Deadly Promise

by Brenda Joyce

  Rourke had his black medical bag in hand, and instantly he faced his mother. "Please bring me a bowl of warm water, clean rags, lye soap, and any linens you may find for a bandage."

  "Of course." Grace gave Francesca one wide-eyed look and raced from the room, past Alfred, who was entering with a tray containing two whiskeys.

  Rourke smiled at Francesca. "We must stop meeting this way. Could you sit down, please?"

  Once, it had disturbed her to look at him, as he could be Rick Bragg's twin. But that was no longer the case— he was very different from his older brother, and not just because he wished to be a doctor. She sat down on the edge of the sofa. "Yes, we must. It is nice to see you, Rourke."

  He smiled, a smile always accompanied by two dimples, as he gently untied the tie Hart had used as a bandage. "But I do wish it were under better circumstances," he said. "How are you feeling?"

  She almost told him that she was quite ill, but that had everything to do with the missing girls and nothing to do with her neck. "I was very dizzy at first, but I couldn't breathe when he assaulted me. I am fine now."

  Rourke paused. "I need warm water to remove this. I am going to take your pulse and listen to your heart."

  Francesca nodded. As he lifted her wrist, she glanced at Hart, who stood behind Rourke with Alfred, a scotch in hand. Hart never removed his gaze from her, and he seemed terribly grim. She thought about what would have happened if Rourke and Grace hadn't entered the salon when they had, and she looked away.

  "Pulse is normal," Rourke said cheerfully, taking a stethoscope from his bag. He did not glance behind but said to Hart, "Could you step out, please?"

  "She is my fiancée," he growled.

  "Congratulations. Now step out. Grace may come in when she returns," he said amiably.

  Francesca glanced at Hart, who quaffed half the whiskey and then marched out with Alfred, closing the double doors behind him. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist, uncomfortable now and aware of blushing.

  "That's enough," Rourke said mildly after she had undone three buttons, and not even looking at her, he laid the stethoscope against her bare skin, listening to her heart beating. As he moved it around, never glancing at her, she felt her cheeks cool. He was very professional, she thought. And she dared to study him.

  He had the Bragg cheekbones, high and sharp, the golden skin, the amber eyes. He was about Bragg's height, six feet, but not as lean. His hair was more brown than gold, but there were sun-bleached tips around his face. His brows were startlingly dark.

  She thought about him and Sarah Channing. Rourke was a catch, and undoubtedly many beautiful women chased him. Sarah was both a bohemian and an artist, at once skinny and some would say plain. But Rourke had been so interested in everything she had to say that night at supper at the Waldorf. Perhaps he had only been playing the part of a perfect gentleman.

  Still, when Sarah had fainted, he had taken her home and nursed her through a raging fever. But he was in medical school; he would one day be a doctor.

  "I am going to listen to your lungs," he said, sliding the icy cold stethoscope beneath her shirtwaist and down her back.

  "How is Philadelphia?" Francesca asked.

  "Hush."

  A moment later he removed the stethoscope. "Your pulse, heart, and lungs are normal. Now we need to remove that tie and look at the wound."

  "How is Philadelphia?" Francesca tried again.

  His dark brows lifted. "I did very well on my midterms," he said.

  "You must study very hard."

  He seemed amused. "Yes, I do. We all do."

  "All work and no play, how boring." She grinned.

  He began to appear slightly suspicious. "One must always find the time to enjoy oneself, Francesca. By the way, is it true? You and Calder are engaged?"

  She flushed and held up her hand, showing him the ring.

  He was suitably impressed. "My, things have swiftly changed since I was last here." He gave her an odd look.

  She knew he referred to Bragg. She shrugged. "Yes, they have. So what do you do when you are not studying?" she asked lightly.

  He studied her. "I have friends. I do what most gentlemen do. Supper, the occasional affair, a club."

  She simply had to know. "And who is she?" She grinned but was breathless now, praying for the right answer.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Who is the lady who holds your heart?"

  He looked at her for a moment and then shook his head with a small laugh. "If you are asking me if I am seeing someone, the answer is no. At least, not in the way that you mean."

