An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (16 page)

Zeno tossed on a jacket and made his way quietly through his garden to the mews. A trace of glowing red ash helped him locate the detective. “What happened?”

“Couldn’t get much out of her without risking my cover.” Rafe leaned nonchalantly against the brick wall of the carriage house. “She reluctantly agreed to a waltz with Delamere. Their dance appeared tense. Afterward, she retreated in the direction of the ladies’ lounge. When Delamere dropped out of sight, I became concerned. I approached the brother-in-law, told him Mrs. St. Cloud had asked for him.” Rafe exhaled a pale gray stream of smoke. “Dutifully, Gerald trots off. A few minutes later both St. Clouds make their way through the ballroom. Cassandra has a few choice words with her brother-in-law, turns to me and asks for the loan of my carriage.”

“What do you think went on?”

“I suspect something uncouth happened between her and Delamere.”

“Could she have been threatened?” The question escaped between clenched teeth.

“Possibly.” His partner studied him. “She’s fine now. Whatever transpired between them is done.” He dropped the stogie and ground it out.

Zeno exhaled. “Thank you, Rafe.”

“Pleasant duty, Zak.” Rafe turned up his coat lapels and headed out of the mews. “She’s plucky. I like her.”

A frown firmly in place, Zeno called after his partner. “Why do you think she asked for your escort?”

Rafe swung around. “Obviously, I’m trustworthy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “And I’m charming.” His chuckle echoed down the alley.

Zeno’s gaze followed Rafe out of the mews. Torn between desperately wanting to hold Cassandra in his arms and turning her over his knee, he sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. The woman was having an effect on him. How unbelievably disturbing.

Chapter Twelve

Z
eno emerged from the Underground station at Sloane Square and headed for Lyall Street. Earlier in the day, he had sent an unusual proposal to Cassandra St. Cloud by wire. She had replied an hour later with an invitation to tea.

A young housemaid escorted him to the second-floor studio. At the top of the stairs, he opened the door onto a most provocative world.

“Good afternoon, Zak.” Cassie, wearing a paint- splattered apron with her shirtsleeves rolled up, peered over a large easel. Another young woman sat in repose on a chaise placed on a platform that raised the scene to near eye level. Her classically shaped body was nude with the exception of black wool stockings rolled part way up her thighs. Zeno could not help but note her rounded hips, narrow waist and small, plump, high-set breasts.

The simplicity of the tableau enchanted him. A scene of everyday toilet. A young lady dressing in her boudoir. Or was she undressing? Her attention appeared fixed on an adjustment to a garter. From what he could see, Cassie painted a rather erotic aspect of the pose. The girl’s torso angled slightly away, her legs parted somewhat, with just a hint of her female triangle.

Aroused, and a bit dazed by the intimacy of the setting, he cleared his throat. “Shall I wait in the sitting room for you?”

“Nonsense, Zeno, please take a seat here beside me. I won’t be but a few more minutes.” She lifted her gaze above the canvas. “Do you mind, Sally?”

“No, ma’am. Whenever I sit for Mr. Collier he prefers people come and go—likes to keep things out in the open.” She snorted a girlish laugh. “He says it puts to rest any ideas people have about artists and their models.”

Cassie swished a brush in turpentine and wiped it on a rag stained with daubs of color. The scent of solvents and linseed oil permeated the air. He took in the effect of northern light as it streamed through a bank of tall windows. Flesh tones came alive bathed in soft illumination and rich, dark shadow.

Transfixed by the atmosphere in the studio, he perched himself on the edge of a rustic wooden stool. From his new position to one side of the easel, he discovered a most pleasing view of the model’s figure. A perfect S-curved spine pointed the way to a shapely dimpled rump.

“Miss Sally Fincher, I’d like you to meet Mr. Zeno Kennedy.”

He stood and nodded to the young woman. “Miss Fincher.” Feeling more than a trifle odd, he resumed his seat. Cassie appeared amused yet compassionate.

