Deadly Illusions (13 page)

“No one's home,” Joel declared. “They were gone earlier—left me a note. Went to supper, they did, with your brother.”

Francesca started in sheer surprise. Then delight began. “Maggie is with my brother?” She glanced down the block. “Maybe they have returned—”

“Light's out,” Joel announced. “They're not back.”

Francesca glanced at the window that she thought probably belonged to the Kennedy flat and it was black. She continued to smile. “I wonder where they went,” she murmured, more to herself than Hart.

“You are insatiable,” Hart said in her ear. “And it shows.”

She smiled up at him, keeping her voice low so that Joel wouldn't hear her suppositions. “I can't help myself. This is beyond intriguing—my brother is far too fond of Maggie for it to be mere friendship.”

“I would highly advise you not to meddle,” Hart said with a sudden smile. “If you can restrain yourself.”

“Of course I can,” she returned, somewhat indignant.

“We shall see.” He took her arm more firmly. “Lead the way, Joel,” he said.

Joel was more than pleased to do so, and a moment later Gwen O'Neil was opening her door. “Miss Cahill!” She gasped in surprise. She was very pale and her red nose and swollen eyes were testimony to the fact that Joel had not exaggerated the situation. Clearly she had been crying for some time.

“Mrs. O'Neil, this is my fiancé, Calder Hart. I know it is late, but may we come in? I'd really like to help you if I can,” she added.

Gwen clung to the door. She nodded. The moment they had filed past her and were inside, she slammed and bolted the door. Then she wiped her eyes with her fingertips. “I have an allergy,” she whispered. “Spring fever.”

Francesca saw that the drapes were drawn at the far side of
the room, indicating that Bridget was asleep behind the partition. She laid a palm on the woman's narrow shoulder. “How can I help?” she asked kindly. “Has something happened that we do not know about? That you have not told us?” She kept her voice down.

Gwen shook her head, looking ready to burst into tears.

“What is wrong? You weren't this distressed a few hours ago when I was here with the police commissioner.” And as she spoke, she felt Hart's sudden interest. His gaze bored into her back. She wished she had not brought up the touchy subject of Rick Bragg.

“Before, I thought I might be imagining it,” Gwen whispered.

“What did you think you were imagining? Did you think you were being followed again?”

“On the crosstown omnibus,” she said hoarsely. “I could feel his stare, I swear, but I saw no one, and then I had to walk the last few blocks. It seemed fine, normal, you know, so I thought I had made it up in my mind!”

“And what has changed since this afternoon?” Francesca asked.

Gwen swallowed. “I've seen him. Out there, through the window, on the street. He's there now, in a doorway, by the saloon. I've caught him staring up at my window, Miss Cahill, I am certain of it!”

For one moment Francesca stared, trying to recall a man in the doorway near the saloon as the men exiting it had paused to gawk at her and Hart. But she had no image of any figure lurking there. Hart said, “I'll see what I can find.”

“Yes, that's a good idea,” Francesca said. As Hart started for the door, Joel racing to accompany him, she restrained Gwen from rushing to look out of the window. A plan occurred to her. “Calder, maybe you should drive by in the coach, slowly—”

“I think I can handle this, darling,” he said with some
amusement and a shake of his head. And then he and Joel were gone.

Francesca had the insane urge to watch, too. Her heart beat hard with excitement and alarm. If Gwen was right, if someone was stalking her now, there was a possibility that he was the Slasher. And that meant he was a killer. And Hart was going after him.

It crossed her mind that he was unarmed, but she had a pistol in her purse.

He could be in danger.

“Stay here,” she cried, opening her bag as she raced across the flat and out the door. The stairwell was dark and empty, Joel and Hart on the street by now. On the landing below she paused, taking the pistol out of her bag and then using the velvet clutch to hide the weapon from any casual onlooker's view.

Her heart pounding, she went to the tenement's front door and saw that Hart had left it ajar. She peered outside.

Instantly, she saw that Hart and Joel had split up. Hart was across the street, clearly on his way into the saloon, undoubtedly on the pretense of wanting a drink. That was an excellent plan. She did not see Joel. Undoubtedly he was staked out somewhere, in case their quarry made a run for it.

