An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (6 page)

His mouth dipped at the corners and his eyes took on a liquid, vulnerable expression. She found it disconcertingly adorable.

“I believe we are due for rain this afternoon. Class is dismissed at four o’clock. If your work is near its end—?”

“I will come fetch you at four.”

At the mews entrance, Zeno swung a long leg over his saddle and jumped to the ground. He handed off his reins to Rory and moved over to help steady her dismount.

Indeed, the man made her so nervous she fell forward in a brief loss of balance. He braced her against his body.

Hard chest, hard stomach, and my word! Cassie froze at the recognition of something else hard and very male.

“So,” he murmured, “Cassie wears Aimée.”

“I beg your pardon?” She did not push away.

“Mrs. St. Cloud, you smell like lavender and rosemary with subtle notes of vanilla and bergamot. More specifically, you wear
Aimée
,
created by Gervais Laurent.”

She smiled. “Inspired by a French maiden he fell in love with while traveling in Provence.”

“A clever marketing ploy, I’m afraid. The scent was actually named after a sister. Something of an adorable minx is my guess.” At times, his discourse became an odd flurry of facts, small details, and conjecture.

“Sir. I take it you are familiar with the scent by intimate association?”

He returned her pique with a twinkle in his eyes. “Alas, merely from my research.”

The gentleman was more than odd; he was
eccentric
. And devilish handsome. The startling combination caused a fleeting surge of warmth to course through her body. She tilted her chin, a curl at the ends of her mouth. “Rather informal of you, to use both my nickname and the name of my
parfumeur
.”

“Ah, but was I
charming,
Mrs. St. Cloud?” He bowed stiffly and led her horse off the cobbled backstreet and into the stables.

First cool and reserved, then trifling. She might believe Mr. Kennedy toyed with her, but did not think him a rakish sort of man. This was just a simple flirtation. Wasn’t it?

CASSIE CURSED
THE
Daily Telegraph.
Wrong again.

The forecast for afternoon precipitation arrived early and descended upon the city in more of a deluge than a shower. The storm hit as she neared the halfway point of her trudge to hospital. It took only a few short minutes of such inclement weather for her to rue the decision to walk off an extra slice of lemon tart.

On days like today, the underground trains were swamped with passengers and every hansom cab in London occupied and in service. Her coat would soon be soggy and damp. Well, there was nothing left to do but soldier on. She angled her umbrella against the slanted pelting drops and slogged ahead.

At the corner of Piccadilly and St. James, awash in rain and self-pity, she heard someone in the crowd call her name.

“Cassie!”

She pivoted toward the voice in the storm, and came face-to-face with Mr. Kennedy. He tipped his hat. Before she could register surprise, he grabbed hold of her and whisked her into his carriage.

Dazed and dripping, she took a moment to compose herself. A musty whiff of damp upholstery and soggy woolen coats pervaded the air. He sat opposite, wearing an amused, condescending expression, which she found to be entirely vexing. He leaned forward and coaxed the umbrella out of her hand. She watched in silence as he gave the handle a good shake.

“You are soaking wet, Mrs. St. Cloud, and I am late for a briefing. You should consider a return trip to Lyall Street for a change of clothes.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Kennedy. I’ll be dry in no time, once I get into my classroom.” Cassie remembered her manners. “I must thank you for—” She halted, overcome with curiosity. “How on earth did you find me?”

“I chose a route you would in all probability take on foot.” That piercing blue gaze of his shifted from the passing street scene to her. “To spy you amongst a rain-sodden crowd, easier still.” He hesitated. “You are both tall and attractive, and I would have to say luminous, even in a rainstorm, Mrs. St. Cloud.”

Heat rose from her collar, melting away her earlier vexation. Still, she resisted much expression, waiting to see if the corners of his mouth would ever turn up.

There, he cracked enough of a grin to make a dimple with a deep crease.

Very nice.

She returned a brief smile, dipping her head to peer out the fogged coach window. A glimpse of Trafalgar Square, gave way to a jumble of government buildings. As the carriage slowed, she wiped a medium-sized spot clear, just enough to see the entrance to Number 4 Whitehall Place.

“Scotland Yard.”

“This is where we must part company, madam.”

She sat up straight. “You work for Scotland Yard?”

“I do.” He turned up his raincoat collar and gathered his umbrella. “I will instruct my driver to take you on to Foundling Hospital.”

“You called me Cassie again, even though you’d rather not.”

“Did I?”

She nodded. “Just now, when you fished me out of the rain.”

He opened his mouth to respond and then paused. He wore a curious, contemplative expression, as if after considering her remarks he still could not account for such a familiarity. “I shall come collect you this afternoon, Mrs. St. Cloud.”

Her gaze tracked the bob of his umbrella as he jumped a rain puddle and entered the grounds. After a bombing incident some years past, they’d fenced off the famous government agency. There was scarce foot traffic to be seen, as pedestrians were now directed down a narrow pathway that ran alongside the administrative offices. From what little she could make out, he passed by Horse Guards at the gate and disappeared inside the building.

Pressed to her seat as the carriage lurched off, her lips slowly curled upward.

“So Mr. Kennedy is a Yard man.”

Chapter Four

T
he dossier he penned became known as the “Home Rule Conspiracy” and got Zeno called into Melville’s office for a private debriefing.

From under eyebrows as bushy as his muttonchop sideburns, Director of Special Irish Branch, William Melville, shot a piercing glare over the top of a file folder. “Before we begin I want you to explain to me why I had to find out from Rafe Lewis that a bounty has been placed on your head.”

“None of that is confirmed.” Zeno settled into a chair opposite the mahogany desk. “Though I suppose any number of anarchists would like to have me out of the way.”

