Deadly Promise

by Brenda Joyce

  A terrible pang followed and she thought about Bragg, wrapped up in his grief, unable to leave his wife's side. She still wished she had remained behind with him at the brownstone, looking for more evidence with which to convict Elspeth Browne and Tim Murphy and their lackeys. Bragg had never needed her more—as a friend. Because clearly, when his wife recovered, things would be very different for them. If not, Francesca intended to hit him over the head several times with a solid object, as it was so terribly clear that he was in love with Leigh Anne.

  Francesca smiled a little at Hart. "Yesterday you wanted me to reconsider our engagement."

  "I changed my mind." His smile was as brief as before. His grip on her hand tightened.

  She moved closer to him, felt his body tighten in response, and laid her palm on his shoulder. Oddly, he seemed to flinch. "Calder? Is this because of the other night?"

  He hesitated. "No."

  "I don't understand."

  "You don't have to." He took her shoulders in his palms. "I have a good friend who is a judge. I happen to know he is in town. We can be wed by noon tomorrow, Francesca," he said.

  "Tomorrow!" she cried, stunned.

  "Francesca," he suddenly said, his tone turning rough, and he pulled her close and kissed her mouth once, hard. "Think about it. We'll speak first thing in the morning."

  Tuesday, April 1, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  Francesca paused in the doorway of Bragg's office. She hadn't slept all night, but she was too nervous to be tired. She had gone directly to Hart's upon arising that morning, but Hart had already been gone—apparently he had left for his downtown offices at six. She had had breakfast with Katie and Dot, and they had been joined by Rathe and Grace. As much as she needed to finish her discussion with Hart—she found it almost impossible to believe that last night's suggestion had even happened—she had yet to give her statement to the police. She would continue on downtown after doing so. Sanity had returned—somewhat—and she did wish to know the latest developments on the case.

  So now she knocked gently on the open door. Bragg was with the chief of police, Brendan Fair, and as Farr turned, he looked up.

  Francesca instantly sobered. Seeing Bragg reminded her of how precarious, unpredictable, and fragile life could be, and every time she thought about Leigh Anne, who would never walk again, she was unbearably saddened. Still, some good would come of this, and she was certain once Leigh Anne was out of the hospital, Bragg would be a proper and devoted husband to her. Maybe he had to come close to losing her in order to realize his real feelings. She smiled briefly, noting how pale and haggard he was. "Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting."

  "Not at all," Bragg said. "Chief and I were just finishing. Thanks, Chief."

  "No problem." Farr walked out, nodding at Francesca as he did so.

  "I came to give my statement," she said. She held her coat over her arm. She could not help herself, as seeing him in his grief hurt her so, and she said softly, "Are you sleeping at all, Rick?"

  He walked back behind his desk, putting it between them. "We have the brothel's ledger, and Murphy was apparently the man behind the operation. According to our bald friend, who is Eddie Flynn, by the way, Murphy ordered Tom Smith's murder and the assault upon you. Murphy is in the Tombs, apparently demanding a lawyer and his release." He looked up grimly. "Boss Croker is going to buy whichever judge we wind up with, Francesca. I expect Murphy to be back on the street after his pre-trial hearing."

  The fact that he did not wish to be at all personal with her hurt, but his following words shocked her. "That's terrible! Can't we do something about it?"

  "Most of the judges in this city are Tammany men. It's a huge problem," he said. Then, sitting, he added, "We did not find Solange Marceaux. She has, for the moment, disappeared, but I have issued a warrant for her arrest. Calder told me she intended to kill you," he added, finally looking her in the eye.

  She winced a bit. "She did, er, intend to dump my body in the river." She sat down in a cane-backed chair, facing him. "How will you ever find her?"

  "I don't know if we will. Elspeth Browne worked for Murphy, and she has started to talk. It sounds as if Murphy began searching out these girls late last year just before Van Wyck's term as mayor was over."

  "That is disgusting," she said, appalled. Thank God her mother was not related to the previous mayor! "As commissioner of education he could walk into any school he wished whenever he wished."

