An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (31 page)

She flew at him with fists raised. Her knuckles brushed the side of his cheek but he caught both her wrists and held them in a tight grip.

“Feisty today, are we?” Zeno imprisoned her arms behind her. “Calm yourself, Mrs. O’Shea, or you will be returned to your restraints.”

She deliberately pushed against him. Her round, firm breasts ground into his chest. He managed to hold any errant arousal at bay. “Enough, Jayne.”

She slipped a pink tongue over her bottom lip. “Right here, love, up against the wall like we used to in my dressing room?”

His gaze lowered to her mouth. The past flooded his mind. He was deep inside her, pumping hard. “Come on, love.” Her words came from the present. She tilted her head and leaned in, rose-colored lips inches away.

“All right, Jayne. You give up all your secrets and we’ll have a bit of in and out right here.” He broke away with a harsh laugh.

“What’s the matter?” She stepped toward him, rubbing circulation back into her hands.

“Stay where you are.”

She sidled closer, skirts sweeping back and forth across his crotch. Her gaze drifted downward. “Afraid you want me, Zak?”

This time, he shoved her to the wall. His erection pressed into her. “You want to feel this inside you again?” He rocked her backward and her head struck hard brick. He didn’t mean to abuse her, but he wasn’t about to give any ground, either. “Do you?”

Heavy-lidded, sensuous eyes returned his glare. “Yes.”

She was an actress. Apparently a very good one. Humiliated to think he had been so easily seduced by her years ago, a wave of self-loathing washed over him. With a groan, he wrenched her away from the wall and slapped handcuffs onto her wrists.

He turned her around and marched her over to the chair in the middle of the room.

“Sit.”

She squirmed under the muscle of his grip. Her wary eyes blazed with anger. Zeno smiled to himself; he had shaken her a bit. Next, he would remind her of his offer.

He walked around the small table and picked up her folder. Without looking up, he gestured for her to sit again. “If you don’t give me the names, I’ll gladly make you moan. But not in the way you’re wanting.”

“I recall more than a bit of groaning on your part, Zak.” She offered a hard smile.

His jaw clenched as he directed a pointed glare over the top of her file. “Favors won’t purchase your brother’s release. Names will.”

The jingle of keys and turn of the lock drew his attention to the door. Rafe poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve been summoned, Zak. M’s office, straightaway.”

Zeno nodded to Rafe and continued to read a new entry in an already thick dossier. “While I am gone, Mrs. O’Shea, I would like you to consider this. One of your compatriots has just named James Carey as the man in charge of the Praed Street bombing. Which means my offer to free your brother will likely be withdrawn. Much depends on your cooperation, however. You might still be able to keep him from hanging.”

ZENO READ THE decoded telegram out loud.

RECEIVED 29 MAY
FROM: INSPECTOR OLIVIER TAUTOU
WILL RENDEVOUS MRS ST CLOUD IN
CALAIS STOP
BE INFORMED FRENCH RAIL OPERATORS
STRIKE IMMINENT

He checked the desk clock. A strike could affect Cassie’s train. Due to arrive in Paris … Zeno pulled her travel schedule out of his breast pocket. Just past four. He raised an eyebrow. Melville had not called him into his office over a rail strike delay.

His boss frowned. “This came in minutes ago.”

TO: MELVILLE SCOTLAND YARD HQ
FROM: HM CUSTOMS EXCHANGE DOVER
PRIORY
SCOTLAND YARD PERSON OF INTEREST
ANDREW DARRAGH HINGHAM LORD
DELAMERE EXITED COUNTRY FOUR PM

“British Customs appears to be awake in Dover.” Melville grunted. “Delamere is on the run. This tells me we’re close to breaking their network wide open.”

Zeno read the message twice. On the run? Very likely. But could Delamere have known about Cassie? Who could have leaked the information? Zeno racked his brain. House staff, perhaps, intercepted messages. Shipping instructions to train porters. Christ. Cassie would be delayed overnight in Calais, as was Lord Delamere. The waking nightmare rumbled like thunder through his entire body.

