Читать книгу: «Deadly Vows»

Praise for Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series

“Joyce’s latest ‘deadly’ romance is truly a pleasure to read, given its involving plot, intriguing characters and the magic that occurs as the reader becomes immersed in another time and place.”

—Booklist on Deadly Kisses

“If this is your introduction to Francesca Cahill, you’ll be just as hooked on the series as longtime fans. Joyce skillfully pulls you into her characters’ tangled lives as they pursue a killer. The ‘Deadlies’ keep you coming back for more because you care about the people and you can sink your teeth into their complicated lives as they twist and turn with mystery.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Kisses

“As Francesca searches for clues and struggles with her complicated feelings for two different men, readers will follow her from turn-of-the-century New York’s immigrant tenements to its wealthiest mansions. Fans of Joyce’s Deadly romances will find the seventh in the series to be another entertaining blend of danger and desire.”

—Booklist on Deadly Illusions

“Just when you think you have it all figured out, Joyce turns it all around, leaving you with a cliff-hanger, and eager for Francesca’s next adventure.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Illusions

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An elegant blend of mystery and romance simmering with sexual tension.”

—Booklist on Deadly Promises

“The steamy revelations…are genuinely intriguing, and just enough of them are left unresolved at the book’s end to leave readers waiting eagerly for the series’ next installment.”

—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Love

BRENDA JOYCE
DEADLY VOWS

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Lucy Childs,

For reading every proposal and every manuscript (except the paranormals), for all those words of encouragement and support, for all the times you played interference, all the times you calmed me down and, of course, for being my number one Deadly fan!

Thank you!

DEADLY VOWS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE

New York City

Saturday, June 28, 1902

10:00 a.m.

IT WAS HER wedding day.

Francesca Cahill was nearly in disbelief. Three weeks ago, her fiancé had been in prison, under arrest for the murder of the woman who had briefly been his mistress. Three weeks ago, her father had been dead set against Calder Hart in every possible way, and especially against Calder’s engagement to his daughter. Three weeks ago, New York society had been thrilled over the apparent downfall of one of its most wealthy and powerful denizens.

Francesca stared at her flushed reflection in the mirror. Hart was notorious, and his reputation had been established long before his mistress was found murdered. He openly flaunted the accepted conventions and mores of the day. His behavior was self-indulgent and often scandalous, his propensity for divorcées and married women was well-known and his art collection was so avant-garde it was shocking to most. He delighted in saying and doing as he damn well pleased; he was so wealthy, he could get away with it.

But that had been three weeks ago, and Hart hadn’t fallen. Instead, the city’s elites would attend their wedding this afternoon. Soon, they would lift their flutes to toast Hart and herself.…

The hypocrisy hardly surprised her. After all, she had been whispered about her entire life. While her older sister, Connie, was properly married to Lord Neil Montrose, Francesca was an eccentric, a highly educated and outspoken bluestocking, an actively radical reformer—and recently, a professional sleuth. In fact, she had helped the police investigate eight shocking crimes since the beginning of the year, and her efforts had been so significant that the police commissioner had admitted that the crimes would not have been solved without her. The press had even begun to cover her activities on a daily basis. She had become one of the city’s leading, if infamous, celebrities.

Francesca hardly cared about fame. What she did care about—and had since she was a small child—was helping those far less fortunate than she was. Reform remained as important to her as breathing. Since discovering her innate abilities as a sleuth, she had dedicated herself to helping the innocent victims of dastardly crimes.

Francesca had to pinch herself. She was deeply in love; no woman could resist Hart’s dark allure and neither could she. He was the most difficult, unpredictable man she knew. She would gladly help him battle the ghosts of his past—she couldn’t wait to marry Hart—but she was also afraid.

Despite his reputation, Calder Hart was wealthy, and that meant he was a catch. Society’s reigning matrons had tried their very best to interest Calder in their perfectly groomed, perfectly mannered debutante daughters. He had scoffed openly at their efforts. Then she had begun to investigate the murder of Paul Randall—Hart’s biological father. From the moment their paths had crossed, his complicated, dangerously dark nature—coupled with his seductive charisma—had been impossible to resist. He had become a powerful ally, a protector and defender, and even a friend. And while he had never tried to seduce her, very swiftly their friendship had become charged with desire.

Somehow, Calder Hart had come to the conclusion that he wished to marry her, the most eccentric and independent of women. How could she not be afraid that he would eventually change his mind about her?

Calder had been involved with the most beautiful women in the world. She was hardly the kind of sultry seductress he was renowned to associate with. She was romantic, naive and somewhat inexperienced still. Mostly, she was far too clever, far too outspoken and opinionated, and far too ambitious for her gender. Women were not supposed to have high intellect, professional aspirations and vociferous opinions. Nor were they supposed to covet independence, as she did.

Donning a blue skirt and shirtwaist, Francesca turned away from the mirror, shoving all fear aside. The past two weeks had been a frenzy of activity, frantically preparing for a society wedding. Her mother, Julia Van Wyck Cahill—who was not a relation to the crooked former city mayor—would not have it any other way. Julia had railroaded her husband into agreeing to the marriage— Francesca had witnessed moments of the powerful persuasion—and she and Connie had immediately set about the task of organizing the wedding. The ceremony would take place at Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church and then they would go downtown to the Waldorf Astoria hotel for the reception. Francesca had been shown guest lists, floral arrangements, color schemes, seating plans, dress designs and fabrics. She had simply agreed to whatever her mother and sister thought best. There had been a whirlwind of evening engagements, too, which she had reluctantly attended. Hart had gone to Chicago to take care of as many of his affairs as possible, as he had no wish to attend to business while they were on their honeymoon in Paris, and had only returned a few days ago.

Francesca was pinning up her hair when a knock sounded on her door. She was expecting her sister, who intended to spend the day with her and later help her dress, but it was one of the housemaids. “Who is it, Bette?”

“It is the police commissioner, miss. He says he is sorry to bother you, but he was hoping for a word.” The pretty French maid smiled at her.

