Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  He shrugged helplessly, turning away. Francesca ran to him. “What is happening?” she demanded, grasping him by the arms.

  He met her gaze, his haunted with sadness. “I don’t know.”

  Francesca pulled him into her arms. He laid his cheek against her shoulder and his arms went lightly around her. She held him close, aching for him. “Rick, I am so sorry,” she whispered.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said, choked.

  Francesca held him hard. “Neither do I,” she answered, and laid her cheek against his.

  HE KNEW JUST HOW clever and bold Francesca Cahill was, for he had read all about her exploits in the newspapers. He had admired her terribly for her courage and daring, for helping the police bring killers to their just deserts. But now he stared in absolute shock. She was in Rick Bragg’s arms and engaged to another. She was a faithless bitch just like all the rest.

  His fingers itched.

  His heart raced.

  He fondled the knife, barely aware of it.

  How could this be? How? How could she be a whore like the others?

  He did not know what to do. He had made his plans. He knew the bitches he must punish. Now he began to consider the question burning in him. Just what should he do about her?

  And when she laid her cheek on Bragg’s, he knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Saturday, April 26, 1902 6:00 p.m.

  “MR. HART, SIR?” a very cautious female voice said.

  Hart was in his library, at his desk, his jacket gone, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was recalculating the expenses he would incur from his upcoming Hong Kong venture and he was so engrossed it was a moment before he realized that Maggie Kennedy stood in the doorway. He looked up, startled.

  She was blushing. “I can see I am interrupting,” she said. “I’ll come back at another time.”

  Hart leaped to his feet. “No, please!” He smiled, quickly rolling down his sleeves and reaching for the gold and ruby cuff links on his desk. “How may I help you, Mrs. Kennedy? Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  She became somewhat wide of eye. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hart, your hospitality has been wonderful—if not somewhat overwhelming.” She continued to stand in the doorway and he saw that she toyed with her skirts with one hand anxiously.

  “Please, come in,” he said, having managed to insert one cuff link in his sleeve.

  She took two steps forward. “How may I repay you for your generosity, sir?” she asked, avoiding looking at what he was doing.

  For a moment, surprised, he did not respond. Then, as he began to protest, Joel came skidding into the room, grinning and flushed. “Hey, Mr. Hart,” he said. “Ma, I’m home.”

  Maggie laid a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder. “This is hardly your home,” she chided softly. “Where have you been all afternoon?”

  Hart had been about to ask that very question, as he knew that Joel had been with Francesca, sleuthing about the city. He stepped out from behind his desk, giving up on the left cuff of his shirtsleeve, although his arm was now covered. “Did you and Miss Cahill just get in?” he asked, knowing very well that as it was already six and he had to pick her up at seven, she would be late. It was her only flaw and he did not mind, not at all, as the cause was her pursuit of justice and not the vain primping other women indulged in before their mirrors.

  “Yes, sir.” Joel grinned. He turned to his mother. And just as Hart was going to ask if the afternoon had been a productive one from the point of view of Francesca’s investigation, Joel said, “We spent the afternoon in the park, having a picnic. I taught Katie how to fish!” Then he sobered. “But we didn’t catch nuthin’.”

  Hart felt himself still. In fact, the entire room became motionless, terribly so, and he felt a burn begin deep inside of him. He hardly had to be a genius to know that Katie was Bragg’s fostering child. He reminded himself not to overreact; no one worked more diligently than his half brother and undoubtedly Bragg had spent the afternoon at headquarters. Out of kindness, Francesca had somehow gone to picnic with his wife, he told himself. No one was kinder than his fiancée. “You and Miss Cahill enjoyed a picnic with Mrs. Bragg and the children?” he asked casually. But he did not feel casual at all.

  “Yes, sir,” Joel said eagerly. Then, “I mean, Mrs. Bragg didn’t stay for very long. Mr. Bragg came an’ joined us an’ she went home. I ain’t never had a picnic like this before! He tried to help me and Katie catch a fish and he taught Miz Cahill how to fish, too.” He grinned. “Miz Cahill caught a fish—her very first!”

