An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (42 page)

A swath of crimson sprayed the room.

Stunned, Zeno lowered his weapon.

Rafe blinked. “Egad. Bull’s-eye.”

The front end of a rocket protruded from the assassin’s belly. A wisp of pale gray smoke danced an eerie circle around the blackened hole of raw flesh surrounding the missile. The speared man looked down in disbelief. Listing to one side, the marksman dropped the rifle and staggered forward. The man was standing at the edge of death, and his eyes rolled skyward as he crumpled to the floor.

Zeno and Rafe picked around several other floors of the tower, but found no other accomplices.

Rafe slapped him on the back. “God save the queen. You’ve done it again, Kennedy.”

Zeno shook his head. “I left Flynn in the depths of the Abbey defusing bombs. Cassie’s brother and Archie Bruce are on the roof of the Lady Chapel setting off rockets. God only knows where they’ve put Victoria.” Zeno jerked at his collar and frowned. “Do you really think we’re out of the woods?”

SOMEWHAT PERPLEXED, CASSIE stepped into Zeno’s bedchamber. Minutes ago, she could have sworn she heard his voice. Her gaze swept the room and immediately transformed the airy, well-lit space into a nursery. She pictured creamy cadmium yellow walls.

A painting caught her eye. Peering around the draped bedpost, she caught her breath.
Reveuse sur L’herbe
. She squinted at the drowsy, nude nymphet, rising to find three fully clothed gentlemen admiring her flesh. The portrait from the Durand-Ruel gallery. Holding fast to the bedpost, she explored the only possible explanation. Zeno was the mysterious purchaser of the painting. But why had it remained on display at the opening?

“I hope you don’t mind, Cassie.”

She spun around to find him standing in the doorway. Sweeping aside her immediate angst, she gasped at the sight of him. His eyes red-rimmed. His face and clothes blackened. He reeked of smoke and soot.

She hardly knew where to begin. “Whatever happened to you?”

“Something Delamere mumbled at the tower. Nagged at me for days, actually. This morning Mrs. Woolsley made the connection for me. Something about a plot to assassinate the queen.”

Wide eyes looked him up and down. “I trust you didn’t ruin a new suit for naught. And Victoria?”

“I am happy to report our good queen seems no worse for the wear. Got her safely tucked away until the danger passed. The Abbey service, after an hour’s delay, went on as planned. You know Victoria—show them no fear.”

“I expect to read a glorious report about you in the morning papers.”

The moment she moved closer, he pulled her against him. “I’ve made sure the laurels go to Mrs. Woolsley, Rob’s rockets, of course, and to you, Cassie.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

“For your impressionist’s observation of the shifting effects of light.” He held her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. “Uh-oh, I’ve gone and made a smudge.”

Zeno pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed. “As for that glorious nude of you, which I shall cherish forever unless you banish the canvas to the basement, the artwork was purchased by wire, through my solicitor. Monsieur Durand-Ruel agreed the painting was to be crated and shipped before the opening.”

A familiar frown tugged at the edges of his mouth. “My assumption is, after the grubby press stories, Monsieur Durand-Ruel counted on the now infamous
Reveuse sur L’herbe
to draw a crowd opening night, which it did.”

“Ah, so the moment you handed him your card, he realized he was found out and the painting came down.”

“Something like that.” He managed a conciliatory grin. “Sorry I was unable to spare you any awkwardness.”

“You will always be my hero, Zak.” Cassie nibbled at edges of his mouth before kissing him. “Eau de singed jacket.” She sniffed the tweed of his lapel. “Has a smoky, woodsy, masculine scent.” She leaned back in his arms. “At least it doesn’t make me nauseous.”

Weary eyes blinked as he studied her face. “Are you not feeling well? You were off to see your mother awfully early this morning.”

His familiar, gentle stroking of her back brought such a comfort, she blinked back tears. How weepy of her. “Suppose for a moment …” She chewed a bottom lip and released it slowly. “Suppose I was expecting a child. What would you think about—”

Zeno swept her up into his arms and laid her on top of his bedcovers. He removed his soot-covered jacket, collar, and necktie. There was something impossibly stimulating about this man. The moment he shed his clothes, she suddenly became wobbly-legged and doe-eyed.

He settled down next to her and pulled her into his arms. “Are you sure, Cassie?”

Her fingers danced over the buttons of his shirt and found entry to the warmth and strength of his body. “Well, the blessed event does seem rather likely, and I am very pleased about it, if you are.”

“Over the moon.” Zeno took up her hand and kissed each fingertip. “What shall we have? A little Rupert Angus or Fiona Adele?”

She arched away. “I should think a Martin Augustus or a Camille Olivia.”

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Since we cannot come to any lasting satisfaction, I suppose we’ll have to make four.”

“Well then, Detective Kennedy, I suggest you marry me.”

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