Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  She tore her mouth from his. It was hard to speak as she clung to him. “Why don’t you take me home tonight,” she finally gasped.

  His eyes widened. “I won’t pretend I am not tempted and highly so, but nothing has changed. We wait until our wedding night, Francesca.”

  Her hands fisted and she pounded him once on the chest. “Damn it! I hate your nobility!”

  He smiled at her. “I’m the least noble man you know. But I won’t treat you like the others.”

  “You’ve never offered marriage to anyone else, so even if we share a bed before the wedding, you are not treating me like the others!” she cried. But this was a useless battle and she knew it. They’d had it several times before.

  He stepped away from her, murmuring, “I’ll take care of you, but this is not the time or the place.”

  She finally began to breathe, trembling now. She knew what he meant. She had been in his bed, once, for a few hours. He had touched and kissed her everywhere, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamed possible. It had been sheer ec stasy. She blushed just thinking about it. “When?”

  He laughed and turned away, raking his hand through his coarse, dark hair. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself,” he said, amusement in his tone.

  “What is so entertaining about this?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

  He stood at the fireplace, both hands on the marble mantle, and he gave her a look over his shoulder. His eyes were hot; his tone was not. “This is far harder for me than you, darling. Trust me.”

  “Let’s move up the wedding,” she demanded.

  “You know it is your father who insists upon a year.”

  “I am going to change his mind,” Francesca vowed grimly.

  He turned and faced her, making no effort to come close. “There is blood on your jacket,” he remarked.

  Surprised, she glanced down at herself. When she saw a large, obvious smear of dried blood on the bottom of her blue wool jacket, she gasped. Then the comprehension dawned and horrified, she looked up.

  His smile was grim. “Only you would walk into a dinner party covered in blood. Another case…darling?”

  She found her voice. “No wonder Mama sounded so strange! Oh, dear! And I am not covered in blood—it is one smear!”

  “There’s a patch on your skirt, too.” His tone was flat and surprisingly calm.

  Which meant nothing. With Hart, it could be the lull before the storm. Francesca carefully noted a spot near her left knee. “I must have brushed the sheets,” she remarked, more to her self than to him.

  “The sheets? Care to elaborate?” How casual he sounded.

  She wrung her hands and met his gaze. “Did everyone see?”

  “Undoubtedly.” He softened, approaching and taking her small hands in his large ones. “We will be the talk of the town, will we not, darling? I can see it now. My indiscretions, my past, my penchant for depravity, my shocking art—all will become passé. You shall meet me at an affair covered in blood, or with the smell of gunpowder on your clothes and in your hair. Now, instead of gossiping about me behind my back, they will gossip about you. They shall whisper that we are the oddest match, but that we deserve one another.” He actually smiled, clearly enjoying the notion.

  “This isn’t funny,” she said, her heart sinking. “I know you don’t care about your reputation, but I do care about mine, or at least, Mama cares, desperately, and—”

  He suddenly reached out and reeled her back into her arms. “I know it hurts you to be called an eccentric, but with me at your side, they can call you far worse and it simply will not matter. As my wife, you will be able to do as you want. Surely you know that, Francesca? Our marriage will give you more freedom to be what you truly are than you have ever dreamed of.”

  She stared, stunned. Of course, she knew Hart liked to shock society, as he so disdained its conventions, and he had the wealth and power to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. But she frankly hadn’t considered the power she would gain as his wife. He was right. They might gossip about her be hind her back, but as Mrs. Calder Hart, no door would ever be closed to her. As Mrs. Calder Hart, she could do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased to do it.

  The concept was stunning.

  He chuckled softly. “You are usually a step ahead of the game, Francesca. I see how surprised you are, and how pleased.” He added, “I am glad that is not the reason you are marrying me. It isn’t my wealth you are after and it isn’t posi tion and power. Hmm. It must be my kisses. Now, tell me about this latest case.”

  She became aware of his powerful body and snuggled closer. “It is definitely your kisses, Hart, that have so ensnared me.” She laughed softly as the notion of marrying any man merely from desire was so absurd, but then her smile faded. Hadn’t she been worrying about that very possibility just that afternoon? The notion was far too frightening. She quickly changed the subject. “Did you read about the Slasher in Chicago?”

  His gaze as intent but far different, he shook his head. “No.”

  Francesca quickly told him about the first two victims. “Do you remember little Bridget O’Neil?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course. We rescued her from that child-prostitution ring.”

  “Her mother found a woman murdered next door to their flat. And from the look of it, it was also the work of the Slasher. At least, that is what we think.” She thought about the trip she must make to police headquarters that next morning. It was her first order of business, actually. She needed to know if the police had surmised that the Slasher had indeed been the murderer. Afterward she would call on Francis O’Leary.

  Then Francesca realized that Hart had tensed, and she knew what was coming. She wished she had chosen her words with more care.

  “We?” he asked, his gaze direct, his tone sharp.