  Her mind raced even as she was exultant—for he wasn't involved and that gave Sarah a chance! Then she blinked. "You have a mistress?"

  "Francesca," he had begun sternly when Grace suddenly came into the room. "Ah, the troops have arrived—just in time."

  "Dear, how are you?" Grace asked, setting the tray down on a small side table. She was a tall, willowy redhead in her middle years, still very attractive, even with the horn-rimmed spectacles she wore. She had also been one of the nation's first suffragettes. Today she was considered a leader of the women's movement.

  "I believe I am fine."

  "Are you on another case?" Grace asked.

  "Yes, and it involves missing children—all young, attractive, and female."

  Grace grimaced. "Oh, dear. May I help?"

  Francesca started as Rourke began to sponge down the tie. "That is a wonderful offer. I am sure I can use some help."

  Rourke shook his head, gently prying the tie from her skin. "Mother, Francesca attracts danger the way honey attracts bees. I don't think your involvement is a good idea."

  "Do not dare treat me as an elderly individual," Grace warned. And she smiled at Francesca, sending her a wink.

  Rourke sighed as Hart paced into the room, demanding, "Well?"

  "A moment, please," Rourke said, peeling off the tie.

  "Where is my scotch?" Francesca asked, wincing.

  Hart came to her and handed her his half a glass.

  She gulped it down.

  "Sorry," Rourke murmured.

  Grace was staring. Francesca realized she had seen the ring, and she began to flush uncomfortably now. Hart said, "They heard this morning. I told them the news."

  Francesca didn't know what to say as Grace looked up from the ring. Their gazes held. And while Grace wasn't Rick's or Calder's natural mother, she and Rathe had taken both boys in upon the death of Lily, their mother. Francesca knew she considered both Rick and Calder her sons.

  And she was no fool. She had seen right through everyone's charade the moment she had met Francesca—Grace knew both Rick and Calder vied for Francesca's attentions, and it had worried her enough for her to speak sharply to Francesca about it. Francesca remained uncertain of how Grace felt about the entire situation. She had made it clear she did not want to see Rick and Calder fighting over any woman. She had also made it clear that Rick remained married. Her last words to Francesca had been about the fact that Calder was not.

  "Is this official?" Grace asked quietly.

  In that moment, as Rourke finally got the tie free from Francesca's wound, Francesca realized she had no idea of the outcome of Hart's interview with her father. She gasped, meeting his gaze. "Calder! What happened when you met with Papa?"

  He smiled at her. "We are official, my dear. But your father insists upon a year-long engagement."

  Francesca wasn't surprised that Hart had won this battle. He seemed undefeatable, at least to her. "A year?" And real dismay overcame her. They would have to wait an entire year to wed?

  "A small price to pay for his consent, don't you think?" Hart smiled. But his eyes were glinting and he knew where Francesca's thoughts lay.

  "Well, this is good news indeed," Rourke said. "The wound is superficial. A mere cut. No stitches are necessary, my biggest fear." He smiled at her. "I will clean this up and you shall be healed in no time."

  "Will she scar?" Grace ask
ed.

  "No. But I'd suggest you put an ointment on it just to make sure. It's called Doctor Bill's Vitamin and Mineral Miracle Salve." He finished cleaning the wound with lye soap. "How about some bed rest, Francesca? The human body heals faster with rest, as it gives the cells time to repair."

  Francesca nodded. "I will try." Suddenly she realized that not only did she have a huge cut on her throat, but her shirt was stained with blood also. She turned to Hart, alarmed. "I can't go home like this! If Julia or anyone sees this cut, I will never be allowed out of the house, at least not unless I am on someone's leash."

  Hart turned to Grace. "Do you have a fresh shirtwaist?"

  "Of course." Grace smiled at Francesca. "I have a high-necked blouse that should do nicely."

  "Thank you," Francesca breathed.

  "I would also like a moment alone with my bride," Hart said.

  Rourke raised a brow; Grace hesitated.

  "I will hardly ravage her a year before the wedding," Hart murmured.

