Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  She somehow managed to remain upright. She became aware of Hart holding her arm. “Let’s go home, Francesca. I think we could both use a good scotch.” As if he hadn’t just warned her with real anger to let the past hours alone, he brushed his mouth over her cheek. There was urgency there.

  She thought she nodded. She needed to think, never mind that she felt dangerously shocked and incapable of any thought at all.

  Hart was guiding her inside and across the reception hall. It was oddly empty except for staff, and she was vaguely aware that most of the guests in the salon had taken their seats with their suppers. Somehow, Hart had his arm around her waist. She briefly closed her eyes, leaning against him. Even now, when her every instinct told her that he was the one she should run from, she found comfort in the strength of his powerful body, in the strength of him.

  His step faltered.

  She felt his tension and knew it had nothing to do with their recent conversation. She looked up at him. “What is it?”

  He met her gaze, his expression lightened. “Are you at all inclined to sleuth tonight?”

  She followed his gaze, surprised. A very handsome gentleman had just entered the house and he was handing off his walking stick and gloves. “Why? Who is that?”

  “That, my dear, is Lord Randolph.”

  Francesca instantly forgot the previous moments and stared. Randolph was a few years her senior, perhaps twenty-seven or-eight. He had dark hair, fair skin and even from the distance separating them, she realized his eyes were a brilliant, remarkable shade of blue. “Yes, I do want to sleuth—how could I even consider missing this opportunity?” she asked, never removing her gaze from her quarry. He was a striking man, the kind of rake even a good woman like Gwen might fall victim to.

  How interesting it would be if he were Gwen’s former lover and employer and now in the city, while the Slasher was on the loose.

  And hadn’t Maggie said the gentleman she had met on the street corner the night of Kate’s murder had remarkable blue eyes?

  Francesca bristled inwardly. How she hoped that Randolph was their Slasher!

  Hart smiled at her. “I can see the gauntlet being thrown. Let me introduce you, then.”

  “Wait!” She met his gaze. “You made some comment about his reputation.”

  “Ah, yes. He has the unenviable reputation of being absolutely dour.”

  “Dour?” she asked.

  “Apparently he lost his wife and children in a fire, Francesca,” Hart said somberly. “Although that was quite a few years ago, he rarely smiles and is known to be dour, grim and reclusive. He avoids society, female company of all kinds, and seems to have no intention of ever remarrying. That, I suppose, is what has really set the gossips off. He is a wealthy catch and the ruling matriarchs are terribly annoyed with him.”

  “Perhaps he cannot be blamed, having suffered such a tragedy,” Francesca said. She began to think that he could not be the rake who had seduced Gwen. “Quickly, Hart, before he goes in to dine.”

  Hart hurried forward, Francesca following. It was a relief to be investigating again. “Randolph, good evening,” Hart said very pleasantly.

  Randolph started as he recognized Hart. “Hart, good God, is that you?” He smiled slightly as the two men shook hands. “What an amazing coincidence,” he said.

  “May I introduce my fiancée, Miss Francesca Cahill?”

  Randolph was clearly surprised by that. “You are engaged?” He then flushed. “Miss Cahill, Harry de Warenne at your service, and may I add my congratulations?” He bowed.

  “Thank you. Do you know my sister or brother-in-law? They are your hosts tonight.” He wore several rings, Francesca noticed, but only one on his left hand. The stone was black onyx, an unusual choice, and some carving was upon it. It was also gold.

  “Yes, I know Montrose rather well. He has a house in London not far from mine,” Randolph said.

  “Oh, so you are from England,” Francesca smiled. “I had thought your accent Irish.”

  Randolph glanced at Hart. “Your fiancée is very clever. I am from Ireland, in fact, although the majority of my family is English. We are the black sheep, actually, us Irish de Warennes.”

  “I am sure you are hardly a black sheep,” Francesca said lightly. “So you prefer to reside in London? I am partial to the green Irish countryside myself.” Actually, she loved London, having been there numerous times, and she had never been to Ireland.