  She winced to herself and sighed. “Bragg was at the crime scene. He was as concerned as I was for Maggie Kennedy’s safety. We happened to be there at the same time and apparently we are both on the case.” She avoided his eyes, wondering if there would be a jealous eruption. With Hart, she never knew what to expect. He was entirely unpredictable, at times arrogant and secure, at others, jealous and enraged.

  His jaw flexed. “Of course, your latest investigation involves my dear, so noble half brother.”

  She met his gaze and sensed the storm clouds, but did not see them. “He is the commissioner of police!”

  “He has more to do than investigate common crimes—he has a detective force for that.” Hart walked away from her. His shoulders seemed rigid now.

  She followed. “You have no reason to be jealous,” she said, and the moment she spoke she regretted it.

  He turned. “I never said I was jealous. The last thing I am is jealous of Rick.” His eyes had turned dark.

  “If he wishes to pursue an investigation, I can hardly stop him.”

  “Of course not. But the question is, do you welcome his attention?” And his tone was mocking.

  She tensed. “Hart, we are engaged. I have made my choice and a sincere commitment. Good God, a moment ago I was fainting from passion in your arms! I don’t want Bragg to be between us, especially not when my profession will constantly bring me into contact with him.”

  He sighed. “You are right. I am jealous. I have been gone for two weeks, and every day I have been acutely aware of the fact that at any moment, you could change your mind and take him back.”

  She was stunned. “He is married. Leigh Anne almost died. In fact, she is going home tomorrow. He would never leave her, especially not now.”

  Hart stared at her, clearly not accepting her every word.

  Francesca did not like it. She was being sincere. She wanted to marry Calder Hart, never mind that there would be no white picket fence, never mind his reputation and his ex-lovers. The only thing she could not get past was how much courage was involved in being with such a man.

  “And if he did leave her? T
hen what?” he asked softly.

  She felt chilled. “You already know my answer.”

  “Do I?” He was grim.

  Francesca felt real despair. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she loved him, but she knew that everyone whose opinion she held dear would advise her against it. And even a woman of no previous experience knew better than to tell the city’s most notorious womanizer that she was in love. Besides, her emotions were so turbulent she wasn’t sure it was love. “Hart, you do know.” She hurried to him and took his hands in hers. “I want to be with you. I think I have been clear.”

  He just looked at her and she wished that she could read his mind, but at times like this, it was impossible to know what he might be thinking. And then he spoke. “I am your second choice, Francesca, and there are times when it is crystal clear.”

  And in that moment, she had a terrible premonition that he would never forgive her for wanting Rick Bragg first, for once thinking him her true love. Uneasy, she stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss him. As she feathered his unmoving mouth with hers, she said, “Please believe me. Remember, there have never been any lies between us. I will never lie to you, Calder. Not ever. It is you I want.”

  He made a disparaging sound, but his arms went around her, tightening. “You want me in bed, darling. And while I do not mind, we both know neither one of us would be here like this if Leigh Anne had stayed in Europe.”

  Francesca stiffened. For once she was at a loss and could not think of a good reply.

  HIS GAZE WAS FIXED on the candle shining in the apartment window across the dully lit street. A single passing carriage, too fine for the ward, could not distract his eyes. He did not blink, not even once, but simply stared and stared.

  He waited for a glimpse of her, moving about her flat, and he shivered, but not from the cold. He was used to damp and cold far more bitter than this. No, he shivered from excitement.

  He stared unblinking at the hint of shadows moving inside the flat. And suddenly he saw her. The trembling ceased.

  He was sick of them all.

  Every single one, all of them whores, just like her.

  Rage filled him—rage and need. Bloodlust.

  He had made a terrible mistake and he knew it, but soon, very soon, his knife would cut, and this time, it would not be a tragic mistake, oh no. This time, the faithless bitch would die.

  He smiled and his fingers twitched and then he found the hilt of the knife and he gripped it with great care. And watching her, he slowly stroked the blade.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, April 23, 1902 9:00 a.m.

  HE HAD COME to hate the city’s most renowned hospital. Now, instead of getting out of his roadster, Rick Bragg stared at the entrance of the pavilion in which his wife was being treated, gripping the Daimler’s steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached, dread forming in his chest.

  The hospital took up several city blocks, from Twenty-third to Twenty-eighth Streets, from the East River to Second Avenue. The many buildings that comprised it had been erected independently of one another, so that some of the pavilions were narrow and tall, others broad, whitewashed and squat. Just to his left, there was new construction under way for the tuberculosis clinic that would open early next year. A crane was lifting huge blocks of granite, the workers in their flannel shirts shouting encouragement to the operator.

  He knew he was a coward. He had been sitting in his motorcar for twenty or thirty minutes, delaying the inevitable moment of alighting from the vehicle, of entering the accident ward, of walking down the sterile corridor, of crossing the threshold of the room that contained his wife.

  It was not that he did not want to see her. It was that being with her took every ounce of his strength.

  But she was alive, he reminded himself, fiercely relieved. Alive, conscious, with no apparent impairment to her brain. He didn’t care that her left leg was useless, that she would never walk again. Not when weeks ago it had seemed as if she might never wake up.

