An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (3 page)

There really was only one way to answer one of Dr. Olivia Erskine’s social deportment salvos, as Father often referred to them. “Yes, Mama, he knew precisely the spot and what to do once he got there.” Not that the man had seen her in a state of bliss, much. Heat radiated from her throat to her cheeks but Cassie took a great deal of satisfaction in what appeared to be her mother’s generous approval.

Olivia smiled. “Ah, the magic power of a fine, gentle massage.”

Now and again, Cassie wondered what it might be like to have a retiring, reserved mother. She set down her cup. “I cannot think of another subject I would rather converse on, but I must be off to see Mr. Dowdeswell. I dropped off a folio of drawings last week, which he kindly offered to critique.”

“And how goes the gallery business? After that
ridiculous show he gave Whistler.” Olivia clucked her tongue. “When I think of how bold your work is in comparison to that meek little portrait of his mother. I do hope Dowdeswell comes to his senses and offers you space.”

“All right, Mummy, shall we give him a go? Sit for me. Perhaps a reclining pose—
Olivia in the Nude
?”

Mother nearly choked on her biscuit. “I will say your father does admire my derriere.”

Cassie pulled on gloves. “Should you decide to retire from medicine, promise me you will never attempt artist representation. You’d make short work of the gallery owners on Bond Street.” She blew her mother a kiss as she left the room.

Chapter Two

Z
eno exited the notorious bordello and decided to walk off his frustration. He hoofed it back to Piccadilly Circus, where it would be easy enough to find a hansom for hire.

After a few years with the Yard, a man developed instincts. Something about this small incident of Kitty’s made his gut react as if he’d held a match to a stick of dynamite. At the intersection of Haymarket and Shaftesbury, he sucked in a breath of sooty air, and spied a cab emptying out passengers.

“Number Four Whitehall.”

“Cost ye two bob.”

Zeno frowned at the driver. “That’s double the fare.”

“Time a day, sir. Cab’s in demand.”

Robbery, plain and simple. Since construction began on the Underground expansion, cabbies had become money-grubbing highwaymen.

Disgruntled, he settled against the hard leather seat of the cab. The last batch of dynamiters had taken him eighteen months to find and bring to trial—another six
to reach verdicts and sentencing. Several of his cases against known conspirators had been dropped for want of evidence to bring before the chief Crown prosecutor. The files had long since been stored away. He couldn’t wait to get back into the office and dust them off.

Zeno stepped out of the cab and tossed the driver two shillings. He nodded to the security police at the entrance and took the stairs two at a time.

The elderly janitor stopped sweeping and tipped his cap. “Onto something big, Inspector Kennedy?”

“One never knows, Bert.” Mumbling to himself, Zeno turned down the corridor toward Records. He collected several folders and returned to his desk. Leafing through the first file, he came across an old list titled “The Bloody Four.” A hotchpotch of names had been added and crossed out over the years.

Andrew Hingham, Lord Delamere.

Zeno angled the notepaper to read a hurried scrawl in the margin.
Possible financier of dynamiters?
And another line:
Appears to work in support of Irish Home Rule, but
…
?

“Evening, mate.”

Zeno recognized the detective’s voice. “Mr. Lewis, you worked this case with me. Do you recall anything of interest regarding Lord Delamere?”

“Irish peer, there’s also a title held in the peerage of England. Earl of Longford, I believe—but check that.” Rafe leaned against the doorframe. “I seem to remember suspected linkages to a group of American Irish anarchists.
Clan na Gael,
possibly.”

Zeno studied his scribbled notes peppered with question marks. “What if—say—Delamere wanted a bloody Irish revolution? A complete break from England? Might he plot to keep all of London in a state of terror, including the Lords and members of Parliament?”

“Keep the natives stirred up—Home Rule might never pass.” The young detective tilted his chin. “Interesting, Zak.” He pushed off the doorjamb. “I’m off to meet Flynn.”

“The Rising Sun?”