  "I'm having Principal Matthews brought in as well. However, I don't think he was involved—I suspect apathy, not criminal intent."

  "And Bonnie Cooper's father?"

  Bragg sighed, sitting back in his chair. "He and his wife sold Bonnie to Murphy, and Elspeth Browne has confirmed it. We are looking for some kind of receipt in the ledger, but Newman found two hundred dollars in gold hidden beneath a floorboard in their flat."

  Francesca could not speak. She had expected this, but the reality was nauseating.

  Now he smiled a little. "Emily's fever broke this morning. Her parents are with her, and Rourke expects her to go home tomorrow."

  "That is wonderful.'" Francesca cried. Then she leaned forward, delight vanishing. "How is she—other than that?"

  "She was never violated, because she fell ill instantly." He stared. "The other girls have suffered a terrible ordeal. Deborah and Rachael are at their homes, and the doctors here have recommended psychiatric treatment for them. Bonnie has been placed in the care of the state, but Eliza told me she wished to help and is applying to foster her until she reaches her majority. I have asked the mayor to pull some strings, Francesca, and he said he would, so Bonnie should be able to go to her new home shortly."

  She simply stared at him, in that moment reminded of why she had fallen in love with him in the first place.

  He began to flush and avoided her gaze.

  She didn't care. She reached over his desk and took his hand. "You are such a good man."

  He glanced down at their hands and removed his from hers. "If something like that ever happened to Katie or Dot..." He could not finish.

  "It won't," she said firmly. Then, "Bragg? Katie needs to see Leigh Anne again, it is terribly important even if she is still ill, and—"

  "No." He stood abruptly. "I will have Sergeant O'Malley take your statement."

  She realized he wished for her to leave and she could hardly believe it. "Bragg—Rick—I had breakfast with the girls. Dot is a bit confused, but Katie misses Leigh Anne desperately!"

  "When is Hart coming in to give his statement?" Bragg asked, walking past her to the door.

  She stared at him. He was shutting her out and she was in disbelief. It also hurt.

  "I need Hart's statement," he said impatiently.

  "I don't know when he is coming in," she returned. She stared at Bragg, who refused to meet her gaze.

  "If you see him, tell him to come in immediately," he said. Then, glancing at her, "I am sorry to be in such a rush, but I do have to go."

  Francesca bit her lip and nodded. "Actually, I, er, have some plans to attend to as well."

  He was so preoccupied it was as if he hadn't heard her. Francesca watched him donning his hat and coat, realizing he was off to Bellevue. She hesitated, wanting to go with him but knowing that would compromise her plan to go downtown to Hart.

  Bragg paused. "O'Malley can take your statement."

  She smiled grimly and watched him go.

  * * *

  Francesca felt flushed as she was shown to the doorway of Hart's large corner office. He was standing, staring out one of the large windows, gazing out over the harbor, filled with masts. His back was to her. The clerk, someone she did not know, murmured, "Miss Cahill, sir."

  Francesca gripped her reticule tightly. Slowly, Hart turned.

  He still remained darkly seductive and equally disturbing, not to mention enigmatic. Francesca noted that Hart wasn't smiling—he was as solemn as he had been last night. Her insides tightened with dread. Was s
he reading something into him that wasn't there? He also looked as if he had passed the same sleepless night that she had. She had a bad feeling that he had been conflicted with doubt. Why was he doing this?

  "I was preparing to come to you," he said politely. Too politely—as if they were strangers, as if she had not spent several hours mostly unclothed in his bed. "You did not have to make such a trip downtown."

  Now she was very alarmed. "I am such an early riser. In fact, I just gave my statement to the police." Dread churned in her belly.

  "I will have to find some time to make a statement as well."

  That was it—something was terribly, dreadfully wrong with Calder Hart. He did not seem pleased—or thrilled— to see her. He was not behaving like a man who wanted to elope with his bride. And if he had so recently wished for her to reconsider their engagement, did he mean that he wanted her to be certain of her decision—or had that been a platitude, a way for him to be polite? He had always insisted that he would never hurt her. What if he was really the one unsure of their engagement? For goodness' sake, this man had been a confirmed bachelor, sworn against the very notion of marriage, for at least ten years.

