An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (8 page)

Castlemaine raised a brow. “You mean to use him? Always been a nervous sort of chap. Hard to believe he has the pluck to be a traitor.”

Melville folded up the note. “We’re going to let this play out. See where your timid little mouse may lead us.”

A steely glint flashed in the home secretary’s eyes. “All right then, business as usual. What do you need me to do?”

A strong rhythm thumped inside Zeno’s chest. They were about to make Castlemaine a straightforward offer. Cooperate with Scotland Yard, help them draw the net around Delamere and his anarchist factions, and Melville was prepared to do everything in his power to see Castlemaine continue on as head. Turn them down and he’d have to take his chances with that grubby lot of peerage.

It was a proposition fraught with pitfalls. For one thing, Castlemaine was their boss. The Home Office was in charge of domestic security for all of England. The man himself allocated their budget. Christ, he’d hired Melville to head up Special Branch.

The home secretary scrutinized Zeno, then Melville. “So, William, whose side are your men on?”

Melville pushed his chin forward. “Yours, Albert.”

STANDING BESIDE THE fireplace in his study, Zeno sipped on a dram of whiskey and crumpled the wire message. The royal family would be summering on the Isle of Wight. A coded communiqué from the Home Office. The handwritten scrawl from Melville at the bottom clinched it.

The game is on

He tossed the missive onto glowing red hearth coals and watched the ball of paper turn to ash. So, Castlemaine had made his decision. He would trust in Scotland Yard for the time being. With the man’s help, they would surely net Delamere
and his co-conspirators. If all went well, Melville had assured the home secretary his embarrassment would be forgotten.

Zeno shifted his musings to a new preoccupation: the upcoming charity ball and Cassandra St. Cloud. As it turned out she was the perfect cover, but he wondered, frankly, how much sleuthing he would get done as the announced escort to the distracting young widow.

He had done his best to keep his name out of the yellow press these past few years, but like it or not, his legacy had grown. Even if a person did not recognize the face, they often remembered his name. On the plus side, the fact that he was known to Delamere and the others put the press on. The dynamite had arrived in country and was most likely in transport to London. The explosives would quickly be readied for their next act of mayhem. Mistakes were often made when the heat was turned up.

This was a dangerous game he flirted with—and it included the unsuspecting lady. He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Perhaps he might make time for a waltz.

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, you must come quickly!”

Wrenched from his musings, Zeno pivoted toward the frenzied ramblings of his intrusive housekeeper.

“My word, Mr. Kennedy, but I do believe that our Mrs. St. Cloud smokes cigars!” Mrs. Woolsley herded him to the rear window of the study so he might witness his neighbor
in actu
.

Alma seemed inordinately pleased by the sight. “Oh, I must confess, sir, I rather envy her.”

“Envy, Mrs. Woolsley? Try your best to liberate the constant, unadventurous male in me by elucidating further.”

“The lady lives a life the likes of which we married women can only dream about. No one to answer to. Come and go as you please.” Alma paused for a sigh. “I think the cheroot, sir, is a harmless indulgence, and a symbol, is it not, of her independence?”

Zeno tore his gaze away from Cassandra long enough to witness his housekeeper’s eyes glisten with admiration.

“Do you have these kinds of frank discussions with Mr. Woolsley?” Alma’s husband ran the mews stables for a duke who lived in Belgrave Square. Their children were all grown, and the middle-aged couple occupied the comfortable flat above the carriage housing.

“Oh, Mr. Woolsley doesn’t pay any attention to what I say, Mr. Kennedy. For the last year, he’s occupied himself with his corns and bunions … mostly.” Alma adjusted her apron and patted down the wilder wisps of gray hair. “I do believe it is rather painful for him, sir.”

Zeno grunted his reply. People often provided him with the most startling confessions and enigmatic facts. There were times, frankly, when he wished they would not.

Chapter Six

A
fter several puffs, Cassie snuffed out the cigar. She had a bath waiting. “Oscar, Psyche.” The dogs followed her into the house and up the stairs. She undressed with the help of her maid and stepped out of her petticoats.

“Could you bring me my wrapper?” She sat down at the dressing table.

Cécile slipped the robe onto Cassie’s shoulders and unpinned her hair. Separating tangled locks, her young servant brushed with long strokes to encourage shine. “Will you be riding tomorrow, madame?”

“I believe so. The storm seems well past.”

Her young maid lifted a pretty brow. “Monsieur Kennedy, he is quite virile, no?” Cécile’s English was improving by the day.

Cassie met her eyes through the vanity mirror. “Do you think so?”

“I saw him briefly—just a peek, but he is very—” The little maid shrugged her shoulders.
“Très beau, oui?”

Cassie grinned.
“Mais oui.”
Cécile twisted her hair into a loose knot and tied it with a ribbon. “There, madame, you are ready for your bath.”

Her favorite room in the house was her studio, with its tall windows and ethereal light. But the next, most wonderful room had to be the tiled bath adjacent to her bedroom.

Vapors of steam rose from the claw-footed tub, partially fogging the mirror above the pedestal sink. Cassie stepped into the bath and caught a misty reflection of her nude body. She paused to make a brief appraisal of her figure. Plump breasts, pleasing enough in shape. Turning sideways she noted their upward curve and rosy-beige tips. She cupped their roundness with her hands.

