An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (4 page)

“Yes … well.” Her gaze faltered. “If you would pass along my best wishes for Mr. Dowdeswell’s restored health?”

“Please do relay mine as well.” Jeremy nodded a dignified bow. “Honored to have made your acquaintance, Lord Delamere.”

His lordship barely acknowledged the artist, steadying his gaze on Cassandra. “The pleasure was mine.”

Cassie stepped into a blur of bustling pedestrians on Bond Street. As soon as they were safely away from the gallery, Jeremy turned to her. “Cassie, you are as pale as a ghost. What was going on back there?”

She took hold of his offered arm. “Your knock on the door could not have been more timely.”

Youthfully handsome, both in body and spirit, Jeremy’s bright eyes filled with mischief. “I do hope you have a sordid and shocking tale to tell.”

He was exactly the right tonic for her. “Positively scandalous.”

“I must hear everything.” Her dear colleague checked the cross traffic and escorted her across the street. “Gunter’s is still open. I could use a lemon ice or cup of hot chocolate.”

She flashed a thin smile. “You’re going to need one of each.”

The ground trembled underfoot, followed by a low rumble of thunder in the distance. “Did you feel that?” Jeremy asked. They both pivoted in the direction of the river.

ZENO DODGED HIS way through a snarl of cabs and carriages. At the curb, he purchased a
Gazette
and a
Daily Telegraph.
He tucked both papers under his arm and made for the Underground entrance on the Embankment. A low-pitched rumble rattled every shop window on the corner. The vibration instantly escalated into a violent shaking as sidewalk pavers shifted underfoot.

A flash of brilliant light pained his eyes. An eerie squall of orange-red fire blasted out of the station. The shock wave blew him off the curb and into the street. Flat on his back he tried to catch his breath, gasping for what little oxygen there was in the air. Somehow, through a sensory fog, he was aware of carriage wheels and striking hooves. Rolling out of the vehicle’s way, he staggered to his feet. A newsboy lay motionless nearby. He reached out and lifted the young hawker into his arms.

Vaguely, he was aware he was hatless.

Zeno’s auditory faculties cut out. Silence. His perception of events became a jumble of disjointed visual impressions. Ghostly figures circled around him, all in a panic. Buffeted by a second ferocious blast, a huge cloud of smoldering wreckage rocketed out of the Underground entrance.

He checked behind him and then, on a hunch, checked again. As if in a dream, a silent, driverless team and coach emerged from a cloud of smoke and debris. Zeno held the child tight to his body and took refuge behind a capsized wagon.

His eardrums popped. Cries of panic came from every corner of the busy intersection. The shrieks of frightened horses and the clatter of the runaway carriages echoed through the streets.

Debris darkened the sky and spread outward. Black smoke rumbled over the concourse, smothering every person and object in its path. A blanket of vaporous, noxious particles enveloped him. Zeno tucked the newsboy into the shelter of the cart. He could barely see a foot in front of his face. From his waistcoat pocket he removed a handkerchief and held the fabric over his nose and mouth. Eyes burning, disoriented, he crossed the small square.

It was happening again.

Nearly three years had passed since the last bombing stunned all of London. Zeno’s squint shut out everything but the memory of one explosion. The one he could never forget.

Covered in a fine layer of ash, he made his way toward the tube entrance. Somewhere on the stairs a child screamed in fear. He descended no more than a dozen steps and tripped over a pile of bodies. The stink of smoldering woolen coats and singed hair hovered over the dazed commuters. These people were near to suffocation. He shook each one and hastened them on up the stairs.

Lungs choked with thick gray dust, he could barely breathe. Couldn’t see a thing. Out of the murky stillness came a weak, frightened voice. “Is there anyone here? Can someone please take my hand?” He reached through a fog of ash and grasped outstretched trembling fingers.

“Don’t let go.”

“No.” Zeno lifted the woman onto her feet.

“My child!”

