Deadly Illusions

“What?”

He was grim. “Leigh Anne did not want to leave the hospital today.”

Francesca blinked. “She did not want to come home?” But everyone wanted to leave the hospital as soon as they could!

“I don’t blame her.” And finally he glanced at her, his eyes filled with anger.

“What does that mean? And why didn’t she want to leave the hospital?”

The trolley moved. Bragg took a moment to shift gears and the Daimler crept forward. “She didn’t want to come home because I am there.”

“What?” That was nonsense, Francesca was certain.

He faced her, his eyes wide with anger and anguish. “Cease all pretense, Francesca. We both know that this is entirely my fault.”

“What are you talking about?” she cried.

“The accident,” he spat.

“The accident?” She was thoroughly bewildered. “You mean, Leigh Anne’s accident?”

“Yes, of course, her accident, what other accident would I mean?”

She could only stare.

“She would not be in this predicament—a cripple for life—if not for me.” He slammed his hands on the wheel.

Francesca jumped in her seat. Then she seized his wrist. “Dear God! You had nothing to do with the accident. It was just that—an accident. You speak as if you were driving that runaway coach that ran her down!”

“I might as well have been the driver,” he said savagely.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you blaming yourself?” she gasped, horrified.

“Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away from me!” He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. “A witness saw the entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was so distraught she never saw or heard the run away carriage until it was too late. And we both know why she was crying,” he added darkly.

A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. “Even if she was crying, you do not know why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd.”

“I wished her dead,” he said suddenly, his tone raw. “I did, Francesca, I did, and my wish was almost granted.”

The horn blared repeatedly now.

Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “It doesn’t matter what you wished. It doesn’t matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to your feelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not! You must stop blaming yourself.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “And do you know what makes matters even worse?”

She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes.

He inhaled harshly. “What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I still love her.”

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 6:00 p.m.

THE CHANNING HOME stood alone on a large lot, a huge affair of eclectic design. Three towers jutted out from the roof, and from the oddly placed parapets and balconies, gargoyles frowned viciously down. The mansion was partly gothic, partly neoclassic, and Francesca could never quite decide why it had been so designed. But the entire Channing family was eccentric, which might explain it. Sarah’s now-deceased father had studded the interior walls with animal heads and the floors with exotic skins, despite the gilded walls and European furniture, as he had been an avid trophy hunter. Mrs. Channing stood out from society for her very guileless and equally foolish manner, although she always meant well. Sarah, who had once, briefly, been engaged to Francesca’s brother, was renowned as a recluse. She was also a brilliant artist.

Having thanked Bragg for the ride, she was let inside the Channing home. Sarah materialized almost instantly.

“Francesca!” she cried in delight.

Francesca was as pleased to see the young woman who had become one of her best friends. Sarah was truly remarkable—in a way, she and Francesca were kindred souls. Sarah’s passion was her painting, and when she had been engaged to Evan, she had been miserable. Of course, the match, concocted by both families, had been truly ill conceived, as both parties had nothing in common. Sarah was small, plain and considered shy and timid, clearly not the kind of woman to catch Evan Cahill’s eye. In fact, Sarah was thoroughly independent and unconventional. Unlike most young women of marriageable age, Sarah had no interest in shopping, dreaded social engagements and gave not one thought to romance or marriage. Her life was her art. Francesca empathized completely.

Now, Sarah had smudges of paint and charcoal on her face, hands and the bodice of her green dress. The moss-hued garment might have been flattering on another woman, but Sarah had olive in her complexion and her hair was chocolate brown, so that the gown washed her out. Francesca had never, not even once, seen Sarah appropriately garbed. Sarah did not care what she wore and her choice of clothing—usually decided by her mother with the best of intentions—made that clear. The styles in her wardrobe, while expensive, overwhelmed her small stature and the colors usually dulled her coloring, her eyes and hair.

“I am so glad you could come by,” Sarah cried breathlessly.

Francesca looped her arm in hers. “What has put that sparkle in your eye? I know it is not a man! Let me guess. Some thing to do with a painting?” she teased.

“Hurry with me,” Sarah said with a grin. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a loose ponytail, and some paint had gotten into the stray curls around her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes, long-lashed and round, positively sparkled. The more time Francesca spent with her, the more she changed her initial opinion of Sarah. Sarah no longer seemed plain or timid at all. She was one of the most vibrant and interesting women Francesca had ever met.

“Are we going to your studio?” Francesca guessed as they hurried down a long corridor leading to the back of the house.

“Of course,” Sarah said with a grin. The door was open. The large room was filled with canvases, some finished, others in various stages of execution. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, although two landscapes were also present. She had clearly, at one time, been influenced by the romantics, and later by the impressionists. Her work now was bright and bold—she clearly adored color—but her strokes were far more realistic than one would expect. “I have finished your portrait,” Sarah said, pausing before an easel that was draped with cloth.

Francesca’s heart leaped with excitement. Hart had commissioned her portrait some time ago, when she had thought her self in love with Bragg. He had only done so because he had wanted to annoy her, and he had done just that. Francesca had no time for any sittings at the beginning, but as their relation ship had changed, sitting for a portrait he wished to hang in his private rooms had become thoroughly exciting. A month ago he had asked Sarah to make the portrait a nude. Francesca had agreed, and every sitting had become exhilarating.

Now, on pins and needles, she asked, “How is it?” Shamelessly, she could not wait for Hart to hang her nude likeness in his rooms.

Sarah laughed with happiness. “Why don’t you decide for yourself?” And she swept the cloth from the canvas.

Francesca started in surprise.

The naked woman who sat with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder, was stunning. Francesca knew she was no beauty, yet the woman in that portrait most definitely had her face. Her features were classic, her lips full, her nose tiny. But there was nothing ordinary about her face. Somehow, Sarah had made her captivating. Francesca simply gaped.

In the portrait, her gleaming, honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed, as if for a ball, and she wore a pearl choker about her throat. The fact that it was all she wore was infinitely seductive as well. Francesca realized her cheeks had grown warm. She finally found the courage to look at the rest of the portrait.

Her body was as alluring as her face. Francesca was amazed. The line of her back was long and elegant, but her buttocks were sensually full. The intriguing profile of one breast escaped her arm, and not far from where she sat, a red ball gown lay in a puddle of opulent fabric, clearly abandoned in haste.

The portrait was suggestive, terribly so. Francesca tugged at her shirt collar. The humming became a drumming in her ears. Was that really how she looked? Was this what Hart saw when he looked at her? Surely Sarah, being so fond of her, had exaggerated all of her features.

“What do you think?” Sarah whispered.

Francesca bit her lip. She still could not quite speak. The portrait was an amazing feat—to take a sensible, professional woman like herself and put her features together in the manner that Sarah had. It was her face, but the expression did not belong to an innocent woman, or a skilled sleuth—it belonged to a passionate lover, a creature of the bedroom and the night.

“Don’t you like it?” Sarah asked tersely now.

Francesca whirled. She thought she might be crimson. “I love it,” she cried. “But Sarah, how did you do it? That’s not me—yet it is! In that portrait, I am almost as alluring as Daisy.”

Sarah smiled in relief. “For a moment, I thought you did not like it,” she exclaimed. “And painting your likeness was easy enough. It’s what I do,” she added. “Do you think Hart will be pleased? Have I gone too far? The theme is frankly sensual. It might be too risqué, considering you will one day be his wife.”