“I have to ask, Kennedy. Do you believe the bombs set off in the Underground were targeted for you?”

Zeno’s jaw clenched. “If I believed that I’d take myself off the case.”

Silence never bothered Melville. Many an agent had listened to the wall clock tick off the seconds as those fierce eyes made a careful examination. “All right then, explain this theory of yours.”

“The memo was written as hypothesis. Pure conjecture. An exploration of possible terrorist links to government officials.” Couching his words as deferentially as possible, Zeno explained further. “If we root around a bit, we may find a few high-ranked peers as well as government officials linked to a clandestine insurgent group, with links to both the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the
Clan na Gael
in America.”

His boss removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Conjecture or not, something tells me this isn’t everything. What more have you to add to this insidious little scenario?”

Zeno shifted his chair to see over a desk piled high with files and reports. He cleared his throat. “Treason is a serious accusation.”

The director’s leather chair squeaked as he rocked forward. “Indeed it is. Well, out with it, Kennedy.”

“It is possible this could go above a few peers, perhaps as high as the prime minister.”

Melville’s gaze turned black.

Zeno quickly offered reassurance. “Before considering the prime minister, I first intend to find out what’s hatching over at Home Office. I suggest we have a little talk with Castlemaine. He has a man under him—Hicks-Beach. I suspect he’s a member of an informal cadre headed up by Lord Delamere.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “There’s another layer here, much more insidious. Zealots like Delamere might be funding the dynamiters to stir up a disastrous Irish revolt. The man has amassed an impressive fortune from railroad
investments and, according to my sources, cheating at cards. He has two great estates in Northern Ireland and Surrey. More than enough wealth to fund a revolution.”

“You’re saying Delamere wants Irish Home Rule to
fail
?”

Zeno nodded. “The House of Lords voted it down twice. If we go back and trace Delamere’s involvement—”

“Good God—you may be onto something. He always does find some niggling reason to lobby against passage.” Intrigued, Melville tugged on his whiskers. “And how better to make the Irish cause unsympathetic than to abet seditionists with bombs?”

Gears turned in the inky glimmer of the director’s eyes. As a matter of course, the man enjoyed toying with outlandish theories. “What station do you suppose Lord Delamere covets? King of Ireland?”

“The Irish have no love for crowns.” Zeno grinned. “More likely prime minister.”

Melville leaned over his desk. “You do realize you point the finger at the most influential men in government? Christ Almighty, Kennedy, these are men at the very top. And if what you surmise is true, we are talking about the possible disruption, if not dismantling, of an entire branch of government.”

Zeno remained calm and implacable, the only way to survive Melville’s unsparing scrutiny. “Not if we work behind the scenes to eliminate the problem.”

Melville flipped open his pocket watch. “Well, that kills my luncheon appointment.” He looked vexed.
“I am convinced you are both a troublemaker and a genius, but nonetheless, good work, Kennedy. Now let’s call in some of our best lads and get to work.”

Zeno brightened at the man’s praise. “Thank you, sir. I would like to ask Rafe Lewis to join, and perhaps Flynn Rhys?”

The director rang in his secretary. “I’m feeling uncivilized. Let’s have lunch brought in, Mr. Quincy. I believe Lewis and Rhys are in the field. Have them find their way into this office within the hour. I don’t care what gin joint or whorehouse they’re loitering in, just get them here.”

Quincy nodded. “Very good, sir.”

Melville returned to Zeno. “My instincts tell me there is yet another related incident. The discovery of two homosexuals, in flagrante delicto, and the subsequent battery of a man identified only as Albert.”

Zeno’s tight-lipped grin faded. He flipped open a file and handed over a list of names. “The Bloody Four. A
nom de guerre
for a cadre of useless peerage. They may well be our victim’s assailants.” Zeno sat back in his chair. “Not at all sure they’re involved with anarchists, but I wager there’s a political play in it for Lord Delamere.”

“Delamere, again.” Melville mused aloud. “His name pops up all too frequently of late.” In a kind of contemplative pose, with his elbows on the desk, his boss concentrated on the fingertips he pressed together. “This informant, Kitty Matthews, is one of the new girls recently hired, is she not?”

Zeno closed the folder. “I believe she is new.”

“Good girl for a prostitute, no doubt?” Melville was fishing for something.

“Yes sir, she seems to have the right instincts. She could have just as well ignored the knocking about of an old—”

“Hm-mm, yes. The battered man’s name, Albert, you say?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are aware of the home secretary’s birth name?”

He flipped through his file. “Here we are, Earl of Castlemaine … Charles
Albert
Hancock.” Zeno met the steely eyes of his boss across the large expanse of desktop.

Melville’s only expression was a slight twitch at the side of his mouth. “Closer friends and colleagues use his middle name. I don’t believe he’s a bad egg. He might even turn out to be an important ally. But if he’s our victim, England’s home secretary has been badly compromised.

“Arrange for a private meeting with Castlemaine as soon as possible, no later than tomorrow. From here on out, my schedule will remain flexible to the needs of this operation. Keep Mr. Quincy informed. When you get an appointment, I’ll try to join.”

The director stood and stretched. “You’ve stumbled onto a big one this time, Kennedy.”

“It appears so, sir.” Zeno rose to leave. “While we wait for Rafe and Flynn, I believe I’ll poke my head in the lab, see if they’ve identified any of the bomb materials.”

Melville trailed after him to the door. “I’d be interested to know your opinion regarding the hiring of prostitutes as informants. I am told some of my agents enjoy recreational benefits unauthorized in their employment contracts.”

He returned the steady gaze of his boss. “I advised Miss Matthews she is in no way obligated to perform … extra duties with our agents, and if she is pressed or threatened, to contact me.”