Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  Friday, April 25, 1902 7:30 p.m.

  FRANCESCA PAUSED BREATHLESSLY in the reception hall of her sister’s home, a mansion just around the block from the Cahill home on Madison Avenue. She was late, but other guests were still arriving, too. As she handed off her wrap, she searched the crowd that was mingling in the room and overflowing into a large salon not far from the stairs. In that salon, the furniture had been removed and the buffet that would serve a hundred guests was against one entire wall. Huge floral arrangements of white lilies were set on pedestals throughout the room, towering above the guests. Dozens of tables, each seating eight and covered in linen, crystal and gilded dinnerware, surrounded a dance floor. A pianist, accompanied by a violinist, was already playing a waltz.

  Francesca was looking forward to the evening, her first social engagement on Hart’s arm. At the few previous affairs they had attended, they had been secretly engaged and had arrived separately. Smiling, she espied her sister at the far end of the reception room.

  Connie was her best friend. As always, she was stunningly beautiful and terribly elegant in a lavender chiffon evening gown. She was smiling as she conversed effortlessly with several guests. But then, her sister was always the perfectly gracious hostess. Once, not so long ago, her life had seemed perfect, too.

  Francesca did not want to recall the terrible way in which the new year had begun for Connie and her husband, Neil. For one more moment Francesca stared, noting that her sister seemed her usual self again—genuinely happy and truly at ease. Francesca was relieved.

  Francesca had yet to see anyone else that she knew, other than her handsome brother-in-law, who stood close to the front door, greeting the guests as they came in. Where was Hart? Was he late as well?

  “Hello,” a warm, familiar voice said.

  Francesca smiled, turning to face Rourke. “Hello! I am so pleased you are here,” she said, meaning it. “I don’t know a soul, do you?”

  He smiled at her. “Rathe and Grace are in the salon and your fiancé is somewhere about.”

  Her heart fluttered. She was wearing the very daring and provocative dark red gown that Sarah had portrayed in her portrait, just for him. “He must be hiding, otherwise I should have seen him instantly.”

  He took her arm. “Come. Let’s wander into the other room and see who we can find.”

  They made their way through the crowd, pausing before Connie. “Francesca,” Connie cried in delight, embracing her warmly. “I haven’t seen you all week—I was beginning to worry.” Like Francesca, Connie was blond and blue-eyed, although every aspect of her features was simply paler. Her hair was almost platinum, her eyes baby blue, her skin ivory. She was considered to be a great beauty and Francesca agreed heartily with that acclaim.

  “I am on a case,” Francesca said with a grin. She lowered her voice. “We are after the Slasher, Con. And I am afraid that last night he murdered another young woman.”

  Connie glanced at Rourke. They exchanged greetings and then she said, “Fran, Mama told me that you and Bragg are working together again. Do you think that wise?”

  “We are partners, nothing more,” Francesca said, flushing because Rourke, who was Rick’s half brother, stood there at her elbow, listening to their conversation. “And we do make a very fine investigative team.”

  Connie frowned just a bit—a real scowl would be far too unladylike for her. She lifted a pale eyebrow and nodded at the salon where the ensemble would dine. “I know how enthusiastic you are about this new hobby of yours,” she said. “But you are engaged now. Maybe you should start planning the wedding. In any case, Hart is inside.”

  Francesca followed her gaze and saw Hart in his tuxedo, impossibly virile, impossibly male, leaning against one of the eight columns in the room. His posture was undeniably indolent, an irreverent habit that he had. A flute of champagne was in his hand. She was about to smile and wave in an attempt to catch his eye when she realized that he was chatting with a very stunning brunette she had met once before. She stiffened instantly, all eyes now.

  “Isn’t that Darlene?” Rourke murmured.

  Francesca stared, some dismay beginning. Darlene was clearly flirting with Hart, and it was not the first time. She re minded herself that she was now Hart’s fiancée and it was official. Darlene had to know about the engagement, as it was all the talk, indeed. But then why did she keep touching Hart’s arm as she spoke? And was she mistaken, or did he not seem to mind her attention? Francesca reminded herself that she had no reason to be jealous. Still, she knew a flirtation when she saw one. “You work with her father, do you not? He’s a doctor at the hospital in Philadelphia where you are in your residency.”

