An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (13 page)

“Irish or French?”

Cassie tilted her head. “Why, it was French.”

“I interrupted. Please continue.” She appeared delightfully alive, though nervous. “The foreign gentleman indicated there was yet more work to be done, and Delamere advised him to go out and trifle with a few young ladies.”

“Is that all?”

She shook her head. “I believe they were preparing to leave the study when the door creaked and opened farther.”

Zeno’s jaw tightened. “They saw you?”

“I knocked the instant the door moved. Delamere had scant time for suspicion.” She brushed aside his concern and quickly added another layer. “Lord Stanfield appeared shortly thereafter.” She cleared her throat. “With his gentlemen friends … and a …”

“And a?”

“A young lady, a maid perhaps. It appeared as though the men had been …”

“Enjoying her?” Cassie nodded. Zeno fell back onto the plush squabs of the seat bench. “So Delamere knows about the body?”

She grimaced. “And his friend—wherever the man disappeared to. Out the study window is my guess.”

Zeno snorted. “Sorry to put a damper on the Frenchman’s social life.”

“You believe he and Delamere had something to do with the murder?”

He shouldn’t encourage her but grinned anyway. “And what do you believe, Cassandra?”

Her eyes glowed with excitement. “I watched Delamere’s face closely when relaying your message to Lord Stanfield.” She leaned forward. “Shifty eyed.”

He did not wish to unduly alarm Cassie, but she underestimated Delamere and his kind. These men would take no chances. If they were in the slightest way suspicious, they would assume the worst. She was in danger.

She tilted her head, curious. “And what did your investigation turn up?”

Zeno sighed. “The murder took place in an upstairs bedchamber. There was a struggle and a stabbing before the victim’s throat was cut. I was able to identify the dead man. Seems he was a member of a cadre of blackmailers.”
Zeno hesitated. “This may be a bit awkward, but your former brother-in-law is one of them.”

“Gerald?”

“He is under surveillance … amongst other peers.”

Storm clouds formed behind her luminous gray eyes, and a sudden chill. She studied him for a moment before looking past his shoulder and out the carriage window. “So … your offer of escort to the Stanfield ball?”

“By your invitation.”

Her gaze darted back. “I take it back.”

“Too late.”

The carriage traversed Belgrave Square and a flicker of gaslight illuminated the inside of the coach. There was no denying the flash of anger and hurt in her eyes. “You used me.”

“Yes.” Zeno set his chin. “And I might have caught the murderer had I not been so distracted by you.”

She frowned. “Or you could have been killed.”

“Possibly, but not likely.”

Her eyes bulged wider. “You’re blaming me for the murder of this young man?”

“No, of course not. I blame myself—”

Cassie crossed her arms in a huff. “From now on you can attend social events on your own, Mr. Kennedy.”

“I suppose I might have prowled about the ball on my own.” He reached across the aisle and untied her evening wrap. The shawl slipped off her shoulders. “But I wanted to go with you, Cassie.”

“How perfect to use me as—” She frowned and tugged her wrap together. “What do you detectives call it?”

“Cover.” He stared into liquid mercury eyes, full of the devil. “Sadly, we live in close proximity to Mayfair.” He flicked the lever of the carriage door and helped her out of the carriage.

Zeno trailed behind a bouncing sweep of black velvet bow and bustle until they reached her doorstep. She removed a key from her reticule, pressed the latch, and turned the knob.

“Good night, Cassie.”

“Good night, Mr. Kennedy.”

He reached out and stopped the door from closing. “That is twice now you’ve called me Mr. Kennedy.” Pressing closer, his words fell against plump lips that parted ever so slightly. “I don’t like it anymore.”

Chapter Ten

H
e had wanted to kiss her. Badly. Zeno cracked an eye open. Sleep had proved impossible, and the lovely Cassandra St. Cloud was entirely to blame. The lush greenery of Kent rushed by his compartment window barely noticed. As it was, he would use the next couple of hours on the train to muddle through the established facts—and possible scenarios. The Viscount of Chelwood’s son, James Reginald Hicks-Beach, was dead, murdered for unknown reasons.