She swallowed and fought to see into the shadows that covered the various cellar doorways surrounding the saloon. The lamp on the corner did not cast its glow very far. Beyond the saloon entrance, it was impossible to see. If a man loitered in one of the doorways, she simply could not tell.

For Gwen to have seen him, he must have stepped well out onto the sidewalk. Why was he now being so cagey? Did he suspect their presence? Or had he simply gone?

Hart clearly did not see anyone either, for he never broke stride, disappearing into the saloon.

Her palm was wet. She eased her grip on the tiny revolver, dismayed. If the stalker had been present, Hart would have seen him and pounced. The minutes ticked by. Two rowdies entered
the saloon, but otherwise, the street was empty and deserted, due to the late hour of the night. Francesca stared so hard at the opposite doorways that her gaze blurred. And suddenly she saw a man emerge from the shadows into the glow of lamplight.

Gwen had been right.

Francesca glimpsed no more than the huddled shape of him and the pale skin of his face, but if she did not miss her guess, he was staring directly up at Gwen O'Neil's window.

She did not know where Hart was, damn it, but she was not going to let the man escape. She dropped her purse and started from the doorway at a run, aiming the gun in the vagrant's direction.

He saw her and froze.

“Hands up,” she shouted as if she were a policeman, the entire street between them. “Halt and put your hands up!”

Ignoring her, he started to run past the saloon.

At that precise moment, Hart burst from the saloon. He tackled the man before he got to the corner of the block, knocking him down on his belly. A moment later, as Francesca ran up, Hart was astride him, pulling the man's hands behind his back. And then he was using his necktie to shackle the man's wrists.

Panting, Francesca halted beside them. Joel joined her at a run, also out of breath.

“I didn't do nothin',” the man cried. “Nothin'!”

Hart stood and turned to Francesca, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I said I would handle it!”

She bit her lip. “But you went into the saloon and I thought—” She stopped in midsentence.

“And you thought what, Francesca?” Calder demanded, taking the gun right out of her hand.

She felt wretched. “I knew you didn't have a weapon so I came downstairs to protect you if things went awry.”

His gaze widened. “You thought to protect
me?
”

She nodded glumly. Now she was in trouble, indeed.

“You were not protecting me by barreling out of that tenement and demanding that this man put his hands up!”

She grimaced. “But you went into the saloon instead of apprehending him. I thought you did not see him.”

“I saw him, Francesca. I went into the saloon to take off my tie so I had some means of restraining him, as I do not carry a gun like you do.” He was very angry, indeed.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered as meekly as possible.

“I doubt it,” he said coolly.

He was right—she really wasn't sorry. He wasn't hurt and they had the stalker! But they could argue about this later. “Hart, take him up to Gwen's so we can interview him!” she cried, a satisfied smile appearing on her face as she peered down at the man who had now sat up.

Hart gave her a dark look that meant that she was not off the hook, not by any means, but he hauled the man to his feet. “Do you have a name?” he demanded.

“You're not coppers. If you're not coppers, who the hell are you?” the man demanded in a strong Irish brogue. He was very slim and rather tall, with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. He wore the coarse cotton and wide-weave wool of a working man.

“I am Francesca Cahill and I am a sleuth,” Francesca said briskly. “And I have no problem taking you up to police headquarters, if that is where you wish to go.”

He scowled at her. “I done nothin' wrong.”

“Of course, if you speak to me, there is no need to bring the police into this,” she said, and she smiled winningly at him.

The man scowled and spat in her direction.

Hart moved. With a sudden growl, he seized the man by the back of his corduroy jacket and threw him face first into the building. “What's your name,” he said calmly, holding him hard there. And he lifted him as if prepared to smash his face on the wall again.

Hart was so elegant that Francesca had forgotten how he
had grown up. He had been born a bastard on the Lower East Side, not far from where they now stood. She cringed even as she gaped at him.

“Speak up,” he warned threateningly, his face a dark mask of ruthless intent.

