Deadly Illusions (24 page)

He smiled, but with worry. “Only a hundred times.”

Maggie caressed his thick black hair and then realized that someone had come to stand in the doorway. She started and met her host's dark gaze. “Mr. Hart, sir,” she cried, smiling. Did he think he was interrupting them? “Do come in,” she said, and then she flushed. “I mean, it is your home.”

Hart smiled a little as he accepted her invitation, strolling inside. He clasped Joel's back, who beamed. “I did not want to interrupt,” he said, glancing at the three children on his sofa.

Maggie prayed no one had jam or anything else on their hands. “Children, get down! We will go to our rooms,” she said, wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Kennedy, please, do not send them out on my account,” Hart said.

Maggie flinched and met his gaze. He seemed very grim, she thought, and very tired. There was no smile on his face, not even a trace, or anything at all in his eyes. “Alfred said we could use a room. I thought this room appropriate, as it isn't as large as the others in the house. But—”

“Please, Mrs. Kennedy, use any salon you desire. I am on my way out and I merely wished to inquire if all of your needs are being met.”

She nodded, barely able to believe how kind he was—how kind everyone was. There were other guests in the house, Grace and Rathe Bragg, a brother, a nephew. Everyone was pleasant and friendly, as if she was a real guest and a real lady, herself.

Maggie! Don't go foolin' yourself. You're not gently bred and you never will be!

“We are fine. Thank you so much for your hospitality. I must thank Francesca again,” she said breathlessly.

His expression hardened and he faced Joel. “Do you know where Miss Cahill is today?” he asked. “I have sent a note, but she is already out for the day.”

Joel smiled eagerly at him. “Yes, sir! We got plans, we do. She had personal matters with her sister, Mr. Hart, and then we got to call on Mrs. Bragg, as she promised to do so. After that, she got to interview Sullivan's flatmate, the one she didn't speak to. An' if there's still some time, she said she wants to visit some lord who's stayin' at the Holland House.”

Hart's eyebrows rose. He seemed reluctantly amused. “And she thinks to do all that in one day, does she?”

“Yes, sir, she does. Miz Cahill is determined, ain't she?” He grinned proudly.

Hart tousled his hair. “Can you give her a message from me?”

Joel nodded eagerly.

“Tell her I would enjoy taking her to supper tonight.”

“Yes, sir!” Joel replied.

Alfred paused in the doorway. “Mrs. Kennedy? You have a caller,” he said.

Maggie was startled. How could she have a caller? And then Evan Cahill walked into the room.

Her heart raced wildly and she felt herself flush. Evan bowed. Impeccably attired in a fine dark suit, he looked disheveled, nonetheless. “Mrs. Kennedy, good day.”

She mumbled a greeting in reply, unable to take her eyes away. He was the most dashing gentleman she had ever laid her eyes upon, and she knew for a fact he was also the kindest.

“I think I will excuse myself,” Hart said, some humor in his tone. He and Evan exchanged friendly words and he strode out.

Maggie knew her cheeks were red. How had it gotten so warm in the room? She tugged at the collar of her shirtwaist.

Evan did not see as he knelt now, embracing the two younger boys and Lizzie, who insisted on being hauled up in his arms. Mathew started to tell him that he was teaching Paddy his letters, while Paddy tried to tell him that he had eaten eggs
and
sausages
and
flapjacks for breakfast, all at once, with real sugar syrup, and milk! “Is that all?” Evan teased, still holding Lizzie in his arms. She was pulling on the curls of his dark hair, but he did not seem to mind. “And does your belly ache?”

“No.” Paddy grinned. He rubbed his stomach, sticking it out. “It feels good!”

“Cookie,” Lizzie beamed. “Cookie!”

Evan looked her in the eye. “I'm afraid I came empty-handed today—almost.” He finally looked directly at Maggie and her heart sped. “Joel,” he said, not looking away. “There's a shopping bag in the front hall. I think there are some items in the bag that might be of interest to the children.” Still staring at Maggie, not smiling at all, he slowly set Lizzie down.

And suddenly all the children were gone, Joel taking Lizzie out by the hand. Silence filled the room.

