Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

chair.”

      She realized that she had somehow wandered into the front hall and that she was still crying. Alfred faced her, his dark gaze filled with concern. She struggled for composure, no easy task.

      If Hart did not love her—if their relationship had only been based on infatuation and lust—then it was over and there was nothing she could do about it. But if he was as hurt as she suspected, if he had retreated into this pretense to avoid his feelings, if she was really his best friend, then there was hope. She had aroused his passion and love once; she could do so again.

      But she could not do anything about their current dilemma now.

      And her damn portrait remained downtown in the Gallery Moore.

      She wiped her eyes with her fingertips, feeling just slightly better. At least she had a task to accomplish; she desperately needed a new focus. “I am afraid I cannot linger, Alfred. I am on a case.”

      He started.

      “I have had a terrible falling-out with Mr. Hart, but I believe it is only temporary. Tomorrow is another day.” She managed a smile. “Hopefully he will be more kindly disposed toward me then.”

      “I am so sorry, Miss Cahill.”

      She shuddered. “I was well aware of his occasional moods when I accepted his proposal,” she said. She inhaled, finding more resolve. “Can a doorman hail me a cab?” She could not go home. She was not up to facing her mother. Julia would undoubtedly be relieved to see her, but only for a brief moment. Then she would be furious with her for failing to attend her own wedding, never mind the danger she had been in. And she would not be able to tell her parents what had really happened—they could never learn of the portrait.

      Worse, Julia would get to the heart of the conversation that had just happened. She was clever and shrewd, and she adored Hart. She would want to know if Francesca had gone to him to explain herself and seek his forgiveness. Julia Cahill was determined to see this marriage come to fruition. Francesca did not want to discuss this new terrible impasse with Hart with her mother.

      However, her family needed to know that she was all right. Francesca asked Alfred to send word that she was unharmed, and would be home as soon as possible. The butler assured her he was only too eager to do so. As Alfred sent a doorman out for a hansom, Francesca thanked him and stepped outside into the warm June night. Amazingly, there was a bright crescent moon and a canopy of stars overhead. There was even the whisper of a silken breeze. It had been the perfect night for a wedding. She remained sick at heart from the recent confrontation. She briefly closed her eyes, trying hard to shove the memory away. She had known how cruel Hart could be, but she had never expected him to be that cruel with her.

      “Miz Cahill? Are you all right?” a small boy asked worriedly.

      Her eyes flew open as Joel Kennedy tugged on her hand. She had never been so pleased to see anyone. She was fond of Joel; he had become a little brother to her. Impulsively she bent and swept him into her arms, hard. “Hart is very angry with me,” she whispered before releasing him.

      “You stood him up. Of course he’s mad, but he loves you and he’ll forgive you.” His dark eyes were huge in his pale face.

      Out of the mouths of babes, she thought, praying he was right.

      “You’re all scratched an’ cut. What happened?”

      “We have a case, Joel. Can you help me tonight?”

      He nodded, remaining wide-eyed with concern, not surprise. “Do we need the flies? You missed the c’mish. He was here an hour ago—helpin’ look fer you.”

      She smiled just a little, then. “Of course I need Bragg.”

      In that moment, she had never needed him more.

      “PETER,” LEIGH ANNE said softly, “would you mind getting me a brandy? I’m afraid my leg is bothering me right now.” She wondered if he would refuse her.

      But the big manservant, who towered over almost everyone at six foot five or six, did not say a word. If he knew that she had already had a bit of brandy in her tea, she could not tell. His poker face did not change expression as he left the small, dully furnished dining room where Leigh Anne was sharing a light meal with Katie and Dot.

      Katie had been eating, but barely. Now, she laid her fork down and looked at her with worry in her dark eyes. Leigh Anne wished she hadn’t said anything in front of her. She reached out and covered her hand with hers. “Darling, I am fine, really, it is just a tiny twinge,” she lied. She did not know why her right leg—her good leg, the leg with feeling—bothered her so much. But that was nothing compared to the unbearable lump of anguish in her chest, which simply never went away. She woke up with it, lived with it and went to bed with it. She did not know what she would do without the brandy and the laudanum.

      The first thing she had done upon returning home from the wedding was to take her tea. It was always liberally laced with brandy.

      Leigh Anne did not want to think about the wedding that hadn’t taken place. But it was hard to keep the unpleasant recollection from swimming in her mind. She had expected a life of balls and parties—a life of luxury—when she married into the Bragg family. Instead, they had leased a miserable flat while Rick worked night and day to represent indigent clients as a public defender. Feeling betrayed and abandoned, she had gone to Europe. She had thought he might chase her down and beg her forgiveness—but he had not. She had eventually adjusted to the fact that their separation would be permanent. Life on the Continent was glamorous, and she decided to forget her foolish debutante’s dreams. She soon moved freely in the best circles, and she was frequently pursued by ambitious financiers and dashing noblemen.

      She had only returned to the States upon hearing how ill her father was. When she had learned that Rick was in love with another woman, she had been shocked—and she had given in to the immediate instinct for self-preservation. She had no wish to be humiliated by a love affair, or worse, ruined by divorce. She had immediately left Boston for New York, to claim her husband and her marriage.

      At first, he had been furious with her return, but she had been determined. In a way, she had bribed him into the reconciliation. She had told him that if he lived with her as man and wife for six months and still wanted a divorce after that, she would give it to him. She had been very confident of his political aspirations, which a divorce would destroy, and even more certain of her powers of seduction. And she had been right.

      But their marriage had been unhappy anyway. He refused to forgive her for the years of separation. And he had changed so much. He was a powerful man now, whom she respected and admired. She had realized that she still loved him. But then she’d been struck down by a runaway coach, and she had permanently lost the use of her legs.

      Leigh Anne felt the black despair claim her then. She had been so close to attaining the life she had dreamed of as a young woman. Briefly, she had loved being Rick’s wife again, in spite of his rage. She had been certain he would love and admire her in return, in time. He was such a catch now—he came from a good family, he was a gentleman and his political star was on the rise. He received more invitations than he could ever accept. She had loved poring over the cards, deciding whose function to attend—and whose invitation she would reject. She had been shocked to realize the power a single rejection could have. And she had dreamed of the future they would have—they’d adopt the two girls and have more children of their own, while he became a state senator, and then a United States senator. They would move to Washington, the most exciting city in the world, where power and ambition ran riot amongst glamour and wealth…

      She wanted to cry. Now, she dreaded his walking in the door. The despair was consuming. She hated being crippled and ugly; she hated her life now!

      She had always taken for granted her ability to walk into a room and be the most beautiful woman there. No more. It had been awful entering the church today in her damn wheeled chair. Everyone had looked at her, and she had known what they were all thinking. There had been so much pity in the sidelong glances cast her way, in the whispers behind her back.