“Hanrahan!” the stalker cried. “David Hanrahan and I done nothin' wrong! It's my right to be here!”

Hart released him abruptly. “You have your answer,” he said coolly to Francesca.

And realizing just how angry Hart remained with her, some of her elation died.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 10:00 p.m.

G
WEN SIMPLY STARED
at her husband as they led him inside her flat.

Francesca had expected a bit more of a reaction. Still, Gwen was pale and wide-eyed. But there were no hysterics and the extent of her surprise—the lack of shock—was more than odd, it was telling.

Hart shoved Hanrahan onto a kitchen chair. Then he loosened his bow tie, flipped a chair backward and sat down himself. He still seemed annoyed. Francesca hoped it was because of Hanrahan and not because of her reckless behavior earlier. Of course, her hopes were foolish, indeed.

“David?” Gwen whispered.

He nodded at her, his expression grim.

“It was you? You were outside?”

He nodded. “I got every right to be here! You're my wife!” he erupted.

Gwen covered her face with her hands, releasing a sob.

And Bridget suddenly stepped out from behind the drapes in her flannel nightgown. Her eyes were huge with surprise. “Papa?”

Francesca quickly stepped over to her as Gwen whirled with a cry. As she put her arm around the child, Bridget said, “It was really you. I really saw you after school today!” She began to tremble. Clearly the child was stunned to see her father.

And while Francesca realized that Bridget was shocked and
upset, she could not be certain that the girl was happy to see her father, either.

“It was me,” David said flatly. “Hello, my little poppet.”

Bridget did not move.

Gwen rushed to stand between them. “You stay away from her!” she cried.

David made a sound of disgust.

Bridget pressed closer to Francesca. She could not decipher the complicated family relationships. “Joel? Take Bridget into the hall for a moment, please.”

Joel flushed as he approached Bridget, but he was kind. “C'mon. They'll be plenty of time fer you and your papa later, after Miz Cahill an' Mr. Hart finish their questions.”

Bridget looked worriedly at Gwen. “Mama?”

“Go outside, baby,” Gwen whispered, her mouth barely moving as she somehow formed the words. “We won't be too long.”

Joel took her hand and the two children left. Francesca stepped forward. “Did you follow your wife this afternoon when she left work?” she asked Hanrahan bluntly.

He scowled. “An' if I did? It's my right!”

Hart stood. The action was highly threatening, and not simply because Hart was tall and strong. His intention was undeniable, as was his air of authority and power. He was not to be denied. “Stalking is no man's right,” he warned softly.

David Hanrahan's expression became vicious. “She's my wife and that means she belongs to me. She had no right runnin' away, no right comin' to America. She's got no rights, none!” Then he became meek and added, “Sir.”

Francesca winced. According to the law, most women had no rights and he was, for the most part, correct. In fact, Gwen could be forced to return to him. In this city, no one would bother to interfere. She imagined it might be very different in a small village in Ireland.

“You told me to go!” Gwen dropped her hands. She was
shaking. “You told me to get out of your sight, that you never wanted to see me again!”

“I changed my mind,” he spat. Now he was trembling with anger.

“How long have you been following your wife?” Francesca asked flatly.

He shrugged.

“Do you wish to go uptown to police headquarters?” Hart asked coldly.

David blanched. “I didn't follow her!”

Francesca made a sound of disgust.

“I didn't! I been outside, on the street, hopin' to talk to her. But she won't talk to me! You can surely see that? I want her back an' she refuses to talk to me!” he cried, looking from Francesca to Hart and back again, as if pleading with them.

Gwen walked over to the sink, standing with her back to everyone. She did not run the water but she toyed with a chipped plate.

How odd this was. “Gwen? You don't seem very surprised to see your husband. You don't seem very surprised that he has followed you to America and that he wants a reconciliation,” Francesca said.

She walked over to Gwen. “How long have you known that he was in the country?”

Gwen was stiff. “A few weeks.”

“How did he get out of jail? Was he in jail? For attempted murder?” Francesca asked.

“They couldn't prove anything!” David cried.

Gwen hesitated. Finally, her voice barely audible, she said, “Yes.”

