Deadly Vows

Francesca wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t. There wasn’t going to be a wedding—and he wasn’t even truly surprised. She had come to her senses at last.

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday, June 28, 1902

4:00 p.m.

HER THROAT WAS raw from shouting for help. Francesca leaned against the door of the gallery, blinded by a sudden surge of tears. How was she going to get out? She had been crying for help for a very long time, and no one had heard her. What time was it, anyway?

She could barely believe that she remained locked inside. Trembling, she turned to find her purse. She had dropped it on the floor when she had heard the front door being locked. It was on the other side of the central wall where her nude portrait hung. For one moment, Francesca stared through the shadows in the gallery at her own sultry image.

She had been lured to the gallery and now, she was locked inside.

Someone wanted her to miss her own wedding.

There was no other conclusion to draw. She was not going to miss her own wedding! Somehow she was going to get out of this damn basement. She loved Calder Hart—she could not wait to finally be his wife. She would never leave him standing at the altar, in shock, waiting for her!

As she stumbled into the other chamber behind the wall, she wondered who had done this.

She had made many enemies in the course of the past six months. Every crime that she had solved had involved justice for the perpetrators. The list of those who wished to hurt her was probably long. She would consider it the moment she was out of the gallery and uptown—finally married to Hart.

Her purse lay on the floor, open. Francesca knelt and dug within for her pocket watch. Her heart slammed when she saw that it was a few minutes before four.

By now, her family, friends and three hundred guests were at the church. Everyone—including Hart—must know that she had not arrived.

Surely he was worried about her! She wished she had left a message with Alfred; she wished she had shown Connie the damn note. But she hadn’t done either of those things and no one would have any idea where she had gone.

She must have been screaming for help for perhaps an hour, hoping a passerby would hear her. Clearly, the gallery was set too low below the sidewalk, and too far back from it, for anyone passing to hear her. There had to be another way to get out.

Francesca dismissed the notion of trying to escape through the front windows, as they were barred. She ran back into the office, praying that the windows there were not as small as she recalled.

She stared up at the two windows, which were high up on the wall near the ground level, just below the office’s ceiling. They were small rectangles that barely allowed any light in. Each was probably eighteen or twenty inches wide. They looked half as tall.

She was a slender woman, but even if she could get up to the windows and break the glass, she feared she would not be able to squeeze through. She shuddered. If it weren’t her wedding day, she would continue calling for help—and wait for someone, eventually, to hear her. But she was going to take her vows, even if she was late—which now, obviously, she would be.

Francesca glanced around. She quickly realized she must push the desk to the wall, beneath the window, and stack the file cabinet on the desk, in order to make a ladder. The desk looked small enough, but it was surprisingly heavy, and it was many moments later before she had pushed it across the small space. She cleared the desktop with a determined sweep of her arm. Then she marched to a file cabinet. She pushed it across the floor, then managed to lift it onto the desk. Her back felt broken. Panting, she paused and looked up.

Francesca stared up at the window grimly. If she got stuck in that window, she could hang there all night. The possibility was distinctly dreadful.

But there was no other choice. Determined, she removed her shoes and stockings, the better to gain some traction, and climbed onto the desk. She tested the cabinet for balance by jiggling it. It sat square on the desk and seemed steady enough. Hiking up her skirts, she climbed onto it, clawing the rough wall with her fingers. She paused. She wasn’t afraid of heights, but she was now six feet from the floor and she did not think her makeshift ladder all that trustworthy. She sighed. Very slowly, she tried to stand up.

The file cabinet rocked.

She froze, regained her balance and tried again. A short time later, she was standing upright, her fingertips now grasping the shallow concrete ledge of the window, which was about four inches wide. Her face was level with the glass pane, which was thick and dirty. Her heart was thundering, but she was briefly exultant.

Then she grew grim. The window opened onto a grassy patch of backyard, or some such thing. She thought she could fit through it, but wanting to get through it was one thing, actually doing so, another. Once she broke the glass and cleared it away, she was going to have to jump up and try to get her chest onto the ledge, at least. If she failed, she was going to fall to the floor.

Francesca slowly, gingerly reached with one hand into the waistband of her skirt for her gun. The cabinet she stood on teetered slightly, but she felt that it was stable enough for her next move. Raising the gun slowly, she inhaled and slammed it with all her strength into the glass.

It shattered.

She covered her face with her arm, turning away. She felt shards dart against her cheeks anyway.

The rocking cabinet stilled. Her heart was pounding hard, but somehow, she was still standing on the cabinet. She took a few steadying breaths, then used the gun to clear away the remaining glass. The edges of the frame were dangerous—there was no way to make them shard free. But she intended to ignore a few scrapes and cuts. This was her wedding day.

She told herself not to look down. Francesca put the gun through the window and laid it outside on the grass. Then she reached with both hands for the ledge. There was nothing to really grab on to, and she was afraid that she wasn’t strong enough to hoist herself up high enough to begin to get out the window.

But she had to try.

She leaped up, pushing with her legs and her arms. For one moment, she thought she had made it. Her breasts hit the concrete and she was briefly suspended there. And then she was falling wildly downward, through the air.

SHE HAD COME TO her senses, realizing the folly of marrying him.

It seemed as if the floor were tilting wildly beneath his shoes. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Rathe, who had clasped his shoulder, said rather inanely, “What do you mean, she isn’t here? Where is she?”

He tensed, facing Francesca’s frightened mother. Julia was deathly pale. She moaned—a sound she had undoubtedly never before made in public. Behind her, Grace and Connie were almost as ghostly as she was. “She isn’t here, Rathe,” Julia gasped. “She was last seen at noon, hailing a cab. I do not know where she is!”

A terrible, shocked silence fell. He finally achieved a single coherent thought. Francesca had hailed a cab at noon. A new, darker tension began. Had she run away? He glanced from Julia’s white face to her sister’s. Lady Montrose seemed very frightened. He turned to look at Rick, who was clearly as surprised as anyone.

She hadn’t run away with his half brother, he somehow managed to think, because Rick was right there. But she had run off.

He felt the stares in the room, all leveled at him. He did not look at anyone now. The shock remained, but there was disbelief, as well.

She had run off.

He has been stood up at the altar.

Images flashed of Francesca smiling at him, laughing with him, her eyes filled with warmth and affection, all of it meant for him. He stared through the memories at his half brother, and he wondered how he could have ever thought, even for a moment, that she would actually marry him. He was a fool. She had never wanted him as her husband—it was always Bragg who she had wanted to marry. She had wanted him as her lover.…

She lusted for him, but she loved Bragg.

He was her second choice.

He trembled and realized his fists were clenched. How could he have been such a fool?

“Who was the last to see her?”

Hart started, realizing that Rick had stepped forward to take charge.

Julia said hoarsely, “Connie. Francesca asked her sister to bring her clothing here. She told her she would meet her here at 3:00 p.m.”

“I begged her not to go!” Connie cried.

Hart heard, but vaguely, as if from a distance. Something odd was happening inside his chest, but he was determined to ignore it. How could she have done this to him?

More images flashed in his mind of the many moments he has shared with her—over a good scotch whiskey in his library, or inside his coach in the dark of night, or at a supper club by candlelight. There had been debate and discussion, levity and laughter, lust and love. He had committed himself to her completely. He had trusted her completely. Or had he?