She was not expecting callers on her wedding day, not even Bragg. Her heart leaped. What had happened?

She hesitated. She had worked closely with Rick Bragg these past months. They had become a formidable team, indeed. He was her dear friend. In fact, before she met Hart—before she had learned that Rick was married, although separated—she had had very strong romantic feelings for him. He had been the first man she had ever kissed.

And he was Calder Hart’s half brother.

She refused to think about that ancient romantic attachment now.

Instead, she thought about the fact that a holiday weekend loomed. Many in high society were already gone for the summer, but the city was hardly deserted. While Coney Island and its beaches were a popular destination for merchants and their families, most of New York City would remain occupied over the Fourth. The city’s slums were teeming and crime never took a holiday.

Bragg must need her help on another investigation, she thought. But she could hardly help him now!

Francesca stuck another pin into her hair and hurried down the wide, winding carpeted staircase of the Cahill mansion. Bragg was standing in a smaller salon off the large marble-floored reception hall, staring out a window. Bright June sunlight poured into the salon. Outside, beautifully manicured lawns surrounded the house. Francesca could glimpse several hansoms and a small gig on Fifth Avenue, while a few ladies with their parasols strolled on the sidewalk. Across the avenue, dotted with black iron gas lamps, Central Park was clearly visible, the trees behind its dark stone outer walls shady, lush and green. It was a beautiful summer day—the perfect day for a wedding.

For one moment, she had the chance to watch Rick before he saw her, and warmth stole through her. She would always care deeply about him. He was tall, golden and very striking in appearance, but it was so much more than that. He was even more committed to reform than she was; he had spent the past decade in Washington, D.C., as a lawyer, representing the indigent, the mentally incompetent and the poor. He had turned down a partnership in a prestigious law firm to do so. In January, he had been appointed by New York City’s new reform mayor, Seth Low, to clean up the police department, which was notoriously corrupt. A recent study estimated that the police took in four million dollars every year from gambling, prostitution and other vices—all from illegal payoffs. Even small merchants like grocers and shoemakers gave their local roundsman a dollar or two a week for protection.

In the six months since Bragg’s appointment, he had done his best to break the stranglehold of graft and corruption in the department, mostly by reassigning, demoting and promoting the force’s officers. But he was caught between the warring forces of politics and progressivism. Mayor Low had begun to back away from Bragg’s reform policies, afraid of losing the next election. The city’s progressive elites and clergy had begun to howl for even greater efforts from Bragg. The German Reform Movement, allied with Tammany Hall, kept pushing back. Bragg remained on a terrible seesaw. But he was determined to clean up his police force. Consequently, he’d made far more enemies than friends in a very short time.

She doubted there was a man alive whom she admired and respected more. Except, of course, for her fiancé.

Bragg turned and smiled, coming forward with long strides to greet her. “Francesca, am I intruding?” He kissed her cheek as she took his hand. “I know this is your wedding day.”

Releasing his hand, she smiled into his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten. “I hope so, as you are on the guest list. I would be crushed if you were not present.”

He studied her, his smile fading.

She realized he looked very tired. “You could never intrude. What is wrong?”

“Thank you for meaning that. You seem very happy, Francesca.”

She became wary. Bragg had not hidden the fact that he disapproved of Hart entirely. “I’m a bride. Of course I am happy, although I am also nervous.” Suddenly she knew why he was there. “You haven’t come to share the details of a new case with me, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” He was somber.

Her smile vanished and he caught both her hands. “My feelings about this wedding have not changed,” he said with urgency. “I am so worried about you.”

She tried to tug her hands free and then gave up, as he wouldn’t let her go. “I am marrying Calder this afternoon.”

“Three weeks ago, Hart was in jail, at the top of our list of suspects.”

She pulled free. “No, he was at the top of your list. I never doubted his innocence.”

“He has you mesmerized.”

Hart and Bragg were bitter rivals in every possible way. No two brothers could be more different. They had been raised in the poverty of the city’s worst tenements—until Rathe Bragg, Rick’s father, had taken them both in. Now, Rick sacrificed the pursuit of the finer things in life in order to help others; his life was dedicated to the reform of society and government. As police commissioner, he lived on a very modest income—and did not care. Hart had taken away an entirely different lesson from his childhood. He was a millionaire, and he displayed his wealth with shocking arrogance. While Hart gave lavishly to several charities and the arts, his ambition had been to acquire power and never suffer poverty and powerlessness again. He had amassed a fortune through hard work and superior intelligence, mostly in shipping, insurance and the railroads. An objective observer would label the one brother the epitome of selfless virtue, the other, selfish and self-serving.

Francesca knew it wasn’t true. Hart had his noble side, and she knew that firsthand. With her, he had been nothing but selfless and good. She had come to believe that his arrogance was a facade.

None of that mattered now. She hated the animosity between them. Unfortunately, she knew that a great deal of that rivalry was fueled by her past with Rick and her current relationship with Hart. And that was hardly fair, as Rick had been separated from his wife and since had reconciled with Leigh Anne. “I am far more than mesmerized, Rick. I am in love.”

“You have no doubts?”

“I cannot wait to become Hart’s wife.”

“And that is what worries me so much.” Dismay was reflected in his unwavering amber gaze.

“A woman of the world—someone as jaded as Hart—could manage him. But you are as romantic as you are intellectual. And in spite of his courtship, you remain so naive. I shudder when I think of how you trust him, and worse, of your expectations!”

He was echoing the sentiment she had overheard in the past few weeks. “I am hardly going to expect the worst of our marriage. I believe my expectations are fairly realistic,” she said. A knock sounded on the open salon door, interrupting them. She gave him a dark look, turning away. Did he have to do this now?

One of the doormen entered, holding a small box wrapped in white paper with a pretty blue ribbon. Francesca knew it was a gift from Hart. She glanced at Bragg.