Blindly, he searched the ground and grasped a woven shawl. No cry of life came from the bundled infant. With the babe under one arm, he held the woman upright and made his way aboveground. A hint of sky appeared to each side of a spiraling plume of charcoal vapor. Then, a godsend, a gust of wind and a patch of fresh air. Zeno sucked in a deep breath.

A group of dazed citizens approached to help settle the woman and child on a stone bench. Tiny daggers of smoke particles burned and blurred Zeno’s vision. Meanwhile, people were dying.

The infant’s wail permeated a cloak of haze and shadow. Hope.

“Someone alert the fire brigade. Scotland Yard is blocks away, the Metropolitan Police should be on scene any moment now.” His eyes watered profusely as he blinked away soot. “I could use a few able-bodied men.” He turned into a thick blanket of fumes and didn’t look back to see if anyone followed.

With each trip to the surface, as the threat of additional bombs eased, Zeno picked up a makeshift auxiliary of volunteers. Day had turned to night. The cool chill of evening air washed over him. The fire brigade, now on the scene, went straight after burning pockets of flame, while trained men helped to excavate the injured and dead from under the rubble.

“Sit yourself down and have a swig.” Someone shoved a ladle of cold water into his hand. He guzzled with a thirst he wasn’t aware of until now. After several deep swallows he returned the dipper for more. “Thank you.”

“No dear, thank you.” The woman’s kind face matched the tone of her voice.

Zeno shook his head. “There are so many.” At least eleven dead thus far. Or was it twelve? He had lost count of the injured.

Every muscle in his body ached. He rubbed a scrape on his chin and reopened the wound. Blood mingled with dust on his fingertips. A deep inhalation triggered a spasm of coughs. Slumped onto a bench, he gave himself a minute or two and no more. He took another gulp of water, and poured the remains over his head. The cool liquid shocked and revived him. He kneaded his neck and let his head roll back onto sore shoulders.

His mind chased a tumbling crimson maple leaf along memory lane. Fall had come early that year. Zeno shook his head in a futile attempt to avoid a parade of painful memories and lurid headlines, articles filled with detailed descriptions of the carnage. And eclipsing all of it, a tragic love story.

YARD MAN LINKED TO BOMB VICTIM ACTRESS JAYNE WELLS

Plenty of newspapers sold that day and for weeks afterward. A nasty shot of anger pulsed through his body as he recalled the intrusive press reports. Like a persistent recurring nightmare, the memory of his dead mistress ravaged his thoughts. Three years had passed and yet her murder was as fresh as the blast of—how many hours had passed?

Someone clapped him on the back. His body jerked upright.

A small cadre of volunteers stood waiting, faces blackened with ash and grime. They had stuck fast with him since the explosion. A few were gentry. Frock coats and hats long since discarded, these gentlemen of quality had rolled up their shirtsleeves and worked tirelessly alongside working-class chaps with stronger backs—young men who could shoulder dead weight up two flights of stairs and turn right around for more.

One of the men spoke up. “That bloke over there took our names, sir. Sez your name’s Kennedy of Scotland Yard. Sez yer famous.”

Zeno’s gaze traveled across the chaotic thoroughfare and narrowed on the man standing beside Fire Brigade Captain Fraser, pad and pencil in hand. He exhaled a sigh and surveyed his motley crew of volunteers, every one of them weary to the bone.

He approached the reporter interviewing the fire chief, and gestured to the men beside him. “Make sure you spell their names correctly and leave mine off the story.”

The impertinent newspaper hack snorted. “Leave you off, Kennedy? Why, you
are
the story.”

Zeno grabbed the man’s jacket lapels. “Do your utmost to get this straight. Innocent people are down there, dead or dying.
They
are your story. Along with these men behind me, regular citizenry, who have risked their lives to rescue the victims of this violence.”

He shoved off the bug-eyed newsman and walked back into hell.