Maggie could not find a single breath of air. She so wanted to fan herself, but would not dare. Why was he staring? Why did he look so grim? “Mr. Cahill?” she whispered nervously.

“Evan. I thought we agreed at supper the other night that it is Evan…Maggie.”

She bit her lip.
Maggie girl, don't!
“Yes,” she somehow managed to say.

He suddenly sighed, the sound reluctant and painful, and he turned to the window that was behind him, staring at it.

Oh dear, something was wrong. Somehow she had come to stand behind him; somehow, she was touching his hand.

He started, whirling, and they stood facing one another, just inches apart.

She knew she must leap back and away, but her feet refused to obey. Instead, her heart pounded desperately with the insane desire to move forward into his arms, just this once. She whispered, “What is it? Why do you look…so sad?”

Suddenly he lifted his hand.

Disbelief filled her and something incredulous—hope.

He cupped her cheek. “You are so sweet,” he said roughly.

His simple touch affected her as no caress had in years. She wanted to throw her body against his, press her mouth to his, and cling hard, for all eternity.
But something was terribly wrong.
He had helped her so many times—he had been a godsend for her children—she had to help him now. She pulled away. “Something is wrong,” she said quietly. “How can I help?”

His face collapsed. He turned away, looking defeated.

Maggie was filled with alarm. “Evan? What has happened?”

He did not face her, so she went around him, standing in front of him, taking his hand. “Is someone ill? Has someone died?” she asked in fear.

“No.” His mouth barely moved as he spoke. Then, flushing, he continued. “The countess is pregnant.”

Maggie gasped. And when his words penetrated through her shock, a knife pierced through her heart. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he said grimly.

Now she felt her cheeks heat. She dropped his hand.
I told you, Maggie girl, I told you he is not for you! But you didn't listen, did you?

No, she hadn't listened, not to her own conscience, her own common sense. “But you love her,” she heard herself say. “I mean, the child is yours.” It was a question and she knew her cheeks flamed.

He looked into her eyes. “The child is mine.”

She realized she wanted to weep. “This is wonderful, then, this is cause to celebrate—”

“I don't love her.”

She froze.

He stared at her in agony, and then he turned and walked across the room.

She was breathing hard. The beautiful countess, who was so perfect for him, was having his child. And he did not love her…not that it mattered. Suddenly she chased after him. “Surely you have feelings for her! Surely you must—she is so beautiful, so elegant, such a lady!” He turned to her, appearing disbelieving. She couldn't stop. “You are so kind and good with my children. I see how much you care. Why, you will make a wonderful father. This is joyous news, it is!”

“I don't love her,” he said intensely.

She could only stare. She felt tears forming in her eyes.
He isn't saying that he loves you, Maggie. Don't be a fool! You are an Irish farmer's daughter and he is a gentleman.

And she found every single ounce of strength she had. “The child is yours. You are going to bring a beautiful life into this world—a life you are responsible for.”

“Yes, of course, I know that,” he said. But he was staring
now so directly, so boldly, that her knees became weak. Why was he looking at her that way?

Somehow she said, “One day, you will think this is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

He grimaced. “Yes, I know. One day. One day, that is what I will think.” His gaze remained unwavering upon her.

She wanted to hold him, comfort him, stroke his forehead, his hair. But now reality fell, brutally, crushing her soul. He would marry the countess, they would have a child. How could it hurt her so?
Because you let yourself fall in love with him, Maggie girl.

The tears rose. She swiped them aside. He must not see how affected she was. “How can I help?” she asked quietly.

His nostrils flared; their gazes locked. “I don't know.” He hesitated, and suddenly he reached out and cupped her cheek again. “I have told no one except you.”

He would have to marry the countess. They both knew that. But as her body came alive the way it hadn't in so long, she closed her eyes. And for one moment, she allowed herself to rejoice in the feel of his strong hand on her face.
Oh, God, if only…

And suddenly she felt him leaning toward her.

Maggie opened her eyes, stunned.

His eyes were open, his brilliant blue eyes, and their gazes met, his wildly searching.

