Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  Andrew Cahill picked up the phone.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, Andrew,” Bragg said. “But I have news, and I think Francesca will be very pleased to hear it.”

  “She isn’t here, Rick. Because of her injury, she stayed at Hart’s last night.”

  Of course she had. It felt as if someone was twisting an ice pick in his chest. “Thank you, Andrew. And again, I am sorry to have bothered you.” He hung up and saw Leigh Anne watching him.

  “I have to go,” he said. “It is police business.”

  “YOU HAD A TELEPHONE call, Francesca.”

  Hart’s breath feathered her cheek. Francesca slowly awoke, deliciously sated. As she stretched beneath the covers, catlike, she recalled Hart making love to her numerous times. Eventually she had been put to bed in a guest room. Had he actually pulled the covers up? She grinned, aware that she was deliciously naked.

  He was fully dressed in his shirt and trousers, the sleeves uncuffed. As he leaned over her, his expression was wry. “Good morning, Francesca.”

  She reached for his jaw, desire causing her to shiver. As she did, she thought about the fact that she had not gone home last night. “I am ruined, Hart.” He’d have to marry her now!

  “You’re a virgin,” he said calmly. “And a very pleased one, at that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

  “Barely is enough.” He sat down by her hip, pulled her into his arms and kissed her, very, very thoroughly. Francesca was so surprised by the open display of affection that when he ended the kiss, she blinked speechlessly at him. They were surely reconciled, she thought breathlessly.

  “Do not ask,” he said flatly, standing. “Bragg called. Randall is in custody.”

  Her mind sprang to life. “I have to go.”

  “You had better stop at home first, and soothe your parents. Andrew just called, as well.”

  In the act of leaping naked from the bed, she froze.

  He smiled rather appreciatively. “I called them last night and explained that your wound made it inconvenient for you to go home. But your father is not very happy with me.”

  She threw herself at him and hugged him hard, then kissed him quickly on the lips. “I do love you!” She dived into her drawers. “Mary has seen the portrait—Bill must be the thief.” She found her chemise and shrugged it on. “Please leave so I can get dressed. Will you meet me downtown? Surely you want to hear Bill confess.”

  “If you tell me how long you will be, I will chauffeur you downtown, Francesca.”

  She wanted to tell him five minutes, but she sighed. “An hour. I am sure I will be thoroughly grilled by both Andrew and Julia.”

  “I’ll pick you up then,” Hart said. He touched her chin, his gaze impossibly warm. “Good luck.”

  IT TOOK ANDREW only thirty seconds to confront her. Francesca had barely walked through the front door when her father appeared in the entrance hall. He instantly faltered, his gaze going wide at the sight of her bloodstained shirtwaist. Knowing she looked awful in the bloody shirt, and intending to use her brush with danger to her full advantage, Francesca sailed forward and hugged him. “It was only a graze, Papa, but it did hurt, terribly! That must have been the reason I fell asleep on Hart’s couch after Rourke treated the wound.”

  Andrew’s gaze lifted and he said grimly, “It was half past eleven when Hart called me, Francesca. Can you imagine how worried your mother and I were?”

  She heard her mother’s heels rapidly clicking as she approached from the hallway. Lowering his voice, Andrew said, “I did not tell her you were shot. She would have never slept a wink. I said there was an incident that prevented you from coming home, a brush with another criminal element, and that you were unhurt.”

  He whirled as Julia appeared. “Julia, I confess to a vast deception last night, but it is only a graze. Francesca is unharmed, so do not worry yourself.”

  Julia stumbled, caught herself on the banister and turned white. “I do not believe what I am seeing!” she gasped. “Oh, I cannot abide this sleuthing of yours!”

  Francesca rushed forward. “Mama, I will admit that I was shot at, but Hart was there—he rescued me.”

  “Frankly, I do not want to know the details, as long as you are safe. Francesca, we are off to the Springs at noon. Your bags have been packed and sent on ahead, dear.”