  Grace said, "Francesca, I would like to have lunch with you. Do you have time tomorrow?"

  Francesca went on alert. She knew what this was about—it was to be an interview in which she would be tested, and the subject would be her marrying Calder Hart. "I am on a case," she began, knowing her day would be full indeed. Then she gave up. She had to meet Grace Bragg, because she was determined to have her approval. Yet she dreaded the intimate and very personal confrontation that would ensue. "I can meet you tomorrow." She so admired Grace Bragg—yet the woman also intimidated her.

  "Do you want to dine out? I assume you will be busy downtown, so perhaps the Fifth Avenue Hotel will do?"

  Francesca nodded.

  "One o' clock?"

  "That's fine," she said.

  "And I would like a chance to see you tomorrow afternoon," Rourke said.

  An idea came to Francesca. Trying to appear very innocent, she said, "I will be at Sarah's around half past four or five."

  Rourke was clearly indifferent, because he nodded and his expression did not change. "That's fine. I'll come by about five, then. Good night." He smiled at her and went out, followed by his mother.

  Hart did not close the doors. He sat down beside Francesca, taking her palms in his. She stirred. His gaze was dark and steady, holding hers. "I am very relieved that you are all right."

  She smiled. "I know," she said softly. "Calder—we must wait an entire year?"

  He smiled fondly and then kissed the tip of her nose. "I believe your mother is already planning the wedding. I doubt we will have to wait a year." His gaze turned teasing.

  "I doubt I could withstand your seductive onslaught for an entire year, darling."

  Only he could kiss her nose so chastely and bring to mind images of his muscular naked body. "Of course you could. You are the strongest person I know."

  His brows lifted. "I see I am finally beginning to impress you." He cupped her cheek. "I like the flattery, Francesca, when it comes from you."

  She had the oddest inkling then that he yearned for more of her praise. But he was also one of the most confident men she knew, so she doubted he needed her approval. Teasingly she said, "You were very heroic tonight, Calder."

  He laughed. "You are on a high roll. Keep rolling, darling." He pulled her close and touched her mouth with his. "You scared the hell out of me tonight," he murmured, his mouth brushing hers. "Will our entire marriage be one of my forever worrying about your welfare?"

  She trembled as his mouth dipped, kissing her skin just below the bandage. Her loins filled instantly. "I am afraid so," she breathed, tugging his hand toward her breast.

  But he didn't allow her to place it as she wished; instead, he moved apart. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her. And he was so serious that she stiffened. "What is it?"

  "I have a plan."

  "A plan?" For one moment, she did not know what he could be talking about—and she assumed it was a plan regarding their wedding. "There is a club renowned for all kinds of deviations. I have never been there, obviously, but it is infamous, and I would be surprised if it did not traffic in children. I think it is time that I venture into the establishment in question," he said.

  Francesca was on her feet. "That is brilliant," she said. "Will they let you in?" She imagined the door policy to such a sordid place was quite severe.

  He also stood, but he wasn't smiling. "There is a saying, Francesca, and it is 'Money talks.' "

  "What?" she breathed. "What is wrong? Calder, your plan is perfect! You will enter as the most jaded and dissolute sort and sniff out the children—or word of them!"

  "Let's just hope that your father never hears that I am on the prowl," he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday, March 28, 1902—Before Midnight

  Leigh Anne raced ahead of him up the walk, to the house. He followed more slowly, while Peter put the motorcar away in the carriage house. She hurried inside, and when Bragg finally entered, she was calling breathlessly for the nurse. "Mrs. Flowers!" She dropped her chinchilla fur upon a stool; it slipped to the floor.

  Leigh Anne did not notice; she was clinging to the banister and peering up the stairs.

  Bragg picked up the coat, hanging it in the entry's closet.

  "Hush, madam, you will wake the children," Mrs. Flowers said, coming down the stairs. "Good evening, sir." She smiled briskly at Bragg.

  Leigh Anne was halfway up the stairs, meeting her there. "Did Rourke come by? What did he say about Katie's cough?"

  "Mr. Rourke was here, and he said it is a bit of a cold and nothing to worry about."