She knew he was going to kiss her, the way she had known he would someday, sometime, because she had known it forever, and she did not move as he murmured her name. “Maggie.” And finally his lips touched hers.

Her heart expanded impossibly as his mouth brushed hers and she loved him the way she had never thought it possible to ever love again—and suddenly he stopped.

She felt sanity return, too.

Her gaze flew open and she met his dark, surprised, unhappy
eyes, his mouth still perilously close. Slowly, a flush appearing on his high cheekbones, he released her shoulders.

As he stepped away, she fought for air. “You will marry her,” she somehow said.

“Yes,” he returned, his shoulders square. “Immediately. We will elope.”

Saturday, April 26, 1902 Noon

H
E KNEW
F
RANCESCA
was not at home, but as he handed off his gloves, he glanced toward the stairs, almost expecting her to come down them at any moment. Not amused by his own unbridled interest, Calder Hart mocked himself.

But it would always be this way and he was astute enough to know that. Somehow, Francesca had become a vital ingredient in his life. Somehow, he had come to eagerly anticipate her presence, as if he never saw her at all. He had meant it when he had told her that she had become the sunshine in his life. He was not pleased.

He had spent his entire life relying on no one but himself. He had learned the day his mother had died that he was absolutely alone in the world, never mind his older half brother, Rick. Francesca might have become vitally important to him, but he must not ever lose his independence. He was resolved not to.

He had recovered from the disaster of the previous night. Briefly, Daisy had so upset him with her insights into his character and her predictions of the future that he had wanted to push Francesca away. He remained distinctly displeased with himself, because the one truth he lived and breathed was his desire to protect Francesca from the worst that life had to offer. But last night he had done exactly the opposite. Last night he had hurt her, selfish bastard that he was.

Now it was another day and his mental acuity seemed to
have returned. He should have foreseen this. Daisy had been unhappy with his engagement and the demise of their relatively new relationship. He did not think he was being excessively arrogant, but he thought she harbored real feelings for him. It would not be the first time a woman, either lady or whore, had fallen in love with him. In any case, the moment she had walked into his Bridge Street office, he should have prepared for battle—no, for war. She had wanted to upset him, and she had managed to do just that.

How ironic it was. He thought to battle his ex-mistress, but the real enemy was the truth she had so aptly revealed—the truth that was himself.

Today it did not matter. Today he had a grip on his unholy, decadent past. Today he was that nearly noble man, the man who made Francesca's eyes shine in such a way that it gave him the greatest pleasure. Daisy was right. He was a hedonist at heart. His past was proof of that. But he could keep that side at bay. He would have to, because Francesca must never look at him in horror, utterly comprehending the truth. He had become far too fond of his new life and the woman now so predominantly at the heart of it.

He would take care of Daisy once and for all.

“Mr. Cahill is in his study, sir,” the butler said, politely leading the way through the spacious marble-floored foyer.

Francesca's father had sent him a note that morning, requesting that he present himself at his earliest convenience. Had Francesca spoken to him about moving up their wedding date? After his rotten behavior last night, he doubted it.

Cahill had been at the Montrose affair last night; Hart assumed he was being summoned for an interrogation and a set-down. As he hoped to have a good relationship with Francesca's father, he would have to accept any chastisement, a burden he was unaccustomed to bearing. Hart hoped he could be as humble as the moment required.

Andrew was seated behind his desk, his hands clasped to-
gether, looking very solemn indeed. Hart stiffened as he entered, now wary, as Andrew rose to his feet. He nodded at the butler, who closed the mahogany doors behind him, leaving the two men alone. Even though it was April, a small fire crackled in the hearth.

“Good morning,” Andrew said, moving from behind his desk. The two men shook hands. “Do have a seat.”

Hart had no intention of sitting in front of Andrew's desk while the other man took the large chair behind it, as the position he would be in was psychologically inferior. He walked over to the sofa and sat, stretching out his long legs, refusing to show any tension, although extreme caution filled him. He recognized a battlefield when invited to tread upon one. Andrew Cahill was distinctly displeased—as he should be.

He smiled as Andrew came forward, forced to sit down in a chair facing Hart, giving Hart the position of power after all. “We have much to discuss,” Cahill said flatly.

