Deadly Illusions (27 page)

And it was working.

If only Harry had not dropped those charges against him.

And as a painful image of Harry de Warenne came abruptly to mind, she leaped to her feet, more than disconcerted. A lump of anguish remained raw in her chest. It had been shocking to find him in New York, and his presence in the city had rekindled memories she had hoped to leave far behind in Ireland, where they belonged.

He must have found her the same way David had, she thought as she vigorously cleaned the counter by the sink. Now she regretted leaving Father Culhane's name with her neighbor in case anyone had to contact her. She wondered if Harry remained in the city or if he had left.

It was shocking that he had even bothered to look her up. Or was it?

Gwen paused, the rag in her hand, swept back in time to a perfect spring day, the lawns the color of emeralds, the sky brilliantly blue, as she slipped out of the manor house with no small amount of guilt. But no one was home and the day simply beckoned. Before she knew it, she was running barefoot down the hill in a moment of sheer joy and real freedom. As she ran, her life with David did not exist. There was only the wet grass beneath her feet, the sun shining mildly upon her face, the faint chill of the air, the overwhelming scent of hyacinth. Then she fell.

She tripped on a stone. Briefly, she rolled over, once, twice. And then, like a child, she rolled over again and again, all the way to the bottom of the hill, and laughing out loud, she stopped on her back and stared up at the passing white clouds. She floated there in the grass, so wonderfully relaxed. Then, her laughter gone, she sobered and came back to reality. She had a job to return to and her black dress was wet and stained with dirt. Worse, her white apron was now blotched green. Gwen sat up, thinking to rebraid her hair.

And the lord of the manor sat on his bay horse, his eyebrows raised, staring at her.

She jumped to her feet in dread and dismay, her hands falling to her sides. “My lord, sir!” She bowed her head, her heart racing wildly. “I beg your pardon, sir, I…I,” she faltered, for she did not know what to say and he was dismounting—he was approaching!

She dared to look up, unable to breathe.

Randolph walked closer, an impossibly handsome man, a
man she had never seen smile, not even once. “You don't have to apologize for enjoying our first good day of spring, Mrs. Hanrahan.” He bowed.

She met his gaze and felt herself drowning in his remark able blue eyes and in wave after wave of her own surprise. She knew her cheeks were hot. But it was impossible not to be aware of Harry de Warenne as a most attractive man, even if he was a nobleman and her employer. Fortunately, she rarely glimpsed him more than once or twice a day.

Unfortunately, she dreamed about those glimpses in the wee hours of the night.

Now a dozen questions filled her mind. Why had he bowed? How terrible did she look? For how long had he been watching her? “How do you know my name?” she whispered.

He did not smile. She knew all the rumors. He had lost his wife and children in a fire some time ago and continued to grieve for them, and she felt terribly sad for him. He was too young to spend the rest of his life in mourning. “You are in my employ,” he said with a shrug. “I asked the steward.”

Alarm began. He must have asked about her because he intended to reprimand her—or worse. But before she could get a word out, he said, “Your foot is bleeding.”

She somehow tore her gaze from his face and looked down. He was right. She must have cut it on a stone. “I'm fine,” she managed to say. She realized she must, somehow, escape back to the house and the duties awaiting her there.

But he knelt, swiftly producing a crisp linen kerchief.

Gwen gaped.

“The wound is not deep, I think,” he said, and she had to bite down not to cry out as he put the unfolded linen on her foot, tying it in place. His hands were stunningly gentle.

What was he doing?

Swiftly, he stood. And his cheeks were red as he said, “I don't think you should walk. You may ride Storm back to the house.”

She had become incoherent, wanting to protest, for surely this could not be. She was no lady, to be treated this way. But then, as the crimson stain on his cheeks darkened, he swept her into his arms before she could utter her protest.

He set her in the saddle. She was staring at him, remaining more shocked than she had ever been in her life, and his gaze met hers. “I'll walk,” he said. “Just hold on to the saddle.”

And he led the horse with her on its back up the hill and to the house.

