An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (12 page)

Zeno peeled back the left side of the dead man’s coat and checked the inside pocket. A sterling cigarette case, with the initials
H-B
. He rocked back on his heels. The men who dropped the body were likely not the killers, but Dockland thugs paid to lift the man out of Grosvenor Square via rooftops. No, he reckoned the killer was still inside tippling a glass of bubbly before slipping away.

With this amount of blood there was bound to be at least some evidence left to find upstairs. Zeno scanned the gabled windows above. Rising from his haunches, he patted the folded note in his coat pocket. Hicks-Beach had ventured upstairs early. But why? Had there been an earlier appointment? Was he to have walked into a trap of some sort? Or had the killer seen his opportunity and made his move?

His jaw twitched. He knew exactly where to look.
Third floor. Second door on the right.

CASSIE TAPPED ON the library door before peeking inside. Stanfield was last seen headed in the direction of his study, along with several of his cronies. “Past the gallery and through the library, dear.”

She ventured farther inside the austere reading room. “Lord Stanfield?” Coals burned low inside a heavily screened hearth. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness before making her way quietly through the cavernous library. A spiral staircase wound its way up to the leather-bound volumes lining the upper tier. Straight ahead, dim light spilled from a
partially open door, likely the way into his lordship’s private den.

The mumbled speech of at least two gentlemen could be heard in the study. She raised a hand to knock but stopped herself at the last moment. “Nasty business. Nothing can be done—over with in any case.” Cassie recognized Lord Delamere’s voice. She peeked past the crack in the door and spied a young man she didn’t recognize. He spoke softly, in low tones with an accent in French, she thought. “There will be others, as well.”

“Indeed.” Delamere again. She couldn’t see him through the narrow opening. “Now, back out in the ballroom and make a point of enjoying yourself. Approach one of those lovely young chits in the room and have a memorable flirtation.” There was a slap on the back and a rustle of movement. The two men were likely headed for the library.

She leaned a bit too close to the door and it moved with a creak. There was nothing to do but knock. Loudly. Delamere opened the door.

“Cassandra.” He quickly assessed the room behind her.

Feigning surprise, she curtsied. “Sorry to interrupt. Is Lord Stanfield with you? I have an urgent message for him.”

His gaze scanned the room and returned to her. Delamere stepped closer. “What kind of message?”

He reached out to pull her into the room, but this time she was ready for him and jumped back. “I’m afraid the message is for Lord Stanfield.” A rumble of men’s laughter came from behind a side door, unseen until it opened. “The cognac is in here, gentlemen.”

“Come now, Cassie—” Delamere urged, as they both turned toward the disturbance.

From a narrow passageway Lord Stanfield entered the library, followed by two rather inebriated acquaintances. A young doxy stood between them. The girl was wearing … pantaloons and a corset.

Stanfield went rigid. “Lady Rosslyn?”

Cassie listed to one side, curious. She wanted another look at the two men hiding behind Stanfield. Yes, she knew both by name, and knew their wives even better. “Lord Bridgerton.” Her gaze moved from one to the other. “Sir Halladay.” The young woman was more likely an upstairs maid than a paid professional.

The light-haired Halladay yanked at his cravat. “I say, this is awkward.” She made a quick curtsy and turned to her host. “Lord Stanfield. Mr. Kennedy has asked me to tell you—” She hesitated.

“Yes, yes, dear, what is it?” Flush from too much wine and—one could only assume—woman, Lord Stanfield wrinkled both brows and dipped closer. “Has there been trouble?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid there is no delicate way to put it. A dead body has been found.”

The stately lord jerked upright in horror. And there were gasps from his gentlemen friends.

Stanfield pivoted. Without a single word of verbal exchange his associates removed themselves from the library along with the female companion.

From the corner of her eye, Cassie slyly observed Delamere’s reaction. She noted a shift in his eyes. Nothing new there. She caught a partial glimpse of the study over his shoulder. Where was the chap she had overheard him conversing with? Firelight flickered into the corners of the room, but not a shadow of movement otherwise. No doubt the younger man was already out the window and down the lane.