  Francesca knew she was a fool. Clearly he was torn; clearly a part of him did not want to ever marry, not her and not anyone else.

  She blinked back a sudden tear and looked out the window. She had decided she could not elope, because it was not the right thing to do. She could not elope because she wanted her parents and Connie, not to mention Evan and Sarah, at her wedding. She wanted Maggie and Joel there, too. And Alfred. And eloping would be a terrible lie, one she simply could not live with.

  And being newly wed now, with Rick fighting the tragedy and crisis of his wife's accident, that, too, did not seem right.

  But Francesca was afraid to tell him now that she had decided to wait for as long as her parents wanted her to wait for a proper wedding.

  Hart suddenly said, "I cannot go through with this."

  Francesca failed to breathe. She stared, her worst nightmare finally coming true. Hart was ending it with her.

  Francesca was ill. Fortunately, she hadn't been able to eat and had only taken a sip or two of tea that morning; otherwise she would have surely ruined the lovely dress she was wearing.

  "Francesca," he said grimly, taking her arm. "Please, sit down."

  Francesca wanted to fling him away, but she was too sick at heart to do so. He had said he would never hurt her—he had lied. Francesca pulled away from Hart, turning her back to him, hugging herself.

  "I cannot go through with this," he said to her back.

  She knew she could not get a word out, so she didn't even try.

  He took her arm and turned her about to face him. "There's something I have to tell you," he said grimly.

  She closed her eyes with dread. Maybe she would retch after all.

  "Leigh Anne is dying."

  It was a moment before she digested his words. She opened her eyes and saw Hart's expression—grim, resigned, and even, possibly, agonized. "What did you say?"

  "She went into a coma yesterday afternoon. She is expected to hang on for a few days, maybe a week or so."

  She finally comprehended him. "Leigh Anne is in a coma?" And now she understood Rick's anguish. Why hadn't Rick told her? "Oh, dear God." How terrible she felt for Rick and his wife. "When did you find out?"

  His expression odd, almost pained, he said, "Yesterday. Yesterday afternoon."

  Her mind sped. So he had known about Leigh Anne's terrible turn for the worse last night, when he had suggested they elope. "Are they certain she will die? Perhaps she will regain consciousness—"

  "They feel very certain," he said flatly.

  She met his dark eyes. It was a long moment before she could speak, as her racing thoughts were so jumbled. "She simply cannot die!"

  He shrugged.

  "We had better go to the hospital," she said quickly.

  "Yes, you had better go."

  His tone was extremely odd. She had been about to rush across his office and out the door; she paused, facing him. "Calder, what is it that you are not saying? I am confused. Is this what you wish to discuss with me? Leigh Anne? Or is there something else you wish to say? And we must go to the hospital together." It didn't seem right, to even utter the word "elope" now.

  His hazel eyes darkened, like a coming storm. "Leigh Anne is dying, Francesca. I wasn't going to tell you. But I am not such a ruthless cad after all. Now you know. Do you have a driver? If not, I will send you to Bellevue, as that is where you wish to go."

  Comprehension began. "I beg your pardon. I do wish to go to the hospital, of course I do, but..." and she paused, taking a huge breath. "Are you breaking off our engagement?" she asked cautiously.

  He started, his gaze wide. "Francesca, I have no wish to break our engagement."

  And she finally understood. And her heart began to pound differently now. "You thought to marry me—to elope—before Leigh Anne died."

  "I have never claimed to be noble. I do want to marry you—but in the end I could not go through with such a deception—one that would make you so unhappy."

  For a moment she stood there, unmoving and staring at him. He stared back unblinkingly, frighteningly. She understood it all, then. The battle he had waged—to do the right thing.

  And as she stood there, thinking, something slowly unfurled in her breast.

