Deadly Vows

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She had only returned to the States upon hearing how ill her father was. When she had learned that Rick was in love with another woman, she had been shocked—and she had given in to the immediate instinct for self-preservation. She had no wish to be humiliated by a love affair, or worse, ruined by divorce. She had immediately left Boston for New York, to claim her husband and her marriage.

At first, he had been furious with her return, but she had been determined. In a way, she had bribed him into the reconciliation. She had told him that if he lived with her as man and wife for six months and still wanted a divorce after that, she would give it to him. She had been very confident of his political aspirations, which a divorce would destroy, and even more certain of her powers of seduction. And she had been right.

But their marriage had been unhappy anyway. He refused to forgive her for the years of separation. And he had changed so much. He was a powerful man now, whom she respected and admired. She had realized that she still loved him. But then she’d been struck down by a runaway coach, and she had permanently lost the use of her legs.

Leigh Anne felt the black despair claim her then. She had been so close to attaining the life she had dreamed of as a young woman. Briefly, she had loved being Rick’s wife again, in spite of his rage. She had been certain he would love and admire her in return, in time. He was such a catch now—he came from a good family, he was a gentleman and his political star was on the rise. He received more invitations than he could ever accept. She had loved poring over the cards, deciding whose function to attend—and whose invitation she would reject. She had been shocked to realize the power a single rejection could have. And she had dreamed of the future they would have—they’d adopt the two girls and have more children of their own, while he became a state senator, and then a United States senator. They would move to Washington, the most exciting city in the world, where power and ambition ran riot amongst glamour and wealth…

She wanted to cry. Now, she dreaded his walking in the door. The despair was consuming. She hated being crippled and ugly; she hated her life now!

She had always taken for granted her ability to walk into a room and be the most beautiful woman there. No more. It had been awful entering the church today in her damn wheeled chair. Everyone had looked at her, and she had known what they were all thinking. There had been so much pity in the sidelong glances cast her way, in the whispers behind her back.

What was left for her, other than the two little girls?

Peter placed the glass of brandy before her, his timing perfection.

She inhaled, finding sudden composure, and blinked a tear back. She smiled at him, thanking him the way a lady should. Then she drank the brandy, closing her eyes as it burned its way into her belly, awaiting the release the alcohol would bring her.

The only thing left for her was being a good mother. She looked at the nearly empty glass of brandy. She was afraid to continue with her thoughts. Then she heard the front door. She tensed.

“Mama?” Katie whispered anxiously. “Do you want to read us a story?”

“Story, story!” Dot beamed, clapping her hands. Mrs. Flowers, the nanny, had just wiped them free of apple-sauce.

Before Leigh Anne could agree—she loved reading bedtime stories to the girls—she heard Rick’s footfall approaching. She froze, filled with dread.

He appeared on the threshold of the olive-green-and-gold dining room. He smiled tiredly at her, then went to kiss Katie and Dot on the forehead. He did not approach her, and she was relieved. He was terribly concerned about Francesca’s disappearance, she thought. But of course he was. He was loyal to a fault, and he would always care about Francesca. Then she wondered if she truly believed her foolish thoughts. They would always be more to one another than mere friends.

“Did you find her?” Leigh Anne asked. She hadn’t decided if she should be thrilled or dismayed that Francesca and Hart hadn’t married. Just a few months ago, Rick had been in love with her.

Rick straightened, but as he spoke, his gaze went to her brandy glass. “No. I am very worried. Her disappearance is now an official police matter.” He turned to the nanny. “Could you take the girls upstairs and get them ready for bed?”

Katie stood, looking pleadingly at Leigh Anne. Dot cried, “Bed story!” Mrs. Flowers took her out of the high chair and set her down on the floor.

“I will be up in a moment or two,” Leigh Anne promised.

Bragg didn’t move until the two girls and their nanny had left. She slowly looked at him as he sat down at the table, across from her. “I cannot imagine what could have happened to keep her away from her own wedding. She seemed so happy the last time I saw her. Do you think there is foul play?”

“Yes, I do. The one thing I am sure of is that Francesca did not suddenly decide to jilt Calder.” He spoke without emotion. She knew he hated the idea of Francesca marrying Hart. But if he was pleased by this sudden turn of events, she could not tell. “Peter, may I have a scotch, please?”

The Swede nodded and left the dining room.

She looked at her glass, willing herself to have patience. “Chief Farr called. He was looking for you.”

“I guess he has heard the news,” Rick said grimly.

She wasn’t sure what his odd tone meant. “He already knew that Francesca is missing. He said something about how there must have been a commotion today.”

Rick looked at her. “What did he say, exactly?”

