Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

sudden change of heart.”

      Bragg was somber. “I’m not delighted, Calder. I can see you are hurt. But I am worried about Francesca.”

      He clapped his hands. “Of course you are. And is your white steed outside?”

      “Haven’t you heard a word Lady Montrose has just said? Francesca meant to be here. She received an urgent summons.”

      She had received an urgent summons on her wedding day. He laughed coldly. It felt good. “I am hardly hurt, Rick. The truth of the matter is, I am relieved. I have come to my senses. What could I have possibly been thinking? I am not a marrying man.”

      Everyone was staring at him now. Julia seemed ready to faint. He almost cursed them all, but they hadn’t done this—she had done this.

      Slowly, Rick shook his head. “Fine. Tell yourself what you will. Do you want my help?”

      “No.” He did not have to think about it.

      “She would never do this on purpose,” Julia cried, staggering. Rathe caught her, putting a strong arm around her. “I must sit down!”

      Connie took her from Rathe. “Mama, let’s go to our lounge.” She sent Hart an incredulous, angry look. “Evan, Father is downstairs with the guests. I think he could use your help just now, calming everyone—and averting a full-blown scandal.”

      “Of course,” Evan said, striding forward. He went to their mother and helped Connie guide Julia down the hall.

      Hart knew what was coming, now that Francesca’s family was gone. He smiled coldly at Rick.

      Rick’s amber eyes were dark. “You know what? I am glad this has happened. Because we both know that this marriage would have been a disaster. We both know that Francesca deserves far more than you can give her. Maybe she did come to her senses. She was very nervous this morning.”

      He trembled with anger, but he kept his tone even. “And what will you give her, Rick, now that you are so happily reconciled with your lovely wife? Undying friendship? Unrequited love? Or…a sordid affair?”

      “I am her friend,” Rick said harshly. “Not that you would understand what that means.”

      He sent the staggering agony away. “You are so right,” he said coldly. “I do not have a clue about what friendship means, nor do I wish to. Enjoy your friendship, Rick.” He nodded and stalked past him.

      Rourke fell into step beside him as he traversed the hall. “What do you think you are doing?” Hart asked, his tone still cold.

      “I am keeping you company. You have had a shock,” Rourke said flatly.

      “Hardly. I do not need a nanny or nursemaid.” He rapidly went downstairs, Rourke remaining abreast of him.

      “Then you will have a friend,” he said calmly. “Whether you want one or not.”

      He decided to ignore his near relation. Too late, he realized he was about to descend into the crowd of three hundred tittering, exhilarated wedding guests. He faltered.

      The ladies wore ball gowns, the men black tie. Everyone had been speaking, the din hushed yet excited. A terrible silence fell. He saw Andrew Cahill near the church’s oversize double doors just as Francesca’s father saw him. Cahill seemed incredibly dismayed and distressed. But as their gazes met, he flushed with anger.

      “Let’s get out of here,” Rourke said softly. “If you don’t need a drink, I do.”

      He did not care. Andrew stared at him with accusation—as if this was his fault.

      Hart smiled and said pleasantly but loudly, “I am afraid this is your entertainment for the day. The wedding is off and, apparently, I am to blame.”

      As he stepped onto the ground floor, the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He refused to focus on any single face, but he knew just about everyone present. He had slept with a dozen of the assembled socialites, with many of the other matrons’ daughters shoved his way; he had concluded business with many of the gentlemen. He saw the Countess Bartolla, who was gleeful, and Leigh Anne, who seemed both vacuous and surprised; he saw Sarah Channing, who was in abject concern—for him? for Francesca?—and her mother, who looked shocked.

      To hell with them all.

      As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.

      He did not care.

      FRANCESCA DIDN’T CARE how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.

      Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.

      She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.

      Panting, half crying, Hart’s image assailing her, she gripped the concrete ledge.

      Then she heard a child’s cries.

      She froze, afraid she was imagining the sound, when she heard a second child’s laughter.

      There were children outside!

      “Help!” she screamed. “Help me! I am locked in the gallery.… Help!”

      A moment later a boy’s tiny freckled face peered through the window opening. His blue eyes met hers and he gaped.

      “Can you help me get out of here? I’m in the Gallery Moore! It has been locked from outside!” Francesca cried frantically.

      His eyes popping, he nodded. “I’ll get me dad.”

      Francesca was overcome with relief as he ran off, apparently another child with him. She swallowed hard, praying for help. A moment or two later—which felt like an eternity—a man’s face appeared in the window opening. Perhaps in his thirties, he was cleanly shaven, with graying temples. He was incredulous. “I didn’t believe Bobby! Are you all right, miss?”

      “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.”