A brief knock and the door opened. Mr. Quincy poked his head in the office. “The Earl of Rosslyn is in the vestibule asking for Mr. Kennedy. Shall I escort him up?”

Melville caught Zeno’s eye. “Well, well, there seems to be a number of scared birds either taking flight or
seeking refuge. Please do, Mr. Quincy.”

A sullen but apologetic Gerald St. Cloud took an offered seat at the library table. “Cassie is in grave danger.”

“Lord Rosslyn, I will need you to tell me in great detail exactly
how
Cassandra St. Cloud is in danger.” Zeno leaned in. “And please do so with haste.”

Gerald St. Cloud squirmed uncomfortably. “It is not just Cassie who is in danger. I am the last survivor of our—”

Zeno placed both hands on the table and leaned over the earl. “Down to bloody two, are we?”

His face paled. “Did George Upton hang himself or did they murder him?”

Zeno remained stone-faced. His jaw ached from clenching. He decided on a partial truth. “We found evidence of a struggle.”

Beads of sweat formed along the young man’s hairline. “I will need protection.”

“I am prepared to offer you security. Any future charge of collusion or conspiracy on your part might also be dropped—in exchange for testimony.” Melville laced his offer with a sincere bit of warmth. “What say you, Lord Rosslyn?”

Gerald exhaled a sigh of relief. “Well then, I might as well spill the beans, tell you what I know.”

Zeno met Melville’s gaze over the library table. Finally, they would get the names they needed. And this time a peer would inform on another peer. At trial, Gerald’s testimony would have the whip hand alongside statements gathered from captured dynamiters, including Jayne Wells O’Shea.

Melville pulled out a chair and sat down beside Gerald. “I’ll take this from here, Zak, best be on your way.”

Zeno’s stare narrowed on the earl. “What do you know of Lord Delamere’s immediate plans?”

“Only that he left for Dover by afternoon train, he travels with a French anarchist and several higher placed Fenians seeking refuge in France. You boys do seem to have them on the run.”

“Do they know about Cassie—that she left for Paris this morning?”

A bit wild-eyed, Gerald stammered. “I’m not sure … exactly.”

“Exactly?” Zeno held himself back from choking the young earl.

“I … I stopped by Ten Lyall yesterday morning. I was going to apologize, but Cassie wasn’t at home. Her maid, the little French tart, was arranging for trunks to be shipped ahead—to Paris. I might have mentioned something to Andrew—Lord Delamere.”

Gerald’s hand trembled as he raked fingers through tousled, unkempt hair. “Dear God. He did leave town rather suddenly.”

Zeno ticked off a hundred scenarios in his mind. “I must go.”

Melville nodded. “You’ll just make the late train to Dover.”

He braked and turned. “I’ll need to hire a private ferry.”

“Permission granted.” Melville’s frown softened. “Bring Delamere back if you can. But I’ll not lose a good whist partner like Henry Erskine over this. Make sure you bring his daughter safely home.”

Zeno jogged down the corridor and tossed the files on his desk. He grabbed a box of shells from his desk drawer and jammed the bullets in a coat pocket. From the telegraph office in the decryption room, he wired Mrs. Wools- ley and sent off another telegram to Rob Erskine, in care of Sir Kevin Meade-Waldo, Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

CASSIE IN TROUBLE STOP
WITH ALL HASTE MEET ME DOVER
PRIORY STOP
DO NOT TAKE TRAIN STOP
DRIVE ROADSTER

Delamere would be charged with blackmail, attempted kidnapping, sedition, and murder. The man would surely hang, if he didn’t shoot him dead. But first, he must find Cassie.

HIS HOUSEKEEPER MET him on platform five. “Mrs. Woolsley, while I am away I want you to pay close attention to the activity on the street and around the mews—any odd men lurking about and the like—and forward any telegrams from Mrs. St. Cloud on to Number Four Whitehall.”

“Yes, sir.” Alma handed over his suitcase and a small basket filled with fruit and sandwiches. “Here you go, then, sir.” He grabbed his housekeeper, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and hopped aboard the last train out of Victoria Station.