Rick scowled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his tan trousers as she thanked Jonathon. She went to a desk and unwrapped the gift. The traditional jeweler’s velvet box a bride might expect was not within, but she hadn’t expected tradition—not from Hart. Instead, she withdrew an antique penknife with a two-inch blade and an ivory handle. The card lying below was scrawled with the initials CH.

“My God, he sent you a knife,” Bragg said.

“Something old, something new.” She laughed. She loved the gift! It was perfect for her. The small knife fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, the better for hiding it when in dire circumstances.

Francesca replaced the knife in the box. This was one of the reasons she loved Hart so. Another man would have sent her jewelry, but not Hart. He understood her so well.

“You are most definitely under his spell.”

She nodded. “Yes, I am. And I hope to be under his spell for a long, long time.”

He returned quickly, “In the short time you have known him, he has hurt you so much—I have witnessed your pain firsthand.”

She wanted to deny it, but she could not. “Please, Rick, not today. Simply wish me well.”

But he barreled on. “You must know that Hart is in the newspapers on a nearly daily basis, Francesca. The city’s newsmen continue to exploit the details of his sordid affair with Daisy Jones.”

She tensed. “I know that gossip still rages about her murder. And I know what they are saying about him—that, regardless of the killer’s confession, some in town have decided to believe Hart guilty. These past two weeks, I have been out and about almost every night, at my mother’s insistence. I have heard the ugly whispers—as I was meant to. They even say he will tire of me.” She managed a shrug, as if she did not care, but she could not smile.

He was silent for a moment, and she knew that he thought, as those matrons did, that Hart would wander, sooner or later. “I was at the Wannamaker affair,” he finally said. “You were not. I heard the horrid gossip myself. They want to hang him, Francesca, and by association, they will hang you, too.”

She knew Rick was here, causing conflict, because he cared so much about her. “It is payback for all the years he has defied and mocked society and everyone in it.”

“He is despised. When they whisper about him, they will also whisper about you.”

“I realize that. I grew up in society and I am well aware of how vitriolic it can be. Of course I do not enjoy the gossip. Of course I wish it would end. We will definitely go through a rough patch. It will be some time before society forgets about Daisy’s murder. But he is innocent, has been proven innocent, and I will stand by his side steadfastly. That is what a wife does for her husband.”

“He broke off his engagement with you when he was accused of Daisy’s murder,” Bragg said harshly. “And he broke your heart. I know you haven’t forgotten. He was selfish then as he is selfish now. Think, Francesca!”

She trembled. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. But he was trying to protect me from the scandal—and from himself.”

“You have become adept at making excuses for him!” His tone was urgent. “You know, as I know, that he will hurt you again and again, in little ways, if not the biggest possible way. God only knows what demons live within him. He is selfish and cruel. I have seen him deliberately try to hurt you! You deserve someone kind.” He took a breath. “I am not asking you to end your engagement. But I am asking you to delay the marriage. I cannot understand this mad rush to the altar.”

She trembled, finally tearing her gaze from his. “Why are you doing this?”

He said, “You know why. Because I have never stopped caring about you.”

She blinked back sudden tears. Once, long ago, he had been the man of her dreams. And maybe, if his wife had not returned, they would be together now. But she had fallen madly in love with Hart. She hadn’t thought it possible to love so deeply, so intensely. And she had made her choice months ago. But his comments hurt now, and she didn’t dare analyze why. It was a moment before she could speak. “I can hardly delay now.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She looked up somehow. “He would be terribly hurt if I did so—and I am in love.”

His achingly high cheekbones flushed. “And he would recover, if you batted those blue eyes at him. Right now, you have my brother enthralled.”

“I want to marry him today, Rick.” There was a warning in her tone.

“Do you? I saw worry and doubt in your eyes—do not try to deny it. I know you too well.”

She hugged herself. It was a moment before she spoke. “I admit I am apprehensive. Hart is a difficult man. I fully expect our marriage to have its ups and downs, as most marriages do. My expectations are realistic.”

“Ups and downs?” He was incredulous. “When he causes you pain, he does so deliberately—and it is a knife to your heart. I know. I have seen. Francesca, I want to protect you from him!”

She backed away. “Please don’t do this today. I am not delaying our wedding. I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I can’t wait to be his wife, no matter that you have upset me.”

He grimaced. “I am sorry. I simply care too much. Very well. But I will kill him if he doesn’t reform and become the husband you deserve.”

She inhaled, relieved. “So you will wish us well? I need your blessing!”

He reached for her, and as inappropriate as it was, she went loosely into his arms. “I wish you well with every breath I take, and I always will. Francesca, you deserve to have all of your dreams come true.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Rick,” she said softly. “So I will see you at four?”

Warmth finally showed in his eyes. “Yes, you will see me at four.”

CONNIE SAILED THROUGH the heavily polished front doors of the house. Surprised, she halted midstride as Bragg nodded at her in greeting. As he left, Francesca walked over to her blonde sister and the two of them paused to watch him crank up his black Daimler motorcar in the driveway below the house. A moment later he had put on his goggles and was motoring down the long, graveled driveway toward the open iron gates at its west end.

The doorman closed the front door and Francesca faced her elegant, perfectly groomed sister. Julia had raised her in her own image: Connie was a proper lady, a caring mother and wife, and the perfect hostess. Like Julia, she was an adept socialite. “I see you are already dressed for the wedding,” Francesca teased, fully aware that Connie would rush home to change into something even more elegant than the blue pin-striped suit she was wearing.

Connie’s eyes widened. “Hardly. Francesca, what was Rick doing here?”

Francesca took her sister’s arm and led her back into the salon she and Rick had just vacated. “He came to wish me well,” she said a bit too firmly.

Connie gave her a disbelieving look, then walked over to the mahogany doors and closed them. She turned. “You aren’t on another case, are you?” It was a mild accusation.

“No, Con, you need not worry on that score.”

Connie sighed. “I believe I feel sorry for him.”

“Connie, don’t!”

“Why not? He was in love with you until his wife materialized out of thin air. And I see the way he looks at you. Everyone does.”

