An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (22 page)

Zeno leaned into his chair and appeared to study the people he dined with. “And what is your opinion, Dr. Erskine, of women out in public in bloomers?”

“Depends on the woman’s figure, wouldn’t you say, Zak?”

Her father’s eyes were merry, and all the women laughed, which forced a smile from Zeno.

Well pleased with himself, Father refolded his serviette and laid it on the table. “I’m afraid, Zak, you’ll not get a word of derision out of me on the subject of pantaloons.”

“You may have helped me make a point, sir. I have no argument with the fact that the wearing of bloomers is a safe way to pedal a bicycle and I would even go further, riding in breeches no doubt affords better balance and command of a horse. But—”

“But what?” Cassie interjected. “Isn’t safety of greater importance than some antiquated idea of women’s modesty?” She challenged him with a grin that would surely melt his stern countenance.

Mother squirmed in her seat, a clear sign she could not wait to get a word in edgewise. “I often wonder at the incongruity, Mr. Kennedy: that men believe women sturdy enough to participate in the making and bearing of children, yet find the riding of horses and bicycles astride as indelicate.” Olivia dipped her fork into a wedge of cake. “Would you care to elucidate that peculiarity for me?”

Zeno’s mouth nearly dropped all the way open before he choked out an answer. “No!”

Father met his emphatic answer with a snort of laughter. “That’s the spirit, lad, no sense in arguing with the ladies. They will get their way, I assure you.”

“And the vote, as well.” Mother grinned.

The pocket door to the dining room slid open and Cécile appeared with a message in hand. She stopped behind Mr. Kennedy and curtsied.

Visibly reluctant to open the envelope, Zeno read and refolded the wire. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself early.”

After a brief exchange of polite remarks, Cassie pulled him out the front door to steal a modicum of privacy. A mist of thick fog and a chill in the air greeted them. Zeno opened his coat and she stepped inside. Almost at once they broke into muffled laughter.

“So sorry for the inquisition. I cannot think what got into the two of them.” She knew her face flushed with embarrassment.

“I found them exceedingly pleasant, both witty and intelligent. I had a wonderful time.” He bent closer. “Really.” His kiss was sweet and sensuous, moving over her mouth in soft caresses. Slipping his tongue between her open lips, he turned his mouth over hers. Shivers coursed through her body and she wrapped her arms around his waist inside his coat.

“Is there a chance you’ll return early?”

“Not likely.” Zeno checked his watch and grimaced. “I’m afraid Yard men keep irregular hours.”

Cassie sighed. “Nothing new there. Mother swears babies never birth until four in the morning.” She kissed him and he pulled her back for another. “Wonderful dinner. You didn’t by any chance do the cooking?”

“Cook started the roast and prepared the vegetables. Lydia helped. The cake and icing are an old Erskine recipe.”

Backing into the fog, he turned up his collar. “You made the cake?”

She laughed at the stunned look on his face. “Be careful, Zak.”

Chapter Seventeen

A
black fog hung over the East End.

“Ease her over, mate.” Zeno’s gruff shout traveled through the dense mist. At times, he could barely make out the cobbles a few feet ahead. Fog torches burned on Commercial Road, but not once they turned onto Watney Street.

Rafe bobbed his head and turned the cart. Dressed as a couple of root sellers on their way to Spitalfields Market, Rafe steered while Zeno walked alongside the trolley and pushed a crowbar through the spokes. The wheel made one last lopsided turn and collapsed, tipping the produce wagon on its side. Bushels broke open, scattering parsnips over the ground.

Perfect.

Rafe threw his cap on the ground. “Sod it.”

Zeno nodded. “A right shambles, awl right.”

They would use the upset wagon as a ruse to gain a better view of the comings and goings around this building on Watney Street. Zeno suspected the run-down boardinghouse functioned as a safe house for the
Clan na Gael
as well as a drop site for dynamite.

Zeno swung a near empty sack over to his junior partner, who appeared a bit green about the gills this evening. “Load this up.” He lifted a full bushel and stacked it against a brick building. “You look like hell.”

“I swear the bird had one hand on my prick and another in my pocket.” Rafe rattled on about his last evening’s exploits. “If she had stroked any faster I would have missed the fact she was robbing me blind.”

Zeno marveled at the number and color of his abrasions. Red-rimmed eyes, one of them blackened, and sallow around the gills. Not entirely unfamiliar coloring. His partner drank too much and regularly caroused with harlots. Raphael Byron Lewis was going to die young and he didn’t seem to care.

“I take it this lovebird’s procurer took issue over the attempted theft?” Zeno gave a nod to the scraped and bruised knuckles. “Hope you gave him your best.”

“The pub rabble took his side. Flynn and I left a few mugs full of lumps, all right.” Rafe tossed him a wink. “But they weren’t as pretty as either of us to begin with.”

“Ah, Mr. Rhys was there. I might have known.” Zeno caught a bit of movement from the corner of his eye and cleared his throat. He dipped his head in the direction of the drop site.

A tall figure dressed in formal attire, including opera hat and cape, stepped out into the alleyway from the rear door of the boardinghouse. Thick atmosphere partially obscured the figure hugging the darker side of the street. The apparition walked toward a main thoroughfare in a hurry.

“I say, what ’ave we ’ere?” Rafe dropped his h’s faster than his sack of parsnips. He pulled his cap forward and took up the broken wheel. “Let’s roll this wobbly down the cobbles and ’ave a look for a smithy.”

Zeno grunted. “Just don’t be gettin’ thirsty along the way.” He stuffed the remaining parsnips into the last open sack, keeping a watchful eye on Rafe until he turned the corner at Whitechapel.

“Havin’ a bit o’ trouble this evening?”

