An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (7 page)

Never one to relax his scrutiny or temper for long, Melville nevertheless remained calm. “Please keep me informed as to how that works out, Kennedy. If this tomfoolery continues to be a problem, I’m going to have to get angry about it.”

Chapter Five

O
rphanage or labyrinth?

“Bollocks.” Zeno squinted through the drizzle as he prowled among the jumble of buildings, play yards and endless institutional hallways of Foundling Hospital. Forced to ask for directions twice before locating the orphanage school, he eventually stumbled upon art education in a basement classroom.

After making his descent to the lower floor, he approached an open door in the hallway. To his surprise, he beheld a pleasantly warm room, well lit by a number of high-placed windows. Mrs. St. Cloud moved between the children, collecting sticks of charcoal. “Think about the emotional context of your art. Do you wish to convey serenity or excitation? The difference between a sturdy elm on a bright, clear morning and the same tree in a windstorm. Same subject, very different feelings.”

She glanced past the head of a girl clothed in drab gray uniform and white apron. “Mr. Kennedy, please come in and meet several of England’s young artists of promise.”

While she locked cabinets and collected rain equipage, he settled on a short stool and appraised the students’ efforts. He studied the basket of fruit placed in the middle of the large table and then carefully examined their sketches.

“Apples and pears—nicely done.”

Cassie smiled. “As I have kept them past the bell, I am obliged to see my pupils safely back to their dormitories. Care to join?”

He strolled comfortably beside teacher and pupils through the stately, imposing Georgian building, which featured a gallery of portraits, some by Hogarth and Gainsborough. Once her students were returned to their respective domiciles, he encouraged her to lead the way to the nearest exit. No reason to look like a fool.

“Miserable incessant rain,” Cassie huffed.

“Indeed,” he offered. “Prepare yourself for a mangle of traffic.”

Inexplicably pleased at the everyday familiarity of their interactions, Zeno held her arm to guide her past a few wooden boxes stacked in a narrow stairwell. As she brushed up against him he thought about the carriage ride home with her. Alone.

They were in the foyer, nearly out the front door, when they bumped into a somewhat slapdash, disheveled young man.

Cassie made introductions. “Gerald St. Cloud, Earl of Rosslyn, please meet Mr. Zeno Kennedy.”

“Mr. Kennedy.”

“Lord Rosslyn.” Zeno made a perfunctory bow and began a silent evaluation of Cassie’s brother-in-law.

“I say, Cassie, it is interesting to find you cavorting with the famous Yard man. I remember a time when one could not pick up the
Pall Mall Gazette
without his mention.”

Zeno took some offense to idea of Cassie “
cavorting
” with him, but the man’s references to the more sensational aspects of his job were impertinent. He decided to amend the most blatant and misleading of the remarks. “I find, with great relief, it has been some time since the yellow press has sensationalized any of my efforts. As a matter of course, Lord Rosslyn, I go to a great deal of trouble to make sure the operations I am involved in go unnoticed.”

After a brief but awkward silence, Cassie changed the subject. “What finds you here at hospital today, Gerald?”

The little worm squirmed under Zeno’s purposeful glare and shifted his attention to Cassie. Gerald embodied the dissipated essence of aristocratic bachelorhood. Membership requisites to this subset of peers would include plenty of late
hours spent drinking, gambling, and carousing with fallen women.

“Lady Evelyn asked me if I would drop off the donations already collected from the upcoming charity ball—cheques from those not in town, but still kind enough to send alms. Guilt money flowing in from the hinterlands.”

The young earl held up a thick envelope tied with ribbon. “Speaking of which, Cassie, you do still plan on attending? The ball is set to be quite the gala event, an absolute crush. Pity Martin can’t make it, what with that disastrous fall at the hunt.”

Her eyes widened in concern. “Is the injury that bad?”

“I’m told he’ll be limping about for quite some time. Lucky blood, he’s taken himself out of the ballroom for the rest of the season.” A devilish grin animated his face. “All the swells will be there: Hingham, Hicks-Beach, Upton—do tell me you’ll attend, Cassie.”

