An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (5 page)

“Mr. Kennedy, how might I know what the lady paints without an opportunity to see the paintings themselves?”

His focus shifted to the arrival of a town coach as it pulled ahead of the furniture van. Zeno ticked off numerous observations, including an elaborate coat of arms. The Rosslyn crest, no doubt. Zeno reminded himself of his new tenant’s connection to the Earl of Rosslyn, Gerald St. Cloud.

A woman of an age near middle twenties emerged from the carriage. Stringing behind her on long leads were two tail-waggers—tricolor foxhounds. The young lady waited patiently for the dogs to assess the distance from the coach floor to the ground before they made a scrambled leap to the street.

She wore a slim skirt with a modest bustle. A crisp white shirt under a formfitting jacket denoted a shapely figure. Comically, a hound’s leash caught in her skirt. She quickly raised the hem, exposing a trim length of leg as she
untangled the frolicking animal. Zeno politely redirected his attention to the sunlight rimming her hair, which glowed a honeyed brown color under a smart straw boater.

“My word, she appears to be a handsome, athletic sort of young lady.”

The near thrill in his housekeeper’s voice caused him to raise a brow. “Kindly explain how you might come to the conclusion that Mrs. St. Cloud is athletic?”

“Is that her name?” Alma sighed. “Very pleasing and romantic, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Well,” she hesitated, “there are the hounds, which indicate—”

“Nothing.” He frowned. “They could be leftover runts from a large litter of sporting dogs the lady decided to rescue and make into house pets. You’ll have to do better than that, Mrs. Woolsley.”

“There is the matter of a very fine new horse in the stables. Arrived just yesterday, late in the afternoon. I happened to overhear instructions to the groom.”

Zeno tore his gaze away from the street. “Which were?”

“The new tenant,” Alma stammered, “Mrs. St. Cloud, that is, enjoys an early ride most every morning. Weather permitting, sir.”

He quirked up the ends of his mouth. “Mrs. Woolsley, I believe you are soon to be graduated to an occasional research contract with the firm.”

“Does that mean I get to spy, sir?”

“Indeed it does.”

IT TOOK EXACTLY three days for Mrs. St. Cloud to send word to the stables to ready her horse for riding. Zeno knew this for a fact, for he had skulked around the mews each and every morning hoping for a chance encounter with the young woman.

Of course, he might have just knocked on her front door. “Greetings, madam. Welcome to the neighborhood.” But that sort of formality, while neighborly, was hardly conducive to poking into her brother-in-law’s involvement with the Bloody Four. No, he had in mind a more serendipitous meeting.

Checking his saddle, he watched the lady’s well-bred hunter circle the stable groom at the end of a long leading ribbon. “Natural collection, nicely gaited.”

Rory tossed a shock of red hair over a nose sprinkled with freckles. “A right pretty mover she is, sir.”

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Zeno pivoted toward the pleasant female voice. His jaw dropped and his mouth went dry. Days ago, he had observed a handsome, intriguing young lady take possession of Number 10. This morning, up close?

She was stunning.

Captured by her gaze, he noted crystal gray eyes framed by dark lashes. She studied him rather intently. Her features, though symmetrical, were quite overpowered by a rather predominant mouth, which at the moment tilted up at the ends. In fact, he could not be sure she wasn’t laughing at him. He stared a bit too long at those well-defined lips.

She wore a riding habit in a shade that might be described as a medium blue—what would a lady call that hue? Beneath her jacket, a paisley waistcoat peeked out from under black velvet lapels. A top hat adorned with a netted veil completed the picture.

He attempted to speak as his heart pounded too much blood from his brain.
My word, this is going to be stimulating.
An intriguing new neighbor related to a person of interest in his case against the dynamiters. A tantalizing mix of business and pleasure, indeed. “Pardon me, but I thought to bring around …?” Zeno gestured toward the circling equine.

“Daisy.”

He choked on the silly name for such a refined mount. “I was about to bring—Daisy—to your door, as
I myself am riding this morning.”

Her gaze moved up and down. “I assure you, sir, I am quite capable of getting to the Lyall Mews on my own, but I do appreciate the kind gesture, Mister—?”

