Deadly Promise (A Francesca Cahill Romance)

283 Pages·2003·0.98 MB·English

by  Brenda Joyce

DEADLY PROMISE
Brenda Joyce
St. Martin's Paperbacks
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 TWENTY-ONE

For my shining star—Adam
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, March 27, 1902—New York City
Francesca Cahill may have been born into society, in fact, she was an heiress
of a very marriageable age, but recently she had become the city's most famous
(and infamous) amateur sleuth. Having spent her entire life flouting both the
spoken and unspoken rules of convention, being well-read, highly educated and
an active reformer, she was already considered both unmanageable and an
eccentric. Her behavior of the past three months had not aided her flailing
personal reputation. For she had helped the police commissioner, Rick Bragg,
solve several ghastly crimes—even making the headlines of some of the city's
most reputable dailies. All this while further scandalizing a good portion of
society—not to mention her own family.
Her reputation was currently in shreds, not that she cared. However, it might
very well take a stunning turn for the better. For Francesca had somehow
become secretly engaged to one of the city's wealthiest and most notorious
bachelors, Calder Hart. She still did not know whether to regret it or not. But if
their engagement survived all that she had thus far done—and she winced
thinking about it— a public announcement would take her from ugly duckling to
swan.
But she seriously doubted Hart would even speak with her now—much less
continue their engagement.
There was relief and there was regret.
"Francesca Cahill! You disappeared for an entire month! And I am dying to
know why!" the former Connie Cahill, now Lady Montrose, cried. She had just
barged into Francesca's bedroom.
Francesca cringed, but only inwardly, as she faced her always fashionably and
terribly elegant older sister. It was ironic that much of the city thought of her as a
hero, she mused. It wasn't true. She was, in fact, a coward, never mind the many
dangerous and murdering hooks and crooks she had single-handedly faced and
apprehended. She was a coward, because only a coward ran away from the man
she was supposed to marry. She was a coward when it came to the darkly
disturbing Calder Hart.
Connie faced her after closing the door to Francesca's beautifully appointed
bedroom—a room she had had no say in decorating, as the decor had been
chosen by her mother, Julia, and sister. Francesca hadn't cared then, just as she
did not care now. Decor—and fashion, shopping, and teas— was hardly
did not care now. Decor—and fashion, shopping, and teas— was hardly
important to her. She forced a smile and hurried forward clad only in her corset
and drawers and embraced her sister. "It's so nice to see you, too," she
whispered, but she meant it. Connie was not just her sister; she was also her very
best friend.
"Do not think to dissemble with me," Connie said, her hands on her slim hips.
She was clad in a gorgeous dark blue evening gown, with sapphires around her
throat and wrists, atop the white sateen gloves that ended at her elbows. "I know
why you disappeared!" Her blue eyes flashed.
Francesca tensed. Connie could not know. Before leaving town to visit an old
and ailing and very fictitious school chum, she had left Hart a brief note, one that
hardly explained anything but did request that their engagement remain a private
affair until she returned to New York City. Wisely, Francesca hadn't left a
forwarding address; she had left the city to think about her life and her impulsive
decision to accept Hart's proposal. "What is it that you think you know?"
Connie sighed then. "There is no Elizabeth Jane Seymour, Fran. I would recall
a best friend by that name! You chose to leave the city because you could no
longer handle the little predicament you have found yourself to be in." Connie,
who was a platinum blonde generally considered to be a great beauty, eyed
Francesca with some smug satisfaction now.
Francesca sighed in return. She hated deceiving anyone, much less her sister.
And Connie was right. Marriage had never been a part of her agenda! What was
she doing? Her agenda had been to become a journalist, to expose the world's ills
to society, so those with means could engender badly needed reforms and
humanitarian aid. That agenda had included a higher education at a renowned
women's institution, Barnard College. However, her agenda—and her life—had
begun to unravel some time ago: last January, to be exact. She had fallen in love
while solving a terrible crime, and nothing had been—or would ever be—the
same again.
And to make matters worse, it hadn't been Calder Hart whom she had fallen in
love with.
Perhaps Connie hadn't learned about her engagement— which meant that
neither had her mother. And it was Julia Van Wyck Cahill's dearest desire to see
Francesca suitably wed—immediately, before she solved another crime and
garnered another headline. Julia was a very powerful woman who always got her
way. "Yes, I found the heat too much to bear," she said warily.