Chapter Three

R
evived by a hot bath and change of clothes, Zeno paused at the window of his second-floor library. He had left the smoldering remains of the Underground station at daybreak and stumbled home. Too keyed up for bed, he wondered how long he would remain upright. He made a private wager with himself and kept the stakes small.

For the time being, the early morning arrival of furniture to Number 10 Lyall Street would serve to amuse. As he observed the removal of a large packing crate from the van, a section of windowpane reflected the distracting movements of his housekeeper. She guided a busy feather duster across the library table and hesitated. With a furtive glance in his direction she brushed over a stack of books and reports piled in a haphazard fashion.

For years, Zeno had studied Alma Woolsley’s household misadventures and found he could, at times, anticipate her behavior. Tentatively, she reached for several of the heaviest volumes on the top of the heap.

“I’d rather you wouldn’t, Mrs. Woolsley.”

With an audible tsk and exaggerated sigh, Alma shifted her duster’s attentions to the side table of his favorite reading chair. “You’ve got eyes in the back of your head, sir.”

“Rather useful in my line of work.”

The woman did not know her place. Besides being impertinent and bossy, she moved things. This habit figured by far to be her most exasperating quality. He had spoken to her at length and on many occasions about this systematic invasion of his privacy.

Of late, she had redoubled her efforts to antagonize him with an assault on his dressing room. Without so much as asking, she made it her business to reorganize both his wardrobe and dresser drawers. Just this morning he was obliged to call her upstairs to show him where his tattersall waistcoat might be found.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a
swoosh
of feathers along the window mullions. “I do hope the new tenant will be amiable, Mr. Kennedy. Do you know anything more about her, sir? You did mention she is a single lady, a widow, I believe?”

“I am in receipt of a full year’s rent paid in advance. What better to know about a new tenant, Mrs. Woolsley?”

With a sniff, she rattled off a barrage of questions in short order. “I believe it would be nice to know all sorts of things about her. Perhaps an idea of the lady’s age? Does she bring any relations with her? How many servants might she need? What are her family connections? Many details, sir, would be profoundly interesting.”

“Profoundly interesting?” Zeno arched a brow. “You lead an exceedingly dull life, ma’am.”

“Well, you would best know about that, Mr. Kennedy,” Alma pushed up next to him and peered around the window drapery. Like it or not, her insistent nudging caused the bare semblance of a smile. Anything more would have cracked open wounds sustained in the blast.

“I do worry you’ll be off after those dynamiters without the proper rest.” She sniffed. “And I’d be happier if those bruises and cuts looked a sight better.”

“To ease your mind, I shall endeavor to heal as quickly as possible.”

“Sleep would go a long way, sir.”

“For your edification, take a moment to observe the furnishings carried into Number Ten by the drayage laborers.” He checked his pocket watch. “Perhaps you might find an object of interest? An unusual item or two that could tell us something about our new neighbor?”

He kept one eye on the furrowed brow of his housekeeper as she concentrated on the comings and goings below. “Come now, Mrs. Woolsley. Do you not apprise me on a near-constant basis regarding your inborn talent for sleuthing?”

Alma hesitated. “Might our new neighbor have an interest in the arts?”

“An interest or an avocation? You must elaborate.”

“I’ve counted several easels as well a large roll of sailcloth. And a number of instrument cases. Might they hold brushes, oils, charcoals, turpentine, and the like? I believe she could be a painter if I am not mistaken.” Alma’s eyes widened as she awaited his reply.

“A very good start, Mrs. Woolsley.”

She snorted. “Not a difficult deduction, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

He pressed his lips together. “I suppose it is an observation that, no doubt, a simpleton could discern. Might the lady in question be a serious artist or would you call her a dabbler, perhaps as a hobby?”

Alma tilted her head. “Why, I believe the former, sir. Why else all the equipment?”

“Excellent perception. And what style of painting, what school of artists might she be identified with?”