She was uncomfortable now. “Con, he loves Leigh Anne.”

“Does he? He is certainly fulfilling his duty toward her, and they make a striking couple. But I must say, the few times I have seen them together, I have noticed how tense their relationship is.”

Francesca shook her head. “You know that Leigh Anne has suffered a terrible carriage accident. She will never walk again. They are going through a very difficult time. Yes, Bragg is fond of me. I am fond of him.” Her heart lurched as she thought about Hart. She bit her lip and looked at her sister. “But, Connie, tonight I am going to be Hart’s wife.”

Acute desire came suddenly. She had spent hours in his arms—and in his bed. But he had refused to entirely do the deed. For some blasted reason, he insisted on being noble with her.

Connie’s smile was knowing. “As your sister, I know you have somehow managed to restrain your passions. I am so excited for you, Fran. Hart is smitten and you are head over heels. God only knows how Mother and I managed to organize this reception in a mere two weeks!”

Francesca laughed, her worries vanishing. All she could think of was Hart watching her with that dark, intense gaze he had as she walked down the aisle. “God only knows how you convinced Father to agree to a wedding in two weeks.”

“I think Hart did that,” Connie said. “Neil saw them at Delmonico’s, having lunch. By the way, he said Father looked apoplectic.”

Francesca bit her lip. Hart hadn’t said a word about meeting with her father before he’d left town, but clearly he had done just that. She happened to know how adept Hart was at negotiation. Obviously Andrew Cahill, no slouch when it came to business affairs—he had begun his career as a butcher and now ran a meatpacking empire—had been vastly outmaneuvered.

“Have you seen your fiancé since he returned from Chicago?”

“We had a wonderful supper the night before last.” She blushed, thinking about it.

“I wish we had been able to organize an affair for last night, but it was difficult enough to prepare the wedding,” Connie said. A knock sounded on the closed salon doors and she turned to answer it.

Francesca murmured, “Hart was given a small bachelor’s party last night.”

Connie blushed and said, “I do not want to know.”

“Neither do I,” Francesca lied. She couldn’t wait to find out where he had been taken and what kind of entertainment he’d been given.

The doorman, Jonathon, was holding an envelope in his hand. “Miss Cahill? This just came. I was told to deliver it directly to you and no one else.”

Flowers wouldn’t have surprised her, but such a delivery did. Francesca couldn’t imagine what the envelope would contain, or why it had been hand delivered. As Jonathon walked past her, Connie glanced at the envelope. She lost some of her coloring.

Francesca saw her reaction and was bemused. She reached for the envelope and froze. It wasn’t addressed to her. Instead, a single word in heavy block letters was hand-written upon it: URGENT.

Francesca was assailed with unease. Connie cried sharply, “Fran, do not open it!”

Francesca took the envelope, thanking Jonathon. “That is all,” she said. She waited for him to leave and turned it over. The back was blank.

Connie came over to her. “I know you. That must be the beginning of an investigation. It is your wedding day, Fran. Do not open it!”

“I am not going to start an investigation today, Con,” Francesca said calmly. She walked away from her sister, ostensibly to stand in the light coming through a window. In fact, she did not want her sister to see the contents of the envelope until she had done so first.

A printed invitation was inside. It read:

A private preview of the works of Sarah Channing

On Saturday, June 28, 1902

Between the hours of 1:00-4:00 p.m.

At No. 69 Waverly Place

Francesca felt her heart drop as if to the floor. Her knees buckled. She could only stare at the invitation in horror.

“What is it?” Connie cried, rushing forward. “Has someone died?”

Francesca quickly held the card to her bosom so her sister could not see. She looked at Connie, but her mind spun and she did not see her sister at all. Instead, she saw the portrait Sarah had painted of her last April, at Hart’s request. In it, she was stark naked, seated on a settee.

Her stolen portrait had surfaced.

Someone had just invited her to view it.

She inhaled. Francesca had no doubt what this terrible in vitation was about.

“Fran? Let me get you a glass of water.”

Francesca sat down, hard, in the closest chair. Her sister knew that Hart had commissioned her portrait and that it had been stolen, but she did not know that it was a nude. Only a handful of people knew.

Her heart thundered. If that portrait were ever displayed in public, she was ruined. Her family would be more than horrified and shamed—they would be ruined by association with her.

Of all days for the thief to come forward. What did he or she want?

“Con, no, I am fine!” Francesca leaped to her feet. It was only half past eleven. She could be at 69 Waverly Place in an hour—maybe less, considering a great deal of the city was already gone for the summer. Surely she could be at the church by three, with plenty of time to dress for her wedding.

No one must ever see that portrait!

Connie faced her, her eyes wide. “What is it?”

Francesca managed a smile. “I need a favor, Con, a huge favor—”

“No. Whatever is in that note, it can wait.” Connie was frowning. Her mild-mannered sister was becoming angry.

She kept smiling. “I need you to bring my dress, my shoes and my jewelry to the church. I will meet you there at three.”

“Absolutely not,” Connie cried, horrified.

“Connie, if I do not take care of this—this matter now, I will be in terrible trouble!”

“Take care of this matter after you are married.”

“Connie, I am going downtown. I will be at the church by three, I swear. Nothing can keep me away!”

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday, June 28, 1902

12:00 p.m.

RICK BRAGG STARED at his Victorian home, the engine of the Daimler idling, but he did not really see the quaint brick house. Instead, the interview he’d just had with Francesca kept replaying in his mind. He was very afraid for her.

He knew Hart would eventually destroy her. His brother had a black, selfish soul. He was cruel and self-involved. From time to time he could rise to the occasion, briefly showing the honorable side of his nature, but in the end, he always reverted to serving only his own interests and ambitions. Francesca was selfless. Hart was selfish. No match could be worse.