  “Yes, Paul Fischer is a fine internist. Shall we?” he asked, holding out his arm.

  Francesca had not stopped staring and she could feel her cheeks heating now. She was jealous, never mind the fact of their engagement. She wanted Hart to look her way, see her in her daring red dress and smile reassuringly at her. “Yes, we should go over and make our presence known,” she heard herself say.

  “Darlene is terribly coy,” Rourke whispered, patting her hand. He smiled at Connie when Francesca made no response, continuing to stare instead. “Your home is lovely,” he added to his hostess.

  Connie thanked him and leaned close. “Fran, do behave. At all costs!” she whispered in her ear.

  And every single word Daisy had uttered suddenly seared Francesca’s mind. But it was too soon for him to wander from her side.

  Rourke guided her into the salon. “Francesca, you seem upset.”

  “Is Hart flirting with that witch?” she heard herself ask before she could stop the words.

  Rourke stumbled. “I don’t think so. Hart is used to the admiration of females. He is very eager to marry you. I am sure he is merely being polite.”

  Hart suddenly saw her, and her breathing became suspended. He stared. She waited for him to smile at her in that seductive way he had. Instead, he leaned more comfortably against the column, his glance moving over the dark red dress she wore.

  She smiled uneasily at him.

  He smiled back, waiting for her to approach. But his smile was very reserved—it was, in fact, distinctly odd.

  Darlene was speaking to him but Hart’s gaze remained on Francesca. And in that instant, in spite of the distance separating them, Francesca knew that something was very wrong.

  “Are you all right?” Rourke asked quietly.

  Unable to look away from Hart, she said, “Something is wrong.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She finally glanced at him, unsmiling. “Something is wrong with Hart. He is upset.”

  Rourke’s expression was bemused. “And you can tell all of that with half of a ballroom between you and him?”

  “Yes, I can,” Francesca said. Suddenly Darlene tugged on Hart’s hand, and as she forced him to return his gaze to her, she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. Francesca felt her fists clench. Perhaps a single inch separated the brunette’s bosom from Hart’s chest.

  “Be calm,” Rourke advised. “Calder has never been anything but respectful of you. I have actually been impressed by the gentleman he has become. Come, Francesca, we both know that Darlene isn’t the first woman to chase him, and she won’t be the last. Unfortunately, engaged or not, there will always be women out there who do not care what his status is.” He smiled gently at her. “You may have to get used to it.”

  She inhaled hard, because she really felt like starting a cat-fight. But Rourke was right and she knew it. “Would you dance with me? I am in the mood to pull the hair off of someone’s head and I need a moment to compose myself.”

  “Don’t do that!” Rourke laughed, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor. He said, “You have his undivided attention now.”

  Francesca wanted to look back over her shoulder, but she refused to do so. Still, she badly wanted to give Darlene a piece of her mind. And as she slipped into Rourke’s arms and began
to follow him about the dance floor, she wondered what she would do should she ever find Hart with a woman in a far more compromising position. If she was so disturbed by his allowing some eighteen-year-old beauty to flirt, then how would she feel if he genuinely strayed—the way Daisy had promised he would soon do?

  She would never survive, she thought grimly. “What are they doing?” Rourke was an excellent dancer and she had only to remain light on her feet as he turned her about the dance floor.

  “Hart is watching you like a hawk. I wouldn’t worry too much, Francesca. I imagine he will be on his way over here in an instant.”

  She moved closer to Rourke, looking up at him and smiling. “I hadn’t realized I could be so jealous or so possessive.”

  Rourke hesitated. “Passion makes for some strange bedfellows. I would ignore women like Darlene if I were you, Francesca. I have never seen Hart behave with any other woman the way he does with you. I have never seen Hart smile as often as he does since he has met you, Francesca. But do not misunderstand me. You have chosen to marry a very complicated man, and I would be surprised if your marriage was not, at times, a difficult one.”