She started, and finally pulled her drink toward her. “He made a comment about how there must have been a commotion at the church when the bride did not show up. I said it was quite chaotic.”

Peter returned and handed Rick a scotch. He took a sip. “Farr doesn’t like her.”

Leigh Anne finished her brandy. “Surely he doesn’t wish her ill, Rick.”

Rick grimaced, studying his drink. “I imagine he is pleased that something has befallen her.”

“That is a terrible thing to say.” He was very concerned, she realized. Carefully, she said, “I hope you are wrong and Francesca had an extreme case of bridal jitters. I hope she is not in jeopardy somewhere.”

He stood up abruptly. “I have to call Farr.”

“Rick, do not worry about me. I am going to read to the girls and put them to bed. Go find Francesca.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Are you certain you do not mind?” His gaze strayed to the empty glass on the dining table in front of her.

“I have always liked her.” That much was true. Francesca was a pleasant, kind and even admirable woman. “I am worried about her, too.”

“Thank you,” he said, walking out.

She leaned back in her chair, beyond relief, aware that she was already forgotten. He wouldn’t bother her again that night, and after the girls were asleep, she could dose herself thoroughly with brandy and laudanum.

FRANCESCA HAD SPENT the entire carriage ride filling Joel in on every detail of that day. Joel, of course, already knew that her portrait had been stolen. Two months ago, when she, Hart and Bragg had decided to leave the police out of the investigation—no one wanted anyone to know about the portrait—Joel had wanted to know why everyone was so upset. She had told him that the painting was somewhat compromising.

He hadn’t known what the word meant. Francesca had decided not to tell him the absolute truth. She had merely said that she had posed in a manner that society would frown upon. Joel hadn’t cared after that. She knew he found the mores of society confusing, irrelevant and at times, just plain stupid, to use his own words.

As No. 11 Madison Square came into view, Francesca felt her heart lurch. The square was deserted at that hour, but the park was beautifully lit from the streetlamps and the moonlight. Bragg’s house was a narrow Victorian, on a block filled with similar redbrick homes, just a few doors down from Twenty-third Street. Francesca thought about the time they had walked from his house to Broadway to gaze up at the newly constructed Flatiron Building, which the city’s newsmen were calling a “skyscraper.” The towering, triangular building remained a stunning testament to the brilliance of mankind.

“He is here,” she said, noticing his Daimler parked outside the small carriage house adjacent to the Bragg residence. She paid the driver as she and Joel swiftly stepped down to the sidewalk. Lights were on downstairs and upstairs.

She had regained a great deal of her composure in the past thirty minutes. Still, she had been badly hurt. A part of her wanted to rush into Bragg’s arms, seeking comfort. But another, more mature part of her knew to keep the current state of discord between her and Hart private.

As the cab left, they started up the brick path, toward the house. Francesca knocked on the door, eager to tell Bragg everything that had happened to her.

The door was flung wide open.

Bragg took her arm. “I knew it was you. Are you hurt?”

She came inside, Joel following, so much relief flooding her. Some of her resolve to remain strong and independent crumbled. She smiled tightly. “I have had an awful day.”

“I can see that,” he said, suddenly releasing her.

In that moment, she knew he wanted to hold her, but he made no move to do so. She did not know if she was relieved or disappointed. Joel broke the silence. “What’s wrong with you two? We have a case to solve! Miz Cahill was locked up—someone tried to stop her from marrying Mr. Hart!”

Francesca bit her lip. “Actually, Joel, someone did stop me from marrying Hart.” She managed to tear her gaze from Bragg’s. Where was Leigh Anne?

“What happened? Why are there scratches and cuts on your face and hands?” He took her arm and guided her into his study, a small dark room with a desk and two chairs. The fireplace was unlit. Joel followed them to the door, but lingered in the hallway.

She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder, but his wife was not in the parlor at the end of the hall, although the door was open, the lights on. “Am I intruding?”

“Of course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”

She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received this by hand this morning, shortly after you left,” Francesca said, taking the envelope marked Urgent out of her purse. She handed it to him, the invitation inside.

He quickly read it and paled. “The portrait?”

She nodded, glad to be back on the firm ground of the investigation now. “When I got there, the gallery was closed for summer hours but unlocked. I went in and I saw the portrait. It is nailed to one wall. I felt that I was not alone and I began to explore. Perhaps a half hour later, someone locked me in from outside.”

Bragg made a harsh sound—she knew he was angry. “Go on.”

She wet her lips. “I called for help, but no one heard me. Then I tried to climb out a very small window in the back office. I had to break the pane. That is how I got cut on my face.”

He took her hands in his, not looking down. “How did you hurt your hands?”

“Clawing the wall as I tried to get up to that window.”

His expression, already tight, hardened even more.