“Please forgive my indecorous manners, Mrs. St. Cloud.” He tipped his hat. “Zeno Augustus Kennedy, at your service.”

“You know my name, sir?”

“I do, madam. As it happens I am the owner of several row houses on Lyall Street. I admit to a cursory review of the applications I receive from my solicitor, but I am mindful enough to remember the name of a new tenant.”

The groom positioned her horse at the mounting block. Before either male could offer a hand, she stepped into a stirrup, hoisted herself onto the saddle, and arranged her skirts.

He noted the soft, supple leather of her riding boots before pivoting in the direction of the young stable hand. “Mrs. St. Cloud, may I introduce you to your groom?”

“Rory O’Connor, ma’am.” The boy doffed his cap and nodded a bow.

“Named after the King of Ireland, I presume?” Her smile was radiant. Of course she would have to have one of those.

“Yes, ma’am.” The lad’s fair skin turned a vivid shade of pink, a striking mismatch against his fiery orange hair.

“Very pleased to meet you, Rory.”

“Likewise, ma’am.”

She narrowed mercury eyes over the head of her shy groom. “So you are my landlord, then?”

Zeno nodded a discreet bow. “We need not converse as lessor to lessee, but rather, my intention is to welcome you to the neighborhood. Perhaps I can answer questions or direct you to services around the vicinity of our small community?”

“Shall we ride together, then? Show me points of interest. A short route to the track, once we’re in the park.”

“Exactly, madam.” From the corner of his eye, as he lifted himself onto his saddle, he caught her inspecting his backside. Hard in an instant, he sat cautiously so as not to cause himself injury.

“You live on Lyall Street, Mr. Kennedy?”

Adjusting his reins, he met her gaze. “I am your next-door neighbor, Mrs. St. Cloud.”

“MY GIVEN NAME is Cassandra, but you may call me Cassie.” She reined Daisy off a narrow horse trail and onto the wide dirt track of Rotten Row.

She caught a raised brow from her neighbor. “Are you always so informal, Mrs. St. Cloud?” What a cold, taciturn impression he made, speaking in clipped tones with a frown on his face. She concluded he must not recognize this disagreeable behavior in himself.

“Perhaps you should call me by my title, then. The dowager Lady Rosslyn. Much more starchy and impersonal. Are you always so stiff, Mr. Kennedy?”

The curl at the ends of his mouth seemed to indicate he was amused. “According to a colleague of mine, I need to foster a more congenial side to my acerbic nature. All work and no play, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can help me improve on my charm … a bit of advice?”

An honest evaluation, delivered with a large dose of sarcasm. Still, she smiled. “I don’t believe there are charm schools for gentlemen who lack …
charm,
Mr. Kennedy.”

Stealing a glance at the man riding beside her, she noted an imperfectly perfect nose positioned above a delicious wide-set mouth, his most expressive facial feature. In the short distance from mews to park, he had demonstrated a few subtle variations of a masterful frown. A smile from this gent, should she ever see one, might cause her complete discomposure.

“Then I will require private lessons. You have my permission to school me in the finer points of the winsome personality.” The tensing of his mouth and the quirk of a brow intimated curiosity and something else. He enjoyed taunting her.

“Generally, people who cultivate charm enjoy using the familiar. The use of a person’s first name, for example, is an engaging gesture. And I still prefer Cassie, even if you do not.”

He continued to appear nonplussed. “Ah yes, an agreeable personality is certain to win one friends.”

She could not restrain a flicker of eye roll. “If you
were
to use my first name, how might I then be allowed to refer to you, Mr. Kennedy? Theoretically?”

His gaze darted across park scenery to meet hers. “There are a few colleagues or acquaintances,” he ventured, his voice laden with irony, “who call me Zak—an acronym, of my initials.”

“Zeno …” She bit her lip. “
Angus
Kennedy?”

He narrowed his eyes. “
Augustus
Kennedy.”

“My, my, you do have clever friends, even if there are so few of them.”

Was that a growl or a harrumph from the man? She grinned. “That sort of grousing is only endearing from a great-uncle in need of an afternoon nap.” Cassie guided her horse onto a narrow path and glanced back. “A charm pointer, Mr. Kennedy.”

They rode quietly past the Albert Memorial, Victoria’s impressive epitaph to her most beloved husband.

