Deadly Promise [Mass Market Paperback]

CHAPTER
ONE
THURSDAY, MARCH 27, 1902—NEW YORK CITY
FRANCESCA CAHILL MAY HAVE been born into society, in fact, she was an heiress of a very marriageable age, but recently she had become the city’s most famous (and infamous) amateur sleuth. Having spent her entire life flouting both the spoken and unspoken rules of convention, being well-read, highly educated and an active reformer, she was already considered both unmarriageable and an eccentric. Her behavior of the past three months had not aided her flailing personal reputation. For she had helped the police commissioner, Rick Bragg, solve several ghastly crimes—even making the headlines of some of the city’s most reputable dailies. All this while further scandalizing a good portion of society—not to mention her own family.
Her reputation was currently in shreds, not that she cared. However, it might very well take a stunning turn for the better. For Francesca had somehow become secretly engaged to one of the city’s wealthiest and most notorious bachelors, Calder Hart. She still did not know whether to regret it or not. But if their engagement survived all that she had thus far done—and she winced thinking about it—a public announcement would take her from ugly duckling to swan.
But she seriously doubted Hart would even speak with her now—much less continue their engagement.
There was relief and there was regret.
“Francesca Cahill! You disappeared for an entire month! And I am dying to know why!” the former Connie Cahill, now Lady Montrose, cried. She had just barged into Francesca’s bedroom.
Francesca cringed, but only inwardly, as she faced her always fashionably and terribly elegant older sister. It was ironic that much of the city thought of her as a hero, she mused. It wasn’t true. She was, in fact, a coward, never mind the many dangerous and murdering hooks and crooks she had single-handedly faced and apprehended. She was a coward, because only a coward ran away from the man she was supposed to marry. She was a coward when it came to the darkly disturbing Calder Hart.
Connie faced her after closing the door to Francesca’s beautifully appointed bedroom—a room she had had no say in decorating, as the decor had been chosen by her mother, Julia, and sister. Francesca hadn’t cared then, just as she did not care now. Decor—and fashion, shopping, and teas—was hardly important to her. She forced a smile and hurried forward clad only in her corset and drawers and embraced her sister. “It’s so nice to see you, too,” she whispered, but she meant it. Connie was not just her sister; she was also her very best friend.
“Do not think to dissemble with me,” Connie said, her hands on her slim hips. She was clad in a gorgeous dark blue evening gown, with sapphires around her throat and wrists, atop the white sateen gloves that ended at her elbows. “I know why you disappeared!” Her blue eyes flashed.
Francesca tensed. Connie could not know. Before leaving town to visit an old and ailing and very fictitious school chum, she had left Hart a brief note, one that hardly explained anything but did request that their engagement remain a private affair until she returned to New York City. Wisely, Francesca hadn’t left a forwarding address; she had left the city to think about her life and her impulsive decision to accept Hart’s proposal. “What is it that you think you know?”
Connie sighed then. “There is no Elizabeth Jane Seymour, Fran. I would recall a best friend by that name! You chose to leave the city because you could no longer handle the little predicament you have found yourself to be in.” Connie, who was a platinum blonde generally considered to be a great beauty, eyed Francesca with some smug satisfaction now.
Francesca sighed in return. She hated deceiving anyone, much less her sister. And Connie was right. Marriage had never been a part of her agenda! What was she doing? Her agenda had been to become a journalist, to expose the world’s ills to society, so those with means could engender badly needed reforms and humanitarian aid. That agenda had included a higher education at a renowned women’s institution, Barnard College. However, her agenda—and her life—had begun to unravel some time ago: last January, to be exact. She had fallen in love while solving a terrible crime, and nothing had been—or would ever be—the same again.
And to make matters worse, it hadn’t been Calder Hart whom she had fallen in love with.
Perhaps Connie hadn’t learned about her engagement—which meant that neither had her mother. And it was Julia Van Wyck Cahill’s dearest desire to see Francesca suitably wed—immediately, before she solved another crime and garnered another headline. Julia was a very powerful woman who always got her way. “Yes, I found the heat too much to bear,” she said warily.