One less Bloody Four member to be concerned with. Yet he felt sympathy for the family, even a modicum of pity for the young man, who did not deserve to die in such a vulgar manner. Then again, Hicks-Beach may not have been the actual liquidation target. At least one other guest had been invited upstairs to the crime scene. Zeno removed the note from his pocket and reread the brief, cryptic message. He would collect a few samples of the dead man’s handwriting for analysis.

It was also possible Castlemaine was working his own plot using hired killers to eliminate the men who threatened to blacken his name. How simple it would be to set up Delamere to take the fall. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-ranking official made a deal and then attempted to run a scheme around Scotland Yard.

The conversation Cassie overheard in the library could very well be related to the murder. As valuable as a man in the Home Office might be, Hicks-Beach had likely become a liability to the cause. The young man might have seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Something like a large shipment of explosives.

He would debark at Tunbridge Wells and make his way from there to the family estate. He had no appointment with the viscount and did not expect his visit to be a welcome one. The telegram notification of James’s untimely demise had likely reached the Chelwood estate just hours ahead of him. The family would be in shock. Zeno hoped some would be able to gather their wits about them long enough for an interview.

He closed his eyes and envisioned his enticing new neighbor. He was edgy, more so than usual. The woman was a torture to him. And if he continued to have such indecent thoughts about her, he might have to chuck in the assignment and board the next train back to town.

He had used Cassandra St. Cloud as convenient cover, but he very much enjoyed her company. Mixing business with pleasure was always a bit of a sticky dog. He needed an apology. Something effusively charming to make up for his lack of same.

CALLED AWAY ON FIELDWORK STOP
RETURN WEEK’S END STOP
DO NO FURTHER SLEUTHING ON YOUR
OWN STOP Z KENNEDY

Cassie tore the wire into tiny pieces and let the bits scatter onto the polished marble floor.

Deadly dull and impersonal of him. The perfunctory tone of his wire put her in a temper. And just like a man to be so overprotective and domineering. Groggy and out of sorts from a fitful sleep, she had lolled about in bed the morning long.

How could one sleep after being so perversely treated? Oh yes, she was attracted to Zak, but she wasn’t entirely sure about him. He was rather an odd duck, crisply cold at times, though he had made quite an effort to be charming at the ball. Perhaps too charming. She should have suspected something.

The question remained whether this was all an act on his part, a detective’s ploy to get close to a suspect. She recalled their almost-kiss on the dance floor, the terrace, and finally the one that nearly brought her to her knees in the foyer. She
shook off a quiver that ran from belly to shoulders. The strong tremor of pleasure belied every ounce of indignation she supposed she ought to feel. But she did not. Just thinking about her desire last evening—yes, well, that was it, wasn’t it? She really must stop this nonsensical mooning about.

Cassie took a stroll in the garden and tried not to think about Detective Zeno Kennedy. But it seemed there was no avoiding him. She had pulled but a few pesky weeds when Mr. Kennedy’s housekeeper shouted a cheery hello.

An hour later, Cassie was still shamelessly pumping the congenial woman for information on her employer.

“Oh dear me, it’s been near to three long years now since the horrific blast took the life of Mr. Kennedy’s mistress.” The pleasant, round-faced housekeeper pressed against the low, ivy-covered wall that separated the two yards. She quickly corrected herself. “I mean to say Mr. Kennedy’s actress acquaintance.”

“That is quite all right, Mrs. Woolsley, well-meaning gossip hounds have already informed me of the affair.” Cassie smiled reassuringly. “Frankly, I don’t know how I missed such a debacle. I was married at the time, recently returned from a honeymoon trip on the continent.”

His housekeeper tsked. “Poor dear. Your husband’s demise—you don’t mind my asking—an unfortunate mishap, was it?”

“Racing his cabriolet.” Cassie grimaced. “A ghastly sudden shock, but then I suppose accidents are that way.” In no mood to recall the event, she redirected Zeno’s housekeeper. “You were saying the press was up to their usual scandal mongering?”