“He dropped the charges,” David snarled. “His Lordship admitted it was a lie! He admitted I didn't try to kill him!”

Gwen choked on a sob.

Francesca faced David, doubting the veracity of his statement. He clearly hated Lord Randolph, but did he hate him
enough to have attempted murder? Had Randolph dropped the charges? Or had Hanrahan somehow escaped? “How did you know where to find your wife and daughter?”

“She told a neighbor back home, Mrs. Reilly, that she could be reached through Father Culhane. Gwen left the father's address with her. The good father was only too obliging to tell me where my wife and daughter were.” David stared at Gwen, not looking once at Francesca.

Gwen said, hoarse and low, “I am not going back. Not to Ireland and not to you.”

“You are making a mistake,” David said just as low.

That was a threat if Francesca had ever heard one. “Have the two of you already discussed a reconciliation?”

“I will not go back!” Gwen cried.

Francesca went to her. “Please, I am asking these questions for a reason. I need your honest answers.”

Gwen looked at her, tearful now, and nodded. “Yes. He asked me if I would go back when he first arrived in the city, and I was clear. I said no.”

Francesca felt savage satisfaction then. She looked at Hart who stared back. She assumed he understood her thoughts completely, and then he nodded slightly at her, telling her to go on. She faced David. “Where were you this past Monday between noon and 4:00 p.m., Mr. Hanrahan?” she asked.

And she smiled grimly.

They had their first real suspect.

 

A
T THIS LATE EVENING
hour, police headquarters was oddly quiet, half of the staff dozing on the job. Hart slipped his arm around Francesca's waist as they left the reception area, David Hanrahan having been put in the lockup for the night. Francesca started in surprise as they paused before going down the building's front steps. Hart met her gaze and smiled a little at her. His arm tightened.

Their evening work was done. It was late, but they were
entirely alone. Francesca was frankly exhilarated from finally uncovering a suspect, but Hart's sudden gesture presented her with an entirely different feeling. Warmth mingled with the leftover excitement. “I take it you are no longer quite so angry with me?” She smiled at him.

“I am frankly appalled with you,” he murmured, a soft gleam in his eyes.

“We have a suspect, Hart,” she said with jubilation. And she laughed.

“You have a suspect,” he agreed.

She turned and found herself in his arms. A soft breeze caressed them both. “Aren't you pleased? Hanrahan has motive and no alibi!”

“If he were the killer, I imagine he could do better than coming up with a statement that he was wandering about the streets, looking for work, on Monday. And he would surely have an alibi for the previous two Mondays, but he does not.”

Some of her elation vanished, as if a balloon had been popped. “But he is not very clever.”

“No, he is not.” He caressed the soft hairs at her nape almost thoughtlessly. “Do not be too disappointed. He does have motive. Perhaps you have your killer after all.”

“The Slasher is clever,” Francesca disagreed. She intuited that with all of her being. She felt certain he was no thug.

“You do not know that.”

“I sense it.”

He cupped her shoulders. The gown had tiny cap sleeves, but in spite of them and the light shawl she wore, the feeling of his palms was thrilling. She tensed and looked into his eyes. “I have never seen more reckless, rash behavior,” he murmured, “than I have this night.”

His thighs were rock hard against her softer ones. “I wanted to help,” she said quietly, gripping his broad shoulders.

“I know—and that is what scares me so,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back.

She allowed herself a soft moan of pleasure. “Don't stop,” she said.

“I should like to see you in this dress without a corset,” he murmured, bending over her shoulder. He moved the shawl aside and kissed the bare skin near her collarbone.

Sparks seemed to ignite, quickly flaming throughout her body. “Without a corset?” she gasped. How daring that would be! And how she loved the notion!

“Without a corset,” he affirmed, kissing her throat, just once. “No corset, no chemise, no drawers, nothing but your shoes and stockings and this lovely dress.”

She felt faint. Somehow she opened her eyes to find Hart staring intently. His own dark blue gaze had turned to gray smoke. “How shocking,” she managed to say, hoping to sound appropriately scandalized.