Connie met her gaze. “The heat? You sound like that little hoodlum you are so fond of. Joel Kennedy.”
“I suppose his ways are rubbing off on me,” Francesca murmured, as she had come to rely on the eleven-year-old heavily in her sleuthing. He knew the city’s worst wards intimately. He was her guide, and more.
“Oh, Fran. They will both be at the Wainscot ball tonight.” Connie’s gaze moved to the bed behind Francesca, where a vivid and dark red ball gown lay. “Mama said you would attend. And I see you are wearing the red.” A knowing look came to her eyes and she smiled.
“It’s not what you think!” Francesca cried. Both Rick Bragg, the city’s police commissioner, and his notorious and wealthy half brother, Calder Hart, would be at the Wainscot ball tonight. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought. Oh, God, what should she do? Was she doing the right thing? And how could one marry a man one didn’t love—even if that man’s mere look could enflame her entire body? And could two half brothers be more unalike—and more bitterly jealous of each other? If only they weren’t such rivals.
“Then tell me what to think,” Connie said, moving to Francesca and placing her arm around her. Both sisters were considered almost as identical as twins, although Francesca’s hair was the color of rich honey and her skin was tinged with tones of peach and gold. Francesca knew that was not true. Her sister was beautiful, while she, Francesca, was on the ordinary side of pretty. Connie always stood out in a crowd, but Francesca had been a wallflower (and a bookworm) for most of her life.
Until recently.
Francesca sat down beside her and they clasped hands. “I have been worried about me, too,” she said softly.
“Oh, Fran, didn’t a month away clear your head?”
“Yes . . . and no,” Francesca whispered.
“You are still torn between Bragg and Hart?” Connie wasn’t smiling now. She was concerned.
Francesca nodded, wishing she knew what to do—then slowly pulled a chain out of her bodice. On the end dangled a huge pear-shaped diamond ring, one worth quite the fortune. Her heart beat harder as she dangled the huge engagement ring.
Connie’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”
“Yes, oh my.”
Connie blinked and met Fran’s gaze. “You are engaged?”
“We were. Briefly. Secretly,” she added. “I have no idea if we still are—and if we aren’t, why, then it is for the best. Marriage is not for me and we both know it.” But her words rang false and hollow.
Connie shot to her feet. “What nonsense is this? You fool! To run away and sabotage the best thing that could happen to you! I pray you are wrong and that you haven’t single-handedly destroyed this opportunity, Fran.”
Francesca swallowed. A part of her desperately wished that she had not run away—and that she had not sabotaged her secret engagement, too. “Can I ride over to the ball with you and Neil? I am really not in the mood for Mama’s lectures tonight.”
Connie nodded. “Of course.” But she was staring intently now. “Still, you have been wearing his ring around your neck. Did you take it off even once?” She did not wait for Francesca to answer. “I daresay you did not. And you are wearing the dress. The dress he likes. I do think I am underestimating you.”
“I am a fool, Connie, to think I am special, because every single woman he has had has thought the exact same thing!” Francesca cried. And it was the truth.
Connie gripped her shoulders. “But you are special! Good God, you are the bravest and most clever—and most stubborn—woman I know. You have spent your entire life since you were a child defending the rights of the poor and the helpless and fighting for those rights! You attend college, Fran, college; how many women do that? And need I add that you have become the city’s most famous sleuth in the past three months? You have made the news, Fran. You have brought terrible criminals to justice.”
Francesca blinked. “Well, when you say it that way, I do seem rather eccentric.”
“No, not eccentric, original and brave and beautiful and special!” Connie cried.
Francesca hugged her hard. “You are the best sister a girl could ever have,” she whispered.
“I wish you could see yourself the way that the rest of the world does—the way that I do.”
Francesca smiled. “I’d better dress. I am quite late.”
“Yes, you are late.” Connie smiled back as warmly. “Do you need help? Should I call Bette?”
“I’m fine,” Francesca said, turning to gather up the provocative red dress. But it was a lie. She wasn’t fine.
She was terrified.
Francesca handed off her wrap. Sh...