  "I have never lied to you before—I lied to you last night," he said grimly.

  It was joyful and relieved. "Calder, you are noble, can't you see?" And she felt tears rising rapidly.

  He was harsh. "I almost seduced you the other night, with ill intent, and today we could have eloped, with equally foul play. I am not Rick, Francesca. I am nothing like him, and I will never be."

  "I disagree," she whispered, meaning it. "You are a good man, Calder Hart." And the emotions swirling in her chest became more identifiable then. Am I falling in love with this man? she wondered, suddenly dazed by the notion.

  "The love of your life—the man of your dreams—will soon be available." He made a harsh sound. "The two of you can have that white picket fence after all. God knows you deserve it." His expression was so hard and tight his face appeared in danger of cracking. "I..." He stopped, clearly unable to continue.

  And she realized what was happening.

  "I want you to be happy. I wish you both the best," he said, and abruptly, he turned away.

  For one moment, she stared at his rigid back, shocked. Leigh Anne was in a coma and the doctors said she would soon die. It was terrible, terrible news. They must both gather around Rick now. And she simply knew what she must do. "Calder, come back."

  He stiffened impossibly more.

  "Please."

  He turned. Five or six feet separated them now—the gulf felt as vast as an ocean.

  "I feel terrible for Leigh Anne, and even more so for Rick. But you are the man I am engaged to, and I have no intention of ending our engagement."

  His face began to change. "What are you saying?" he asked in disbelief.

  She dared to reach out and touch his stubbled jaw. "I am saying, my dear, that we have an understanding and a commitment, and I have no intention of so easily letting you off the hook." She trembled violently. She was finally falling in love with a man with the worst reputation, but then, others did not know him as she did. Her entire life she had known that one day she would fall in love with a man like her father, reliable, respectable, and a reformer. But she was becoming dangerously fond of a man known to be a ruthless businessman and an unrepentant womanizer. She was scared—she would be a fool not to be—but she was oddly thrilled. "We all fight the devil, Calder."

  He stared, incredulous. Then, "I don't think you understand. You have always wanted Rick. In a few months, you can marry him, Francesca. Don't you see that?"

  She was aghast and horrified. "On the altar of Leigh Anne's grave?" Her feelings for Rick remained strong—he was everything she
admired in a man, and everything she had once believed was right for her—but she could never marry him that way. She would always care about him, far too much, she supposed, but in a way, she was glad—she wanted him in her life. But not the way Hart was suggesting. Never the way Hart was suggesting.

  He took her hands. "What are you saying to me, Francesca?" he demanded harshly. "What, exactly, does this mean?"

  She bit her lip, hard. Her mind sped, spun, gyrated, raced. There was only one coherent thought, one coherent feeling. But Julia's face appeared there in her mind's eye, and she could hear her mother as clearly as if she were in the room.

  Do not tell him that you love him, Francesca. Do not say a word until after the wedding, if then!

  "I am saying," she said softly, her heart beating with explosive force, "that everything has changed since we first met, Calder. Our friendship has become as important to me as it is to you. I also agree: we will have a very interesting union—one in which neither of us shall ever be bored." She smiled up at him. "But eloping is out of the question."

  His grip tightened upon her hands. And Hart, for once, seemed speechless.

  "Well?" She managed, smiling tremulously. "Do you not have something cynical and caustic to say?"

  He pulled her close, tilted up her chin. "I do not want you to ever have regrets."

  She hesitated. "I won't."

  He studied her closely and slowly began to smile. "Actually, in that department, I might be able to help."

  And she gave in to the giddy delight, the bubbling anticipation. "Help," she said. "Help all that you want." She moved into his welcoming arms.

  His smile softened and he whispered, pulling her close, "You have become the sunshine in my life, Francesca."

  She jerked back, meeting his gaze, stunned. "What did you say?"

  He pulled her close again and feathered her mouth with soft, heated kisses.

  She pushed him away. "Did you just say what I think you said?" she cried, breathless with surprise, and now, delight. In fact, she was thrilled!