Deadly Vows (22 page)

“I had certainly hoped to.”

He gave her a dark look, took her arm and guided her toward the pavilion. “I am glad Hart followed you. And I am very angry with you.”

She winced. “I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid that if you were present, the blackmailer would see you and flee. Not only do you look like a spot, you are very famous now. Your likeness and photograph is in every day's newspaper.”

“That is a pitiful excuse. Once again, you overestimated your own capabilities. You are giving me gray hair.”

She looked at him as they walked inside the pavilion. That was exactly what Hart often said.

“By the way, I also have news.” Bragg paused just inside the front doors. The lobby was pale and spacious, with granite arches and stone floors. “We have found the bordello where Dawn might be working.”

“That is wonderful news—I will go speak with her the moment we are through with Mary. And what about Bill Randall?” She regretted not calling Bragg last night. She had been too upset, but if she had spoken to him, Randall might already be in custody.

“I'll have the house put under surveillance. I am thinking we should tail him, Francesca, not arrest him, as we do not have a solid case against him. Instead, we'll see where he leads us—hopefully, it will be to your portrait.”

They walked over to the long reception desk, where he checked them in as visitors, and the clerk went to fetch his superior. Bragg smiled at Francesca and she smiled back, glad to be firmly back in the midst of an investigation—and glad that she had reached a decision about Hart.

A tall man came out of the back corridor, wearing a doctor's white overcoat. “Commissioner? I'm Dr. Jones. This is very unexpected.”

Bragg shook his hand. “This is Miss Cahill, Doctor. Is some thing wrong?”

“Yes, there is. The patient you wish to see has apparently vanished.”

 

“M
R. HART,
Mrs. Andrew Cahill is in reception. She doesn't have an appointment,” his clerk said.

Hart had been reading a contract that would bring a midsize Danish shipping firm under the control of his global shipping empire. While he had lawyers to do just about everything necessary to execute his many enterprises, he preferred to read every correspondence
pertaining to his business affairs, and all legal documents, himself. He often went through the invoices of his various companies. His mind was razor sharp. He'd caught employees stealing, cheating and embezzling a hundred times. He hated disloyalty, but he knew it festered and could not imagine another way of managing his business empire. There was no one he could trust.

It crossed his mind now that it would be pleasant to have an associate whom he could trust.

He thought of Francesca, his heart lurching. It was amazing how hurt and anguish could coexist with so many other emotions. Her image brought instantaneous delight to his heart and a smile to his face, and there was no denying the warmth that stole through him. Yes, he cared deeply. Yes, he loved her. She was the most extraordinary, the most original, the most intriguing person he had ever met. But he had done the right thing. Of that, he had no doubt.

However, he was very, very angry with himself for hurting her. He was a selfish and depraved bastard. But what did she expect, especially when she had tried to play him? It would have been amusing, if the sight of her unadorned left hand hadn't been so shocking.

The urge to overpower her—to make her admit that she wanted and loved him—had been impossible to resist. He was accustomed to using sexual persuasion to gain his ends. He hadn't even thought about using her attraction to him to get her to declare her true feelings.

He hated the fact that she had put his engagement ring in the safe, but his decision remained. They were no longer affianced. There would be no wedding. Now he was managing the facts: the engagement was off. Francesca and he would be friends—forever, if he had any choice, and he usually did. He would, somehow, encour
age her to turn to someone else. If she chose his brother, he would find a way to live with it.

He had been out of sorts and he knew damn well why—he was secretly as distressed as she was. But he refused to admit to himself that he was upset—or worse, consider why there was a painful bubble in his chest. He was not good enough for her. She deserved better. He would not be her downfall. He could not live with himself if that happened.

Those four statements had become his mantra.

And should he be tempted to forget the reasons behind his decision to end their relationship, he had only to remind himself of the most recent developments. Not only was he responsible for the existence of the portrait in the first place, it now seemed that his dear brother Bill was the one trying to ruin her! How perfect was that irony?

