Deadly Illusions

“I so admire you.” Daisy smiled, touching Francesca’s arm very lightly. “You are so clever, so bold. And Hart clearly thinks as I do. He is so proud of you, Francesca.”

“I’m not sure of that,” Francesca said, finally allowing her smile to vanish. Her cheeks ached anyway.

“Can I see the ring he gave you?” Daisy asked almost eagerly.

Francesca pulled off her kidskin glove. For one moment Daisy was still as she gazed at the huge diamond, which must have cost several fortunes. Then she smiled and looked up with admiration in her gaze. “Calder must be smitten.”

“Hart doesn’t believe in love,” Francesca said, and the moment the words were out, she wished to kick herself. It was true—Hart felt love was for fools and had been clear from the start that he was not about to succumb to the emotion, even if it could exist for him. Still, why not let the other woman think that Hart was in love?

Daisy’s very pale eyebrows lifted and her nearly turquoise-blue eyes were wide. “Still, he wishes to marry you. You are the talk of the town, Francesca, and the envy of every lady of marriageable age. Rose and I were just discussing it last night.”

Francesca desperately wanted to change the topic. “How is Rose?” she asked quickly. Rose and Daisy were best friends and, Francesca knew, longtime lovers, a relationship that both shocked and fascinated her.

“Wonderful,” Daisy said with a happy smile. “Now that Hart no longer visits me, she is allowed to come and go as she pleases.” Her smile vanished and she leaned close, confiding, “He was simply so possessive when we first began our affair. He was livid at the thought I should even want to chat with Rose and he refused to allow her even platonic visits. How jealous and controlling he was!”

Francesca hugged herself. That certainly sounded like Calder Hart.

Daisy smiled again. “But you must know that. I mean, you are now the focus of his attention, so surely you are receiving his outbursts of jealous rage.”

Francesca felt warning bells go off. She knew she must end this conversation and find Francis O’Leary. “Yes, Hart can certainly be jealous and demanding. Daisy, I must go.” But she felt oddly ill. Not too long ago Hart had been jealous over Daisy. Now he was jealous where she was concerned.

But Daisy took her hand, holding it tightly so that she could not leave. “Francesca, I must have a word with you!” she cried, appearing worried now.

Francesca knew that no good could come of any further conversation. “I really must go.” She shrugged free and started to flee.

“Rose and I are so worried about you. You are too naive to manage a man like Hart!” Daisy cried to her back.

Francesca halted in her tracks. Slowly, she turned to face the woman she had once sincerely liked and was now desperately afraid of. “I am not naive.”

Daisy went to her and gripped both of her hands. “Three months ago, Hart could not stay out of my bed. Night and day, he was there, and any man who looked at me was the target of his jealous rage.”

“Just stop,” Francesca said, wanting to plug up her ears like a child.

“No, you have to listen before he hurts you terribly! I know he truly wants you, and why not? You are beautiful and clever and he has never met a woman like you before, that much is clear. And you may last longer than all of the others, really—after all, he has become fond enough of you to ask you for marriage. But Francesca, Calder Hart is a very sensual man. You know this. You know his reputation, you know it is not false. Do you really think to keep his attention where it belongs—on you and only you?”

Francesca knew there was not one drop of blood left in her face. She simply could not speak, because every word coming from Daisy’s horridly pretty mouth was the truth.

“He is fascinated with you now. Not so long ago he was fascinated with me. And before that, there was someone else and before that, someone else. There will be someone after you, Francesca. Sooner or later, his gaze will wander, his gaze and his interest, and we both know that when that happens, his promises will mean nothing.”

Francesca knew that Daisy was right. She had known this all along, and it was why she had not been able to accept his proposal at first. It was why, after accepting, she had fled the city for an entire month, grappling with her emotions, her fear. It was why, in the darkest hours of the night, she would wake up in a sweat, terrified of her engagement, her impending marriage, terrified of Calder Hart. Daisy was right. There was simply no way a man like that was going to stay happily and faithfully married to any woman, much less herself. And the day he wandered was the day the sunshine would leave her life.

But she had to speak. So she drew her shoulders back. “I know.”

Daisy started.

Francesca somehow smiled, holding her head high. “You are hardly telling me anything new, Daisy. Remember, when I first met Hart I was in love with Rick Bragg. We became friends first, not lovers, and I know more about him than anyone else.” That was a stretch of the truth. She continued calmly. “We remain friends. And we share desire. He admires me, I respect him. It’s really very simple—we make a good match. It’s hardly a love match.” And she continued to smile.

“So you are marrying him because you cannot have the man you really want?” Daisy asked, her gaze intent and unblinking.

The question felt dangerous. For a split second, Francesca hesitated, then prayed her answer would not come back to haunt her. “Yes,” she lied. And she thought about what Hart had said last night. “And I am marrying him for wealth and power. As his wife, I can conduct my business affairs as I choose. We both know how independent I am. I will have more freedom than a woman could possibly dream of. Hart has assured me of that.”

Daisy stared. Then, with some admiration, she said, “You are clever, Francesca. You had me fooled. I thought you naive enough to have fallen in love and to think Hart your knight in shining armor. I apologize. Rose and I need not worry. This shall be a very good match, indeed.”

“We both think so,” Francesca said, hoping that Daisy did not see her relief. She began to tremble.

Daisy sighed and kissed her cheek. The most delicate floral scent emanated from her. “Please come and call on us. We would love to receive you,” she said.

“I will try,” Francesca said, not meaning it.

Daisy took her hands warmly in hers. “I hope you do not mind my speaking out. You are always forthright. I assumed you would appreciate my honesty.”

“Of course I do,” she lied with another smile.

“Hart is a lucky man,” Daisy said. Smiling at Francesca, she gave her an odd look and walked away.

Disturbed by that last remark and the lingering glance Francesca felt her knees give way. She collapsed against the counter, barely able to breathe. Tears rapidly filled her eyes.

She was naive and she was a fool. She had believed, or she’d wanted to, that Hart would be faithful to her forever! But Daisy was right. She was a current fascination, and only that. Marriage or no, one day his interest would wander and when that day came, she would be destroyed.

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

Francesca faced the shopgirl behind the counter. “I’m fine,” she managed. “Thank you.” But even as she spoke, she wondered what she should do. These past few weeks she had managed to control her deepest, most secret fears. The recent encounter with Daisy had brought them to light again. Nothing had changed.

Hart did not love her, did not even believe in love, and she was falling head over heels for him. Dear God, what should she do?

If she was smart, she would walk away. That much, at least, was clear.

Either that, or she would have to be very, very brave.

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 1:00 p.m.

HAVING COMPOSED HERSELF, Francesca paused before the counter selling soaps and perfumes. A pretty, brunette shopgirl was discussing the merits of a lavender soap with an older, elegant lady. Francesca waited at the counter and stared.

The shopgirl was in her early twenties. Her black dress had a white collar and cuffs and did not quite conceal all of her throat. Today, Francis O’Leary wore no bandage. A pale pink line on her neck indicated that she had been the Slasher’s victim.

The lady opened her purse and took out some coins. Francesca noticed Francis’s rings. On the fourth finger of her left hand, a tiny red stone winked in a band of silver. Francesca wondered if the ring had any significance.

Her soap wrapped and in a small shopping bag, the buyer left. Francis approached Francesca with a smile. “May I help you, miss?”

Francesca smiled in return, handing Francis O’Leary her business card. It read:

Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case too Small