Cassie returned to Stanfield. “Two men attempted to carry a man across your roof this evening. Mr. Kennedy and I witnessed the body fall out of their grasp and slide down the mansard onto the terrace. Mr. Kennedy is with the dead man now and wishes for you to send for the Criminal Investigations Department—without alarming your guests, of course.”

“Yes … of course.” First startled, then dazed, Stanfield yanked the closest bell pull. “Good God. What’s the world coming to?”

Cassie stifled a powerful urge to roll her eyes. “Indeed, your lordship.”

Chapter Nine

Z
eno led the inspectors upstairs. As with many of the homes in Grosvenor Square, the third floor of Stanfield House accommodated a number of bedchambers. They passed through a formal sitting room in the alcove of the corridor and on to a series of guest apartments. He did not share the note he had received earlier this evening from the victim. He wanted time to study it—let the laboratory run tests. He wasn’t convinced Hicks-Beach had sent the message.

The second suite on the right soon became the focus of the investigation, for it proved to be the crime scene. The room was both expansive and expensively furnished. A bold spray of crimson splashed across a gabled wall, with more evidence of
murder smeared over the carpet and flooring. A single dormered window remained open, its shutters clapped from a gust of early morning air.

The investigation department’s initial response was stated plain enough by Inspector Pate, a bald-headed man with a great ruff of whisker. “The most obvious scenario is the victim made his way up here for an assignation. Either with another guest or for a quick tumble with one of the maids.”

Zeno waited for the inspector to wink. Ah, there it was, right on cue. While Pate voiced an inventory of the crime scene, Zeno quietly explored the adjoining dressing room and discovered a servant girl cringing in the corner. He coaxed the wild-eyed, trembling maid out of the closet, but she remained too hysterical to offer any coherent information.

There was nothing left to do but wait until she calmed herself. Eventually, they were able to wheedle something resembling a lucid story from her.

She had been sent upstairs to turn down the beds. “I heard two people enter the room.” The girl stuttered. “Gentlemen, by their voices. I was about to excuse myself when I heard a bit of a tussle. Several punches were thrown, then a gasp and a gurgling noise. Gave me a chill it did, so I peeked around the dressing room door. A man stood with his back to me. His hand gripped a silver blade—dripping red. The other gent was on his knees …”
The girl shivered, but her misty gaze never wavered. “Covered in blood he was, his throat cut, ear to ear. The poor bloke tipped to one side and over he went onto the rug.” A tear dribbled down her cheek. “For the life of me all I could think was … we’ll have to pitch the beautiful carpet.” She finally broke down and sobbed. “Was it evil of me to think such a wicked, silly thought?”

The weeping maid sat on a bench at the foot of the four-poster. “People often think nonsensical things when frightened.” Zeno bent down to reach her eye level. “Did you happen to get a look at the man with the knife?”

“He took out a pocket square and wrapped up the dagger.” She paused for moment then shook her head. “Never got a good look, sir. I was scared—crept back into the corner you found me in.”

Zeno straightened with a sigh. “Did you hear anything else?”

“The door opened and closed—at least twice. There were heavy footsteps. Men speaking in low voices.” The girl looked up at him. Liquid eyes searched his face. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. What’s your name?”

“Maggie Rose.”

“Hiding in the dressing room likely saved your life, Miss Rose.” Zeno mulled over the threads of information gleaned from the servant girl and made several mental notes. After a second perusal of the bedchamber, he excused himself and returned to the ballroom with Inspector Pate.

Things appeared well in hand as guests were systematically interrogated and released by the officers on site. The names of everyone in attendance were taken, just in case the Yard had further questions later on. Little did the Stanfields realize how fortunate they were to have William Pate on the scene.

Pate turned to Zeno with a look of sympathy. “Christ, Zak. You can’t get a night out without being put to work.” He slapped him on the back affectionately.