  Leigh Anne smiled widely, in obvious relief, and without even a single backward glance, flew up the stairs, past the nanny. "I promise not to wake them!" she cried softly.

  Bragg stared after his wife for a moment, terribly aroused. He reminded himself of his vow. He turned then and said to the nanny, "Thank you. Good night."

  "Oh! Sir, an envelope came for you a short while ago. It is on the table," Mrs. Flowers said as she went downstairs. There was one small bedroom behind the kitchen, where she slept. Peter had taken up residence in the apartment over the carriage house.

  Bragg about-faced. He found the envelope on the entry table in the silver tray reserved for mail and calling cards. He turned it over and his abdomen clenched. It was from Hart.

  What the hell did he want?

  There was a letter opener in the table's single shallow drawer, and he used it to slit the envelope.

  Rick,

  Francesca was assaulted tonight outside of her parents' home. Other than a minor cut, she is fine. She suspects the assailant to be Tom Smith's killer.

  Colder

  There was a single chair beside the table and he sank down on it. Francesca had been attacked. He quickly reminded himself that she was fine. The one thing he trusted Hart to do was accurately report any situation involving Francesca's welfare.

  He stood, his mind spinning. Tom Smith had been murdered. Francesca had been attacked. Why? Had they intended to murder her, too, or had it been a warning? And why had Tom Smith been killed? That answer, at least, was clear: he knew something; he was somehow involved. And Francesca suspected her assailant to be the same person who had murdered Smith. Why?

  He was in his evening clothes, so he had not worn his greatcoat. He hesitated, thinking about the woman upstairs, and then felt a feral sense of triumph—tonight he would live up to his vow. He took the stairs two at a time.

  She sat in bed with the children, still in her mint-green evening gown. Dot was curled up against her hip, Katie snuggled to her other side. Both children were sound asleep. Dot looked like a little angel; Katie looked like a thin, homeless waif. Leigh Anne looked up when she realized he was standing there. She smiled. "Rourke said it's nothing."

  "I have to go out."

  She started and for one moment he thought he saw dismay in her eyes, but he could not be sure. Then she nodded. "Is it police business?" Her tone was
carefully neutral.

  He took pleasure in his reply: "Francesca was attacked tonight."

  Her eyes widened.

  He strode out and did not see her face fall. And had he turned, he would have seen Leigh Anne hugging herself, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  He thought she called softly, "I hope she is fine," but he could not be sure.

  "This is hardly a surprise," Hart drawled as he opened the front door himself and found his half brother standing there.

  Bragg looked angry, and he stepped into the house without a word.

  Hart noted his evening clothes. He half-turned. "Go to bed, Alfred. Good night."

  "Are you sure you won't be needing anything, sir?" Alfred said, standing a few steps behind Hart and not moving to go.

  Hart eyed Bragg with amusement. "Actually, my brother looks like he could use a stiff drink." He could not help himself: he loved the fact that Bragg was so enraged, and he knew exactly why. He hadn't been there that evening to protect the woman of his dreams. How frantic he must be.

  Worse, it was Hart who had been there to rescue her. Hart hid a smile. Not that Francesca had needed rescuing. It was easy, now, to be amused. He hadn't felt that way several hours ago when he had seen all that blood—all her blood.

  Bragg nodded at Alfred. "I do not need a thing."

  "Very well then, sirs. Good night." Alfred inclined his head and left.

  "Do come in," Hart said.

  "You are smirking," Bragg returned evenly. "But then, you would find enjoyment in your fiancée being in a killer's hands."

  Now Hart was annoyed. "I am enjoying the fact that you are out of the loop, Rick, and do not dare to presume what I think where Francesca is involved."

  "I don't presume. I know," Bragg said simply.

  "You think you know—when you are nothing but a fool," Hart said. He turned and stalked through his huge house, past priceless paintings and sculptures, including some works so provocative that his guests had been offended by their public display. The doors to his library were open. Hart strode to the bar set in the granite counter, above which was nothing but rare books. He poured his favorite scotch. "I am surprised I managed to rouse you out of bed," he remarked coolly.