“Please, do not delay.” Hart smiled at him.

“The subject is, of course, Francesca.”

This Hart already knew, as they otherwise had no affairs in common. He did not bat an eye. “Of course.” He would not give an inch—not yet.

“I think I will strike directly to the point,” Cahill said, his shoulders rigid now, his expression foreboding. “I have always held that you are not worthy of my daughter and that you will only cause her undue grief and pain.”

“I doubt any man is worthy of Francesca,” Hart murmured.

“Francesca was clearly unhappy last night. Have you already begun to pursue other women when the two of you are not even married yet?” Cahill had become flushed.

He stared coolly. It was very hard to believe that Cahill would attack him so openly. But he was determined to remain pleasant and obsequious. “I was not pursuing anyone. There is only one woman I am interested in, my fiancée.”

“Really?” Andrew was in disbelief. “Several guests re-
marked on the tension between you and Francesca. Several guests noted your dalliance with Miss Fischer. I did not care for your behavior last night, Hart. The two of you are supposed to be in love!”

His heart lurched uncomfortably. “I have never claimed to love your daughter, sir. I have vowed to cherish her, protect her, admire and respect her, while providing her with a life she will thrive upon.”

“You hardly cherished her last evening!”

“I allowed Miss Fischer a mild flirtation, which, of course, is not a crime.” He sighed, his expression appropriately humble, he thought. “You are, of course, right. Last night I did not cherish your daughter as I said I would.”

Cahill was clearly surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“I never thought the day would ever come when I wished to wed anyone, Andrew. Yesterday I started to think about the commitment I am making.” He smiled with a shake of his head as Cahill's eyes widened. “You know very well that I was a confirmed bachelor before I met Francesca, a confirmed bachelor and an unrepentant rake. I never expected the day should come when I would freely wish to marry anyone. But then, no lady is like your daughter, sir.”

Cahill grunted.

He seemed to be giving way. Hart continued earnestly, “While I have vowed to give up my ways—freely, I might add—my reprehensible behavior at the Montrose supper was a result of the anxiety I have just expressed. Anxiety, I might add, that any previously confirmed bachelor in my position might expect upon making that monumental commitment to wedlock and, hopefully, wedded bliss.”

Andrew stared at him.

Hart wondered if he had overdone it.

And Andrew shook his head, flushing. “You are too smooth for your own good. Do you really think I believe a word you have just said? Clearly you have some feelings for Francesca,
but you will never change your ways. A man like you simply cannot change who he is.”

Hart stiffened, for instantly he could hear Daisy as clearly as if she stood before him.
Do you really think to reform? You cannot change, Calder, not for her, not for any woman, and not for very long.

Briefly, he hesitated. Whom was he fooling? Was he only fooling himself?

And the doubts came rushing back. He should let Francesca go.

Then he heard Cahill cough and instantly he came to his senses. He was in the midst of a battle now, one he must not lose, because he had made up his mind and he was never going back to that place of gray despair, that place in which he had lived his entire life until so recently, that dark, dank place in which there was no Francesca. “Will you fault me now for my honesty?” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Or for feelings that any man in my particular position would have? If I could undo my behavior of the night before, I would. It will not happen again. Andrew…I am determined to change. You have my word on that.”

“I do not trust your word. Nor do I trust that you are indeed being honest with me. So save your silken words for someone far more naive than I. I only wish I really knew your game.”

“There is no game,” Hart said coldly now. “And my word is always good.”

“Somehow I doubt that. Or will you now claim integrity of character?” Cahill leaped to his feet, his eyes ablaze.

Hart slowly stood and eyed his adversary. What was this? There was far more here, he mused, than anger over his brief lapse last evening. And even as he awaited the blow, he began to categorize Cahill's business affairs and think of how he might gain leverage over his most precarious interests. “I do not claim integrity of character,” he said. “But I do claim integrity for my word,” he said.

Cahill made a mocking sound. “You may make any claims you wish and I will continue to stand firm in my opinions, sir. And I can fault you otherwise, and that I intend to do.”

He cast aside all pretense now. Cahill wanted this war, and so be it. “Really? Do I detect a gauntlet being thrown?”

