Deadly Vows. Brenda Joyce

by herself. He had never met a woman as gentle and kind, as solid and determined.

      He had begun to visit her and her children, bringing gifts and cookies and cakes, and he had even taken the family on several outings. The very last time he had seen Maggie, he had asked her if he could kiss her, and she had said yes.

      He wished he could stop thinking about that single, very chaste kiss, but he could not. He hurried to her. He had seen her and her children at the church, but hadn’t had a chance to say hello. Had the wedding gone as planned, he would have danced with her at the reception. Instead, he had been busy with his father, explaining to their guests that Francesca was suddenly ill and that the wedding was postponed. No one had believed them. “Hello.”

      “Has there been any word?” Maggie asked anxiously. She was a few years older than he was, with very fair skin, a splattering of freckles, vivid blue eyes and shocking red hair. He knew she was wearing her very best Sunday dress.

      “I’m afraid not,” he said, flinching.

      She took his hand. “No one is as resolute as your sister.”

      He stared into her eyes, feeling the strength of will and purpose in her tiny hand. He raised it to his lips briefly. “I am very worried.”

      “I know,” she said. She glanced past him.

      He followed her glance. Bragg was asking Joel if he had any idea about what had happened to Francesca. Joel was eleven years old, and he knew the underworld far too well. He had been apprehended many times for picking purses. Of course, his cutpurse days seemed to be over, as Francesca paid him a salary for his assistance. Joel shook his head soberly. “Miz Cahill never said a word about any note. She loves Mr. Hart an’ only the worst sort of rough could keep her away today.”

      Bragg tousled his hair, but he did not smile. Evan wondered if his odd expression had more to do with Joel’s statement about Francesca’s feelings for Hart than it did with her disappearance.

      Evan realized he had stepped even closer to Maggie, as if her warmth could comfort him now. “Come inside,” he said softly.

      “I don’t want to intrude. But I am worried about Francesca—and you.”

      Had the situation not been so dire, he would have thrilled at her words. “You cannot intrude. Mother adores you—as do I.” He could barely believe what he had said and he felt himself blush. She blushed as well, and he took her arm and led her into the salon.

      Julia sat on the sofa with Andrew and Connie, an alcoholic drink of some sort on the table in front of her. It was obvious she had been weeping; Julia never wept, or not that he had ever seen. It was warm in the room, but someone had thrown a cashmere shawl over her shoulders. She sat up stiffly as they entered the room. “Has there been any word? Any clue? Is she back?”

      Bragg was grim. “I am sorry, Julia, but my answer is no to all your questions.”

      She cried out. Andrew put his arm around her and held her close. “Oh, God! Francesca is reckless and impulsive, but she would never be this irresponsible, Rick! What has happened to her? Where is my daughter?”

      “Darling!” Andrew said sharply. “Francesca is fine. She will return at any moment—with some cockamamy explanation for what has occurred today.” But he was as pale as his wife.

      “Francesca will be fine, Mama,” Connie said. “You know Fran. She is unstoppable.”

      Julia moaned. “And when she does return, then what? Three weeks ago her fiancé was accused of murder! We have hardly gotten over that scandal—and now, there is this! Everyone will be gossiping about Francesca jilting Hart at the altar for months to come.”

      “Let’s worry about the scandal another time,” Andrew said firmly.

      Evan couldn’t agree more.

      Bragg stepped forward. “The police will be here shortly. I have to leave, but I will return in two hours.”

      “In two hours?” Julia gasped in disbelief. “Do you have to leave?”

      “I’m afraid so,” Bragg said.

      Andrew rose and strode to him. “Can I have a private word, Rick?”

      Andrew was as much an advocate of reform and as politically active as Rick. They had met years earlier, when Rick’s father was in Grover Cleveland’s administration. Now they were close friends. The two men stepped into the hall.

      For one moment, a heavy silence filled with fear and dread fell over the small salon. Julia seemed frozen. Connie got up and walked into her husband’s arms. Montrose was as worried as anyone. Evan tightened his grasp on Maggie, turning to her and lowering his voice. “I will get you a cab.” He didn’t want her to go, but he imagined she had left her other three children with a neighbor, and surely had to return home.

      As they left the salon, Maggie murmured, “I hate leaving you now, in crisis. You have been so helpful to me.”

      Her concern thrilled him, but he was careful to remain poker-faced. “It’s all right. Joel?” he called. He realized Joel had gone outside. “Did he leave?”

      “He told me he would help the police tonight. I have never been able to keep him from running around as he pleases,” Maggie said with dismay. “I know he wants to find Francesca.”

      Joel had more courage than most grown men, and shrewd wits. Evan wondered if he had run off to try to find Francesca on his own. At that point, he didn’t truly care who found her—as long as she was found.

      The doorbell sounded. Evan could not imagine who would call upon them now. As he and Maggie turned, the doorman opened the door, revealing Bartolla Benevente.

      His tension knew no bounds.

      Maggie flinched.

      His ex-mistress strolled into the front hall, holding a pastry box wrapped in ribbon. She was still dressed in a very daring ruby-red ball gown for the reception that had not taken place. She was a stunning, statuesque woman with auburn hair. Once, her face and figure had driven him mad with desire. Now, he found her distastefully obvious.

      Bartolla smiled slowly at them. “Hello, Evan.” She ignored Maggie, coming forward with the sweeping stride of royalty. In reality, she had no royal blood, although at sixteen she had married a sixty-year-old Italian count. “Has your sister been found?”

      “No, she has not. What are you doing here? This is a very difficult time, Bartolla.”

      “I am aware of that! I must say, I never dreamed Francesca would jilt Hart. I have always thought that he would be the one to break her foolish heart—sooner than later.” She laughed, clearly amused by the events of the day. “I do not think Hart will be very happy with your sister when she returns, Evan.”

      “You are wrong. He is smitten. Francesca has gotten herself into trouble, otherwise, there would have been a wedding today. Once she is found, I am certain they will plan another wedding day.” He realized he had come to despise her. He did not know how he would manage a relationship with her after their child was born.

      Bartolla laughed again. “I know Hart very well, my dear, and he loves to hold a grudge. There will never be a wedding now.”

      Evan realized she still hadn’t looked at Maggie even once—as if Maggie were not standing there with them. “I am not going to argue with you. I must get Mrs. Kennedy a cab.”

      “Perhaps you should put her on the El, instead.” She smiled. “After all, that is the fare a seamstress can afford.”

      He trembled with anger; Maggie touched his hand. He looked at her and she sent him a silent message with her eyes. She did not want him upset by the countess. He inhaled. “Bartolla, this is not the time to call. My family is very distraught. My mother is not receiving tonight.”

      “Balderdash. I have brought cakes, Evan. I am so very fond of Julia and I wished to commiserate with her. Surely she needs