Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

      She inhaled, finding sudden composure, and blinked a tear back. She smiled at him, thanking him the way a lady should. Then she drank the brandy, closing her eyes as it burned its way into her belly, awaiting the release the alcohol would bring her.

      The only thing left for her was being a good mother. She looked at the nearly empty glass of brandy. She was afraid to continue with her thoughts. Then she heard the front door. She tensed.

      “Mama?” Katie whispered anxiously. “Do you want to read us a story?”

      “Story, story!” Dot beamed, clapping her hands. Mrs. Flowers, the nanny, had just wiped them free of apple-sauce.

      Before Leigh Anne could agree—she loved reading bedtime stories to the girls—she heard Rick’s footfall approaching. She froze, filled with dread.

      He appeared on the threshold of the olive-green-and-gold dining room. He smiled tiredly at her, then went to kiss Katie and Dot on the forehead. He did not approach her, and she was relieved. He was terribly concerned about Francesca’s disappearance, she thought. But of course he was. He was loyal to a fault, and he would always care about Francesca. Then she wondered if she truly believed her foolish thoughts. They would always be more to one another than mere friends.

      “Did you find her?” Leigh Anne asked. She hadn’t decided if she should be thrilled or dismayed that Francesca and Hart hadn’t married. Just a few months ago, Rick had been in love with her.

      Rick straightened, but as he spoke, his gaze went to her brandy glass. “No. I am very worried. Her disappearance is now an official police matter.” He turned to the nanny. “Could you take the girls upstairs and get them ready for bed?”

      Katie stood, looking pleadingly at Leigh Anne. Dot cried, “Bed story!” Mrs. Flowers took her out of the high chair and set her down on the floor.

      “I will be up in a moment or two,” Leigh Anne promised.

      Bragg didn’t move until the two girls and their nanny had left. She slowly looked at him as he sat down at the table, across from her. “I cannot imagine what could have happened to keep her away from her own wedding. She seemed so happy the last time I saw her. Do you think there is foul play?”

      “Yes, I do. The one thing I am sure of is that Francesca did not suddenly decide to jilt Calder.” He spoke without emotion. She knew he hated the idea of Francesca marrying Hart. But if he was pleased by this sudden turn of events, she could not tell. “Peter, may I have a scotch, please?”

      The Swede nodded and left the dining room.

      She looked at her glass, willing herself to have patience. “Chief Farr called. He was looking for you.”

      “I guess he has heard the news,” Rick said grimly.

      She wasn’t sure what his odd tone meant. “He already knew that Francesca is missing. He said something about how there must have been a commotion today.”

      Rick looked at her. “What did he say, exactly?”

      She started, and finally pulled her drink toward her. “He made a comment about how there must have been a commotion at the church when the bride did not show up. I said it was quite chaotic.”

      Peter returned and handed Rick a scotch. He took a sip. “Farr doesn’t like her.”

      Leigh Anne finished her brandy. “Surely he doesn’t wish her ill, Rick.”

      Rick grimaced, studying his drink. “I imagine he is pleased that something has befallen her.”

      “That is a terrible thing to say.” He was very concerned, she realized. Carefully, she said, “I hope you are wrong and Francesca had an extreme case of bridal jitters. I hope she is not in jeopardy somewhere.”

      He stood up abruptly. “I have to call Farr.”

      “Rick, do not worry about me. I am going to read to the girls and put them to bed. Go find Francesca.”

      He didn’t hesitate. “Are you certain you do not mind?” His gaze strayed to the empty glass on the dining table in front of her.

      “I have always liked her.” That much was true. Francesca was a pleasant, kind and even admirable woman. “I am worried about her, too.”

      “Thank you,” he said, walking out.

      She leaned back in her chair, beyond relief, aware that she was already forgotten. He wouldn’t bother her again that night, and after the girls were asleep, she could dose herself thoroughly with brandy and laudanum.

      FRANCESCA HAD SPENT the entire carriage ride filling Joel in on every detail of that day. Joel, of course, already knew that her portrait had been stolen. Two months ago, when she, Hart and Bragg had decided to leave the police out of the investigation—no one wanted anyone to know about the portrait—Joel had wanted to know why everyone was so upset. She had told him that the painting was somewhat compromising.

      He hadn’t known what the word meant. Francesca had decided not to tell him the absolute truth. She had merely said that she had posed in a manner that society would frown upon. Joel hadn’t cared after that. She knew he found the mores of society confusing, irrelevant and at times, just plain stupid, to use his own words.

      As No. 11 Madison Square came into view, Francesca felt her heart lurch. The square was deserted at that hour, but the park was beautifully lit from the streetlamps and the moonlight. Bragg’s house was a narrow Victorian, on a block filled with similar redbrick homes, just a few doors down from Twenty-third Street. Francesca thought about the time they had walked from his house to Broadway to gaze up at the newly constructed Flatiron Building, which the city’s newsmen were calling a “skyscraper.” The towering, triangular building remained a stunning testament to the brilliance of mankind.

      “He is here,” she said, noticing his Daimler parked outside the small carriage house adjacent to the Bragg residence. She paid the driver as she and Joel swiftly stepped down to the sidewalk. Lights were on downstairs and upstairs.

      She had regained a great deal of her composure in the past thirty minutes. Still, she had been badly hurt. A part of her wanted to rush into Bragg’s arms, seeking comfort. But another, more mature part of her knew to keep the current state of discord between her and Hart private.

      As the cab left, they started up the brick path, toward the house. Francesca knocked on the door, eager to tell Bragg everything that had happened to her.

      The door was flung wide open.

      Bragg took her arm. “I knew it was you. Are you hurt?”

      She came inside, Joel following, so much relief flooding her. Some of her resolve to remain strong and independent crumbled. She smiled tightly. “I have had an awful day.”

      “I can see that,” he said, suddenly releasing her.

      In that moment, she knew he wanted to hold her, but he made no move to do so. She did not know if she was relieved or disappointed. Joel broke the silence. “What’s wrong with you two? We have a case to solve! Miz Cahill was locked up—someone tried to stop her from marrying Mr. Hart!”

      Francesca bit her lip. “Actually, Joel, someone did stop me from marrying Hart.” She managed to tear her gaze from Bragg’s. Where was Leigh Anne?

      “What happened? Why are there scratches and cuts on your face and hands?” He took her arm and guided her into his study, a small dark room with a desk and two chairs. The fireplace was unlit. Joel followed them to the door, but lingered in the hallway.

      She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder, but his wife was not in the parlor at the end of the hall, although the door was open, the lights on. “Am I intruding?”

      “Of course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”

      She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received