With any luck, he would arrive in Dover by eight o’clock. Near dark. Rob would head due east from Tunbridge Wells. The journey to Dover could not be more than an hour by fast coach. The roadster would make it in less, but over country roads? Zeno could not be sure.

He was taking no chances. If the French rail system shut down, the public coaches would be full to overflowing and any carriages left for hire long gone for Paris. The more he thought about it, the more sense the roadster made. Should he face a strike in Calais, Rob’s automobile might be his only chance of catching Cassie or Delamere.

Zeno exhaled slowly and settled himself in an empty compartment. By his reckoning, he lagged hours behind Delamere and nearly a full day behind Cassie—unless she was still in Calais. He hoped not. Any extended layover meant she could be spotted.

His thoughts turned darker.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night
. With the words of Shakespeare raging through his head, he fell into a troubled sleep.

TO: ZENO KENNEDY
FROM: CASSANDRA ST CLOUD
DELAYED IN CALAIS STOP
HOPE TO MAKE PARIS BY NOON TOMORROW

Cassie penned her message and handed it over to the hotel clerk.
“Tout de suite, s’il vous pla
î
t.”

The lobby of the Hotel Meurice thronged with displaced travelers and disgruntled, overworked employees. Having overheard snatches of conversation, she surmised the prevailing wisdom centered around the idea that the rail workers had purposely
delayed the trains in anticipation of the strike. Only the word to strike had not yet arrived.

Hopefully the morning train would leave on time. She took a turn around the lobby and stopped to read the supper menu posted at the restaurant door. In between a perusal of delectable dishes, she caught sight of a large party being seated for dinner.

Lord Delamere. Frozen for a moment in time, she gulped for air. As if he could sense her watching, he looked out toward the entrance of the restaurant. He appeared to be expecting someone. She shrank behind the large menu placard and peeked through the etched glass of the dining room doors.

She did not recognize any of the other gentlemen with him, if one could call them that. They were not as handsomely dressed as his lordship. Anarchist sympathizers, she supposed.

“May I be of service, madame?”

Cassie whirled around to confront the raised eyebrow of the maître d’. “No. That is … I’ve decided to have dinner brought up.”

The eyebrow lowered measurably as he took out a small booklet. “Your room number?” He wished to take her order.

Cassie shrank away from him. “I’ll send my maid down with our selections shortly.” She clamped her mouth shut and continued her retreat.

“As you wish, madame.”

Wish? She wished for Zeno to be on the next train and boat to Calais and for Mr. Melville to call out the French police. As for her French bodyguard? She squinted a side-glance around the room. Still no sign of Inspector Tautou. He should have met her hours ago.

Making her retreat through the lobby, she stopped at the desk. “I’ve changed my mind about sending that telegram.”

The clerk appeared somewhat strained by her request, but nonetheless answered politely. “So sorry, madame, the boy left several minutes ago.”

“Where is the telegraph office?” she demanded.

“Gare de Calais-Ville.” The clerk started to give her walking directions to the train station.

“Thank you, I know the way.”

Cassie wove a path through the crowded lobby and out the hotel entrance. She must intercept her wire message and send a new, urgent one. Nearly overcome by a sense of foreboding, she now imagined the worst. Delamere could have men following her. Inhaling a breath of brisk ocean air, she fought off her fears and headed north toward the train station. She took a circuitous route and kept to busy streets. Once inside the station, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light.

A draft of steam and a puff of wind whipped through the arched columns of the train platform. Cassie glanced over her shoulder as she hurried in a direction that likely included the telegraph office.

A prickly, spine-tingling sensation coursed through her as she became aware of a figure trailing behind her. Pivoting on her heel, she swung around to confront—nothing. She scanned the station, carefully searching the dark corners and shadows for her pursuer. Imaginary? She thought not. She sensed something, someone.

She whirled around to find a small wiry man, with deep-set dark eyes and a large brown moustache. He tipped his bowler.

“Madame St. Cloud?”

Chapter Twenty-six