrutiny made her glance away. “Is anyone else awake?”

  “I don’t know. I am trying to imagine what has happened between last night and this morning,” he said.

  She faced him and realized that his gaze had dropped to her left hand. “This is not what you are thinking.”

  He gave her a slightly amused look. “And what am I thinking?”

  She hesitated.

  “You are on edge,” he said softly. “Otherwise you would not be sending me those falsely cheerful smiles.” He took her arm and guided her down the hall. Francesca wished that he was wrong, but he was right—she was nervous. And it wasn’t just because of the money she must acquire. Hart often made her nervous, even before their estrangement. But the story she had fabricated, which was plausible but a lie, accounted for her distress.

  “I am a bit anxious,” she admitted.

  “Do not even try to dissemble with me, Francesca.” He released her and gestured. Francesca preceded him into the library, very skittishly. Did he sense he was to be played? She needed him to believe her every word.

  A small fire crackled in the hearth and she saw papers and newspapers on his desk, a cup of coffee there. She already knew that Hart was very devoted to the management of his business empire. He slept little and worked long hours—he enjoyed negotiations and trades far more than the daily minutiae of running insurance and shipping companies.

  He walked swiftly over to a gilded bar cart and poured her a black coffee from a sterling-silver coffee pitcher. He returned to her, handing her the cup. “It is very early, Francesca, even for you.”

  “Yes, it is.” She accepted the cup and wondered if the knots in her stomach would increase if she drank the coffee. It was one thing to investigate someone else’s case. With her fate on the line, this felt entirely different.

  If she could recover the portrait, they could pursue the thief at leisure. And she could focus most of her efforts on winning Hart back.

  Hart was staring at her unadorned left hand again. Francesca felt a brief satisfaction, wondering if he would remark on it so she could be flippant about their circumstances. But he didn’t speak. She tried to take a sip of coffee. Her stomach tightened and hurt. She set the cup down. “I hate to ask you for a very large favor, but I must.”

  “Whatever it is, my answer is yes.”

  She wanted to hug him; she did not move. “You haven’t heard me out yet.”

  “My answer is yes.”

  She inhaled, so relieved her knees buckled. He steadied her. She opened her eyes and said softly, with dread and dismay, “I’m afraid I must ask you for a considerable sum of money—when I already owe you so much.”

  His unblinking gaze never changed. “You owe me nothing, Francesca. I gave you the fifty thousand to aid your brother. How much do you need?”

  She cringed. When Andrew had refused to pay any more gambling debts, Evan had been assaulted by some thug. The vicious attack, which had left him bedridden with several broken ribs and a black eye, had been a warning from one of his creditors. Francesca had asked Hart for fifty thousand dollars. Evan owed far more, but they had decided that partial payment would be enough to ward off any further attacks. Hart hadn’t hesitated to give them the sum.

  He had also insisted on taking it to Evan’s creditor himself. Francesca knew he would never accept repayment.

  He said softly, “You need never be afraid to ask me for my help.”

  She inhaled. “I am afraid I need seventy-five thousand dollars,” she said grimly.

  “I see.” A deadly pause ensued. He finally said, “What are the funds for?”

  “I would prefer not to say,” she said firmly.

  “You know I am going to give it to you no matter what it is for.”

  She couldn’t smile. “I am so grateful.” This was not the behavior of an ex-fiancé, she thought. This was the behavior of a trusted and loyal partner.

  He was studying her far too closely. “You seem exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Not really.”

  “Is the money about recovering the portrait?”

  “No.”

  For one more moment he stared and she could not look him in the eye. “Please trust me,” she whispered, but the moment she spoke, she thought about how he had trusted her—and how she had missed their wedding.

  But he didn’t make a rebuttal. He turned and walked away f
rom her. She watched him take a huge painting down from one wall. The safe was behind it, and he quickly turned the lock. The iron door swung open and Hart began taking stacked bills out. He took them to his desk. “It is not a loan. You could never pay it back, and even if you could, I wouldn’t accept repayment. But I do want to know what this sum is for. For you can trust me as well, Francesca.”

  Francesca walked over to the desk, clutching her purse. “Evan has been gaming again,” she lied. She prayed her brother would never hear of her atrocious deception. But she knew he would forgive her, if he understood what was at stake.

  Hart sighed. He went back to the safe, closing it, and then replaced the oil on the wall. Francesca suddenly realized that the painting was not the Constable landscape that had been there so recently. It was a dreamy, somewhat abstract cityscape. “You have purchased a new painting.”

  “I am very impressed with this young artist. His name is Henri Matisse and that is his rendering of Notre-Dame,” Hart said, turning. He retrieved her coffee cup and took it to the sideboard. There, he poured a dark liquor into it. He returned to her. “This should ease your nerves.”

  “It is half past six in the morning.”

  “You are frightened, Francesca.”

  “No, I’m not. I am…worried.”

  He suddenly tilted up her chin with his strong hand. “Do you want to tell me what the funds are really for?”

  His hand on her face felt like her undoing. She longed to blurt out the truth. Worse, she so wanted to move into his powerful arms. “I cannot, Hart. Please. Leave it alone.”

  “I’m not sure that I can.” His eyes were dark now, and he glanced at her lips. For an instant, Francesca tensed, thinking he would kiss her.

  But he released her. “You have taken up a vocation that is inherently dangerous. You consort, on a daily basis, with the worst criminals, not to mention madmen. I do not like it when you are in jeopardy, Francesca.”

  “I am not in that kind of jeopardy,” she whispered, thrilling at his words. She reached up and touched his hard, clenched jaw.

  He caught her hand and said, “Are you being blackmailed?”