  There was no time to relish having successfully diverted Julia from an attack on her profession. Francesca prepared for battle. “I cannot go to the Springs today, Mama, but I will come very shortly. Our number-one suspect is in custody and I am on my way downtown with Hart.”

  Julia’s hands fisted on her hips, but before she could speak, Andrew stepped between them. Francesca tensed, because he was very angry. “Papa? Surely you understand that I must go to headquarters today.”

  “Oh, I understand. I understand that you are twenty-one years old, and madly in love. Or so you believe! But you are a lady, Francesca. No matter how hurt, you cannot spend the night with a gentleman, let alone a disreputable rake like Calder Hart.”

  “Andrew,” Julia began, but he cut her off.

  “Francesca cannot run about this city as if she is an amoral socialite.”

  Francesca felt color flooding her face. Andrew was never so critical of her! “We are affianced,” she tried to reassure him. “And I was hurt.” She didn’t dare try to tell him that they had done nothing wrong.

  “Really?” His tone was cold. “I do not see his ring on your finger. Not that that matters! I have come to my final conclusion, Francesca, and that is that your having jilted him at the altar on Saturday was for the best.”

  She cried out. “Papa,” she began in horrified protest.

  But Julia interrupted. “Andrew, we must prepare to leave the city. Hart is going to join us in the Springs!”

  “No.” He did not look at his wife. “I have had enough. Hart is an unconscionable man. I have never liked him and I have never trusted him—and that will never change. You belong with someone like Rick Bragg. You are a woman of virtue, Francesca, and you deserve a man of great morality! Against my better judgment, I was forced into accepting this marriage. Well, I rule this roost. You are my daughter, Francesca, and while you might think me cruel now, I am looking after your best interests. You are not marrying Hart, not now, not ever.”

  Francesca was struck speechless.

  Julia said harshly, “And you do not intend to discuss such a monumental decision with me?”

  “Hart has played you for a fool,” Andrew said. Then he turned to Francesca. “I suggest you go upstairs and refresh yourself. We are leaving this house at eleven.” He strode down the hall, vanishing into the corridor.

  A terrible silence fell.

  Julia cried, “You should have come home last night.”

  Guilt assailed her. “Mama—I love him.”

  Tears filled Julia’s eyes. “I know you do, but Francesca…!”

  “I am going to marry him eventually. What are we going to do about Papa?” she asked with real concern. She was certain that this was no passing fancy. Andrew had made up his mind and he would not change it, no matter what happened next. But nothing would stop her from marrying Hart, not even her beloved father.

  “We have all summer to work on your father. Leave him to me,” Julia said firmly.

  Francesca was not relieved, but she nodded. “Mama, don’t you want to see the culprit responsible for luring me away from my wedding brought to justice?”

  “You know that I do.”

  “Hart certainly does. He said he will not leave town until that culprit is in police custody. I can’t come to the Springs today. But as soon as Hart and I attain a confession and the police apprehend everyone involved, we will join you there, for the rest of the summer.” Hart would murder her, she thought. But Julia would certainly give over.

  And Julia took the bait. “It might not hurt for your father to see Hart attending you, Francesca, for then, he will surely see wh
at I have seen—that he is smitten with you. Very well. Come as soon as you possibly can. I will leave town, knowing you are in good hands.” She gave her a conspiratorial look.

  Francesca kissed her cheek. “I am late. I must change. I will wire you when we know which day we are coming.” And she flew up the stairs. “I love you!”

  THE MOMENT SHE got into his coach, Francesca saw that Hart was brooding. Raoul closed the door and leaped into the driver’s seat above them. She looked at him and said, “What is wrong?”

  He eyed her. “Is your father prepared to murder me?”

  Her eyes widened, afraid he was having doubts about their reconciliation. “He would like nothing more, Calder.”

  Hart looked grim. As the coach began to speed down Fifth Avenue, he stared out his window. Francesca said reluctantly, “I suppose I should have gone home last night.”

  “You fell asleep.” He turned his black gaze on her. “You were exhausted, and not just from my lovemaking.”