Now, Gwen had to sit down at her kitchen table. The tears began, tears she had thought finished a long time ago. That had been the first time she had ever been in Harry's arms. The first time they had ever exchanged words. After that, once or twice a day, he would pass her in the hall or study and inquire politely after her or her daughter. Eventually she and Bridget had run into him on the street of the village and he had bought Bridget a sweet. He began to appear outside their church on Sunday—David did not go to church and Lord Randolph was, of course, Protestant—and he would give them a ride home in his handsome carriage.

Christmas came. His gift to the family was a huge basket filled with exotic coffees and teas, biscuits and chocolates. Buried in the midst of the gourmet refreshments was a vial of the most delicate, sweet and floral French perfume.

She was wildly, hopelessly in love. She did not know what their strange relationship meant to him. She lived for the brief moments each day that they came face-to-face and those warm, sunny Sunday afternoons when he would drive her and Bridget home from church. She knew his reputation—and he did not dally with women of any class, so he could not be flirting with her. And she had heard that he had vowed never to remarry. But they did have some kind of relationship, a very tense and formal one. Yet oddly, it was also a friendship. It had been a year since she had first glimpsed him, the day her employment had begun.

And then she and David had another huge fight. He'd been missing for two days but Gwen knew that meant he was on a drunk. It was not the first time he'd disappeared and she knew it would not be the last. A part of her prayed he would never come back. When he did come home, he chose to pick a fight—accusing her of being less than a wife, a good-for-nothing lack wit—and his alcoholic rage had escalated until he began to beat her with his fist. Her face was badly bruised and Gwen knew she could not go up to the big house the next day. She sent a note to the housekeeper at Adare that she was ill and she would not be in for several days.

The next day Randolph came.

In a panic, she refused to answer the door, but he let himself in. And when he saw her face, she saw how much he cared. Before she even knew it she was in his arms—in his embrace—and he held her close and demanded she tell him who had done this so he might beat the man to a bloody pulp.

She begged him to leave it alone.

And he kissed her, telling her he could not leave it alone, and it was like the cork exploding from a fine bottle of champagne—one kiss and passion claimed them both.

Gwen wiped the tears from her face. She hated the memories, just as she cherished them, and she wished Randolph was not in the city, just as she wished he would come back, one more time. And when the knock sounded on her door, her wish was answered, because she somehow knew it was him.

Gwen stood slowly, stunned.

He knocked again.

Her heart filled her breast. Gwen hurried forward, unbolting the door, and not even inquiring as to who might be in her hall, she opened it.

Harry de Warenne stood there, staring intensely at her.

She felt as if she were back in Ireland, back in the little cottage she called home, as if time had gone backward, somehow
retracing its steps, and she was a maid in his employ—a maid and his lover.

He reached out.

Gwen rushed into his arms.

 

“O
H
G
OD!”
F
RANCESCA CRIED,
seizing Hart's arm. They had followed Randolph's hansom across town and to Avenue A and then to Tenth Street. She watched as Randolph paid the cabdriver and turned to face the building where Gwen lived and where Margaret Cooper had died. And then she watched him as he went inside.

“Hart!” She faced him in horror. “He is going after Gwen. We must go up—we must stop him!”

Hart did not look very pleased. He faced Maggie. “Mrs. Kennedy, I think we are going to pay a call on Mrs. O'Neil. Please wait here.”

Maggie blanched. She nodded, whispering, “Be careful.”

Francesca could hardly believe that her instincts had been right. But there were only a few choices now. Either Harry de Warenne was the Slasher, or he was Gwen O'Neil's ex-lover and ex-employer, or both. She thought the former possibility far more likely, as she could not see Randolph pursuing any woman across an entire ocean, especially not a woman who had been a housemaid in his employ. “Hurry,” she cried, fear for Gwen choking her. She fumbled with her purse while Hart stepped from the coach.

She leaped out behind him, her gun in hand. Hart caught her around the waist. “If that is loaded, you could shoot someone—including me.”

“Of course it is loaded,” she said in a hush. She gave him a look. “A fool's errand?”

He pushed the barrel of the small revolver down. “Do you have to carry that?” he asked.