But he was hardly an impartial observer. Bragg was afraid to recall the past he had shared with Francesca. He feared that too many old feelings would return. He knew he must not think of the time they had first met, when he had been smitten with her—and she had returned his passionate interest. He must not think about their debates, their discussions, their investigations—or the kisses and caresses they had shared. That was wrong. His wife had returned after leaving him four years ago, and as uneasy as it was, as angry as he had been, they had reconciled. Besides, before Francesca had become charmed by his brother, she had utterly rejected the notion of his ever divorcing. Although he never spoke openly about it, in the most elite political circles it was assumed that one day he would run for office, possibly even for the United States Senate. A divorce would ruin his political prospects.

He had made his own bed, which he now slept in. Leigh Anne had insisted on moving back in with him—and when she had, he had insisted on his marital rights. He had been furious with her for both leaving him and then returning to him. What had begun as an unfriendly reconciliation had turned into a passionate one, but his lust had been fed by his anger.

He had spent half of last night working, the other half thinking about the fact that Francesca was actually going to marry his heartless half brother on the morrow. He did not know where the past few weeks had gone. He had been overwhelmed at headquarters. There had been a series of civilian arrests in the Tenderloin—organized, of course, by the radical reformer Reverend Parkhurst, whose motives were political. Parkhurst vociferously claimed it was his duty as an American citizen to do what the police would not, which was to close the saloons on Sundays, while the press sensationalized every detail of every civilian raid, putting Bragg in the midst of the dispute. The mayor was furious with Parkhurst, but he was also displeased with Bragg. And Leigh Anne had begun to complain of pains in her leg.…

And then he had received the damn wedding invitation, only a week ago!

He was certain he could support Francesca’s marriage to someone else—someone worthy of her. Hart was not that man. But what could he do? He had tried to persuade her to delay, and she had refused. Now, he would have to stand aside and be ready to pick her up when Hart shattered her into tiny pieces. Bragg had not a doubt that was what his half brother would do.

He realized that the automobile was still running and he turned off the ignition. Reluctantly, he got out of the roadster, placing his goggles on the driver’s seat. The holiday weekend loomed. He would take his wife and the two girls fostering with them to the tiny village hamlet of Sag Harbor, on Long Island’s north shore. He had spent all of the prior night at his office at police headquarters, taking care of paperwork that only he could manage—the perfect excuse to stay overnight at the office. It wasn’t the first time; he had begun keeping a change of clothing there. He was astute enough to realize that he dreaded returning home. He wasn’t sure when he had begun to avoid his marriage.

The anger was long gone. It had been replaced by guilt. He had treated Leigh Anne terribly before she was injured. While she did not blame him for the accident, he blamed himself. His cruelty had put her in such a state of distraction that she had been run down.

As for the lust, every time he thought about reaching for her, she would turn away, or feign sleep, or make some excuse that one of the girls was awake, needing her.

He was hardly a fool. Leigh Anne was a passionate woman, but she was also vain and she couldn’t stand the changes the accident had wrought in her body.

She had even told him to take a mistress; she had even asked for a divorce. How ironic it was. He had been the one who had wanted a divorce when she suddenly reappeared in his life in February, while she had insisted on reconciliation! He wondered what was left for them, if they didn’t have conversation, understanding, affection or sex. He would never turn his back on her now. Even if he knew rationally that the accident wasn’t really his fault, she was his wife. If he didn’t take care of her, who would?

He walked grimly past a small black gig and gray horse parked in the driveway. He instantly recognized the vehicle, and his tension increased. Leigh Anne must have summoned Dr. Finney.

He focused on the fact that she must be in more pain—it was preferable to thinking about their volatile and unhappy relationship. He started up the brick path to the small house he had leased, hoping the girls were in the park with their nanny so they would not witness Leigh Anne’s distress. He stepped into the house, plastering a smile on his face. Instantly he heard a noise on the stairs. Katie came barreling down the staircase so swiftly he reached for her, afraid she would trip and fall. Her small face was taut with worry. His heart lurched with dismay.

He knelt. “What’s wrong?”

“Mrs. Bragg hurts so much,” she cried, looking at him as if he might be able to somehow save the day. She was dark haired and seven years old.

Katie was always anxious. When she came to them after her mother’s murder, she had refused to speak or eat. Now she spoke, although not frequently, and ate like a little horse. She even smiled from time to time, especially when Leigh Anne was at her best and mothering her. But she worried about her foster mother all the time and he knew it was not healthy for her. He clasped her thin shoulders. “Katie, Mrs. Bragg was badly hurt in that carriage accident. Now and then, she will have some old pain, left over from her injuries.”

“Why won’t it stop?” she whispered, her dark eyes huge and despairing.

“She has her good days, too. I am going to go upstairs to see what Dr. Finney has to say. Where is Dot?”

“She is having lunch.”

“Why don’t you join her. Aren’t you hungry? Mrs. Flowers is a wonderful cook.” He managed a smile.

Katie did not smile back, but she reluctantly turned. He hurried upstairs, his heart racing. Amazingly, he was anxious. He paused on the threshold of their bedroom, wondering how a man could live this way—in dread of going home, to a place without laughter and affection, without sex; in a state of constant apprehension. And then there was the guilt.

Leigh Anne wasn’t dressed yet. She wore a modest blue silk wrapper, her jet-black hair piled indifferently atop her head. She had the covers up and a wool throw over her lap, as if she was cold. Finney sat by the bed, speaking with her, patting her hand. His wife remained terribly beautiful, but she appeared as fragile as china.

Leigh Anne saw him and sat up straighter, as if stiffening her spine and squaring her shoulders. He slowly entered the room. “How are you?”

She said, “The pain is worse.”

Dr. Finney walked over. The two men shook hands. The doctor spoke softly. “I have given her some laudanum, to dose herself at night. She says she cannot sleep.”

“There is nothing wrong with her leg,” Bragg said tersely. “Those broken bones have healed.”

“Considering there was so much damage, I suspect she will always have some discomfort with her right leg. Try to make sure she does not rely on the laudanum to sleep. She should only dose herself if absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll see to it,” Bragg said. “Let me walk you out.”