Why couldn't she see how bad he was for her?

And now Julia was here to lobby on behalf of her daughter. This, he supposed, was just what he needed—for he loved a good challenge. Now he had to charm Francesca's mother without revealing that the wedding was off. For good.

For he meant to keep Julia on his side. She was a formidable force in Francesca's life. He had meant it when he had told Francesca that he intended to be her friend and ally, her champion and defender. She wouldn't become his wife—or his lover—but he intended to remain entirely in Julia's good graces.

“Show Mrs. Cahill in,” he said pleasantly. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and put on his suit jacket, retying his tie. A few minutes later Julia strolled into his office, beautifully dressed in a pale blue watered-silk jacket and skirt, diamonds and aquamarines at her throat and ears. No one would ever mistake her for anything less
than what she was—one of the city's most powerful and elegant women.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Hart said, coming across the spacious office to greet her. He took both her hands warmly and kissed her cheek.

“I inquired at the house, and I was very surprised to learn that you were at your offices today.” Julia was smiling, but her gaze was sharp. “Calder, it is July the first.”

Hart slowly smiled. “I can always find business matters to attend to, even on July the first.”

“I imagine that you can. But it is simply a shame that you are here today, when you and Francesca were scheduled to be steaming across the ocean to France.”

“May I offer you some refreshments?” he asked smoothly.

“Oh, Calder, I hardly need tea. What happened Saturday was a terrible tragedy, and we haven't had a chance to discuss it.”

“A tragedy was averted,” he said, smiling, “as Francesca escaped her captor. By the way, you may tell Andrew that I will take care of the costs of the failed wedding.”

Julia studied him. “I doubt he will let you do so. Francesca is being very closemouthed about what actually happened. And she has the police involved.” He didn't react, so she continued, “You don't seem angry with her.”

He said truthfully, “I doubt I could ever remain angry with Francesca for very long. I care too much about her.”

Julia beamed. “I am so relieved! Most men would be furious—they would call the wedding off.”

“I am not most men. I was certainly angry on Saturday, before I learned of the facts. Now I am relieved that no real harm was done, and I look forward to apprehending the perpetrator of the misdeed.”

Julia blinked. “I am so very fond of you, truly. You are an exceptional young man.”

“Thank you,” Hart said, inclining his head.

“So what will we do now about the wedding? Everyone has left town, so we can hardly have an affair till the fall. Andrew is champing at the bit to get out of town, anyway. We are going up to Saratoga Springs tomorrow, but I wanted to talk with you first. Should we plan a fete for September?”

“I am glad that you have come to me, Julia, although I would have happily met you uptown if you had sent word. Why don't you let Francesca and I sort this out? But certainly, you must leave town for the rest of the summer. Saratoga is exceedingly pleasant at this time of year.”

“Well, nothing can be arranged at this moment. Connie has lingered in town as well, and I think that is because she is worried about her sister. But clearly, she need not worry, need she?”

“Perhaps if you remind Connie of how deeply I care for Francesca she will cease fretting.” He smiled. “Please tell her I am not angry, not at all—I am simply looking out for Francesca's best interests.”

“I will do that. But I am loath to leave town with Francesca on this investigation of hers. I know her, and she will not join us until the case is solved. She has involved Rick Bragg, you know.”

Hart murmured, “He is an excellent police commissioner.”

Julia blinked. “You do not mind? I do not care for them keeping all hours of the night!”

He did not move his smile. “I prefer she investigate with an escort, Julia, whether that be Bragg, myself or my driver, Raoul.”

“Well, if you will remain in the city with her, I suppose
I could manage that. Francesca needs guidance, Calder. I do not trust her if she is left to her own devices.”

“No one needs guidance more,” he said, meaning it. “She would climb a telephone pole in the rain to rescue a stray cat.”

Julia laughed, taking his hands. “Yes, she would. You know her so well, and clearly you love her deeply. I am so relieved! This was not the audience I expected.”

