Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

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      “Not really!” Francesca quickly explained that she was locked in. Remaining calm, the gentleman told her to go to the front door, and that he would find a way to get her out.

      Francesca slowly climbed off the cabinet and the desk, every bone in her body aching. She picked up her purse and shoes, aware that her gun was outside, and realized that her nails were broken, her fingers scratched and bleeding slightly. She pulled out the pocket watch. It was half past four.

      Frightened, she left the office, hurrying through the gallery. She glanced at her portrait, wishing she had thought to destroy it. She was afraid to leave it behind. The moment she saw Hart, she would tell him what had happened and he would send someone to retrieve it.

      At the front door she found the gentleman who had offered to help her with a roundsman, who was busy trying to pick the lock. There were far more shadows inside now. Her portrait was lost in the darkness, one small relief.

      The lock clicked about ten minutes later.

      Now in her shoes, Francesca rushed outside. “Thank you!”

      “Are you all right, miss?” the uniformed policeman asked her, his gaze taking in her untidy appearance.

      Francesca imagined that she looked like a bedchamber sneak. She nodded, about to move past him. “I am very late,” she began, but he barred her way.

      “Are you a relation of Mr. Moore?” the roundsman asked pointedly.

      He thought her a burglar or thief! She froze. “No, I am not. Sir, my wedding is today.” She flushed, beyond all dismay. “In fact, I was to be married by now. I must go!” Surely Hart would understand. Surely he would be waiting for her.

      “The gallery is closed. It says so right there, on the door sign. I’m going to have to take you in, miss, on suspicion of breaking and entering these premises.”

      Francesca cried out. “I was invited here!”

      As if he hadn’t heard her—or didn’t care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”

      She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:

      Francesca Cahill

       Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

       No. 810 Fifth Avenue

       New York City

       No Crime Too Great or Small

      As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with the police commissioner—who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

      He looked at her, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, ma’am.” Respect filled his tone now.

      “Good. Right now, Rick Bragg is at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, awaiting my arrival there—along with three hundred other guests.” She felt tears well. “Along with my groom, Mr. Calder Hart. You have heard of him, surely?”

      “Wasn’t he locked up for murdering his mistress?” the gentleman said, standing behind the officer.

      She cried, “Hart is innocent—the killer confessed and awaits conviction. Now, I need a cab!”

      “I’ll get you a cabbie,” the roundsman said quickly. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, for delaying you, but you have to admit it was suspicious, you being inside the closed gallery like that.”

      “May I have my gun, please?” He handed it to her and she started for the street at a run. She had never been as desperate—and there were no hansoms in sight. Behind her, the cop put his fingers to his mouth and a piercing whistle sounded. Moments later, a black cab turned the corner from Broadway, the gelding in its traces trotting swiftly toward her. Francesca sagged with relief.

      Forty minutes later, the tall spires of the church came into sight. Francesca leaned forward, praying.

      But the avenue was deserted. Not a single coach was parked outside the church.

      She did not have to go inside to know that everyone was gone.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Saturday, June 28, 1902

       6:00 p.m.

      EVAN CAHILL CLOSED the door to his sister’s bedroom, Rick Bragg pausing in the corridor with him. They had just thoroughly searched every inch of the bedroom and adjacent boudoir, but had not produced the note Francesca had received that morning.

      Evan adored his youngest sister, but he knew her better than almost anyone. Leave it to Fran to help some poor sod in need—and miss her own wedding. While he admired his sister’s generosity, intelligence and ambition enormously, this new penchant for sleuthing kept getting her into harm’s way. She had been burned, knocked out, locked up and stabbed, all in the past few months. A cat had nine lives. How many did his reckless sister have? His heart filled with dread.

      Bragg said, “I would like to use the telephone.”

      Evan nodded, remembering that he had not turned off the electric lights inside the room. He quickly did so. “It’s downstairs, in the library.” As they left the bedroom, he said, “I am terribly worried, Rick. Will you begin an official investigation?”

      Bragg clasped his shoulder briefly. “Do not worry yet. Your sister is not only intelligent, she is resourceful. She will be fine.”

      Evan did not think Bragg believed his own words. A vast concern was reflected in his eyes. He was aware that Rick Bragg had romantic feelings toward his sister. Although he liked Bragg, he did not approve—the man was married. He now thought about the unlucky groom as they went downstairs. “Hart was furious.”

      “Yes, he was.”

      Evan knew he would be furious if he were stood up at the altar, as Hart had been. The humiliation would be consuming. He could barely imagine the shock of having one’s bride not show up, especially if he were in love. By now, though, Hart must be as worried about Francesca as everyone. Yet he had not come by, demanding to know if they had discovered anything, nor had he called.

      As he led Bragg into the library, he could hear his mother’s high, distraught tone. Julia was a formidable force and never panicked. She was in a panic now.

      He felt his heart lurch as Bragg picked up the heavy black receiver. He was in a bit of a panic himself, he decided. Fran loved Calder Hart. Only something terrible would have kept her from her own wedding.

      “Beatrice, it’s the police commissioner,” Rick Bragg said. “Please connect me to HQ.”

      Evan jammed his hands into the pockets of his evening trousers. He’d shed his tuxedo jacket the moment they had arrived at the Cahill mansion, about an hour ago. He was a tall, dark, handsome man of twenty-six. Unfortunately, he liked to carouse and was obsessed with gaming, and as a result he had accrued some monstrous debts. Recently he had had a grave falling-out with his father. Andrew Cahill had decided that the time had come to refuse to pay his son’s debts—unless Evan married a respectable young lady. Their battle had СКАЧАТЬ