“I can manage.” Finney gripped his shoulder. “See you later, eh? At Hart’s wedding?” He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and walked out.

Slowly, Bragg turned.

“I heard every word,” Leigh Anne said, her cheeks flushed.

“I am sorry you are in pain,” he returned.

“Where are the girls?”

He was aware of how much she had come to love Katie and Dot. He wondered if she was desperately clinging to them. “They are having lunch.” He approached, and her eyes widened. As he sat down on the bed by her hip, she tensed visibly, and he wondered if she thought he meant to try to make love to her. In that moment, there was no desire, just a fatigue that felt ancient.

But he knew himself. If she were to reach for him, he would lose himself in lust. He said carefully, “It’s after one. Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

She hesitated. “I do not feel up to the wedding.”

He was shocked. Leigh Anne loved society affairs, and although it was late June, this event would be in every single social column from Bar Harbor to Charleston. He thought about the fact that she hadn’t gone out in the past few days, not even to be pushed about the block or across the square in her wheelchair. When they had first met, she had been one of Boston’s reigning debutantes. Until recently, Leigh Anne had attended almost every luncheon to which she had been invited. She had been at his side at every supper party and charity she had deemed important to his career. He understood that she was melancholy, but it would only become worse if she did not get out.

She grimaced. “Of course I will come. And you’re right, I should begin getting dressed. Where is Nanette?”

He had had to hire a lady’s maid to help her bathe and dress. As his finances were precarious, he had let the male nurse go. “I will send her up,” he said as lightly as possible.

She forced a smile, avoiding his eyes. He went to the door. Then he halted. He hated seeing her so despondent. But how could he cheer her up? Maybe he should tell her that she did not have to go to the wedding if she truly did not feel well. Bragg turned.

Leigh Anne was pouring brandy from a pint-size bottle into her cup of tea.

FRANCESCA HAD BECOME very familiar with many of the unsavory, crime-ridden lower wards of Manhattan. Still, it was a large city, filled with slums and tenements, factories and saloons, with neighborhoods populated by Germans, Italians and Irish, not to mention Russians, Poles and Jews. In the course of her many adventures, she had even learned that there was a “Little Africa” on the Lower East Side. The various immigrant groups migrating to the city resided in distinct ethnic clusters.

She was proud that she knew the city well, but she did not know it like the back of her hand. In her very first investigation—into the abduction of a neighbor’s child—she had met a young, outspoken cutpurse, eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy. He had defended her from a thug, and she had taken him under her wing, not just because he knew so many tricks of the trade, but because she had a secret wish to help him improve his lot in life. When she did not have Joel with her—a rare circumstance indeed—she used a map to navigate Manhattan. Today, Joel was with his mother, Maggie, a wonderful seamstress who had become her friend—and possibly a romantic interest of her brother’s. She could imagine the chaos in the Kennedy home just then, as Maggie had been stunned to have been invited to her wedding. Undoubtedly Joel and his siblings were being groomed for the event.

But she did not need her maps. The cabbie she flagged down on the avenue instantly told her that No. 69 Waverly Place was on the north side of Washington Square.

Francesca was relieved. The previewing was but a few blocks from 300 Mulberry Street—which housed police headquarters.

She was on pins and needles. She had not a doubt in her mind that her portrait was at No. 69 Waverly Place. She had begun to wonder if someone wished to agitate her on her wedding day. If so, that someone had certainly succeeded!

Earlier, she had been relieved to find her father’s study empty; perhaps Andrew had been taking his weekend ambulatory in the park. She had made one quick telephone call before leaving the house, and it would have been quicker if the operator, Beatrice, hadn’t tried to converse with her about her wedding. But Hart hadn’t been home—she couldn’t imagine what he was doing on their wedding day—and she had spoken to his butler, Alfred. The butler had asked her if she wished to leave a message, but she had been too frenzied to get downtown to think of anything coherent to say. Before dashing out of the house, Connie had told her that she was a madwoman.

Francesca looked at the small pocket watch she had bought for herself recently; crime-solving was laborious, and she tended to run late. It was half past one. It had taken longer to get downtown than she had thought it would, but she had a good hour yet to explore.

They were on Fifth Avenue, traveling south. Ahead, she saw the green lawns and paved walkways of Washington Square. On both sides of Fifth Avenue she saw old brownstone buildings that were clearly residences, although she also saw a few ground-floor restaurants and taverns. Her hansom turned left onto Waverly Place, which faced the square. More dark brownstones lined the block, shaded by elm trees. Shops were on the lower floors.

She caught the bright sign hanging from one such establishment: Gallery Moore.

“Stop, driver, stop!” Her gaze sought the number above the sign. It was No. 69.

Frantically, Francesca dug into her purse.

“Do you want me to wait, miss?” the cabbie asked. He had a heavy Italian accent.

Francesca quickly looked around. Despite the holiday, the square was full. Women in pretty cotton dresses, some with parasols, were strolling with their children or their gentlemen escorts. Some of the men were in their shirtsleeves, while a few wore suit jackets and top hats. Two cyclists, one a woman in knickers, were on bicycles, weaving precariously along the paths. A few small dogs raced about, while a balloon drifted into the sky. It was a very pleasant, genteel scene.

She looked at the block facing her. Once, the buildings had been fashionable, single-family Georgian homes. There were daffodils growing about the elm trees on the sidewalks, and she saw more flowers in the window boxes. Washington Square was a tired and old neighborhood, but it remained middle-class. Another hansom was passing by and she decided it was safe to let the cabdriver go.

She was in such a rush that she stumbled from the cab. Slamming the door, she turned to face the gallery. Her heart thundered.

Everyone seemed to be in the square; the city block was deserted.

She paused to take her small pistol from her purse. It was loaded. Whoever had stolen her portrait, he or she was, at the least, a thief. And she would certainly not be surprised if that thief was also a blackmailer or an enemy, seeking revenge upon her. She would be a fool to deny her fear.