“I always feel obliged to recite some sort of eulogy whenever I pass by here.” Her landlord tilted his head. “Ah, here’s one.

“Near this spot

are deposited the remains of one

who possessed beauty without vanity,

Strength without insolence,

Courage without ferocity,

and all the virtues of man without his vices.”

She recognized the poem. “You quote Byron’s ‘Epitaph to a Dog.’”

“I’m afraid our departed prince consort will have to make do with the only epitaph I have set to memory. A poet’s tribute to his beloved pet.” He nudged his mount up alongside hers and flashed a hint of a smile. It nearly took her breath away. “My uncle gave me a Newfoundland as a lad.”

She couldn’t resist a tease. “And I suppose you named your dog Boatswain after Byron, as well?”

“Not terribly original, I admit.” His scoff added a nice touch of humility. “Boat died years ago. I was away at school.”

She experienced a sudden awareness that Mr. Kennedy had shifted from curious enigma to someone she might wish to know better. A subtle reckoning, to be sure, and it began before she even realized it.

Gradually, he disclosed something of his background. Graduated Cambridge with letters, and a former rugby player—a blue shirt of all things! He had suffered a knee injury the start of his third year.

She found the story of his perfunctory cut from the team endearing. And he did have a strong physique. In fact, she noticed his tall, muscular body entirely too much. Regular attendance to an athletic club likely kept him in such fit condition for a man of his age. Pugilism or fencing? she wondered.

She guessed him at five-and-thirty, or thereabouts. The decade’s separation in their ages appealed to her. Her dear,
departed Thom’s boyish, impetuous nature had belied his six years of seniority. A foolhardy man, if she looked back with scrutiny. Perhaps that explained Mr. Kennedy’s stoic appeal.

He made her a little nervous. And devil take it if he wasn’t a handsome man. Earlier, he had parked his hat with an obliging groom before having a gallop down Rotten Row. She thought about the thick head of sable hair with a hint of gray at the temples. Wind-tossed from their run, a lock fell forward across his forehead and gave him a youthful, carefree appearance.

She ogled long legs in breeches and top boots as he posted the fast trot. A shocking, voyeuristic moment, which included glances at flexing thigh muscles, the shape of his buttocks when his coattails parted. A flush rose to her cheeks. Never in her life had she looked at a gentleman, other than her late husband, with such a prurient eye.

And he possessed the longest eyelashes, which framed cerulean blue eyes that seemed to penetrate a person’s private thoughts. Rather unusual for blue eyes to be so wickedly piercing. Mysterious undercurrents stirred within, urging a closer evaluation of this magnetic, inscrutable fellow. Could there be a warmer, more passionate man under that high-pointed starched collar?

Cassie squared her shoulders. Using the back of her hand, she felt heat radiate from her neck to cheek. She shouldn’t be having such thoughts about any man. She should be thinking about her new suite of paintings.
Scenes from the Boudoir
. The subject was simple and sensuous. A young woman in her dressing room. Light would rim the model’s body and she would use rich strokes of color to add depth to the shadows.

Cassie inhaled a deep breath and glanced at Mr. Kennedy. It struck her as somewhat suspicious that her supposedly unsociable landlord was being so … neighborly. He was apparently a man with few friends, by design.

She broke the long silence between them. “I suppose, even if one cultivated the social arts, a handful of stouthearted chums is all one can ask for. I find it most diligent of you to have cast your lantern about the streets of London long enough to find a few honest souls.”

Even though his countenance remained stern, a spark of interest lit in his eyes. “Ah, you reference Diogenes of Sinope, the Greek philosopher, perhaps the most noted of all the cynics. A profound influence, Mrs. St. Cloud, on my namesake, Zeno of Citium—a man likewise occupied with the tragedies of the human predicament.”

“Speaking of which, Mr. Kennedy, I conduct art education at Foundling Hospital today. Might we head back for the mews, sir?”

“Would you like me to ready my carriage, Mrs. St. Cloud? I am in the office most of the day. It would be my pleasure—”

“Last evening I ate nearly half a roast chicken and a pile of roasted vegetables and polished off the remains of a lemon tart at supper. I shall walk—at a brisk pace.”