Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  He made a mocking sound and it was ugly. “I heard you had a picnic today.”

  She froze. What was this? He knew she had been in the park? And suddenly everything became clear. She thought about how she had been alone with Bragg in the park after Leigh Anne had left, how she had comforted him—and how it must have looked to any passerby.

  Hart confronted her. “What? Can you not admit to such a pleasant afternoon?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her heart lurching with dread. “But it is not what you are thinking.”

  “Ah, and you do know what I am thinking?” he mocked.

  She swallowed hard. “Their marriage is in trouble, Calder. They are both in so much misery and I only wanted to help.”

  “By spending the afternoon with Rick.”

  “You said Raoul was my driver, my bodyguard. Clearly he is your spy!” she cried, tears finally blurring her vision. How much had Raoul told him? She prayed he had not said that she had been in Rick’s embrace, because Hart would never believe it had been an act of comfort and friendship and nothing more.

  “Raoul said nothing. Joel is the one who raved about his afternoon.” Hart’s black gaze bored into hers. “Of course, I then summoned Raoul and interviewed him at length.”

  He knew. He knew she had held Bragg in her arms. “I was comforting him,” she said, trembling. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Yes, of course, for that is what you do best—comfort my half brother. Do you still love him?”

  She cried out.

  Hart seemed to shake. “Now is the time for real honesty, Francesca. I need to know. I demand it!”

  She knew she must choose her words with care. “This is not what you are thinking.”

  “Do you love him?” he ground out.

  “Yes—but not the way that you mean,” she cried.

  Hart turned away, his hands shaking.

  “I love him as a friend,” she said firmly—desperately. “And that is my right.”

  He downed some of the scotch with a harsh, guttural laugh. “Yes, the friend you spent an entire night on that train with—the friend whose bed you warmed before you ever were in mine.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  He stared.

  She was, amazingly, afraid of him now. But she touched his arm and he flinched. “You are the man I have chosen. You are the man I want to wed.”

  A moment passed. “Do you still love him?”

  She recoiled. Her mind raced and she felt tears come. “No,” she whispered. Yes, she wanted to say. But as a friend, damn it, as if I were his sister, not as a lover, not as a wife.

  He suddenly flung the scotch glass with all of his strength, across the entire room, no easy feat. It fell short of the far wall and miraculously did not shatter when it hit the floor. Francesca flinched. “You were in his arms,” Hart shouted. “Yes, I interviewed Raoul, at length. You were in his arms. I went to your father to fight for our engagement and you were in his arms.”

  “I was comforting him,” she tried, the tears falling freely now.

  “I know all about his marital problems,” he said savagely. “It is the talk of this family. So now what? Your father disap proves of us, but he loves Rick! Will you wait for Rick to divorce his wife? Will you marry him on the grave of a divorce made to his invalid wife? Shall his broken marriage be the altar upon which you make your eternal pledges of love?”

  She tried to say no, but could not speak. Instead, she shook her head, more tears falling.

  He turned his back on her, starting from the room.

  “It wasn’t romantic,” she gasped.

  He did not pause.

  “It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t passionate! But you would not understand, as you do not understand friendship or loyalty!”

  He whirled so rapidly that she flinched, even with half of the room separating them. And then he was striding back. “You were my friend,” he said. “And I have been nothing but loyal to you. I have not looked, even once, at another woman sexually since I asked you to marry me! When Daisy came to my office the other day, I was more than loyal to you!”

  He was towering over her now. She tried to take his hand but he flung it away. “I am still your friend,” she said, and realized how pathetic the declaration sounded. She wanted to tell him that she loved him and always would, but she was afraid that he would not care, not now, not anymore. “You don’t have to compete with Rick,” she begged. “There is no reason to compete with him!”

  He laughed disparagingly. “I have been competing with him my entire life.”

  “Then stop! And trust me. My feelings haven’t changed. You’re the man I want to marry, Calder. Not him.”

  His expression remained black, but she could see he had a grip on his anger and that it was under control. But she could also see something even worse—disbelief.

  “You don’t believe me?” she managed to say, aghast.

  “I know this much.” His smile was brief, mirthless and twisted. “If he were free, we would not be together.”

  “That’s not true,” she cried, seizing him.

  He shook her off, turning away. And as he started from the library, she raced after him. “You said we would never be over.”

  He made a mocking sound.

  “Are we over?” she demanded.

  “You tell me,” he said darkly.

  She couldn’t speak. They were standing on the edge of a terrible. precipice and one false step would finish them, she was sure of it. Somehow, between her father and Rick Bragg, the odds had been stacked against them.

  “I see you are simply speechless,” Hart said cruelly.

  “No,” she whispered. “I am not speechless, I am merely terrified.”

  He walked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, April 26, 1902 7:00 p.m.

  FRANCESCA STOOD IN the doorway, staring after Hart as he strode away. She was in shock.

  She continued to tremble and felt as if she had to sit down. She could no longer breathe and a huge knot had formed in her heart, causing so much pain. She turned and went back into the library, sitting on the closest suitable piece of furniture, an ottoman. She tried not to cry.

  We will never be over, he had said.