“I am glad you are pleased. I suggest you enjoy your summer holiday, and I will keep an eye on Francesca, to make certain she does not climb any telephone poles.”

“Very well.” Julia squeezed his hand. As she left, she called, “And do write us when you have decided on a new date.”

Hart smiled as she left. Then his smile faded. He didn't want to think about Francesca running about the city with Rick, but the image was now engraved in his mind. Well, at least she was safe. And didn't he want to encourage the liaison?

Even if it killed him?

 

“H
ELLO, DAWN
,” Francesca said.

The brunette had just come down the stairs of the Georgian mansion, which was between Madison and Fifth Avenues, where the brothel was housed. A tall, pretty young woman, she faltered, her gaze widening. “Emerald?”

Francesca had come alone. Joel was with his family at Coney Island and she doubted she would get any information from Dawn if Bragg or another police officer was present. He hadn't been all that pleased about her interviewing the prostitute alone, but Francesca had pointed out that it was early afternoon; the brothel would most likely be closed to customers, and very little could go wrong in the light of day. She had compromised by
agreeing that a pair of roundsmen would lurk as discreetly as possible outside. Meanwhile, Inspector Newman was bringing Daniel Moore in for further questioning.

Francesca remained astonished over the discovery that Mary Randall had somehow “vanished” from Bellevue. Apparently the staff, including the doctors treating her, were in a state of utter confusion. One nurse thought that she had been transferred to the asylum at Blackwell's Island. Dr. Jones, who hadn't treated Mary in weeks, finally found a note to that effect in her file. But the paperwork ordering such a transfer had not yet been found. Meanwhile, other staff seemed to think she had been released—an impossibility, of course. In fact, no one seemed to know exactly when she had been transferred—or if she had simply disappeared—or escaped.

Bragg meant to check it out immediately. As calm as always, he had reminded her that, in all likelihood, she was at Blackwell's Island. Francesca genuinely hoped he was right.

“It is Francesca, remember?” She smiled at Dawn, handing her one of her calling cards. She had used the alias of Emerald while posing as a prostitute in the spring, during their investigation into a child prostitution ring. She couldn't help recalling Hart's shock and disbelief when he had found her in that establishment, after he had decided to do some sleuthing on his own. He had been so very angry with her.

She let the warm remembrance go. “A maid let me in, Dawn. I expected it to be harder to get inside to see you.”

Dawn looked at her card, still surprised. “I didn't think I would ever see you again, Em—Francesca. And they are not strict here, not as long as we mind our manners—and our customers—after the doors open to the public at six.”

“I didn't imagine our paths would cross again, either. However, I am on a new investigation.”

Dawn began to smile. “How are those little girls we rescued?”

“They are all doing very well, thank you.” Francesca smiled back. “I don't think I ever thanked you enough for helping us round up that horrid gang.”

“You thanked me. And it was the right thing to do.” She hesitated. “I believe in Jesus, Francesca, in spite of what I do for a living. But what investigation would bring you here?”

Francesca hesitated. “It is actually personal. I am in some trouble, frankly.”

“Oh, no!”

“I am being blackmailed. Someone has the ability to ruin me, Dawn. I was wondering if you could help me at all?”

“I don't know what you are talking about. How could I possibly help?” Dawn seemed genuinely perplexed.

“For starters, it would be a vast help if you knew where Solange Marceaux is.”

The warmth in her eyes vanished. “What does she have to do with this?” she asked.

“Perhaps nothing. But I would like to speak with her.”

Dawn shook her head. “That is not a good idea. She hates you. And how do I know that you wouldn't call the flies? She would be arrested, wouldn't she? She was trafficking those children!”

“I am not interested in arresting Solange, not at this time,” Francesca said. It was partly the truth. Eventually, she would love to see the other woman behind bars. But that was not her priority. While it certainly appeared that Bill Randall was their man, Solange must be ruled out.
“I need to talk to her. I want to make certain she isn't involved in the blackmail.”