An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (17 page)

“How do you take your tea, Zeno?”

“Is this your burning question?” To which he received an arched eyebrow and look of mock irritation. “Cream, no sugar.”

He took the cup and saucer from her.

“About the large door, here on the second floor, that goes to nowhere.” She set her cup on her knee and stirred.
“I must confess, after wondering about it for weeks now, I seem unable to determine a use for it.”

Zeno grinned. “Ah yes, this is it, the burning—?”

“This is it.“

“It is quite the architectural oddity, is it not? As you no doubt suspect, we have connecting rooms, Cassie. But do not fear, you are quite safe from me, for it is impossible to open.”

Cassie smirked. “How impossible?”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost the key.” He smiled his apology. “Long ago, our two residences were once part of a much greater manse. They were converted just before I purchased them. I did a modest renovation to both homes a few years ago, which mostly involved additional plumbing to the baths and kitchens. I thought about sealing the space off at the time, but I’m afraid it just didn’t get done. Is it a bother to you?”

She chuckled softly. “Goodness, no. Doors that go nowhere, but lead somewhere? I quite like such architectural eccentricities. And this is all rather Lewis Carroll, is it not? It seems we have a
Through the Looking-Glass
door between our two worlds.”

“HONESTLY, ZAK, MUST I again?” Cassie snuggled against him in the smelly old hired coach. They were parked on a dark street, she surmised, somewhere north of the Docklands.

“Just once more,” he urged again. “Humor me.”

“Why do you call it a legend?”

“It’s your cover, a false biography.”

“And what is yours, might I ask?” She raised a brow.

Taken aback, Zeno tipped his cap and scratched his head. “You’re quite right. You must know mine as well.”

He grinned. “Derek Ferguson. I been meaning to tell ye I work for Mrs. Jeffries, abbess to the finest house o’ pleasure in the district. Yer employer, as well, my pretty French lassie.”

His marked, working-class accent made her smile. “So, you are from Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Aye, ye ken the brogue. I canna seem to shake it.” Zeno wore a shy smile. “I dinna why.”

“Let’s see,” she teased. “Jekyll and Hyde. Ferguson or Kennedy? What difference, Derek?”

A close-lipped smile appeared. “Aye, I am Derek sure enough, but I wouldna’ wish to see ye hurt, should I put ye to work. Ye need practice. Humor me, lass.”

She nodded. In actuality, she enjoyed the diversion, thrilled to be a part of what appeared to be a fairly benign surveillance operation. Zeno said they were shooting in the dark tonight, with little hope this particular drop would turn out to be of interest.

J
ust an hour earlier, she had rendezvoused with Zeno in the mews. A hansom cab took them to Charing Cross Station, where they debarked and paid the driver. He then escorted her several blocks, where they boarded a shabbier rented carriage. Cassie had not realized their driver was an actual member of the undercover team until they arrived at a location Zeno called the dead drop.

“Name?” Zeno asked.

She answered in a voice laced with French inflection. “Émilie Seguret.”

“Origin of birth?”

“France, monsieur, un petit village près d’Avignon.”

“How long have you been here, in London?”

“Own-lee, uh, how do you say,
deux
monz?”

“Lovely patois, Mademoiselle Seguret. And who am I?”

“Derek Far-goo-son, my procue-rare
, une escort, un protecteur
.”

“How much?”

Cassie delivered the line with plenty of attitude. “I sink, monsieur, more zan
vous
can aff-ford?”

This time Zeno broke out in a grin. “You are a natural born charlatan, Émilie.”

She wore a short, ruby red coat, fitted at the waist, which he began to unbutton. “Let’s see what kind of costume you and Cécile put together.”

The coat covered a skirt of muted plum with a sweep of darker violet folds at her waist. A tight-fitted bodice barely covered a thin chemise. The transparent effect created the most arousing exposure of her breasts.

Zeno swallowed hard. “I believe that will do.” He buttoned her up.

“You told me to tart it up, Zak. I have a tattoo, should you wish to display it, but I daresay it requires even more exposure.”