  Calder was in disbelief. He could only stare.

  FRANCESCA ACTUALLY RAN INTO the front hall of the house, breathless and dismayed. It was just past six and Hart was taking her to supper at 7:00 p.m. After their crisis of the night before, she wanted to look her very best. She intended to wear a new gown, a pale green silk he had yet to see, with jewelry she had borrowed from Connie. She knew she barely had time to tong her hair. “I need Bette,” she cried, asking for the maid as she spotted her mother entering the hall at the far end.

  Julia came forward and did not reply.

  And even as Francesca raced forward, she was haunted by the terrible afternoon she had spent. In the end, she had not been able to leave Bragg alone with the girls in the park. Far too acutely aware of his anguish, she had stayed as he had eaten a sandwich, changing the subject to that of their investigation. They had spent several hours rehashing every clue and analyzing every suspect. They had not come to any new conclusions, but the light in Bragg’s eyes had changed by the time they had begun to pack up their picnic basket. Before she had left with Raoul, he had taken her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  Francesca had smiled as brightly as possible, not wanting to send him back into the dark tunnel of his marriage. “You have nothing to thank me for,” she had said.

  Now, Francesca reached her mother, vaguely noting that Julia looked distinctly somber. She simply could not bear any more bad news. “Mama! I need Bette! I have to bathe and do my hair and dress, all in an hour! I refuse to keep Hart waiting tonight.”

  “Your father wishes to see you in his study, Francesca,” Julia said quietly.

  Francesca had been about to hike her skirts and run up the stairs. She faltered and looked directly at her mother. And suddenly she recalled the fact that Hart had intended to visit her father to request an earlier June wedding. But would he have done so after the fiasco of last night? She felt certain he would not, but then, Hart was so unpredictable that she simply could not know. “Mama? You look worried,” she said with the utmost wariness.

  Julia suddenly hugged her. “You know how much I love you and how much I want you to be happy,” she cried.

  Francesca jerked away, knowing that such an expression and statement on the part of her mother could only bode ill, in deed. “What is it?” she asked sharply. “What has happened? I feel certain that no one has died.”

  “Your father is waiting,” Julia said abruptly.

  “Mama!” Francesca protested in real alarm.

  “Very well. Andrew has called off the wedding.”

  Francesca gasped, shocked, barely able to comprehend what her mother was saying.

  “We were both so upset to see the two of you at odds last night,” Julia said. “I tried to calm Andrew down, but then Roberta Hind told us about his mistress. Dear God, Francesca, even I cannot support your engagement if he is carrying on openly with such a woman.”

  Francesca cried out in horror as the words sank in. She managed to say, “But he isn’t. This isn’t what you think.” Her father had called off their engagement. She remained dazed, and tried to summon up a coherent thought.

  “The whole of society knows he keeps that Jones woman in the house he just bought for her!” Julia cried. “How could he do this to you? How? I had truly believed that he cared.”

  Francesca stared, aghast, knowing Julia would never believe her if she explained the matter. But Papa c
ould not do this—not without her consent, not without her opinion, not without her feelings being considered. And then she lifted her skirts and ran down the hall and into her father’s study.

  She did not knock, but the doors were wide open. Andrew was reclining on the sofa in a smoking jacket and slippers, reading the Sun. A fire blazed in the hearth and a glass of red wine was on the occasional table. He looked up over his newspaper as she halted before him.

  “You cannot have possibly broken my engagement without speaking to me first,” she said, beginning to shake. This could not be happening—she would not allow it to happen.

  Calmly, Andrew set the paper aside. “Come sit with me, Francesca,” he said, patting the sofa beside him as he sat upright.

  She refused. “I love him. I am going to marry him. And it is not what you think—he isn’t with Daisy Jones!”