“Sally poses for both public and private sale works. She is perfectly comfortable and unapologetic about her chosen profession.”

Without so much as a break in the pose, the girl muttered a quiet, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kennedy.” Eyes a bit wider, her gaze lifted. “The famous Yard man who solved the St. John’s Wood murders and brought the Underground bombers to justice?
That
Zeno Kennedy?”

Zeno cleared his throat and tried not to let his eyes wander. “I was one of several agents who worked those cases.”

Perspiration broke out on his forehead and temples. He had never in his in life attempted polite conversation with a strange unclothed Englishwoman. Cassie had mentioned this young lady modeled for private sale works, artists’ code for erotic art shown by appointment only and kept in a gentleman’s study. He placed one foot on a lower rung of the stool and the other on the floor. Eased the burgeoning discomfort.

Cassie dabbed together pigment powders with oil. “Sally models for John Collier’s studies of Lady Godiva. Are you familiar with his work?”

What a predicament he found himself in. A trial of some sort, he guessed, and if so, he fervently hoped he would pass the test.

“I have seen his work at the Grosvenor Gallery. The painting
Lilith,
I believe, recently caused quite a controversy.”

Cassie’s mouth twitched upward and he breathed a sigh of relief. Silently he thanked Mr. Collier, whose stunning female nudes made his artwork nearly impossible to forget.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Mr. Kennedy?” The young model actually sounded a bit self-conscious.

Zeno ran a finger around his inside shirt collar. Perhaps, he might try a little less formality. “Not at all, I was just admiring your lovely dimples, Miss Fincher.”

The remark caused both women to laugh and quite effectively broke the ice. “The light is so perfect right now, I hope you don’t mind if I work a little longer?” Cassie rang for help and requested tea to be served in the studio salon.

He racked his brain for a subject that might help pass the time less awkwardly.

“Aha! The exhumation and opening of Abraham Lincoln’s casket.”

“The what?” Both women spoke at once.

“It was the talk of the office this morning, in all the papers. The press, up to their usual conjecture, disregarded the most straightforward explanation.”

“That being?” Cassie’s brows knit together as she applied vibrant rosy red strokes to golden skin tones. Swirls of red layered onto yellow tones and pale green hues; all the strokes made up a flesh tone that vibrated with life.

“A security check. They wanted to make sure the dead president remained ensconced in his coffin.”

Zeno found the ladies quite taken with the more ghoulish parts of the story, including the fact that they had embalmed Lincoln so many times his body had not decayed. “Indeed, he was perfectly recognizable, even more than twenty-odd years after his death.”

So much for delicate feminine constitutions.

The room darkened as afternoon clouds threatened a bit of weather. “We might as well end the session, Sally.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The model pulled on a wrap and stepped behind a dressing screen.

To gain a better view of the canvas, Zeno sidled closer to study the work in progress. “I believe you are quite an accomplished artist.” Almost at once, he recognized his comment to be an abysmal evaluation of her artistry. The look she flashed him confirmed it. And on second thought Zeno found the
accomplished
remark cursory and cowardly.

Straightaway he set about to do it better justice. “Your work has a stylized quality reminiscent of the poster and handbill artists of Paris.” Zeno leaned in for a closer look. “Simple, graceful shapes of line and bold color.”

He straightened. “I must say, however, I find the emotional context a bit unsettling. There is a sorrow, brought about by her expression and the way you have exaggerated the angle of her body. The loneliness of great beauty, perhaps?”

She nodded.
“La tristesse de grande beauté
.” Judging by the gleam in the artist’s eyes, he had redeemed himself.

The artist’s model emerged from behind the Oriental screen. He marveled at how modest she looked in plain coat and dress, gripping a simple hat. Transfigured from nubile goddess into ordinary London shopgirl.

“Take some tea with us, Sally,” Cassie offered.