  She colored slightly. “It was a difficult day.” She thought about her confrontation with Bill Randall, which she hadn’t mentioned yet. She was fairly certain Hart’s dark mood had little to do with her father and everything to do with his brother’s involvement in the theft of her portrait. He was surely still excoriating himself for his role in the portrait’s theft.

  “Why are you wincing?” he asked.

  He did not miss a trick. She managed a light smile. “I told Julia that we would come to the Springs as soon as possible, and spend the summer with them.”

  Impossibly, his eyes darkened. “I am not spending the summer in Saratoga with your parents.” He was final. “You’re still wincing.”

  She bit her lip. “There is one small thing that I have failed to tell you.”

  His eyes widened and he shifted in his seat, to sit up straighter. “Oh ho. This will be arousing.”

  She inhaled. “Well, we are on our way to get a confession out of Bill.”

  “What haven’t you told me, Francesca?” His tone was dangerous.

  “When I got home yesterday afternoon, before I went to Siegel-Cooper, Bill confronted me in Papa’s library.” She kept her tone very calm.

  He choked. “What happened?”

  She reached for his hand but he pulled away. Grimly, she said, “He didn’t admit anything.” Actually, he had admitted to intending to destroy her and Hart, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “But he did know that I had been locked up.”

  “So do most of the newsmen in the city, as unsavory gossip spreads swiftly.” Hart stared. “What aren’t you telling me, Francesca?”

  His words suddenly echoed. You have destroyed my family.… Why would I steal a painting?

  “What happened?” Hart demanded.

  “He assaulted me,” she said quickly. “But I called for help and the staff heard, so in the end no harm was done.”

  Hart cursed.

  “This is not your fault!” She seized his hand.

  He flung her off. “He wants revenge against me, not you!”

  “He wants revenge against us both!” she cried in return. Then she wished she hadn’t spoken.

  “Ah, so now we get to the truth.” He stared out his window as they crossed town on Fourteenth Street. There was no traffic to speak of, except for one empty trolley. Francesca settled against the luxurious squabs grimly. “Francesca?”

  She sighed. “Yes, he admitted that he wants to hurt us both.”

  Hart made a harsh sound.

  When he did not speak, she finally said, “He must be our thief. Mary knew the portrait was a nude, so she has seen it. Mary must have been at the gallery earlier in the week, arguing with Moore—Marsha mentioned seeing a dark, angry woman there. He must be the thief, Calder.”

  Hart finally looked at her. “What about Rose? I do not believe in coincidence, not in a circumstance like this one.”

  “What is your point?”

  “They are all involved.” He was firm. “We simply do not have all the facts.”

  Was he right? Was Rose somehow involved? “It is odd that Rose knew about the portrait—although I don’t think she knows it was a nude.”

  “Farr obviously told her about it, after it was stolen in April.”

  “No, Daisy told her that you had commissioned my portrait,” Francesca corrected. “In February.”

  Hart straightened. “And how would Daisy know such a thing?”

  They had turned onto Mulberry Street, which was almost as quiet as crosstown. Francesca stared. “You didn’t tell Daisy that you had asked Sarah to paint my portrait?”

  “I would never discuss such a thing with Daisy. Our affair was very brief and ended with my engagement to you.”

  Her gaze was riveted to his now. “The commission was common knowledge,” she began.

  “Daisy does not run in those circles. She would have never heard about the portrait.”

  As Raoul halted the carriage behind Bragg’s black Daimler, Francesca and Hart stared at one another. “What are you saying?”

  “For whatever reason, Rose is lying. Daisy did not tell her about the portrait because Daisy did not know about it—I am certain.”

  Francesca was aware that a clue was staring her in the face and she was missing it. “Rose has lied quite a bit,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, she has,” Hart said flatly. “We’re here.” But he did not move to get out of the coach.

  He was deeply and quietly angry, she thought, but not with her—with himself. Would he always torture himself this way? “Hart,” she murmured. She moved closer and kissed his cheek. “I love you so much. You are not to blame for your half brother’s insanity.”