  Hart said smoothly, “I am surprised to see you here. Usually you send your lieutenants to manage your business affairs.”

  Randolph shrugged. “This time there were matters that required my personal attention.”

  Francesca became thoughtful. “I am friends with a very beautiful woman and I believe she is from the vicinity of Limerick. Perhaps I should invite her to our supper party. You might know her. She resides here in the city now.”

  “Perhaps, although I would doubt it. Who is she?” Harry de Warenne asked.

  “Her name is Mrs. Hanrahan, Mrs. David Hanrahan, although we are so close, I call her Gwen,” Francesca said, her smile never slipping, her gaze unwavering upon his face.

  And his polite expression did not change, not in the slight est. “I am afraid I do not know the woman in question,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saturday, April 26, 1902 10:00 a.m.

  “HELLO.” FRANCESCA GREETED her sister. Anxiety filled her but she managed to smile.

  Connie looked radiant as she came forward, wearing a lovely pink and ivory striped gown, but her eyes reflected some surprise. “Fran! Is everything all right?” she asked as she quickly embraced her.

  Once, before sleuthing had come to take up so much of her time, Francesca had been a frequent, if not daily, visitor at her sister’s home. She adored not only her sister, but her two nieces as well. Recently, her visits had become twice weekly, much to Francesca’s chagrin. There simply did not seem to be enough time in the day to accomplish all that she wished to.

  Francesca looked directly at her sister. She had tossed and turned half the night, trying to decipher every word and gesture Hart had made. In the end, when she had fallen asleep, not a single conclusion had been reached. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But frankly, I am not sure.”

  Instantly, Connie turned and closed both salon doors, insuring the utmost privacy for them. Then she returned to Francesca, taking both her hands and guiding her to a pair of burgundy chairs. As they sat, she said softly, “I take it this is about Calder?”

  Francesca nodded, stabbed with a dreadful combination of dread and fear. “How did this happen?” she whispered. “How did I fall in love with such a man? My entire life I believed that my husband would be someone exactly like our father. Instead, I am head over heels for the most notorious womanizer to ever grace the city’s halls.”

  Connie inhaled, her blue eyes wide. “Do you think he is pursuing other women?”

  “No.” But Francesca bit her lip. “I mean, I know you saw him last night. He hardly spent a moment at my side and he allowed that Darlene Fischer to flirt with him quite endlessly. But no, I do not think he wishes to stray yet. But something is bothering him and he won’t tell me what it is.”

  “Then maybe you had better let him be, until he wishes to confide in you.” When Francesca started to object, Connie raised her hand. “I know that will be incredibly difficult for you! I cannot imagine any feat harder than restraining yourself when it comes to Calder Hart. But trust me, Fran. There is a time to press, and there is a time to stand down.”

  Francesca comprehended her sister’s words and meaning, she really did. But how could she let this go? “When I finally accepted his proposal, I instinctively knew that he had the power to completely destroy me. What should I do? I cannot decide what action to take,” she cried.

  Connie paused thoughtfully for a moment. “You know I will always be honest with you. Giving your heart to a man like Calder is a dangerous proposition, indeed. I, t
oo, always thought you would find true love with someone like our father—someone like Rick Bragg.”

  Francesca sighed. “He would have been so safe.”

  “Yes, he would. Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?” Connie asked.

  Francesca met her gaze. Her heart slammed with her entire recollection of the prior evening. “Yesterday morning everything was as it always was. Hart was completely attentive and extremely affectionate and charming. The moment I arrived here last night, though, I sensed that something was amiss. I could almost see this dark cloud hanging over his head.”

  “Did you ask him what was wrong?”

  “Yes. He refused to discuss the matter. I pressed and he became very angry with me.” She tensed. “Con, he told me I knew his reputation when I agreed to become his wife, and he would not object if I changed my mind!”

  Connie gasped. “He wants you to break off the engagement?”