She couldn’t help comparing his reactions to Hart’s. Had Calder even noticed her cuts and scratches? “Eventually two children heard me. Their father and a roundsman let me out.”

For one more moment he held her hands, and she had the impression that all would be right in the world again. As she thought that, she recalled Hart’s cold black gaze, his deliberate cruelty and his words “It is over.” She flinched. It could not be over.

Bragg released her, picking up the receiver from the telephone on his desk. Shockingly, he actually had two phones in his house—the other was upstairs in his bedroom. That was truly scandalous, but he claimed it was practical. “It’s Bragg. I want Gallery Moore, at No. 69 Waverly Place, cordoned off as the scene of an attempted abduction. No one is to get in or get out, and that includes Moore, the gallery owner. It also includes the police. Let me be clear. You are to cordon off the gallery—I repeat, no one is to go inside. I will be there in thirty minutes.” He listened for another moment and hung up. Then he faced her. “You do not have to come downtown, Francesca. I can manage the case now.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course I am coming with you!”

He smiled then. “Somehow, I thought you might say that.”

She smiled back at him. Very shortly, the gallery would be secured by his men, and no one would be able to get inside to view her portrait. They had to get downtown, but there was less urgency now. She touched his arm briefly. “Have I ruined your evening?”

“No.”

His tone was so hard and decisive that she started. Was something wrong? But he then added more quietly, “We agreed to investigate the theft of your portrait privately, but after the events of this day, I do not see how I cannot use the resources at my disposal.”

She hesitated. “Hart did not make any headway with his investigators.”

“No, he did not—and they visited every single gallery in Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one had seen or heard of your portrait.” He said grimly, “Obviously no one can ever see that painting. Let us hope that tonight we recover it, once and for all.”

She hugged herself. Hopefully they would recover the portrait within the hour, but that would still leave the thief at large. Why hadn’t she gotten more involved? Of course, when the portrait had vanished on April 27 from Sarah’s studio, she had still been trying to find the deadly Slasher before he murdered another innocent woman. Then Daisy Jones had been murdered. When Hart had immediately become the prime suspect, her focus had been doing everything possible to clear him. Fortunately, it had taken only four days to solve that case. Marion Gillespie had confessed to the murder of her own daughter on June 6.

“What’s wrong?” Bragg asked softly.

“I was just thinking that I wish I had been more involved. But hindsight is useless.”

“It is very useless,” he agreed. “I understand why Hart chose to thoroughly comb through the city’s art world. I expected him to turn up something. But I never expected this, and I am as much to blame as anyone for today’s events.” He reached for the phone. “Has anyone told your parents that you are safe and sound?”

“You are not to blame!” When he did not respond to that, she knew he did not agree. “Rick,” she began.

“Do Julia and Andrew know that you are all right?” he repeated.

“Alfred sent word.” She prayed that he would not ask her if she had seen Hart.

He stared, then said, “Still, I feel obligated to call Andrew.”

She nodded. “That is fine. I think they would like to be reassured by you, but I cannot face my mother right now.”

He gave her an odd look. “Operator, please connect me to Andrew Cahill’s home.” He laid his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to speak to your father?”

“Not quite yet. Can you tell them I am fine, that there was some trouble, and I have fallen asleep in your guest room?” she tried.

“Francesca,” he objected.

“I am going downtown with you. I have hours to come up with a plausible reason for having missed my own wedding,” she said rather defensively.

He sighed. “Hello, Andrew. I have very good news. I am with Francesca, who has suffered a very trying day.… I am afraid she was lured away from your house deliberately, but she is now fine.… Yes, someone wished to interfere with the wedding.… She has fallen asleep on my sofa.… Yes…I will personally get her home in the next few hours. Good night.” He hung up, looking at her.

“I have made you a partner in crime. I am sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.” Then he softened. “It is hardly the first time, is it? I do not mind telling a white lie for you—and sometimes I enjoy being a partner in crime with you.”

She bit her lip, almost thrilling. “It is partly the truth.”

He said bluntly, “Have you seen Calder yet?”

She flushed, filled with tension instantly. “Yes. Are you ready to go downtown?”

His gaze was as piercing as a hawk’s. She waited, refusing to discuss Hart now. He finally nodded at the door. She started out of the study and he followed, calling for Joel. She said, “Who do you think would want me to miss my wed ding?”

Joel came downstairs, apparently having been visiting with the two girls. As they left the house, Joel leading the way, Bragg said, “Hart has enemies, Francesca—hundreds of them, in fact. We agreed two months ago that trying to investigate a list of his enemies was impossible.”

“So this thief might want to strike at Calder, not me.” They approached the driveway behind the carriage house where Bragg’s Daimler was parked.