“Dog and Duck.” Rafe shrugged. “Flynn’s after a nice bit o’ tail. I’ll settle for a pint. Pop by if you’re thirsty.”

Zeno returned to the list and searched for the second name, James. Kitty’s cowering man of round girth and ruddy cheek. Among the jumble of names and titles he could find only one man who fit the description.

James Reginald Hicks-Beach.

Good God. The man worked in the Home Office. Word was Hicks-Beach was being groomed for greater things. How the anarchists would love to have a man on the inside. Zeno took up his pen and circled four likely candidates. After Delamere and Hicks-Beach, he scratched a loop around George Upton, a known confederate of Delamere, and another close chum, Gerald St.
Cloud, Earl of Rosslyn.

Could these peers be the Bloody Four?

He lingered on the last name circled. If he was not mistaken, the young widow about to become his latest tenant was a St. Cloud. Rubbing his eyes, he sat back in his chair and blew a low whistle through his teeth.
Rather odd his new neighbor was related to a person of interest implicated in his case. By coincidence or design?

Hang it all, it was about time a bit of luck fell in his lap. Zeno wrote down a code name for Delamere.
Rat-R
í. King rat in ancient Irish speak. Then he filled out a personnel request authorization to move two agents, Flynn Rhys and Rafe Lewis, onto his case.

Ah yes, one more thing.

Before reaching for his coat, he got out a blank telegraph form and jotted the name of his solicitor and the words
Saint Cloud
on separate lines. After scribbling the word
saint
, he found the honorific entirely too … saintly. He crumpled up the sheet, opened a top drawer, and pulled out a pad of wire forms. This time he abbreviated her surname and scrawled along absently.
Make sure keys deliver to new tenant by
…

The pencil lead snapped.

“Bollocks.” He removed a penknife from his pocket and sharpened the writing instrument. Now, where was he? Zeno scratched the stubble on his jaw. Ah yes. The idea of a young woman with possible connections to his case intrigued him. His solicitor, a clever fellow who didn’t miss much, had mentioned she was rather attractive. His new lessee would take possession of Number 10 Lyall Street at dawn on the morrow. Something about this rather ordinary event hinted at a kind of positive shift in the atmosphere, a tingle of excitement. He experienced a fleeting, prescient sense of expectation. Of what, he had no idea—but he itched to find out.

CASSIE CRANED HER neck to admire the Prussian blue sailcloth. A rather chic new awning was being constructed over the door of Dowdeswell and Dowdeswell Gallery. One side of the exhibit space remained open, while workmen readied the other half for a new installation. Enamel paint and sawdust permeated the air as she ducked past busy workmen and made her way toward the rear of the display room.

The office door was open. Dowdeswell stood with his back to the door and examined a painting. She rapped on the entry molding before entering the untidy space strewn with framed and unframed canvases.

The gentleman pivoted slowly and she froze. “The talented Mrs. St. Cloud! A beautiful woman who is also on time, how delightful.”

The strikingly handsome man standing before her was decidedly
not
Oscar Dowdeswell. Rather, he was a persistent scourge. A nightmare. A man she went to great lengths to avoid, whether at private social events or in public.

“Lord Delamere. What are you—?”

His cool, green-eyed gaze raked up and down her frame. “How are you, my dear?”

She dipped a curtsy. “Very well, my lord.”

“Gerald tells me you mean to strike out on your own. Something about a flat in Belgrave Square?”

“Knightsbridge.” Cassie squared her shoulders and met his gaze. Still, the tingle down her spine caused a kind of breathless stammer. “Perhaps it does edge onto Belgravia.”

She turned to leave and he swept past her. Taller than she remembered, Delamere moved like a panther. Not surprising, the man was a predator. His frock coat swung open to reveal a deep Alizarin crimson silk waistcoat. Black cravat. Ruby tiepin. His Savile Row tailor would be proud.

