Deadly Vows

He decided to ignore his near relation. Too late, he realized he was about to descend into the crowd of three hundred tittering, exhilarated wedding guests. He faltered.

The ladies wore ball gowns, the men black tie. Everyone had been speaking, the din hushed yet excited. A terrible silence fell. He saw Andrew Cahill near the church’s oversize double doors just as Francesca’s father saw him. Cahill seemed incredibly dismayed and distressed. But as their gazes met, he flushed with anger.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rourke said softly. “If you don’t need a drink, I do.”

He did not care. Andrew stared at him with accusation—as if this was his fault.

Hart smiled and said pleasantly but loudly, “I am afraid this is your entertainment for the day. The wedding is off and, apparently, I am to blame.”

As he stepped onto the ground floor, the crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea. He refused to focus on any single face, but he knew just about everyone present. He had slept with a dozen of the assembled socialites, with many of the other matrons’ daughters shoved his way; he had concluded business with many of the gentlemen. He saw the Countess Bartolla, who was gleeful, and Leigh Anne, who seemed both vacuous and surprised; he saw Sarah Channing, who was in abject concern—for him? for Francesca?—and her mother, who looked shocked.

To hell with them all.

As he stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he heard the crowd erupting behind him into frenzied conversation.

He did not care.

FRANCESCA DIDN’T CARE how bruised she was. For the third time, she climbed unsteadily onto the cabinet on top of the desk. Now, though, tears filled her eyes.

Twice she had tried to leap up onto the windowsill. Both times she had fallen to the floor. It had hurt terribly.

She was losing her strength and her will. She had to make it onto that ledge this time.

Panting, half crying, Hart’s image assailing her, she gripped the concrete ledge.

Then she heard a child’s cries.

She froze, afraid she was imagining the sound, when she heard a second child’s laughter.

There were children outside!

“Help!” she screamed. “Help me! I am locked in the gallery.… Help!”

A moment later a boy’s tiny freckled face peered through the window opening. His blue eyes met hers and he gaped.

“Can you help me get out of here? I’m in the Gallery Moore! It has been locked from outside!” Francesca cried frantically.

His eyes popping, he nodded. “I’ll get me dad.”

Francesca was overcome with relief as he ran off, apparently another child with him. She swallowed hard, praying for help. A moment or two later—which felt like an eternity—a man’s face appeared in the window opening. Perhaps in his thirties, he was cleanly shaven, with graying temples. He was incredulous. “I didn’t believe Bobby! Are you all right, miss?”

“Not really!” Francesca quickly explained that she was locked in. Remaining calm, the gentleman told her to go to the front door, and that he would find a way to get her out.

Francesca slowly climbed off the cabinet and the desk, every bone in her body aching. She picked up her purse and shoes, aware that her gun was outside, and realized that her nails were broken, her fingers scratched and bleeding slightly. She pulled out the pocket watch. It was half past four.

Frightened, she left the office, hurrying through the gallery. She glanced at her portrait, wishing she had thought to destroy it. She was afraid to leave it behind. The moment she saw Hart, she would tell him what had happened and he would send someone to retrieve it.

At the front door she found the gentleman who had offered to help her with a roundsman, who was busy trying to pick the lock. There were far more shadows inside now. Her portrait was lost in the darkness, one small relief.

The lock clicked about ten minutes later.

Now in her shoes, Francesca rushed outside. “Thank you!”

“Are you all right, miss?” the uniformed policeman asked her, his gaze taking in her untidy appearance.

Francesca imagined that she looked like a bedchamber sneak. She nodded, about to move past him. “I am very late,” she began, but he barred her way.

“Are you a relation of Mr. Moore?” the roundsman asked pointedly.

He thought her a burglar or thief! She froze. “No, I am not. Sir, my wedding is today.” She flushed, beyond all dismay. “In fact, I was to be married by now. I must go!” Surely Hart would understand. Surely he would be waiting for her.

“The gallery is closed. It says so right there, on the door sign. I’m going to have to take you in, miss, on suspicion of breaking and entering these premises.”

Francesca cried out. “I was invited here!”

As if he hadn’t heard her—or didn’t care—the officer held up her gun. “Is this yours?”

She nodded. “It most certainly is.” She dug into her purse and handed him her calling card. It read:

Francesca Cahill

Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue

New York City

No Crime Too Great or Small

As he read it, his eyes widened. She snapped, “I am Francesca Cahill, sir. Surely you have heard of me. I work very closely with the police commissioner—who happens to be a personal friend of mine.”

He looked at her, his eyes still wide. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, ma’am.” Respect filled his tone now.

“Good. Right now, Rick Bragg is at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, awaiting my arrival there—along with three hundred other guests.” She felt tears well. “Along with my groom, Mr. Calder Hart. You have heard of him, surely?”

“Wasn’t he locked up for murdering his mistress?” the gentleman said, standing behind the officer.

She cried, “Hart is innocent—the killer confessed and awaits conviction. Now, I need a cab!”

“I’ll get you a cabbie,” the roundsman said quickly. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, for delaying you, but you have to admit it was suspicious, you being inside the closed gallery like that.”

“May I have my gun, please?” He handed it to her and she started for the street at a run. She had never been as desperate—and there were no hansoms in sight. Behind her, the cop put his fingers to his mouth and a piercing whistle sounded. Moments later, a black cab turned the corner from Broadway, the gelding in its traces trotting swiftly toward her. Francesca sagged with relief.

Forty minutes later, the tall spires of the church came into sight. Francesca leaned forward, praying.

But the avenue was deserted. Not a single coach was parked outside the church.

She did not have to go inside to know that everyone was gone.