He blinked. “A tattoo?”

Good lord, she’d blurted it out before she could stop herself. “Nothing unseemly. Just a little something, almost sweet in a way.”

“Which reminds me.”
He removed a small package tied with string from his coat pocket. “My partner and I found ourselves in Piccadilly trailing a rather nervous gent. We followed him into Fortnum & Mason—had to purchase something.” He placed the little box in her hands.

“I am a customer of their tea and coffee. I might have given you my shopping list this morning.” She untied the colored twine and opened the small package. Inside she discovered four exquisite Belgian chocolate truffles, wrapped in delicate pastel, translucent paper.

Cassie unwrapped a truffle and bit into the buttery sweet. “Mm-mm, very delectable. Raspberry cream.” She held the remaining half in front of his mouth. “Open.”

Zeno complied without protest and Cassie popped in the chocolate confection.

“Yes, ‘mm-mm’ does describe it.” Zeno cut his comments short to observe two rough-looking characters
on the street. His gaze followed them until they moved well past the drop site. “I believe we were on the subject of a tattoo, and where might it be located?”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Promise not to scold?”

“The very last thing I feel toward you, my dear, is paternal.”

“When I was seventeen, I spent a summer in Paris as a part of an apprentice course of arts study. There were just four of us Brits accepted, of which I was the youngest and the most naive, if you will.” Cassie adjusted herself against his chest and the warmth of his body. “This is going to be embarrassing.”

“For you or me?” he challenged.

“Me, cheeky spook.”

Zeno muffled a laugh against her hair.

“One night,” she continued, “I was feeling wickedly and perversely mutinous after receiving a harsh critique. I broke my curfew, went out with some older students and got pissed. Our rooms were close to the Sorbonne. There was an artist in the Latin Quarter who used the human body as his canvas. We all agreed that Etienne’s work, especially his color palette, was extraordinary. The pack of us were always poking our noses into his small shop.”

“Don’t tell me, someone dared you to do it.”

Cassie straightened slightly and nodded. “I can’t remember whether it was Lydia or Jeremy.”

“And?”

“And, there’s not much to tell.” She shrugged. “It was all over in little more than an hour. The group stayed to cheer me on during the procedure. I hardly remember any of it. I believe I vomited on the way back to my poorly supervised university apartment.”

The breath from his laughter played with the wisps of hair at her temples. “And, where is this work of art located on your person?”

“On my left hip. About here.” She pointed in the general area.

Zeno pushed her away and sat upright. “I must have a look.”

The frown in her voice matched her facial expression.
“Remember you are on the clock, sir.”

“Yer wearin’ a skirt, lass. I willna’ get ye naykid, although I wouldna’ mind it.” Zeno used his most persuasive accent on her.

Cassie groaned. “I can describe it for you.”

From a side compartment of the coach, he produced an object that appeared to be some kind of telescopic instrument.

“They’re always passing out new spy gadgetry at the office. I suppose they make us out to be a gullible bunch of test subjects.”

Zeno twisted the brass-and-nickel-plated cylinder. Nothing. He then banged the instrument in the palm of his hand and
instantly a narrow beam of light appeared at one end.

“A little torchlight for my examination.”

Cassie played with the new invention, while he unbuttoned her skirt at the waist.

“Keep it low.” He spoke in a quiet undertone, easing the fabric down along her left side. He untied her petticoat and drawers just enough to reveal a tangled web of exquisite, colored calligraphy scrawled artfully across a curve of hip. Each word interwoven brilliantly into the next and executed in the most charming manner front to back. Truth be told? She had never regretted getting it.

She handed the impressive gadget over to him. “The power source, is it—?”

“Experimental dry cell batteries, my dear.”

The small spotlight illuminated the script.
“La douleur passe, la beauté reste.”
Zeno softly chuckled as he read the words.

“Pierre-Auguste Renoir. The very instructor who so upset me earlier in the day.” Her voice gentled at the memory.