He looked up in time to recognize the face with a broken nose. Bollocks. The very man he had punched the night he and Cassie made their run from the dynamiters.

The question was, did this bloke recognize him?

He rose to greet the man when a massive spike of pain shot through the back of his head. For a fleeting moment it registered that he was in deep trouble, then everything went dark.

HE TASTED BLOOD in his mouth. Without cracking open an eye, or in any way disclosing the fact that he had regained consciousness, Zeno gathered his wits about him and slowly assembled a few coherent thoughts. A strong pulse throbbed in his hands. He tried moving his arms and feet, but they were bound and tied to the chair.

A dozen brutal hammers pounded inside his skull. The pain centered near the back of his head, but there was also a dull, persistent throb at his temples. He opened a swollen eye and peered around a sparsely furnished room. A table with an oil lamp turned low and a washbasin. He made out a few crude instruments on top.

A quick inhale sent sharp pains screaming through his torso. The memory of a large fist smashing into his ribs caused him to utter a groan. He tamped down the urge to bellow louder complaints, and took a brief inventory of body parts. Likely his ribs were cracked and there was a sore shoulder that nearly returned him to the black hole of unconsciousness when he rotated his upper arm.

He tried to remember exactly what happened before he went
non compos mentis,
the Latin phrase that would officially describe his insensible state and the reason for his capture. Those three initials would get scribbled into his report of the incident. He reminded himself that his own account of this night would never be written nor would he be put through a long, grueling debrief. Someone else would finish the report. A young clerk, perhaps, would carry his personnel folder to storage, walk down row
K
-
L,
and perfunctorily file his life away.

From the next room, beyond the door in the corner, there were signs of life. Low mumbles and the shuffling sound of steps
crept into his mind and shattered his nerves. Soon the men who beat him would be back. They would torture him until he broke or went insane, then they would kill him. The
Clan na Gael
didn’t keep prisoners, especially spies. But they would be very interested in what he knew of their operation and their organization.

Both he and Mr. Lewis. Rafe.

Zeno’s pulse increased at the thought of his junior partner. Where was he? Over the last few days, Rafe and Flynn had done a bang-up job confirming the drop sites. The shipment of American dynamite had been split and stored in three locations. With every stick of contraband accounted for, they were on the verge of arresting the dynamiters before any damage could be done. Then Melville purposely delayed the raids, hoping to catch a few bigger fish.

But they had waited too long and now they were discovered.

Zeno’s mind wandered. If he died, what had been accomplished? Special Branch could now link the purchased explosives to the Boston anarchists, which established a connection from the American
Clan na Gael
to the Fenian dynamiters. Perhaps he had uncovered the most imperative and potentially thorny part of the ploy.

It seemed as though Scotland Yard had caught a few lucky breaks, but on this night he and Rafe had walked straight into a trap. Was it still evening? Zeno thought about the time. How many hours had passed? Six? Twelve? What day was it? Somehow he sensed that it was early morning, sometime near dawn.

Zeno concentrated. He tried to recall what occurred just before he’d gone senseless. He and Rafe had returned to the first drop site, the largest deposit of explosives.

Images flashed in his head. Rafe sprinting down the alley, tailing a man cloaked in a dark cape and opera hat. Zeno had stayed behind, standing by the broken-down handcart at the rear entrance of the boardinghouse. He had taken a blow to the back of the head.

After that, vague recollections of angry questions and insults. And a beating. He winced as he recalled the heavy blow of fists smashing into his face and torso. Memory blurred. A second faint.

“Operation Snuffbox” might have been a resounding success, if not for his capture and identification as a Special Irish Branch agent. Their cover was blown to hell and back. The more he attempted to resign himself to his fate, the more he could not accept such a failure.

A muted shuffle of footsteps came from a distant stairway. He heard the sounds of several voices talking at once in low tones in an adjacent room. The door to his torture chamber opened and closed.

Zeno kept his eyes shut and his head down, feigning unconsciousness. He wondered for a moment if he hallucinated, as he heard the unmistakable rustle of a woman’s skirts, light steps, and the splash of water in a washbasin.

Whoever stood close lifted his chin. None too gently, a wet cloth was dragged across his face and pressed to his eyes and forehead. Cool relief. Mentally, Zeno prepared himself for the next round of torture and opened his eyes.

A familiar scent brought on a rush of disjointed memories. A face blurred before coming into focus. The female in front of him held a damp washcloth in one hand and a leather baton in the other. He could not be awake, for he dreamed of his dead mistress, Jayne Wells. Dear God, she was alive. His heart sang for the briefest moment, until it skipped a beat.

No. He must be dead.

Mired in terror and grief, he stumbled onto yet another explanation too horrible to think about. As the beautiful, unmistakably familiar face came into focus again, to his horror, he realized he was neither insane nor hallucinating.

“Wake up, Zak. It’s time to make your confession.” The cold compress further revived him. Or was it the familiar sound of her voice? His gut clenched, which caused his aching ribs to protest, doubling the pain.

“You’re dead.” He croaked out a response, his throat dry and sore. Her singsong high-pitched laugh once had seemed musical; now her laughter rang coarse and cynical.

“Don’t make this difficult. If you do not speak to me soon, they will come back in here and take out your knees with a quarry hammer.”

His entire being reeled from the sight of her, but he refused to let her see how much she disturbed him. “Before I tell you everything you want to know, please give me the short version of the events leading up to the explosion near King’s Cross. The one that killed you.” He reopened a split lip with a smile. “Humor a dead man, my little honeypot.”

She slapped him hard across the face. It only served to freshen up older cuts. Numb from their abuse, he righted his head and returned her glare.

“My brother’s name is James Carey. Ring a bell, Zak? He resides in Newcastle prison thanks to you, Melville, and Castlemaine.”