  “Later he denied it. But isn’t that the only conclusion to be had? He has doubts about us and I believe he would not mind if I pushed him away!”

  Connie took her hand. “Fran, I am not going to even attempt to comprehend a man like Calder Hart. I mean, I thought my life with Neil was perfect, and look at what happened.”

  Francesca studied her sister closely. They had both learned during one of Francesca’s cases that Neil had been having an affair with another woman. To this day, Francesca could not understand why he had done such a thing when he truly loved her sister. He, of course, had refused to explain, and it was not her business, anyway. Her sister’s marriage had barely survived, but now they seemed back on track, if not happier than ever.

  “But clearly Calder Hart is having second thoughts about such a monumental decision as a lifelong commitment,” Connie said.

  “I cannot agree more,” Francesca said grimly.

  Connie squeezed her hand. “Would that really be so odd? He is twenty-six years old and he has never courted any woman before you. He has been a shameless and dissolute rake. Now, apparently, he wishes to reform. Perhaps it would be strange if he didn’t have some doubts?”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Francesca asked. “And what should I do? In the end, he apologized for his behavior, but he still refused to explain himself. And it hurt me, Con, to see another woman flirting so liberally with him! I was actually green with jealousy watching him with Darlene Fischer.”

  Connie sighed. “I don’t know how to make you feel better, but I do have some advice—advice I feel very strongly about.”

  Francesca leaned forward, eager to hear her sister’s words. After all, she was an experienced woman. “Please!”

  “First, answer this. Do you have any doubts about him?”

  Francesca did not hesitate, even as she thought about Rick Bragg. “No. At first I was uncertain—at first I still loved Rick, but now we are truly friends. And that has allowed me to realize how much I love Calder.” She hesitated and added, “I do not doubt my feelings. I doubt his ability to keep his promise not to ever be unfaithful.”

  “Fran, you must take a life with someone else one step at a time. Don’t even think ahead to some faraway future day when he might break his word to you.” She flushed a little and Francesca knew she was thinking about Neil. “Even the best marriage with the noblest man will have some difficult moments.”

  “I guess I can agree with that. So you advise me to fight for him—to fight for his heart?” she asked, thinking about Bartolla’s words.

  “No,” Connie cried in dismay.

  Francesca was surprised. “No?”

  Connie shook her head. “Do not chase after Hart! That is the worst thing you could do. If he ever sensed you were in pursuit, I feel certain he would lose interest.”

  Francesca stiffened with confusion and dread. “So what should I do? Walk away?” She was in some disbelief.

  “No. Stand firm in your heart and be yourself.” She smiled then. “You are so eccentric, Fran, and that is the woman who has turned Calder’s head. Not some coy debutante like Darlene, but a beautiful, brave and clever sleuth, a woman committed to justice and reform, a woman absolutely selfless. You are unique—remain that way. Do not even think to compete with women like Darlene. Because then you would be like the others!”

  Francesca was wide-eyed. “So I should do nothing?”

  “No, you should bring all your efforts and all your interest to your current investigation. Do you not have a murderer on the loose?”

  Francesca started to relax. “A killer who must be found, and quickly!” she said with some genuine relief.

  “Find the Slasher, Francesca. Be yourself. If Hart wants to flirt, let him. Because if this is meant to be—if this will ever work—he will get over his doubts and the marriage will proceed. But he must be the one chasing you. It must never be the other way around.”

  Francesca hugged her sister. “You are right! I feel certain. As worried as I am, I must be brave and try to prevent another murder. Either Calder will remain committed to our engagement, or not. In any case, I know that competing with the likes of Darlene is not my strong suit.”

  “Your strong suit is who you truly are,” Connie said with vast affection.

  Francesca smiled, knowing that Connie was being kind. Her sister recognized that Francesca should not—and could not—compete with the city’s most beautiful and seductive women. Hart was clearly having doubts but he still was extremely fond of her, and she would not dwell on what she could not control. Francesca stood. “You have been so helpful,” she exclaimed.

  Connie grinned. “That is what sisters are for. And where are you off to now?”