  The guilt crushed him.

  And for one moment, it was as if one of the granite blocks being carried to the new construction site had landed on him, making it impossible to breathe.

  Decisively, Bragg got out of the Daimler. He laid his gloves and goggles on the front seat. Two passing male nurses nod ded at him. He tried to recall their names and failed.

  His duster over his arm, he strode up the concrete path to the Accident Pavilion and pushed through the wood-and-glass door. Nurses, both male and female, and doctors stood around the reception desk. Someone saw him and waved him on through.

  Her door was open. He paused, his heart beginning to race, and as he looked inside the sterile whitewashed room with several beds, all unoccupied except for hers, he saw that she was sitting up against her pillows, flipping through Harper’s Weekly. His heart quickened impossibly. She wore one of her own peignoirs, lavender silk and cream lace, and even crippled, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  She realized he was standing there, staring, and she looked up, slowly putting the magazine aside.

  He somehow smiled. He was perspiring now. So many emotions ran riot that he had more trouble breathing, thinking. The most dominant feelings were vast relief and crushing guilt.

  “Good morning,” he heard himself say.

  She carefully returned his smile. “Good morning.” Leigh Anne was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, with the face of a china doll. Her perfect features—large green eyes, tiny nose and rosebud mouth—were accentuated by a delicate ivory complexion. Her hair was thick, silken, straight and black. No man could enter a room where she was present and not look twice and then stare.

  He noticed several new flower arrangements on the window-sill.

  She followed his gaze. “Rourke came last night.”

  “In the middle of the week?” His half brother was attending medical school in Philadelphia.

  “Apparently he has applied for a transfer to the Bellevue Medical College and he has an interview this afternoon.”

  Rick nodded, unable to focus on his half brother’s plans. “How are you today?” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting by her side.

  She never looked directly at him anymore, it seemed. Her gaze on Rourke’s yellow hothouse roses, she said, “Fine.”

  He wanted to reach over and take her tiny hands in his. And in spite of all the passion they had once shared, he did not dare touch her. He was afraid that she would reject him—as she should. “You must be so pleased to be going home today.”

  She seemed to smile but she did not answer, her gaze now wandering to the magazine on the bed. Idly, she pulled it closer to her hip.

  Ever since the accident, it had become like this, an utter failure of communication, utter awkwardness. He was sweating now. He wanted to pull her against his chest and stroke her hair and beg her for forgiveness, but of course he did not. At least, thank God, she was coming home. “I will come by at four or five, if that suits you,” he said.

  She slowly looked up, her expression very hard to read.

  “The girls are terribly excited,” he added, trying to smile. But he was a policeman, and before that a lawyer, and he knew when something was wrong.

  “You didn’t bring them this morning,” she said softly, clearly dismayed.

  Katie and Dot were two orphans who were fostering with them, and whom he intended to adopt. He had brought them to visit Leigh Anne every day. “You will see them this afternoon,” he said, smiling with an effort.

  She turned her head away.

  Alarm mingled with dread.

  Then, not looking at him, she said, “I’m afraid it’s far too soon for me to go home.”

  He started. Then, in an uncharacteristic rush, “The doctors think it would be best. I’ve hired two nurses to attend you round the clock. The girls are expecting you. I am expecting you!” he heard himself cry.

  Her jaw hardened visibly and she looked him in the eye and repeated, “I
’m afraid it’s too soon for me to go home, Rick.”

  “ARE YOU CERTAIN THAT you don’t want to go inside?” Francesca asked, teasing.

  She stood with Joel on Mulberry Street just outside of police headquarters. Joel was slouched with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which had holes at both knees. He had plopped a black felt cap on his head, and he scowled at the two front doors of the station house. Roundsmen in their blue wool uniforms and leather helmets were coming and going, a police wagon was parked not far from where they stood and Bragg’s Daimler was being surreptitiously watched by another patrolman. All of this was in the midst of one of the city’s worst slums.

  Even now, a prostitute in a very revealing robe stood in the basement doorway across the street, taunting both the policemen and the male passersby. A drunk had just urinated on a tree, and several shabbily clad children were playing hooky from school. Francesca looked up at the bright blue, cloudless sky and she smiled, happily.

  Hart’s image filled her mind.

  Even now, she could feel his hard demanding mouth on hers.

  He was back, it wasn’t a dream—she was engaged to the city’s most notorious bachelor and she couldn’t be happier.

  Never mind his foolish jealousy of the night before. It would pass—it always did.

  “I’m not going inside,” Joel said flatly. To emphasize his point, he spat on the sidewalk near his boot-clad feet.

  He despised the police, having been apprehended, roughed up and incarcerated more times than he would ever admit. He also despised Rick Bragg, refusing to see past the fact that he was the police commissioner. Francesca stopped smiling and tried to be stern, no easy task when her heart was singing. Tonight she and Hart were dining at the Waldorf-Astoria, alone. She could hardly wait.