A blast of chill air swept through the foyer. Zeno mulled the familiar names over. Andrew Hingham, otherwise known as Lord Delamere. Hicks-Beach, Upton, and the man standing directly in front of them, Gerald St. Cloud.

Well, well. The Bloody Four, indeed.

“I escort Miss Adriana Templeton and her aunt to the ball, but I know they would be delighted to have you join. Plenty of room in the carriage.” Gerald’s gaze shifted to Zeno. “I have a new town coach and four—like to show them off as much as possible.”

Quite out of his control, Zeno’s jaw clenched. A picture of Gerald, eye blackened and cheek bruised, came to mind. A disturbing overreaction when one considered he and Mrs. St. Cloud were so recently acquainted.

He took in a slow, deep breath as the two St. Clouds neared the end of pleasantries.

“I will keep your offer in mind, Gerald. I do expect word from Rob shortly. If he can’t make it up from Muirfield I will send a message on to Rosslyn House.”

“I very much hope to hear from you.” The raised brows and lowered chin gave the young earl a wistful look. Zeno thought about a new look for his lip. Split and bloody.

“Well then, good to see you, Cassie. You will forever remain my dear sister-in-law.”

“You are very kind, Gerald. You must know that I, likewise, set great store in our friendship.”

“Mr. Kennedy.” His voice curt, the earl added a dismissive nod.

Zeno returned the sentiment. “Lord Rosslyn.”

The heavy rain and underground rail construction conspired to make their simple commute home a miserable slog across town. London streets were in a constant state of flux, what with the Underground expansion and electrical cables laid out in street gutters. On days like today, it could easily take the better part of an hour to transect the city.

The
rat-a-tat
of rain, though calmative, did not dispel a chill in the air. From their brief encounter at the orphanage, he gleaned enough to surmise Cassie knew the Bloody Four as social acquaintances. He wondered if now would be a
good time to broach the subject of Gerald St. Cloud with her. During their ride in the park, all that charm school business had knocked him off his game. Zeno settled into his seat, unable to stop staring at her. Not unhappily, she appeared to return his interest.

“Do you dance, Mr. Kennedy?”

“I try to avoid it whenever possible, Mrs. St. Cloud.”

She studied him with a beguiling half smile, just the barest ends of a superbly sensuous mouth turned up in quizzical amusement. “I take that to mean you do dance, but perhaps only in the course of duty. When it is forced upon you?”

She made him feel as silly as that exhaustive, tedious brother-in-law of hers. Zeno no longer tried to feign indifference toward the attractive widow, particularly since he could not seem to tear his gaze away.

He exhaled a loud sigh. “Women take pleasure dressing in evening gowns, being waltzed about a ballroom and whispering tittle-tattle.” He loosened his cravat. “Men, on the other hand, must endure high-pointed collars, feet crushed by dainty toes—and tittle-tattle.”

She pressed her lips together and formed a dimple. “The only reason I ask is I am quite sure my brother will wire back and beg off at the eleventh hour. And frankly, I’ve not much time. The ball is tomorrow evening, you see …”

Her conversation faded, accompanied by a wistful, resigned shrug. “I suppose I could always tag along with Gerald and Miss Templeton.”

He contemplated the idea of escorting her to the ball. On the yea side, she provided perfect cover. He could observe the
Bloody Four unawares in their milieu, take note of their friends and associates. As for the nay?

Zeno listened absently to the pattering of rain on the carriage roof. The woman frazzled him at times. Especially when she bit her lower lip and let it slip out from under pearl white teeth. Like now.

“Mrs. St. Cloud. Do you wish for me to escort you to the
crush
of the season?”

Her gaze slipped away, then back again. She added a nod.

“Please accept my offer of escort, as long as my company brings you greater happiness than the attentions of Lord Rosslyn.”

“It brings me a great deal more happiness, Mr. Kennedy.” The sparkle in her eyes so beguiled him, he allowed his smile to widen.