“Have you called a photographer?”

The inspector grunted. “It will take a while. Can’t use any of the newsboys.”

“Before I debrief your men, I must first escort Lady Rosslyn home.” Zeno nodded to Cassie, who stood beside Lady Stanfield.

“You’re with her?” Pate raised an appreciative eyebrow. “How is it Special Branch men get all the pretty women?”

Zeno tugged a side of his mouth upward. “I think your wife and three lovely daughters would take issue with that statement.”

Cassie excused herself and crossed the grand foyer. He particularly enjoyed the subtle swing of her hips, and the way her bosom quivered ever so slightly with each step. He cuffed himself mentally for such prurient thoughts. “Cassandra St. Cloud, Lady Rosslyn, may I present Inspector Pate, from the Criminal Investigation Department?”

Cassie acknowledged the detective’s bow with a gracious smile, mixed with a kind of electrified nervousness. The effect was distracting, to put it mildly.

“Inspector.” She nodded to Zeno and back again. “Are there any suspects as yet?

“Little hope on the horizon, Lady Rosslyn, but it is early in the game.”

“Indeed,” Cassie replied. “I’d say it is very early—past three in the morning.”

Zeno stepped closer. “I am to make a break shortly and will see you home.”

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy!” A frightful, high-pitched cry emanated from the stairwell behind them. Zeno cringed at the sight of the matronly woman and her two young charges. Overwrought and frightened by the lurid, dangerous events of the evening, the woman appeared determined to push both young ladies in front of him.

“I do hope you remember our previous acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy? Two summers ago—Lord and Lady Fitz-Maurice? We met at Culzean.”

“How may I be of service, Lady Fitz-Maurice?”

The histrionic woman clasped his arm and snapped out her fan. “I can hardly express what a comfort it is to have you here, Mr. Kennedy.” The fan fluttered over a plump face flushed with nervous perspiration. “I find it affects my nerves nonetheless. Imagine such terrible goings-on during a ball. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” The woman actually created a breeze with her flapping. “I don’t believe you have met my nieces? Clara and Violet de Blois, may I present Zeno Augustus Kennedy?”

He turned to the young ladies, a debutante version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, though not quite as round. “Very pleased to meet you both. Miss de Blois.” He kissed the offered hand of each young lady. “And yet another lovely Miss de Blois.”

“Mr. Kennedy is related to of one Scotland’s finest, the Earl of Cassilis, Sir Thomas Angus Kennedy.” Lady Fitz-Maurice winked at her charges.

Zeno demurred. “A poor relation, I’m afraid.”

Cassie stepped close and murmured in his ear. “One certainly can be charming when one makes an effort.” She took his arm and nodded to the ladies. “It’s been a frightfully long night, has it not? And Mr. Kennedy has been kind enough to insist on seeing me home.”

Without further delay, Zeno and Cassie slipped out of the ballroom and into his brougham. Once the carriage turned out of the square, they both exhaled a sigh of relief.

“I don’t know which is worse—murder in an upstairs bedchamber, or Lady Fitz-Maurice.” Zeno tugged on his tie and loosed his collar.

Across the cabin, mysterious silver eyes sparkled. “Oh, I don’t know—how about Lord Delamere in the study having a slap on the back and a toast with a foreign young man? ‘Nasty business. Cheers anyway. Lay low—there’s work yet to be done.’”

Zeno settled his gaze on her sly, devilish grin. “Sleuthing, Cassandra?”

She straightened her gown and returned his stare. “I thought to find Stanfield in the library, not Lord Delamere.”

“Begin—” Zeno leaned forward. “At the beginning.”

“After I left you on the terrace, I asked after Lord Stanfield and was directed to the library, which I found to be dark and empty. Stanfield’s study, however, was quite occupied and the door ajar—a crack. Enough so I could overhear the conversation between two gentlemen. As I approached the study I recognized Lord Delamere’s voice. He congratulated—or rather, commiserated with—another man who answered in a rather pronounced accent.”