Deadly Illusions

Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”

“No, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”

“Perhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.

Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.

But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.

THE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.

The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelier overhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.

He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”

Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and dashing, and until his fall from Cahill grace, he had been a premier catch. Francesca smiled up at him, searching his eyes. “You seem very well.”

He laughed and shrugged. Then, “I haven’t been at the tables in over a month, Fran.”

She cried out in surprised delight. Evan had a passion for gaming and, to her dismay, she had learned that his debts exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. That had been one of the causes of friction between him and their father. Recently, the man to whom he owed the vast sum of money had threatened his life. Francesca had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from Hart to pay him partially back, and Hart had called on the creditor as well, to make it clear that Evan’s life would not be forfeit for his debts. Since then, there had been no more threats and no more assaults. But on several occasions in the past Evan had lapsed into his old habit of gambling. Francesca was thrilled that he had managed thus far to stay away from the nightclubs. “That is wonderful,” she said. “And there is no temptation?”

He gave her a dark look. “There is always temptation, Fran. I will be tempted until my dying day.” Then he lightened. “But the countess is keeping me quite busy and very distracted.”

An image of the radiant, auburn-haired widow came to mind. “Has it become serious?” Francesca asked lightly. She happened to like the flamboyant countess, but she did not quite trust her. Bartolla Benevente had once meddled in her private affairs when she had been infatuated with Rick Bragg.

Evan hesitated, running his hand through his dark hair, and paced over to the wall of windows, which looked out onto Madison Avenue. Francesca followed him. Below, the street was filled with carriages and trolleys; the city was doing business in full swing. Pedestrians—mostly darkly clad gentlemen—hurried up and down the street. She suddenly thought about Hart and the evening ahead and she smiled.

Then she thought about Daisy and she frowned, her heart skipping with fear.

“I don’t know,” Evan finally said, facing Francesca directly. “I am in love, but…I have been in love before.”

How mature his assessment was. Francesca was impressed. “Yes, you have. And you do gravitate to the Bartolla Beneventes of this world.”

He smiled a little at that. “Yes, I do. She would make a good wife.”

“I doubt she wishes to wed a law clerk.”

“Yes, I agree, and I have thought about that. She urges me frequently to make up with Father.”

Francesca met his gaze and touched his arm. “You do what you need to do, Evan. I am very proud of you.”

He shook his head, his expression self-deprecating. “And how are you? You seem radiant, Francesca, but then I look into your eyes and I see that you are worried. Is everything all right?”

Now it was Francesca who hesitated. It crossed her mind to tell Evan about the awful conversation with Daisy, but she had no wish to dwell on the painful subject. “I am on another case,” she said, an attempt to distract herself. Then she gave up. “I ran into Daisy a few hours ago.”

Evan started. “Daisy? You mean that lovely creature whom Hart…you mean—” he coughed “—Hart’s, er, Daisy Jones?”

Francesca hugged herself. “I know that he was keeping her as a mistress, Evan. You need not be discreet with me.”

Evan stared, his forehead creased. “Fran, it is over?” Doubt filled his tone.

She knew she should not have raised the subject. “He broke it off with her when I accepted his proposal.”

Evan spoke with care. “What I love most about you is your loyalty and trust.”

“What does that mean?” she asked with dread.

“Fran, I don’t know how to say this, but he keeps her still!”

She stiffened. “If you mean she continues to live in his house, the house he bought for her, I know that. He promised her six months and will live up to that agreement. But he stopped seeing her the day I accepted his proposal. I happen to know that for a fact—I was spying on him with Daisy when he told her he would be faithful, Evan. And Daisy even admitted he no longer sees her now that he is engaged.”

Evan laughed, visibly relieved. “I am so pleased! I did not know.” Then he sobered. “But Fran, everyone thinks she remains his mistress. It is unwise for him to allow her to live in that house.”

Francesca stared. “Do you mean that society assumes Calder has a mistress, in spite of his engagement to me?” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, I do.”

She gaped, and then she was furious. “But it’s not true! Is that really what everyone says?”

He sighed and took her hand. “I’m afraid that it is the obvious conclusion to be drawn. And why is Hart being so honorable with such a woman?”

She pulled free. “He is quite noble, Evan, I have learned that in the few months since we met. He gave his word and he is keeping it.” Now she really began to worry. “If Father learns of this, we are through! He dislikes the match enough as it is.”

“I agree with you,” Evan said. Then, ruefully, he added, “I am sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, Fran.”

She walked away, still angry but also somewhat mortified. “They are all gossips and hypocrites,” she huffed.

“Many of them are. Is that why you look so worried? Because Daisy still resides in that house?”

She slowly faced him and did not speak.

He stared for a long moment. “Francesca?”

“I am such a fool,” she whispered. And she felt tearful again. “I think I have fallen in love with Hart, Evan. What will I do?”

He quickly came forward, taking her hands. “But that is wonderful. You will marry for love! As you, of all people, should, Fran. And Hart—well—” he smiled “—I think he has finally found his match.”

She pursed her lips and it was a moment before she could speak. “Even if I am his match intellectually, I am not half as lovely as Daisy or the other women he has been with.”

He was incredulous. “Is that what is bothering you?”

“Yes…no. I am in love with a dissolute man, Evan. How will I manage to avoid a broken heart?”

Evan was silent for a moment. Then he put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa, where they both sat. “Well, if anyone can answer this question, I suppose it is me. I certainly qualify, do I not?”

She knew that he referred to his own womanizing ways. She nodded.

“I won’t lie to you, Fran. You may be in for heartbreak and sorrow. But on the other hand, there is a saying, and it is said for a reason. Every dog has its day. Hart would not be the first rake to be reformed by a good woman.”