  She wiped her eyes. He had been in a jealous rage—he had gone to her father to fight for their engagement. He had used that very word. That had only been earlier today. Surely, in a few more hours, he would be filled with regret.

  How could she live this way?

  Francesca was so afraid of the question that she refused to entertain it.

  “Are you all right?” Rourke asked.

  She looked up, knowing she must appear as ill as she felt. Rourke stood in the doorway, compassion written all over his face. Francesca tried to force a smile and gave up. She stood. “No.”

  He hesitated. “If it is any consolation, he looks even worse than you do. Perhaps tomorrow the two of you will manage to sort things out.”

  She stared, wishing that were true and thinking of a lifetime spent with a man prone to such jealous rage. “He is furious because I spent the afternoon with Rick, not investigating, but having a picnic in the park.”

  Rourke was mildly surprised. “Francesca, has it ever occurred to you that maybe you need to be less of a friend to Rick if you are to succeed with Calder? I might even be jealous if I were in Calder’s shoes.”

  Rourke was so levelheaded and so objective that she highly doubted that. “Rick will always be a dear friend, and he needs all of his friends and family now,” she said emphatically.

  “Yes, he does. But you may have to make a clear choice between them. Calder and Rick have been at odds as long as I can remember. I don’t think the rivalry they share is ever going to change.” He then smiled kindly at her. “I am going out to supper. Would you like to join me?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, knowing she could never make such a terrible choice, especially not now, when Rick needed her so
desperately as a friend.

  He waited for her and she left the library with him. As she was approaching the front hall, she tried not to wonder where Calder was, but she was painfully aware that he was somewhere in the house—unless, of course, he had gone out. Why couldn’t he trust her? she wondered miserably. But the answer was obvious. He had been her friend, holding her hand, when she had first fallen in love with Rick Bragg. Apparently he was never going to recover from that bygone era; apparently he was never going to believe that he had somehow secured her heart.

  He had accused her of such disloyalty, she thought in anguish. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t been disloyal to him, not once since she had realized that he was the one she truly loved.

  Suddenly she faltered. Rourke reached out to steady her but she wasn’t even aware of him. What had Calder said? That he had been loyal to her even when Daisy had come to his office?

  When had Daisy gone to his office? No mistress, or ex-mis-tress, would ever dare to go to her lover’s place of business! What did this mean?

  “Francesca, you look as if you have just seen a ghost.”

  She blinked and saw Rourke gazing at her with concern. Be hind him, she saw Maggie and Joel, both as riveted by her demeanor.

  Her mind raced. She must speak with Daisy and find out why she had called on Hart at his office. However, while she and Hart were most definitely in a crisis, a killer was on the loose. Her personal life must not interfere with her investigation. And apparently she no longer had plans for the evening. “Maggie!” She smiled firmly now.

  Maggie came forward hesitantly. “Hello, Francesca.” Her gaze was searching. “How are you? Are you all right?”

  She shoved all thoughts of Hart far aside. “I am fine. I am so glad to run into you this way. Maggie, I need your help, and I think there is no time like the present, as it is rather early yet.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Of course I will help. But what can I do?”

  “Can Joel stay here with the children? You and I must go downtown. It is time we paid a friendly call on Lord Randolph, my dear,” she said, and she smiled broadly.

  Maggie was bewildered. “Lord Randolph? I am afraid I don’t know any gentleman of that name.”

  “Ah, but you may have met him once—on the street, outside of Kate Sullivan’s building the evening of her murder, within an hour of her demise.”

  Maggie was wide-eyed.

  Francesca felt much better. There was nothing like sinking her teeth into an investigation to get her mind off the terrible ache in her heart. She turned to Rourke with a smile. “Would you like to join us for an evening of investigative work?” she asked. “If you are not too hungry, that is.”

  FRANCESCA AND MAGGIE climbed into the back of Hart’s handsome black coach and Francesca rapped smartly on the ceiling, indicating that Raoul could drive off. Rourke had declined her invitation, so when her door suddenly opened and he stepped up into the cab, she was very surprised. A moment later, as he took a seat facing them, the light of the interior lantern fell across him and she stiffened in shock. It was not Rourke, but Hart.

  He settled himself on the rearward-facing seat, dominating the interior of the coach and making it seem far too small and airless. “Raoul, proceed,” he said, knocking once on the roof. And the six-in-hand rolled off.

  “What are you doing?” Francesca managed to say.

  “I am joining you,” he said, unsmiling.

  She stared at him and he stared back. From his terse expression, she could surmise that little had changed in the past quarter hour. “Why?”

  “I suspect the evening will become a very late one. My feelings have not changed. I do not like you traipsing about the city in the midnight hours of the night, chasing the worst sort of criminals.”

  Her heart raced with some trepidation and some small elation. How easy it would be to refute him. It was only seven o’clock and Lord Randolph was hardly a thug—although he might turn out to be the Slasher. And Raoul was her bodyguard. There was no reason for Hart to be present, other than the reason that he still cared, rather excessively, for her. She dared to smile just a little at him.

  He said, unsmiling, “I believe you are on a fool’s errand.” He turned and faced out the window, not saying another word.