Connie met her gaze. "The heat? You sound like that little hoodlum you are so
Connie met her gaze. "The heat? You sound like that little hoodlum you are so
fond of. Joel Kennedy."
"I suppose his ways are rubbing off on me," Francesca murmured, as she had
come to rely on the eleven-year-old heavily in her sleuthing. He knew the city's
worst wards intimately. He was her guide, and more.
"Oh, Fran. They will both be at the Wainscot ball tonight." Connie's gaze
moved to the bed behind Francesca, where a vivid and dark red ball gown lay.
"Mama said you would attend. And I see you are wearing the red." A knowing
look came to her eyes and she smiled.
"It's not what you think!" Francesca cried. Both Rick Bragg, the city's police
commissioner, and his notorious and wealthy half brother, Calder Hart, would be
at the Wainscot ball tonight. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought.
Oh, God, what should she do? Was she doing the right thing? And how could
one marry a man one didn't love—even if that man's mere look could enflame
her entire body? And could two half brothers be more unalike—and more
bitterly jealous of each other? If only they weren't such rivals.
"Then tell me what to think," Connie said, moving to Francesca and placing
her arm around her. Both sisters were considered almost as identical as twins,
although Francesca's hair was the color of rich honey and her skin was tinged
with tones of peach and gold. Francesca knew that was not true. Her sister was
beautiful, while she, Francesca, was on the ordinary side of pretty. Connie
always stood out in a crowd, but Francesca had been a wallflower (and a
bookworm) for most of her life.
Until recently.
Francesca sat down beside her and they clasped hands. "I have been worried
about me, too," she said softly.
"Oh, Fran, didn't a month away clear your head?"
"Yes ... and no," Francesca whispered.
"You are still torn between Bragg and Hart?" Connie wasn't smiling now. She
was concerned.
Francesca nodded, wishing she knew what to do—then slowly pulled a chain
out of her bodice. On the end dangled a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, one
worth quite the fortune. Her heart beat harder as she dangled the huge
engagement ring.
Connie's eyes widened. "Oh my."
"Yes, oh my."
Connie blinked and met Fran's gaze. "You are engaged?"
"We were. Briefly. Secretly," she added. "I have no idea if we still are—and if
we aren't, why, then it is for the best. Marriage is not for me and we both know
it." But her words rang false and hollow.
Connie shot to her feet. "What nonsense is this? You fool! To run away and
sabotage the best thing that could happen to you! I pray you are wrong and that
you haven't single-handedly destroyed this opportunity, Fran."
Francesca swallowed. A part of her desperately wished that she had not run
away—and that she had not sabotaged her secret engagement, too. "Can I ride
over to the ball with you and Neil? I am really not in the mood for Mama's
lectures tonight."
Connie nodded. "Of course." But she was staring intently now. "Still, you
have been wearing his ring around your neck. Did you take it off even once?"
She did not wait for Francesca to answer. "I daresay you did not. And you are
wearing the dress. The dress he likes. I do think I am underestimating you."
"I am a fool, Connie, to think I am special, because every single woman he
has had has thought the exact same thing!" Francesca cried. And it was the truth.
Connie gripped her shoulders. "But you are special! Good God, you are the
bravest and most clever—and most stubborn—woman I know. You have spent
your entire life since you were a child defending the rights of the poor and the
helpless and fighting for those rights! You attend college, Fran, college; how
many women do that? And need I add that you have become the city's most
famous sleuth in the past three months? You have made the news, Fran. You
have brought terrible criminals to justice."
Francesca blinked. "Well, when you say it that way, I do seem rather
eccentric."
"No, not eccentric, original and brave and beautiful and special!" Connie
cried.
Francesca hugged her hard. "You are the best sister a girl could ever have,"
she whispered.
"I wish you could see yourself the way that the rest of the world does—the
way that I do."
Francesca smiled. "I'd better dress. I am quite late."
"Yes, you are late." Connie smiled back as warmly. "Do you need help?
Should I call Bette?"
"I'm fine," Francesca said, turning to gather up the provocative red dress. But
"I'm fine," Francesca said, turning to gather up the provocative red dress. But
it was a lie. She wasn't fine.