  “There have been times when I have wondered what I am doing,” she said frankly. “Rourke, I care so much for him, but it’s his past that worries me so. Sometimes I wonder…” She hesitated before blurting out her concern. “I wonder if I can really hold his interest.”

  He laughed a little. “I have a strong feeling that you can and you will. I actually think he will try to be a good husband, Francesca. I think he cares deeply for you.”

  She was somewhat reassured. “Is he still watching us?”

  “He is watching you. Do you want me to hold you a bit more closely?” Rourke asked with a devilish grin.

  “Yes.” And as Rourke pulled her too close for propriety, she had to peek over his shoulder at the subject of their conversation.

  Hart was coming toward them. He looked very annoyed. All indolence was gone.

  “Well, I think you have won—he is coming this way,” Rourke said, low.

  Hart tapped on Rourke’s shoulder as they abruptly stopped dancing. “I think I will cut in,” he said to Rourke. “If you do not mind?”

  “Of course not.” Rourke smiled. He gave Francesca an encouraging look and stepped aside.

  Hart took her in his arms. Briefly, their gazes met. Francesca’s moment of satisfaction vanished and she tensed, watching him now as he whirled her across the dance floor. His expression was dark. Something was wrong, oh yes.

  “I take it you have had a busy day?” he asked politely, his smile distant.

  Francesca gripped him more tightly, aware of the guarded look in his eyes, in his tone. His body rippled with a tension she could not identify.

  If she were a woman like her sister, she would greet him warmly and not pry into the cause of his dark mood. But she was not her sister. As her mind raced, she said, “Yes. We found Kate Sullivan’s husband. He’s dead.”

  He swept her around the dance floor, as effortlessly as Rourke had, but his hands were not Rourke’s, oh no. They were large and strong and warm, one on her waist and the other holding her hand. “It was a recent demise, I assume?”

  She nodded. “It might be a suicide. He might even have been the Slasher.” And she ceased dancing but she did not let him go.

  He halted in midstep as well.

  “What is it?” she heard herself ask. “I can see that something is wrong.”

  He stared at her. It was a moment before he spoke. “Nothing is wrong. I have had a difficult day.” He hesitated. “I apologize. I am sorry if I have given you the wrong impression.” His smile was forced. “You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful, but you know how much I like that dress on you.”

  She hesitated. Hart was one of the most charming men she knew, but now it was as if he spoke prepared lines of dialogue that he did not feel. Now there was no charm. “Are you angry with me because I did not wait for Raoul?”

  He seemed indifferent to the notion. “I hadn’t realized. Raoul did not mention it—he is not my spy.”

  It wasn’t Raoul, she thought, and she was terribly worried now. “What is wrong, Calder? You seem very disturbed. Has something happened? Please, you must tell me.” She smiled a little at him. “We are engaged. You can share all of your deep dark secrets with me.”

  He flinched, looking taken aback, and then he took her arm and guided her away from the center of the dance floor. “We are being remarked upon. People might think we are at odds.”

  “It feels as if we are at odds,” Francesca said quietly. “Are we? You have always enjoyed sharing your thoughts with me.”

  His jaw flexed. “No. I am not angry with you, Francesca, how could I be?” And this time he attempted a smile and utterly failed.

  And even though his words rang with sincerity, his distress was obvious. She was shaken now. “Was it the meeting with the ambassador? Did it not go as you planned?”

  He made a dismissive sound. “Even if it had been a miser able affair, I would hardly care. I am only expanding those ventures because it seems to be the thing to do. I do not need the extra wealth.”

  If he wasn’t angry with her and if nothing untoward had recently happened then she could only draw one conclusion. “Have you seen Rick today?”

  “No, I have not.” His gaze darkened. “Leave well enough alone, Francesca. Would you like a drink?” And finally he smiled a little at her.

  She seized his arm to prevent him from finding a waiter. A tiny voice in her head told her to let him be and try to dis cover the cause of his dark humor another time. But she said, “One day we will be married. Or at least, that is what we plan. But our marriage will never work if you shut me out. I can see very clearly that you are disturbed, even unhappy. Please, Calder, tell me what this is about.”