  “I am thinking as I always have,” her father said, standing. “He is a self-serving cad. He is currently somewhat fascinated by you—and it is nothing more. Last night he was far more interested in another woman than he was in you, his fiancée. Last night you were hurt by his behavior—I saw it on your face, so do not deny it. The two of you have barely begun a life together and already he is showing his true colors. Is this the kind of life you want to have? By God, Francesca, I will not allow it. This man isn’t good enough to sweep the floors you walk on.”

  She was trembling almost convulsively and shamelessly close to tears. “Papa, don’t do this. Hart is good, I know him as no one else does, and you are wrong about last night.”

  “I have broken off the engagement,” Andrew said firmly. “I know that right now you are smitten, but in time, you will recover. In time, you will find someone else.”

  “No,” Francesca cried. “Papa, please—”

  He cut her off. “My word is final. And Francesca, consider this—when I told him the engagement was off, he did not object.”

  STILL SHAKEN, FRANCESCA rang Hart’s bell several times. She knew she should not be at his door in such a state of fear and panic, for her sister’s words advising her never to pursue him were somewhere in the shadowy background of her mind. But she had to know what was happening. He had not objected to the breaking of their engagement. She did not believe it.

  Surely he had protested. Surely they had recovered from the awful tension of the night before. Surely Hart would greet her warmly and hold her and kiss her and, in his usual arrogant manner, remind her that nothing would come between them, as his mind was made up.

  Alfred opened the door and when he saw her, his calm demeanor vanished. He almost gaped.

  Francesca tried to smile as she gazed past him, but no one was in the spacious foyer. “I must see Hart,” she said tersely. “Good evening, Alfred.”

  “Miss Cahill, please, come in,” Alfred said, his eyes remaining wide as he let her inside. “Can I get you some tea, perhaps, while I tell Mr. Hart that you are here? He is not expecting you,” he added, and while she had often called impulsively in the past, the butler’s statement seemed to be a reprimand.

  He had noted her dishabille. But Francesca did not really care that her hair was coming loose or that her jacket was askew, that she wore no rouge and was undoubtedly as white as a ghost. She faced him, folding her arms across her chest. “Alfred, you do not have to be formal with me. Yes, I am distraught. Yes, I should go home and compose myself. However, I have just learned that Hart and my father have had a terrible falling-out and that my father has broken our engagement!” Alfred started. Francesca continued in a rush, “And surely Hart has not accepted the sudden demise of our engagement! I am not going home, Alfred, oh no. I must see Hart.”

  “Oh dear,” Alfred said, his tone hushed. “Mr. Hart is in a drawing room with some of his family. Miss Cahill, please, why don’t you sit down in the gold room. I shall bring you some tea and sweets—it will calm you, I think—and then I shall tell Mr. Hart that you are here.”

  “Nothing will calm me and especially not chocolate and tea,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “Alfred, I must see Hart now. What is his mood? How is he? Has he indicated anything to you?”

  “He seemed fine when he came in a bit earlier, Miss Cahill,” Alfred said reluctantly. “Miss Cahill, I respect you so. Would you mind very much if I dared to be terribly bold with you?” he asked, leading her across the huge entry hall.

  Francesca and Alfred had reached a silent and mutually agreeable understanding some time ago. Alfred wholeheartedly wished for her to marry his employer and he had made it clear he thought that nothing could be better for Hart. “Of course,” she said.

  “I feel certain that Mr. Hart will not appreciate a scene,” Alfred said, glancing at her with real worry. “I have seen him tolerate unhappy ladies in the past. One scene and they were never to be seen or heard from again.” A bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

  Francesca touched his arm. “Thank you, Alfred, for your concern, and I shall keep that in mind,” she said. Even as panicked as she was, she was sane enough to know that Alfred was right. Hart would despise a scene, and if he had the same doubts he had last night, she might even put the final nails in the coffin of their union by carrying on recklessly. Still, their future was at stake and she had to know what he intended to do about it. “But let me remind you, he was not engaged to any of these other ladies.”

  Alfred inclined his head slightly. “That is true.”

  Francesca swallowed, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hat was crooked and she attempted to right it, but she dropped the two hairpins. As if she cared about her hat. She smoothed down her jacket hem and nodded at Alfred.