“You will hear me out, Cassandra.” Arrogantly nonchalant, he leaned against the door, barring her exit.

She ignored her rise in heart rate and the slight tic in her left eye. There was something raw and surly about Delamere today. He needed a shave, which was impossible. Not this immaculate, elegant man who dressed to perfection. He must be growing a beard.

She lifted her chin. “I have an appointment with Mr. Dowdeswell, where is he?”

“Down with a terrible malady, I’m afraid—some kind of spring fever. And since I have recently become a silent partner of Dowdeswell and Dowdeswell, I volunteered for this meeting.”

“I was to receive Mr. Dowdeswell’s comments on a folio of drawings.”

“Ah yes, the sketches of the lady in toilet. Powerful, sensual work, almost scandalous for a female artist.”

He moved away from the door. “Since you are far from the blushing ingénue, tell me, Cassandra, did you disrobe for your husband in such a provocative manner?”

Cassie bit her lip. “I’ll just retrieve them and be on my way.” Unable to return his gaze, she scanned the room for her portfolio. There it was, on a side table, behind the desk.

He leaned forward to scold her. “I’m not sure I will ever forgive you for marrying Thomas.”

Blood and panic pulsed through her body. “Lord Delamere, you have contrived to lure me here to insult and threaten me.” Her brows knit together when she frowned. “Why must you persist with these unwanted advances?”

The man had a reputation as an accomplished rake who enjoyed the chase as much as the conquest. Rapacious, wolfish. She could not bear to look into the flinty spark of his emerald gaze. Whenever he contrived to venture near, she was always made to feel as if she stood naked before him.

Already he was too close. She took several steps back. “There are many women far more attractive than I who would adore your attentions, my lord.”

“But they are not you.” He yanked her into his arms and dipped his head as though to force a kiss. But his mouth did not touch hers. Instead, he stared intently as his hand pressed into the fabric of her dress.

“Do you miss the lovemaking, Cassandra?” One hand held her firmly within his grasp while the other traveled lower.
Heat rose up her neck to her cheeks. Damn the man. She placed both hands on his chest and pushed him aside. “Touch me again and I will—“

Undaunted, the man boldly advanced. He held an arm out in invitation. Presumably, if she didn’t obey, he would grab her again. Cassie backed farther away.

“Oscar?” A strong rapping caused the door to rattle.

“Please come in,” Cassie called hastily. Startled by the knock as well as the strength of her reply, Delamere hesitated. The door opened. She recognized the disembodied head of Jeremy William Powell, one of the gallery’s artists.

“Cassie, is that you?”

She uttered a nervous ripple of laughter. “So good to see you, Jeremy.”

His lordship glowered.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She and Jeremy Powell had studied in Paris together, a summer arts program at the Sorbonne. Always stylish, though a bit unkempt, the artist entered the office and straightened a paisley cravat. A lock of fawn-colored hair fell over his forehead. Jeremy swept it back with a nervous grin. She knew instantly he sensed the raw energy in the room. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Not at all, Jeremy. Lord Delamere informs me he is now a partner in the gallery. Have you been introduced?” Barely holding herself together, she managed a tight-lipped smile. “Jeremy William Powell is one of your gallery’s contracted artists, my lord.”

“Lord Delamere.” Jeremy made a courteous bow. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought to pop in for a chat. Oscar still under the weather?”

“Mr. Powell.” His lordship deigned a nod. “I’m afraid he continues to suffer the occasional fever.” Nothing had changed about Delamere. His polite civility always seemed strained, on edge. “I understand he is improving.”

“Well, that is good news.” Jeremy shifted his smile. “So, Cassie, what brings you here?”

“Mr. Dowdeswell offered a critique. Another day, perhaps?” She crossed the room, picked up the folio and tucked it under her arm.

Was that a wistful look from the wretched man? If she didn’t know better, Lord Delamere appeared almost contrite. “Oscar quite lavishly admired your sketches, Cassandra. He planned to discuss show dates in the fall.”