  And he was angry now. “Again, I have had a difficult day, and I am sorry if I have upset you.” His tone was harsh and abrupt, final. “I have no intention of boring you with the details, either. Leave well enough alone.”

  She recoiled. How would they get along for an entire lifetime if he intended to behave like this when something went afoul?

  He seemed to read her mind. “You knew my reputation when you accepted my proposal. No one forced you to accept. If you wish to change your mind, I will not object.”

  She was so stunned that she gaped. Then she cried, “What are you saying? You…are you saying that you wish to end our engagement?” She was too shocked to feel anything but monumental surprise.

  He stared, his expression so brittle it appeared in danger of cracking apart. It was a moment before he spoke. “We need to stop pretending,” he said. “I am not a noble man. That is a script I wrote for you because you wanted me to write it. But it is only a goddamn script, Francesca. The facts of my life speak for themselves. I am a selfish, self-serving man and I am not Rick Bragg. You may take it or leave it, my dear.”

  She cried out, horrified, wanting to protest his description of himself, but she could not get a single word out.

  “I’m sorry,” he said flatly, his face now devoid of emotion. “I’m sorry I am not who you want me to be.” He bowed. “I’ll go get us champagne.”

  “YOUR SISTER IS ONE of the finest hostesses in the city,” Bartolla said, beaming with pleasure as she held on to Evan’s arm. They had arrived at the Montrose residence and she had just handed off her velvet wrap. Now, glances were turning her way, both male and female. The male glances were startled and longing, the female glances were green with envy. Triumph filled her.

  She smoothed down the dark burgundy velvet gown she wore, having next to nothing underneath. Small straps en crusted with diamantés held the plunging bodice up; burgundy velvet gloves, the buttons diamanté, covered her arms well past the elbows. As she walked, the gown clung to her hips and thighs. She knew that because she had admired herself in a full-length mirror for some time before leaving the Chandler household.

>   “Connie is a fabulous hostess,” Evan said, seeming distracted.

  She pressed her bosom against his arm. “You are such a dear to bring me here, when we are immersed in our own personal crisis.”

  His jaw flexed and he glanced at her. His voice very low, he said, for the hundredth time, “Are you sure, Bartolla?”

  And for the hundredth time, she nodded, looking dismayed, whispering, “Please, Evan, please. You don’t have to do this. I can return to Europe to have our child and no one will ever know.”

  His jaw looked ready to crack apart. “You will do no such thing,” he said flatly.

  She turned away, hiding her smile. He had insisted that they would elope immediately. “There’s your sister, and Lord Montrose. Come,” she said, leading him over.

  “Connie, my lord, how wonderful to see you both. And how lovely the decor is!” she cried.

  Connie smiled, kissing her cheek, while Neil Montrose, a very tall, handsome man, kissed her hand. Bartolla strutted a bit before him, smiling warmly at him, as well. But his regard merely skimmed her low-cut bodice once, a reflex most men had. She realized he had his arm around his wife and his body pressed closely to hers. “I’m glad you made it,” he said to his brother-in-law.

  Evan smiled grimly. “How could I refuse an invitation from you and Con?”

  Bartolla pushed out her chest, wishing she could poke Evan in the ribs, for his expression was so morose. Connie noticed her action; amazingly, her husband did not.

  “That is a stunning dress,” Connie said. “You wear it so well, Bartolla.” She spoke without malice. In fact, she seemed incredibly content.

  Bartolla suspected they had recently made love. “Thank you.” Bartolla smiled and decided not to waste her time on Neil Montrose.

  Neil said to Evan, “Julia and Andrew are here. I hope the evening will not become uncomfortable for you.”

  Evan clasped his hand. “Neil, thank you for your concern. But I have other matters on my mind now, matters that do not involve my father.”

  Neil released his wife and put his hand on Evan’s shoulder, briefly stepping aside. Bartolla strained to listen to them. He said, “I had lunch with Andrew the other day. He is upset, Evan, and rightly so. Can you not think about some kind of compromise? You are his only son.”