  And from the hard-set look on his features, she thought that any attempt to draw him into a civil conversation would certainly fail. Nonetheless, her heart pounding now, she said, “We have a very tenuous list of suspects. David Hanrahan, Lord Randolph, Sam Wilson and John Sullivan. Hanrahan has no alibis, Randolph we have yet to question, Wilson has an alibi for last Thursday, but I am not quite sure whether to believe Francis or not, and Sullivan apparently went out drinking every night—including the night of his wife’s murder. We still do not know if he committed suicide. If he did, he could very well be the Slasher.” She forced another smile, but Hart continued to stare out of his window and did not see. She tried, “So what do you think?”

  He gave her a brief, dark look. “I have yet to leap to any conclusions, solid or otherwise,” he said flatly, and he faced his window again.

  Francesca felt crushed; she gave up. She turned to look out of Maggie’s window, as she did not want to be confronted with Hart. How perilously fragile her emotions were. Maggie gently patted her hand. Francesca smiled a little at her and no one said another word for the next half hour as Raoul proceeded downtown. The tension in the coach was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  The Holland House Hotel came into sight. It took up half of the block between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth Streets and was on the west side of Fifth Avenue. It was a handsome, square building of granite built several decades ago. Francesca forgot about Hart, staring at the canopied entrance where two liveried doormen stood. Their carriage slowed and her mind raced. She turned to Hart. “There is no need for subterfuge, I think. You can enquire after Randolph at the front desk. We will go inside with you, claiming to be a dinner party. If he is somewhere in the hotel, we can have you send a note to him to meet you in the lobby.” She looked at him. “Would you mind, Calder?”

  His gaze flickered over her face rather studiously, and slowly he nodded. “Of course I do not mind.”

  Raoul had alighted from the top seat where he drove and he opened the door for them. Francesca followed Maggie out onto the sidewalk, excitement rising within her, Hart behind her. He said in her ear, “And if he is out for the evening?”

  “So much the better,” she said cheerfully. “There is only one public entrance to the hotel and we will sit in the lobby until he returns. He is not sociable,” she reminded him, “so I doubt he will be out until the wee hours.”

  Hart’s expression appeared to be in danger of thawing. He shook his head, and took her arm. “As I said, the evening threatens to be a late one.” He smiled at Maggie. “Shall we?”

  As they entered the hotel it was briefly as if nothing was wrong. Francesca remained beside Hart, on his arm. They approached the front desk, a long gleaming teakwood counter where two clerks in dark suits stood, and Francesca eagerly scanned the lobby.

  The room was large but not half as spacious as that of the city’s higher-end hotels. There were only three seating areas, all occupied by gentlemen and ladies. Francesca instantly surmised that Randolph was not present. She did not recognize anyone, in fact.

  “How may I help you, sir?” a young clerk was asking.

  “I believe a friend of mine is staying at your hotel,” Hart said. “Lord Randolph. I should like to get a word to him. Do you know if he is in this evening?”

  Francesca fidgeted as the clerk said that he believed Lord Randolph was in his rooms. It was the supper hour, but if he were as dour as Hart clamed, perhaps he was dining alone in his suite. She glanced past the crowd in the lobby, trying to peek into the dining room on the hall’s other side. But from this distance, it was simply impossible to distinguish any of the guests inside. The elevator bell chimed.

  Francesca glanced impatie
ntly at the gilded arrow, indicating the elevator was arriving on the first floor. Hart was scribbling a note, which a bellman would deliver to Randolph’s room. She leaned close and said, “Invite him for a drink in the lobby.”

  “That is already done,” he said, signing his name without any flourish. He eyed her closely. “Are you a bit warm, Francesca?”

  She was delighted because his tone seemed very normal, as did the light in his eyes. In fact, she knew he had caught a whiff of her excitement and was mildly amused. She was about to grin and ask him if she was forgiven, when the brass door of the elevator opened. Three people walked out and the gentleman in the rear was Harry de Warenne.

  Francesca was so excited she poked Hart hard in the ribs, hard enough to make him utter a breath.

  “Sir.” The clerk had just espied Randolph as well. “There is Lord Randolph.”

  As Hart made some kind of reply, Francesca grabbed Maggie and dragged her away from Hart, toward a large wooden column. “That is Lord Randolph, the handsome gentleman with the ivory-headed cane. The one Hart is walking toward.”

  And indeed, Hart was leisurely approaching their quarry. Randolph saw him and stopped and the two men shook hands.

  Francesca turned to Maggie. “Well?” she demanded.

  Maggie was pale.

  “Do you need a closer look?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No. That’s him, Francesca, that’s the gentleman I bumped into outside of Kate’s building.”

  They were standing fifty feet away. Francesca was thrilled; still, she took Maggie’s hand. “Are you certain?” Hart was glancing at them. She knew he was about to signal them to come over and join them.

  “I am positive,” Maggie breathed, flushed now. She gazed at Francesca. “What does this mean? Is he the killer?”

  Francesca shook her head at Hart and he gave her his back instantly. She pulled Maggie back around the column, ducking her head so she would not be remarked. “It doesn’t quite mean anything yet.”