“I do not bother! It has come to my attention that you continue to keep a mistress while engaged to my daughter. How dare you, Hart! I am appalled—beyond appalled. You should know that your engagement is off.” Hands on his hips, appearing dangerously apoplectic, he stared.

Hart never justified his actions, not to anyone, except of course, recently, to Francesca. He stared, the urge to crush his foe overwhelming. But Francesca's beautiful face swam in his mind, her gaze pleading. He knew he should explain the situation now, but every fiber of his being went against the very notion. He had been more than loyal to Francesca, and in fact, he hadn't even looked at another woman with desire. His interest had become centered on one woman and one woman only. “You do not want to go up against me, Andrew,” he warned very softly. “And I advise you here and now to cease and desist.”

“Do you deny that you are keeping a mistress, for God's sake?” Andrew demanded, clearly not understanding the magnitude of the mistake he was making.

Hart felt his lips firm in an icy smile. Cahill had several outstanding loans at the Bank of New York. Hart knew one director there very well—the man had a penchant for male whores, never mind his wife and children. He also knew the president of the board. Several years ago when the man had been on the verge of bankruptcy, Hart had done him the vast favor of shipping his goods at cost, with no payment expected until those goods had sold. No, Cahill did not want to go up against him, no indeed. Loans could be called in prematurely, and that would only be the beginning, should he wish to bring Andrew Cahill to heel.

But how clearly he could see Francesca, her blue eyes wide
and filled with a desperate plea. She adored her father. He sighed, realizing he should make one final attempt to bring a truce about before he really went after Francesca's father.

“Sir.” Hart was brisk. “The day I became engaged to your daughter was the day I ceased my affair with Miss Jones. She continued to reside in my house because I promised to take care of her for six months. Although three months remain on our verbal contract, I have actually told her to leave. Francesca knows all of this. That is the truth and I resent the conclusions you have so erroneously drawn.”

Andrew Cahill's eyebrows lifted. “Do I appear a fool to you? What nonsensical explanation is this!” Then he smiled coldly, showing the ruthless side that had helped him rise from his birth as a farmer's son to an American millionaire. “Even if you have just told me the truth, I don't care. I have never been in favor of this match and it is off, Hart. I will tell Francesca tonight.”

Hart stared. A terrible tension arose as he faced his newest enemy.

It would not be hard to hack away at the wealth and power Andrew Cahill had made for himself, oh no. It would not be hard to force him to give him what he wanted. Cahill was simply no match for him, he was certain of it.

But he would be going to war against Francesca's father.

Francesca would be the one made to suffer, caught between father and lover.

Hart was stricken senseless then. It was an extraordinary moment.

He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't.

Cahill raised an eyebrow. “I see you do not really object.”

Hart said coldly, “You are making a mistake.” He then nodded politely. “I shall see myself out.”

 

M
ADISON
S
QUARE WAS BUSY
on a Saturday afternoon. As Francesca alighted from Hart's coach with Joel, she saw a dozen
ladies in the small park, with many children skipping about, and a few gentlemen strolling as well. Every park bench was occupied, but then, it was a perfect spring day, a harbinger for May. Since speaking so frankly with her sister, her spirits were high and she smiled to herself. Connie was undoubtedly right—and hadn't she just received Hart's invitation to dine from Joel? They had barely put her plan in action and already there was a good result.

“Raoul, I may be an hour,” Francesca said to the driver. He merely saluted her with one finger; although he wore a very exquisitely made suit, like his employer, he never wore a hat. She touched Joel's shoulder as they started toward Bragg's house. “Come, Joel.”

“Can't I wait here?” he asked with a frown.

“No, you cannot. It's about time you became friendly with Rick's girls.” She rapped smartly on the door knocker and Peter answered at once.

She smiled at him. “Is Mrs. Bragg at home?” she asked formally, and then she looked past his big body and saw Leigh Anne in her wheeled chair in the hall. But that was not all. Leigh Anne wore a coat, as did both Katie and Dot, and Mrs. Flowers was entering from the kitchens, wearing a cape and carrying a wicker basket.