  His gaze met hers. “I suppose I must accept your faith.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what you must do.”

  His mouth softened. “You are a handful, Francesca.”

  She smiled a little, glad he was thawing. “The better to keep you on your toes,” she teased.

  He grudgingly smiled.

  Raoul had opened the coach door and was waiting there. As they alighted, Francesca glanced over her shoulder at the brownstone across the street. Sure enough, several newsmen were gathered there, never mind the holiday weekend. Kurland waved at her. She turned her back on him.

  Hart guided her inside the lobby, muttering, “He needs to be taken care of, sooner rather than later.”

  “He is harmless,” Francesca said.

  “Really? So is paying him off.”

  They entered the cage. As it began to ascend, Francesca decided to argue the morality of bribery another time. She said, “We still don’t know how Bill learned about my portrait.”

  “I am sure we are about to find out.”

  They lapsed into silence, each thinking their own thoughts. The cage settled with a bump against the third floor. Hart pulled open the iron door and they left the elevator and strode down the hall, past Bragg’s office. Francesca hoped they hadn’t missed Randall’s confession, and her strides increased. Hart knocked once on the closed door to the interrogation room, and she stole a quick glance at him. He was simmering with anger now. Worry began. “We should let Bragg handle this,” she whispered.

  He gave her an incredulous look.

  Bragg opened the door, stepping out of the room. He allowed them a glimpse inside before he closed the door behind him. Randall was seated at the long wooden table, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his appearance ravaged. Farr was present, standing, his expression rather smug. Inspector Newman and a roundsman completed the assembly.

  “How is your arm?” Bragg asked her.

  “Sore. Has he confessed?” Francesca asked quickly.

  “No. He has a single refrain—that he does not know where the portrait is.” Bragg stared at her before glancing briefly at Hart. “I brought Mary in yesterday afternoon after she tried to shoot you. She has said the same thing—neither will admit to stealing the portrait.”

  Francesca was in disbelief. “Well, h
as either one explained how Mary knew it was a nude? I do believe she has seen it!”

  Bragg touched her arm to calm her. “We will get to the truth, Francesca.”

  “There are other charges we can press,” she began, about to tell him about Bill’s assault.

  Hart interrupted. “Leave me alone with him.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bragg said.

  “You are a fool, a virtuous fool.” Hart shoved open the door and strode in. Alarmed, Francesca followed with Bragg.

  “Hello, little brother,” Hart said coolly, approaching.

  Randall leaped to his feet, his chair falling over. “Go to hell—and take her with you.”

  Hart never broke stride. “When I do, I am sure I’ll meet you there.”

  “Hart, no,” Francesca tried.

  But she was too late. Hart slammed his fist into Bill’s nose. Blood spurted. And neither Farr, Newman nor the police officer moved a muscle. Worried, Francesca glanced at Bragg. Although a muscle ticked in his jaw, he did not say a word.

  Hart smiled coldly at Randall. “Did you take the portrait from Sarah’s studio?”

  Bill spit at him. “Don’t you want to know!”

  Hart took something out of his pocket. Francesca choked in horror at the sight of the derringer in Hart’s hand. “Yes, I do.”

  Bill cried out as he was struck across the face with the gun.

  Before Francesca could protest, Bragg had reached Hart and Randall. But he didn’t order Hart to cease. Bragg said, “You might want to reconsider, Randall. I have patience, but my brother does not.”

  Randall was breathing hard. “I told you—I do not know where the portrait is.”

  Hart seized his shoulder and pressed the tiny gun to his right temple. “You son of a bitch. Do you know your sister played Russian roulette with Francesca?” And he pulled the trigger.

  Francesca almost screamed as a loud click sounded. Randall turned white, his knees buckling, but Bragg caught him, holding him up. Francesca was in disbelief. Bragg meant to aid Hart in torturing Randall for answers!

  She glanced at Farr, who did not seem upset with the method of interrogation.