“Oh no, Mrs. St. Cloud, I’d best be getting home.” She turned to pay her respects. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Kennedy.”

Zeno nodded. “Likewise, Miss Fincher.” Sally made a quick curtsy and disappeared down the stairs.

Finally, they were alone. “
That
was rather stimulating, Cassandra.”

“You might as well get used to naked models about. Men as well as women.”

“As long as the men are smallish and not particularly well-formed. Perhaps a homunculus or two?” He brought her hand to his lips and moved to the inside of her wrist. He inhaled French perfume mixed with turpentine. “During my years in military intelligence, I have known palace courtesans in Burma who did not smell this exotic to me.” Apparently, he was unable to control his wicked urges and protective affections for the young widow. Strangely exhilarating.

“Burmese courtesans?”

“Mm-mm, lovely women who were most instructive.” Zeno reached out and drew her close. “I have a proposal—a compromise of sorts.”

He rubbed the curve of her back. “I must ask you again to avoid any further contact with Lord Delamere and his cohorts. This includes your former brother-in-law, Gerald St. Cloud.”

He caught the slight flicker and roll of her eyes. “You’ll get no argument there.”

“That means no soirees, musicales, formal teas, charity balls—unless the event is de rigueur for some unfathomable reason.” Zeno continued to focus on her. “You are in danger. Delamere likely believes you heard more of his conversation in Stanfield’s library than you actually recall. Your association with me increases your jeopardy.”

“You’ve had me followed.” Cassie pulled away. “And you know about last night?” She chewed her lip.

Zeno exhaled quietly. “I do.”

A lovely eyebrow arched. “Aren’t you the nosy one?”

“I happen to be very good at nosy.”

She pressed her lips together. A habit, he observed, often used to hide a myriad of emotions. What was it this time—anger, frustration, amusement? What he appreciated most about the expression was the lovely dimple that appeared. She ventured closer, slightly wary. “Proud of yourself, are you?” She spread her fingers across his waistcoat.

He grinned. “I am.” His gaze dropped to her pale rose lips.

She, in turn, focused on his mouth. “You’re a man of few words this afternoon.”

He had to have her. Or at the very least … Zeno pulled her against him. He kissed her long and slowly. He did not release her right away but held her in his arms.

“If you agree to cooperate, I have a reward for you. A new assignment.”

“What kind of assignment?”

“You are certainly not the delicate, swooning sort.” He smoothed a few wisps of hair off her temple. “You are of the bold and beautiful stripe, Cassie. Willful and woefully liberated—independent—whatever you chose to call it. And since trouble follows wherever you go, I will have to arrange my schedule to fit yours. Which is why I thought you might enjoy a bit of adventure with Detective Kennedy.”

“I am intrigued. Tell me more.”

“There is a surveillance planned for this evening and I am sadly out of contact with two agents. You and I will be taking up the post. We’re following up a lead—a possible anarchist’s safe house. You will need to borrow some wardrobe from your maid. Tart it up a bit.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What do you say? Accompany me on an evening of detective work. That is, if you are not previously engaged with some boring ton event. I hope not.”

“Did you not just declare I no longer have a social life?” She returned a soft, playful kiss. “How long have I to prepare?”

The sparkle in her eyes brought him such happiness that he, oddly, found himself grinning again. “Plenty of time. I’ll not fetch you until after dark.”

The soft patter of footsteps came from the stairs. One of the house staff adjusted a platter laden with delicacies.

“Well then, may I change the subject while we take tea together?” She cleared a spot on a low table for the scrumptious tray. “I do have a burning question.”

“Yes, Cassandra?” He strolled around edges of the room.

The small salon off the studio embodied the quiet ambience of a Parisian apartment. Cassie had left the polished wood floors bare, and the continental furnishings included a wide chaise longue and slip-covered bergère chairs. Several gilt easels in the room displayed framed paintings. All of the works were a riot of color and energetic brushwork. He took more than a few moments to examine several of the paintings.