  “I do have a killer to catch,” Francesca said, returning her smile. “But before I interview John Sullivan’s other roommate, I promised Rick I would call on Leigh Anne.”

  Connie’s pale eyebrows lifted. “How is she?”

  Francesca’s smile faded. “I don’t think she is doing very well.”

  IT WAS SO ODD and so pleasant, Maggie thought, her heart fuzzy with warmth, as she watched two of her sons as they sat on the sofa together. Mathew was trying to teach Paddy the alphabet and he was being very serious about it. Paddy was at tempting to be as serious, but he could not grasp the concept of the letter A at all. Both boys were freshly scrubbed and clothed in their Sunday best, and they were dwarfed by the gold velvet sofa they sat on. Behind them was a huge red wall, an incredible painting of two women and a child from some by gone era, the high, high ceiling above painted red with a gold and cream starburst in its center. Her sons looked like two little princes.

  Almost.

  Her heart lurched with sadness then. They would never be princes; the best they could be were honest, hardworking, godly men. Once, that had been enough. Recently, it did not seem enough at all.

  She glanced around at the huge and opulent room, which, in fact, wasn’t large at all compared to the other rooms in the house. Calder Hart had been kind enough to tell her she could use the house as freely as if it were her own home. Of course, she would never do such a thing—she had warned her children not to touch anything, afraid they might break some priceless treasure. His butler, Alfred, had shown her to an entire wing that was exclusively for her and the children. He had even wanted to give each child his own room! Those instructions had been given by Mr. Hart, who clearly did not know much about children. Last night all of the children, except for Joel, had crawled into her huge, canopied bed, frightened by the vast spaces, the dark, the house.

  If only, she thought, she could give her children an education. Not the few years of learning that Joel had had, but an education that might enable them to find the kind of employment that would allow them to live as gentlemen. Maggie thought of Evan Cahill now. Her sons were never going to be a gentleman like him.

  “Mama!” Lizzie cried, running into the room, Joel following at a leisurely pace.

  Lizzie had a red smear on her face. Maggie hurried to her, dismayed by the unti
diness. “Joel! What has she been eating? Why didn’t you clean her face? What if someone saw her looking like some farmer’s brat?” She scooped her little daughter up, using a kerchief she kept in her bodice to clean what was jam from the corners of Lizzie’s mouth and chin.

  “I got to go, I gotta meet Miz Cahill. Cook gave her these special cookies,” Joel explained with a grin. “Ma, I never had such good food in my life! Not even at Miz Cahill’s!”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Maggie said too sharply as she set Lizzie down. The child ran, toddling, over to her brothers, and then tried to climb onto the sofa but failed.

  Joel had ambled over behind her and set her on it, next to Paddy. He glanced at Maggie, folding his thin arms over his chest. “I know where we live,” he said, understanding her fears exactly. But then, he was just like his father, and not only in looks. He was clever and so perceptive that, at times, it dismayed her.

  She almost smiled and told him that. Instead, she said, “I know that you do. But look at your brothers. In a few days, they won’t even remember our home. They’ll think this is their home. And then what will happen when we do go back?”

  Joel shrugged. “It won’t take ’em long to be themselves again.”

  Maggie sank down in a chair. This wasn’t right. Her children were in for a terrible letdown and they were her life. Even she, herself, as hardworking and God-loving as she was, could get used to this kind of home. And Evan Cahill’s image came so strongly to mind that her heart ached.

  Don’t be a fool, Maggie girl.

  Maggie froze, because she had just heard her husband’s voice as clearly as if he were still alive.

  Tears came to her eyes. Once, she had conversed with him as freely and frequently as if he were still alive. He had been her best friend, a childhood sweetheart, and she had thought, when he died, that she would miss him forever. He had been gone for a few years, but it was only recently, in the past few months, that their conversations had eased and then ceased. Hearing his warning so clearly now, as if he stood there in the room, handsome and smiling, made her heart flutter wildly.