“I believe we have an engagement, madam.”

HIS BOSS CAUGHT up with Zeno in the corridor, moments before their appointment with the home secretary.

“Here, read this, damn you.” Melville passed the wire message over. “Explain how this message, sent from the
Clan na Gael
,
gets into the hands of one of your suspected subversives, namely Hicks-Beach.” Melville couldn’t suppress a grin.

Zeno read the deciphered message dated a week prior.

BE ADVISED EAGLE HAS LANDED STOP
AWAIT DELIVERY INSTRUCTIONS STOP
LE CARON

Zeno sucked in a breathb through clenched teeth. Concrete confirmation of his hypothesis. The eagle reference had to refer to a shipment of dynamite sent by Irish Americans. He doused a momentary surge of excitement with a heap of skepticism. “A coded message meant for anarchists ends up in the hands of a Home Office appointee. How exactly did we come by this?”

Melville lowered his voice. “Shall we say it was misappropriated off Hicks-Beach’s desk by a most diligent interoffice mole?”

Zeno reread the wire. The shipment could arrive in London any day now. “Careless of him. I say we place a permanent tail on James Hicks-Beach.”

“Ahead of you for once, Kennedy. He may well have changed sides. In league with a radical Irish contingent.”

“Let me guess …” Zeno returned the scrap of paper. “Funded or even led by Delamere.”

His boss wore a gleam in his eye as he opened the door. “After you.”

Zeno and Melville entered the home secretary’s stately office and traveled a length of polished wood floor. A staunch figure peered out a set of mullioned windows. Charles Albert Hancock, Earl of Castlemaine, stood with hands clasped behind his back. Everything about the picture might have impressed on some other occasion. But not this night.

A white-hot vein of lightning flashed in the distance as gray clouds tumbled low over the building tops of the city.
“Another storm front coming in.” Castlemaine barely turned his head to acknowledge them. “Would you be so kind as to close the door, Mister—?”

“Kennedy,” Zeno offered.

“Ah yes, Mr. Kennedy. The door, please.”

While Zeno dutifully secured the home secretary’s office, Melville got straight to the point. “Plainly put, Castlemaine, you’re compromised. Don’t bother to ask how we know or deny the events of Tuesday last. No doubt Delamere has already asked for your help with the latest Home Rule Bill.”

Melville’s pause in speech was punctuated by a low rumble of thunder. The home secretary continued to stare out into the evening cityscape. Lamplighters were about. Even from where Zeno stood he could see a number of flickering streetlamps.

“Delay the bill and five thousand each.” The stone-faced Castlemaine blinked.

Zeno stepped forward. “We need you to confirm the names of your assailants.”

Castlemaine exhaled a raspy sigh. “George Upton and Gerald St. Cloud roughed me up. Delamere stood nearby. There was a fourth man in the shadows.”

“We believe the fourth man to be James Hicks-Beach.” Zeno added.

“A hopeless, indolent lot of peerage. But I am quite sure they are prepared to vigorously bear witness against me, should I ignore their demands.” Castlemaine wrinkled his brow. “Hicks-Beach, you say?”

“And their terms?” Melville asked.

“The money, in their hands, by the end of the week, or the story gets leaked to every newspaper and gossip sheet in the city. As a member of the House of Lords, Delamere will press for a formal inquiry.”

Zeno jumped in. “Do you have anything in writing? Amounts, bank account numbers?”

Castlemaine faced them, the evidence of his recent debacle written across his face. Dark bruising, healed-over cuts, scrapes to the chin, cheek, and under eye. The home secretary pointed to a folded paper on the expansive, ebony-lacquered desk.

Zeno scooped up the proof of extortion. A single account number and a fabricated name. He passed the note over to his boss.

Castlemaine looked beaten, but not necessarily down for the count. Much sought after for his governance and his abilities as a lawmaker, it would be a shame to see his appointment as home secretary withdrawn. “We’d prefer Hicks-Beach carry on here at the Home Office.”