Francesca hurried past him, leading the way to the building's entrance. “If your friend Randolph is up there murdering
Gwen, we shall both be very happy that I am armed,” she said in a low tone.

He stepped around her to push open the front door. “I agree, his behavior is suspicious, but that does not mean he is a murderer.”

Francesca did not answer, racing up the stairs. She paused before Gwen's door and unable to help herself, pressed her ear to the rough, splintering wood. She could not detect a thing.

Hart said, clearly amused, “Shall we knock?”

“Hush!” She strained to hear but there was nothing. Her alarm grew as she straightened. “Hart, break the door down,” she ordered, her heart pounding.

He gave her a mildly incredulous look.

“Hurry!” she cried, terribly afraid for Gwen's welfare.

Hart tested the knob and the door was unlocked, for it opened instantly.

Francesca stood on tiptoe to see past him and started.

Randolph held Gwen tightly in his arms, kissing her deeply. The woman clung.

Engrossed, the lovers did not hear them.

Francesca lowered her gun.

 

P
OLICE HEADQUARTERS WAS
stunningly busy that night. The holding cell was filled with drunks and hoodlums. Several officers stood at the front desk, processing two more rowdies, and a pair of civilian gentlemen looked ready to come to blows, barely being kept apart by a couple of weary policemen. Only one typewriter could be heard, though, when usually dozens were industriously at work. That night, there was no pinging of the telegraph and only the occasional ring of the telephones.

Gwen was ashen. “You can't be doing this! He has nothing to do with that awful Slasher, Miss Cahill!” she cried, one arm around her daughter.

They had asked Randolph to come with them to headquarters and he had agreed, his expression impassive and impossible to
read. Francesca had explained that he might be useful in solving the case she was working on. Gwen had been deter mined to join them and had roused her daughter to do so, in spite of Randolph insisting that she remain at her flat. Now Gwen clasped her daughter to her side.

“We merely wish to ask him a few questions,” Francesca said with a reassuring smile. “You should really go home, Gwen,” she added, wondering why the woman had leaped to the conclusion that Randolph was a suspect.

Hart said, “My driver has taken Maggie home, but I can find you a cab.”

Gwen had a terribly stubborn look on her face, one that was answer enough.

“Miz Cahill?”

Francesca turned at the sound of Inspector Newman's voice. “Did you reach Bragg?” she asked quickly.

“He is on his way,” Newman said. “Randolph is in the conference room. C'mish said you could go up and start questioning him if you want to.”

“That would be wonderful,” Francesca said. She reached for Gwen's hand. “It is so late. You really should go home.”

“I am staying,” Gwen said hoarsely. “I am staying until you release him!”

As they moved toward the stairs, Hart murmured, “Should we advise the inspector to go down to the Holland House and search Randolph's room?”

She was pleased. Hart would make a good sleuth, if he ever wished to. “That is an excellent suggestion, and I agree that his hotel room should be searched for any clues. However, I think Bragg will have to send someone over when he gets here.” She started up the stairs, Hart at her side. “I thought you were certain Randolph is innocent.”

“Most murders seem to be committed by family members, or spouses, or lovers,” he said.

“But Gwen hasn't been murdered,” she remarked, playing the devil's advocate.

“If they were lovers in Ireland, he has come a very long way to rekindle the romance,” Hart remarked.

“Meaning that the affair is hardly an ordinary one.” Francesca smiled at him.

“Meaning that there are at least a dozen questions I wouldn't mind asking him, myself. Remember, this man does not womanize, Francesca. Not with whores and not with ladies. So what does an affair with a housemaid mean? I cannot understand why he is really here in the city.”

“I don't know, but even I am not romantic enough to think it anything but extremely suspicious.” She pushed open the conference room door.

Randolph sat at the long table, alone, apparently brooding. An armed officer stood by the door, leaning against the wall. He nodded at her.

Francesca recognized him. “Good evening, O'Reilly. The commissioner has said we could question Lord Randolph.” She went to the table and sat down across from Randolph. He stared at her, his expression tight, but did not utter a word.