Her stolen portrait could be inside. She prayed that it was.

There were wide stone steps on her right, leading to the apartments above the gallery. The gallery itself was on the basement level, meaning she had to go down several steps to get to the front door. As she did, the first thing she saw was the white sign hanging on the door. Its bold black letters read Closed.

She paused, clutching the small gun. The door was glass, but set in iron and barred with it. She glanced at the windows on each side, which were similarly barred. Most galleries had large windows, to allow in natural light. She imagined that it was dark and gloomy inside this space.

A smaller sign was in the right-hand window. She went closer to read it.

Summer Hours: Monday-Friday, 12:00–5:00 p.m.

The gallery was closed to the public. Francesca felt her heart leap with relief, but that did not dim her anxiety. A small doorbell was beside the door, and there was a heavy iron knocker on it. Francesca reached for the doorknob.

It gave instantly as she turned it, and the front door swung open.

Clearly, someone was waiting for her.

In that moment, she wished that Hart had been at home, or that Bragg had still been present when she had gotten the invitation. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside. No lights were on, so the gallery was filled with shadow.

Francesca stepped in and closed the door behind her very, very quietly. To her satisfaction, she did not hear even the scrape of iron on the floor.

She could see well enough now and she turned, her skin beginning to prickle, certain she was not alone. She almost gasped.

Her portrait faced her.

She trembled. She had forgotten how stunning the painting was—and how provocative. In it, she wore nothing but a pearl choker. Her hair was up and perfectly coiffed. She sat with her back to the viewer, but she was partially turned. Not only were most of her buttocks visible, so was the entire profile of one of her breasts.

There was no mistaking her identity—and to make matters worse, she wore an expression of naked sensuality and raw hunger.

When she had posed for that painting, all she could think about was Hart.

Her instinct was to rush forward and yank the picture from the wall and destroy it. But there would be time for that later. She fought for composure. What did the thief want? Why surface now? Did he or she want money? Did he or she want to ruin her?

Was she being watched?

She felt as if eyes were upon her—and she did not like it, not one damn bit. She had her back to the door. She looked outside through the bars and glass, but the small concrete space beyond the front door was vacant.

Francesca started forward, gun in hand. If the thief was watching her, there was no point in remaining silent. Now she saw the other paintings on the walls. None were Sarah Channing’s work. Her style, somewhat classical yet impressionistic, too, was very distinct. “Where are you?” she called out loudly, turning the corner behind the center wall. The area there boasted nothing but blank gray walls. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Her words seemed to echo slightly in this smaller back chamber. She saw an open doorway, but hesitated. “Come out. I know you’re here.” She swallowed, straining to listen. All she could hear was her own thundering heartbeat and her rapid, shallow breathing.

She was afraid. Why wouldn’t she be? Someone had lured her to that gallery. She needed to take possession of that painting. “I will pay you handsomely for my portrait!” she cried.

There was no answer.

Standing in the back room, facing a dark, open doorway, she knew a moment of despair. What kind of game was this?

She hated releasing her gun, but she tucked it in the waistband of her skirt, only so she could remove matches and a candle from her purse. Months ago, she had learned to carry a large bag in order to keep the necessities of her trade with her. She lit the candle and realized the small doorway belonged to a single room, which consisted of a desk, a chair and file cabinets.

Francesca walked inside and saw nothing but receipts and notes on the desk. She looked carefully at the notes, but they were scribbles. Neither her name nor Hart’s jumped out at her. She looked at the saucer, which contained business cards.

Gallery Moore—Fine Arts and Consignments

Owned by Daniel Moore

No. 69 Waverly Place,

New York, NY

She rummaged through the drawers quickly, but there was simply too much paperwork to go through when the clock was ticking. The time. She froze, then reached for her purse, which she had laid on the desk. It was almost half past two.

Her temples throbbed. She did not have time to investigate now. But Bragg would be at her wedding and she would tell him everything before the ceremony, and send him downtown to retrieve the painting. But how could she leave the portrait now?

What did the damn thief truly want?

Francesca snuffed out the candle with her fingertips and left it on the desk—she had others in her purse. She took her gun from the waistband of her skirt. Purse in hand, in the darkness, she left the small office.

She thought she heard a small scraping sound coming from the front of the gallery.

She raced through the empty back chamber. “Who is there?”

There was no answer.

Frustration arose. She turned, jamming the gun into her waistband again, reaching with both hands for the oil painting. To her shock, it did not budge.

It wasn’t hanging on the wall by a wire; it was nailed.

She jerked on it again. It did not move.

And that was when she heard a lock clicking loudly in the dark.

She whirled to face the front door, expecting to see someone standing there, grinning at her. Instead, she saw a flash of movement outside of the gallery as someone ran up the steps to the sidewalk.

She cried out. Francesca ran to the door and seized it—but it was locked from outside as she had expected.

She cried out again, furiously, and tugged on the doorknob again. It did not budge.

Stunned, she stood there, the knob in her hands, the horror beginning.

She had just been locked in.

How was she going to get out? How was she going to get to her wedding?

CALDER HART STARED OUT of the window of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church’s second-floor lounge, feeling very pleased. He was already in his tuxedo, although he had yet to don his tie. Fifth Avenue was deserted. Everyone who was anyone had left town for the summer—except, of course, for those at the uppermost crust of New York society who lived in awe—or fear—of Julia Van Wyck Cahill.

The avenue was terribly attractive this way, in such a state of splendid desolation, with only a single carriage and two black hansoms traversing its paved streets. Stately mansions, elegant townhomes, exclusive shops and clubs lined the thoroughfare. Only three coaches were parked outside the church; it was far too early for guests to arrive. He glanced at a grandfather clock in one corner of the dressing room. It was a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. His gaze wandered back outside. Surely he wasn’t looking for his bride—he was not superstitious, but he had no wish to see her before the wedding, just in case. He smiled to himself. He had little doubt that Francesca was already in the church with her sister and mother, frantically applying the finishing touches to her toilette, as if she could possibly be made any more beautiful.