He began to smile. “You're not shocked.” He lowered his head and feathered her lips with a kiss.

She clung. “No…” She opened her mouth, praying he would invade, but he did not. His lips touched the corners, the soft full center, the dimple above. “When, Hart?”

He smiled against her mouth. His weight had shifted as she spoke and she felt the length of his arousal near her hip. The urgency intensified deep in her, making her feel faint and hollow.

“When what, darling?” His every word brought his mouth against hers. Their breath mingled. “When will I kiss you? Or when will I take you soaring to the heavens above?”

She gripped his lapels and pressed against him. His smile vanished as their gazes locked. “When can I wear the dress for you?” she breathed.

He anchored her hips so she could not move. She felt the blood coursing in his body. “Such a game should wait until after we are married, until after we have had some time to explore the more traditional aspects of lovemaking.”

She felt like socking him in the nose. “Then why bring it up!”

“Because I was thinking about it, that's why, but it was rude, thoughtless and teasing, was it not? I apologize.” He smiled, clearly not remorseful in the least.

She could not smile back. She stared, unable to move, barely able to breathe, wedged against him. “We need to make love, Hart.”

“Yes, we do.”

His response stunned her.

Hart released her. “Our courtship has become difficult for me, Francesca.”

She was so surprised, she did not comment.

“I'm a man with basic needs,” he said with a shrug. “And I am used to assuaging them frequently.” He walked away, hands in his pockets now, still in his white dinner jacket and midnight-black evening trousers, and stared up at what was left of the other night's full moon.

Did he mean what she thought he did? She composed herself—it took a moment—and went to stand besides him. “I know how important it is to you to be noble now, with me.”

“It is beyond important,” he said, not looking at her. He stared up at the starry night.

“Why?” She was careful not to touch him. She knew the need inside her could be ignited with a mere touch or even a single glance.

Still looking at the heavens, he shrugged.

“Even if we slept together, I will never be like the others,” she pointed out. His past was filled with women, but all had been experienced—divorcées, widows or married women on the prowl for a lover. Hart had never before toyed with innocence.

He made a sound. “I know that.”

“Then why? I know you are worldly enough to make certain I would not get pregnant—”

He whirled. “It's about me, not you.”

She blinked. “I don't understand.”

“I barely understand myself.” He was grim.

She dared to pluck his sleeve. “Please, Calder, please try to explain this to me.”

His jaw was rigid. “There is a man…a different man…and I can feel him…he actually exists.”

She had not a clue as to what he meant.

He stared ahead now. “Having decided to marry you, Calder Hart would have seduced you months ago, never mind your innocence. Calder Hart has been more than tempted, more than once. Because he wants you so much. Now that he is engaged, Hart really doesn't give a damn about your innocence. Hart has actually thought about seducing you well before the wedding and he has come quite close to accomplishing the feat.”

She was wide-eyed. And why was he talking about himself as if he was a stranger?

“But someone else has appeared on the scene.” He made a sound of self-derision. “Someone better, in fact. Someone who can actually see that the sun exists on a gray, rainy day. Someone who actually prefers sunshine to rain.”

And she understood. Her heart swelled impossibly; tears welled. “Oh, Calder.”

“He isn't as selfish. He wants to be noble.” He finally glanced at her. “I'm not being very clear, am I?”

“No,” she whispered. “I understand completely.”

“You would,” he whispered softly. “Only you would understand.” He touched her face then dropped his hand.

Francesca started to cry.

He did not pull her close. He shoved his hands back in the pockets of his trousers and stared out into the night. It was a moment before he spoke. “This other man…this is the man that you have made me want to be.”

 

T
HE MILLINER'S SHOP WHERE
Kate Sullivan was employed was a block and a half north of Ehrich Brothers' Emporium on Sixth Avenue, just past the west corner of Twenty-third Street. The small shop boasted a large display window filled with modest bonnets, elegant hats and fine silk scarves, with a single counter inside and a rack of more goods. Upon Francesca's presenting herself to the proprietress that next morning, Kate Sullivan was summoned from the back room where she had been stocking goods.