She was terrified.
Francesca handed off her wrap. She was wearing the daring red, with black
gloves that ended past her elbows, and she was clutching a ruby red beaded
reticule—in which she carried the ring. Her hair had been tonged and swept up,
and Connie had insisted she wear a delicate diamond necklace and small pearl-
and-diamond earbobs. As Connie handed off her sable stole, Francesca glanced
from the front hall into a large reception room with pale marble floors, a huge
crystal chandelier, and white plaster walls. As they were very late, a crowd had
gathered already, the ladies in glittering jewels and sleeveless silks and taffetas
and chiffons, the men in black tuxedos. White-coated waiters were passing trays
containing flutes of champagne. A band was playing in the adjoining ballroom.
Francesca saw her brother, Evan, standing beside the flamboyantly beautiful
countess, Bartolla Benevente, and then saw Rick Bragg.
Her heart skidded to a stop.
But he had already seen her, even from this distance, and he was staring, his
eyes wide with surprise. He took a step toward her and Francesca tensed, now
seeing the beautiful and petite woman at his side. Leigh Anne was tiny, her skin
porcelain, her eyes emerald green, her hair raven black. She looked like a perfect
little doll. Francesca's heart sank.
Bragg walked toward Francesca, his strides lengthening, leaving his wife
standing there with a group of people Francesca did not know.
"You had better come to your senses and soon, Fran," Connie whispered. "I
have seen them out and about constantly since you were gone. She is on his arm
every time I see him at a function. She is well liked. She has joined several
organizations, including the Ladies Club of Fifty and the Committee of Fifteen,"
Connie said, referring to several political organizations dedicated to the good-
government reform movement. "And the other day, she invited me to a
luncheon."
Francesca froze. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. Leigh Anne was
taking up reform? It hardly seemed fair! "You declined."
Connie was grim. "I accepted. The luncheon is tomorrow. The agenda is
public education. I do believe the merits of fund-raising for more schools will be
discussed."
Public education in the city was a disaster. Thousands of children did not
attend school because there were simply not enough schools and not enough
attend school because there were simply not enough schools and not enough
teachers. The city's recently elected mayor, Seth Low, had been elected on a very
progressive platform, which included good government—government to
ultimately benefit the people. And that included education.
As Connie had said, Francesca had been a reformer since she was a child, first
selling cookies to raise money for orphans. She belonged to six societies,
including the Citizen's Union Ladies Club, and was active in them all. Education
for everyone was at the top of her agenda—and Connie knew that. Now,
Francesca was torn between anger and admiration for a woman she so wanted to
despise. Leigh Anne was beyond beautiful—but surely she was not a reformer at
heart. Surely it was a ploy to capture Rick Bragg's heart.
"Why don't you join me?" Connie asked. "She has invited thirty of the city's
wealthiest women. She probably intends to ask each and every one of us for a
handsome donation. These are ladies you should know, Fran."
Sourly Francesca said, "Private money cannot fix the public education system
in this city." But Connie was right. She should go and meet these women,
perhaps enlisting some of them to her causes. She would have to attend Leigh
Anne's luncheon no matter how she dreaded doing so.
"You are a mule, Fran, an utter mule, at times like these." Connie almost
stomped her foot. She watched Bragg approach, as did Francesca.
He was so handsome. He had the tawny complexion and sun-streaked hair that
many of the Bragg men were renowned for. His eyes were topaz, his cheekbones
very high, and he was broad-shouldered and small of hip. Francesca wished that
things could be different somehow. Then she caught herself and closed her eyes.
Wishing for the impossible was frivolous and a waste of time. She had come
to grips with the ugly reality of his being unhappily married some time ago.
"Neil and I will mingle. Good luck, Fran," Connie whispered, then sailed off
on her husband's arm.
Fran's eyes flew open and she watched Bragg take the last few steps to her
side. He seemed incredibly purposeful now. He paused, and she tried to smile
and failed.
"Are you all right?"
Her heart tightened. His first concern would always be her welfare. "Yes, I am
fine. And you?" Her gaze crept past him and to Leigh Anne, who hadn't moved
and who watched them very carefully now.
He shrugged. Then, "You left town without a word. You've been gone for four
weeks. I heard something about an ailing friend. Francesca?" His gaze was