  He opened the double door. “Mr. Hart, sir? Miss Cahill is here to see you.”

  Francesca began to tremble. She glanced into the drawing room and saw Hart seated with a scotch, grimly staring at his drink. Clearly, his humor was black. That was a good sign, was it not? For surely it indicated that he was as upset with what Andrew had done as she was. And he slowly looked up.

  For one moment, she stared back, aware of an incredible ten sion in him. And then he rose, setting his drink aside. Francesca became vaguely aware of the others in the room. Grace and Rathe Bragg sat on the sofa near his chair. Rourke was in another chair and Maggie was on a love seat with Joel, an open book between them. Although she knew Maggie continued to stay at Hart’s house, she had not expected to see her just then.

  All eyes were trained on her now. Clearly, everyone was remarking her unkempt appearance—or was it her nearly-hysterical state?

  But Hart’s eyes were the worst. They seemed cold and very black and somehow menacing, indeed.

  Francesca forgot everyone else, staring at Hart, thoroughly taken aback.

  Hart approached, his expression impossible to read. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, she said, “I would like a word with you, please.”

  His jaw flexed. “We will step into the library,” he said without formality and he watched her so closely that she shivered.

  Something was not right.

  Just like last night.

  He turned to his family and Maggie. “Excuse us.”

  No one said a word.

  Francesca could not look at anyone, even knowing that later she would have to apologize to everyone, and she quickly turned and rushed ahead of him down the hall. He followed her and she could hear his strides, long, hard and controlled. The library was a spacious affair with pale green walls, dark wood and gilded furniture, not to mention many stacks of bookcases. She whirled, facing him.

  He closed both doors behind him and turned to her. “Why-ever are you so distraught?”

  She was silenced, but only for a moment. “Are you going to tell me what happened today?”

  “I was wondering exactly that, myself,” he said, walking past her to a bar cart.

  She did not hesitate. She raced after him and seized his wrist, preventing him from lifting the decanter of scotch. “I have no clue what you mean. Pa
pa ended our engagement and he said you made not a single objection!”

  Hart faced her, his jaw hard, and the storm clouds were there in his eyes. “Yes, he did.”

  She made a disbelieving sound. “And you did not object?”

  His expression tightened. “I did not.” He hesitated and added, “But not for the reason you are thinking.”

  “For what reason, then?” she cried.

  “Timing,” he said flatly.

  “Timing?” She could not believe her ears.

  “Timing, my dear, is everything in this life, but that, apparently, is a lesson you have not learned.” He was cold, almost cruel, and he turned away from her, pouring a scotch.

  One, not two, she saw miserably. “Does this mean the day will come when you will object?”

  He did not answer, his back to her, lifting the glass to his lips.

  As he drank, she saw how rigid his shoulders were. He was angry, and it felt as if he wanted to be mean and nasty, too. She was sick. Why was he angry with her? What had she done? And would he now seize Andrew’s behavior as the excuse he needed to end their engagement? “So we are over, then?”

  He set the glass down so hard that the bar cart jumped. He turned. “We will never be over, Francesca,” he said harshly.

  It was perhaps the most romantic thing anyone could say to her, and it was certainly the most romantic thing he had ever said. But the meaning was ruined by his black glare and his angry tone. Her spirits fell with sickening force. “I do not understand you, not at all,” she somehow whispered, consumed with dread.

  He gave her a mocking look. “Why not be realistic, Fran- cesca? Your father has not changed his low opinion of me—and if I were him, I would think the same way.”

  “You want him to break this off, don’t you?” she asked in despair.

  His jaw flexed, a muscle rippling there. “Actually, I did not. Actually, I do not like explaining myself and justifying my behavior to anyone,” he said with vast warning.

  If he wanted to use this as an excuse to end their engage ment, it was truly over then. “I am aware of that,” she said miserably. “And if it is over, if we are over, then I am the fool Bragg has said I was.” She swallowed down a lump of tears.