A few months ago, if someone had told him he would be at a wedding as the groom, he would have been very amused—and he would have considered that person an absolute fool. Yet there he was, with a racing heart and a touch of nerves.

“Hey, Calder,” Rourke Bragg said, laughter in his quiet tone. “Are you planning a mad dash for the exit yet?”

He took one last look at the quiet avenue. Two roundsmen in blue serge, carrying billy sticks, were standing on the street corner, chatting. Hart suspected they would soon be directing traffic.

He slowly turned to face the young man who had spoken. Rourke took after his father, Rathe Bragg. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with golden hair, amber eyes and a sun-kissed, almost swarthy, complexion. He also had Rathe’s inherently sunny, optimistic nature. He was actually Rick’s half brother, but having been taken in by the Bragg family at the age of nine, when their mother died, Hart considered him a relation, if not a sibling of sorts.

He also happened to like Rourke, who was in medical school and was devoted to his profession. He had not one hypocritical bone in his body.

Speaking of hypocrites, Rick Bragg had yet to arrive. He had only spent a half an hour last night with them at the private room they had taken in the Sherry Netherland to celebrate the last of Hart’s bachelor days. Hart smiled grimly. He rarely bested his perfect brother. He had surely bested him now.

He would never forget that once, months ago, Rick had been smitten with his bride. But Francesca was marrying him.

The satisfaction welled. It was savage.

“He must be sweating bullets,” Rourke’s younger brother, Gregory, said. He was twenty years old to Rourke’s twenty-four, and currently clerking in San Francisco for his uncle, Brett D’Archand, a shipping magnate. Upon learning of the wedding, he had taken a train to New York. Hart had asked Rourke, Gregory and their younger brother, Hugh, to stand up with him, along with young Nick D’Archand. Gregory’s grin was smug. “My God, Hart, it’s all over after today. No more wild women, no more fantastic orgies, just shackles and chains. You must be mad.”

Hart slowly smiled. “If you are asking me if I have doubts, the answer is no.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. The only male in the wedding party who was not present was the father of the bride. Andrew Cahill was downstairs, pacing in the front hall. Hart knew he would meet every single guest personally. “It must be love,” Hugh Bragg snickered. He’d arrived from Texas two days earlier.

Hart was adept at ignoring conversations he wished to ignore, and he said, unperturbed, “I am marrying the most interesting woman on this planet. Need I say more?”

Francesca’s brother, Evan Cahill, smiled. “Even the mighty fall,” he murmured.

“Like I said…” Hugh laughed, reaching for a flute of champagne.

He was only fifteen, and his father adroitly removed the flute before he could take a sip. Scowling, Hugh accepted a root beer from Alfred instead.

Hart meant his every word. He had no doubts. He had realized, within days of meeting Francesca, that she was the most extraordinary of women. She was as brave as she was beautiful. Her intellect was astounding and she had more ambition than most men he knew. She was all that was good, pure and honest in the world, and he worried, because she was so trusting. He had never known anyone more selfless or more generous. She had shown him, time and again, that she could not turn her back on anyone in need.

She was also independent. Most men would hate her refusal to be subservient and obedient; he admired her willful, libertarian nature.

Of course, she was reckless and impulsive; no one had less common sense. But now that he knew how easily she leaped in front of runaway trains, he would be there to restrain her from her poor judgment. She had already caused him to grow a gray hair or two—and they had only known one another for five months.

He had first glimpsed her in Rick’s office on January 25, but he hadn’t spoken to her until an outrageous party on the rooftop of Madison Square Garden on January 31. By February 23, he had known that she was the one woman in this world who would never bore him. He had looked at her, realizing how much her friendship had come to mean to him, his heart lurching oddly. She had changed his world in a handful of days, and while he thought the human aspiration to acquire happiness incredibly trite, she had warmed his entire life. The decision made in an instant, he had abruptly informed her that he intended to take her to wife. Needless to say, Francesca had been in shock.

She had accepted his suit five days later.

It was almost impossible to believe that they had come this far. But he wanted to marry Francesca Cahill, and he always got what he wanted. No one acquired the wealth and assets that he had, coming from such stark and impoverished beginnings, without sheer will and unholy ambition.

He was even eager for their wedding night, although he tried to feign indifference, even nonchalance. He was so used to casually seducing the beautiful women that crossed his path that it had become a game of sorts. He hadn’t wanted to treat her like the others. Francesca, he intended to treat with respect. He had decided that he would not take her innocence until they had said their vows.

He had a moment of hesitation, almost a frisson of fear.

She thought him noble. That was her most astounding feature—her unshakable faith in him. She simply did not understand that he was motivated by self-interest—always. If he were truly noble, he’d tell her to find someone worthy of her—someone like Rick. But he would never do such a thing. She was his first and only friend. His best friend. Of course, he must have her entirely for himself.

She refused to see him as he truly was, and sometimes, that terrified him.

One day, he knew his world would implode—when she realized the truth about him.

And as he had that unhappy thought, the lounge door opened and Rick Bragg walked into the room.

Hart stared at his brother, who had given up all the finer things in life to pursue justice, equality and liberty for all. He despised his virtuous half brother, but he recognized that Rick was as selfless as Hart was selfish, a noble do-gooder. He truly wished to save the world, and it was not a show. Yet Rick was not the perfect gentleman, no matter how he might pretend to be. He had flesh-and-blood needs and dark desires, just like anyone else. Sometimes, Hart could not stand Rick’s attempt to cling to his moral code. When it crumbled, Hart thrilled. Unfortunately, those moments were rare. As unfortunately, the world needed men like Rick Bragg, just as it needed women like Francesca. Otherwise, the world would be a living hell.

He just wished that Rick were not his half brother. He was good, Hart was bad. He was loved, Hart was not. Rick was the insider, the wanted one; no matter his wealth and power, Hart was always the outsider.

Mostly, he hated the fact that Rick had seen, courted, kissed and loved Francesca first.