“Oh yes, ma’am, sold stacks of papers, I’m afraid. Topped Mr. Kennedy’s pursuit and capture of the dynamiters for a time. To be right honest, your ladyship—”

“Mrs. St. Cloud, please.”

“Missus.” She nodded. “I did not know the poor woman’s name until Mr. Woolsley read it in the
Daily Telegraph
—Jayne Wells, an actress of some notoriety, I gather.”

The woman’s lively expression grew serious. “And poor Mr. Kennedy the morning of the burial services. Alone in the breakfast room all silent-like, looking for all the world like he needed a friend.” His housekeeper sniffled. “I asked if I might attend the funeral. I swear to you, ma’am, I’ll never forget the anguish on his face, eyes filled to the brim with tears. He took my hand and nodded yes, Lord bless him.”

So the stoic and taciturn Zeno Kennedy possessed a heart. Cassie’s earlier exasperation faded as she listened to Mrs. Woolsley recollect his grief and loneliness. Drat the man, she cursed silently. She had just spent the afternoon preparing to dislike him greatly.

“Such a bleak day it was, the sky opened up and poured a cold, hard rain. And him not moving an inch from the poor lady’s resting place for hours after the service. It took a good deal of prodding to pull him away from the gravesite.

“Mr. Kennedy lay in bed a week after with a fierce head cold caused by the damp and chill of that churchyard.”

From the laundry basket at her hip, Mrs. Woolsley lifted a corner of a bath towel and dabbed her eyes. “Ah well, then he throws himself into his work in search of her murderers.”

“And did that help with his grief?” For some urgent but unexamined reason she needed to know.

“I believe so, ma’am, though he’s suffered a few bouts of melancholy on and off.” The housekeeper brightened. “Mr. Kennedy does seem to be in better spirits these days.”

Mulling over the woman’s answer, Cassie nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Woolsley. Sorry to take up so much of your time.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, ma’am, though I best be getting back to my chores.”

Cassie resumed her walk down the garden path and onto the terrace. Her head whirled with a new understanding of the man.

For the hundredth time today, she was back at her front door with him. Never in her life had she experienced such arousal from something so trifling. But to stimulate a woman in such a deliberate way. He had left her flushed with desire, harboring an urgent need … to be kissed.

It must be the very kind of behavior accomplished libertines used to break down a woman’s resolve. Still, she did not believe the man could be so cruel. Except for the actress killed in the bombing, he had no reputation for his
amourettes
. And his grief for Miss Jayne Wells touched her, a bond of like suffering perhaps, but her heart felt a kinship with him, nonetheless.

Then the flowers arrived.

She ushered the delivery boy to the pedestal table in the foyer. The bouquet of blooms featured parrot tulips, lilies, daffodils, and deep purple irises. The talented florist had even wound sugared morning glories throughout the romantic, whimsical arrangement. Among the greenery she found a wire message.

FORGIVE ME STOP I AM A BEAST STOP
RETURN BY AFTERNOON TRAIN
SATURDAY TO KISS YOU STOP
ZAK

Her heart skipped a beat.

Circling the bouquet, she thought the foyer a fitting spot for such a veritable celebration of spring. And from such a charming beast, at that. Cassie grinned. She had complained of dullness in her life, and
now
look at her. A man was murdered last night and another had almost kissed her. Mother would be so pleased.

The hall clock chimed four o’clock, a reminder to dress for an evening out with old friends. She and Lydia and Jeremy were to attend a production of the new Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera,
Ruddygore,
at the Savoy. Afterward, they would enjoy a late supper and for once, she would have some jaw-dropping to gossip to share.

CASSIE STROLLED ARM in arm with Lydia while Jeremy paced ahead, weaving his way through a tangle of vehicles parked hodgepodge along the Strand. Lydia was in a funny sort of snit. “Lacked something of the sustained brilliance of
The Mikado,
but the opera has abundant charm among its more forbidding qualities.”