“The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”

Chapter Thirteen

Z
eno could not take his eyes off the swirling cursive letters that wandered over the sweet curve of her hip. Mesmerized, he surrendered to the beguiling, bohemian soul of Cassandra St. Cloud.

Without permission, he bowed his head and brushed his lips across artfully drawn words and velvet skin. Her flesh burned hot under his lips. Closing his eyes, he inhaled violet soap and something even more wondrous.

Mysterious female.

He pulled her into his arms and pressed another kiss to her temple. “What a stout little lass you were to trot off to Paris at such an age. I take it your parents had no objections?”

“Oh, Father had plenty, even as Mother pushed me out the door.”

“Ah yes, the original liberated woman in your family.”

She retied her drawers. “The only eyebrow Olivia Erskine ever raised at me was when I accepted Thomas.” Cassie settled against his chest. “Mother thought him an interloper to my aspirations as a painter.”

“I believe your mother is more of a suffragist than you, madam.”

He kept an arm around her. “Mrs. St. Cloud has a tattoo on her hip,” he gently chided. “Has your mother seen it? I daresay she might have chosen a different maxim. Perhaps, ‘
Votes for Women Everywhere
.’ I believe that is the new war cry, is it not?”

He received a wary, lopsided grin. “Be careful, Zak, my mother is dear friends with Emmeline Pankhurst. You would not want the Women’s Franchise League circling Scotland Yard in placards.”

A hansom cab pulled up alongside their carriage. Zeno peered out the street side window. “It’s Rafe.”

The coach door opened and banged shut as a new passenger jumped in and sat opposite. Zeno rapped on the roof of the coach. “Let’s roll up a bit closer.”

Wisps of hazy fog crept along the cobbled lane as the carriage made a slow circle of the block. They stopped in a different section of a narrow cross street. The faint glow from a distant gas lamp made it difficult to see across the short expanse of the coach’s interior.

“You’re late. I was worried.” Zeno laced his whisper with sarcasm.

“Kiss to you, too, mate. Supper got off to a beastly start. Aggie insisted on retelling the bloody details of her birthing story until we were all off our appetites.

“My dear sister just whelped a new pup.” Rafe pulled out a thin cigar and held it up. “Do you mind?”

Cassie stared wide-eyed at his partner. “Not at all. Enjoy your cigar.” Slowly she raised a brow. “I thought your family hailed from Scotland, Mr. Lewis.”

A flick of his wrist shook out the match. “My sister fell in love. Married an MP, one with serious political ambitions. They live here in London most of the year. And I believe you preferred Raphael, did you not? Because I’m an angel.” His partner swept a long, appreciative gaze over her. “How delightful to meet again, Cassandra.”

“This evening she is Miss Seguret.” Until this moment, Zeno had never given much thought to how winsome the younger man was. It rankled him.

Cassie’s lopsided grin telegraphed a wary amusement. “Ah well, names aren’t really called for in this line of endeavor, at least not real ones.”

“Right you are, miss.” After a flirtatious smile, he returned to Zeno. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date, Zak. Anything of interest yet?”

“Deadly dull so far. Not the lady’s company, mind you, but the drop.” Zeno tucked a coarse woolen blanket around Cassie.

Rafe lifted an eyebrow, thoroughly diverted. “Dear me, it appears I have interrupted a charming tryst of some kind.”

Zeno eyeballed him. “Mr. Lewis. This was supposed to be your night, along with Flynn and Kitty.” He gave a nod to Cassie. “Miss Seguret was kind enough to volunteer for duty.”

Rafe shrugged. “Difficult for Kitty to break away some nights, and I suspect Mr. Rhys has been spending time with the green fairy.”

Zeno grunted. “I need Rhys off the absinthe and away from Limehouse if he’s going to be any help to us.”

“He’s not back in opium dens, if that makes—”

Cassie shushed them both and put a finger to her lips. Zeno and Rafe exchanged a grin and hunkered down quietly. A freight lorry, burdened with a heavy load, pulled up suspiciously close to the old boardinghouse.