Sinking into the bath up to her chin, she lay back against the smooth slope of the tub. She closed her eyes and inhaled the spicy, restorative scents skimming the water’s surface. Carnation oil and Epsom salts. Cassie smiled at her pretty French maid, who took more of an interest in styling hair or perfuming baths than dusting.

She changed the subject of her thoughts to a newly stretched blank canvas that rested on an easel downstairs. An image had begun to form in her mind, one which called rather persistently for the touch of her brush. She envisaged the tableau with a woman she thought … or perhaps a male model?

Her reverie drifted to the enigmatic gentleman next door. Could he be at home? There were times when she experienced a squeaking of floorboards and the slightest tremble beneath her feet. Was he pacing in his study? The idea of him striding up and down seemed to fit, for he struck her as a brooding, contemplative fellow.

And that fascinating locked door on the second floor. It must adjoin Mr. Kennedy’s residence, where else could it go?

She plunged a sea sponge underwater and conjured an image of a naked Yard man. Would he have much body hair? Yes, she would give him some. The artist in her sprinkled a light dusting across his chest and a narrow trail of fuzz down a muscled torso.

Cassie squeezed the sponge. She had made a promise to herself. No involvements with men. None. Least of all with one’s neighbor.

What would happen if she decided she didn’t like Mr. Kennedy in the least—loathed him in fact? He would still live next door. Worse yet, he was her landlord.

She sighed. This afternoon in the carriage, she’d practically thrown herself at him, asking him quite directly to escort her to a charity ball. No doubt he thought her a wanton and would try to take advantage.

Come to think of it, he had asked a number of rather personal questions about Gerald. Questions she found to be somewhat intrusive. She wondered if this was Yard man behavior—meddling and rather brash about it.

Cassie bit her lower lip.

She recalled the much more pleasant gallop with Mr. Kennedy down Rotten Row and her awkward dismount from Daisy. Falling against his body, she had brushed up against a hard bulge.

Cassie moistened her lips. She had to admit, she was curious. One button at a time, she freed the beast inside those breeches. After all, she was no blushing virgin, she knew how to handle a large, twitching—

Or did she? Nearly two years had passed since she had lain with her husband. Good God. Sitting up straight, she picked up the waterlogged sponge and scrubbed.

She remembered her ride with Mr. Kennedy in the morning. Would it be possible to look him in the eye without blushing?

ZENO CONTEMPLATED HIS most recent observation of Mrs. St. Cloud’s alarming secret behavior as he urged his mount into an easy canter alongside the provocative young widow. He had clearly seen her from the rear window of his study. She sat on a painted iron bench in the garden puffing away on a good-sized cheroot. Might she prove to be one of those shameless modern women of independent means who thought the rules did not apply to them? Oddly enough,
he found the idea enormously attractive.

Certainly, her flagrant disregard for social norms could lead to odd affiliations and causes. A liberated woman might easily fall in with a radical group of anarchist sympathizers. But thus far he could find no evidence to connect her to the Bloody Four, other than she happened to be an unfortunate relation to Gerald St. Cloud.

Besides, he found her … tempting.

He adjusted his reins and exhaled. Oh yes, Mrs. St. Cloud was quite emphatically the cause of his recent carnal unrest. Last night he had entertained the idea of playing rock-a-bed with his enchanting new neighbor. In his fantasy, she wore nothing but a seductive smile.

Now, the morning after such lurid imaginings, he stole glances at her like a besotted schoolboy.

She rode pleasantly alongside him all morning without the exchange of many words. He very much liked that about her. She could be pensive and did not feel the need to fill up the silence with frivolous chitchat.

Not until they turned the horses for home and the mews did Zeno ask for details regarding their evening’s engagement. Once he noted the Stanfields’ address, and they agreed upon a time, the conversation turned to an innocent enough discussion on the joys and pitfalls of jumping hedgerows in the country.

“When I am at home, I prefer to ride astride, in breeches and top boots.”

“Why does that not surprise me in the least?” Zeno thought he could easily fall into reckless mischief with
his pretty neighbor. “I am quite sure it won’t be long before women will be sporting breeches as regalia on their way to cast their votes at the poll.”

“We live in challenging times, Mr. Kennedy. There is a small window open for women to gain some long sought-after liberties. To start with, better legal recognition in the shape of more equitable property rights and divorce legislation.”

She turned her head from the long stretch of track ahead, eager, it seemed to him, to appraise his reaction to her statement.

“You will be pleased to know, Mrs. St. Cloud, that I am sympathetic to many of the issues attached to women’s suffrage.”

“Be sure to mention that to my mother, should you ever meet and wish to impress.”

“Two suffragettes in one family. My additional sympathies to your father, madam.”

He found her outburst of laughter immensely gratifying.

“Mother does wield considerable influence over both my father and brothers.” She assessed him with a look of resignation. “And there are a few alarming facts about my family I suppose you should be warned about.”

“Yes, pray tell, Mrs. St. Cloud. How are you prepared to shock me?”

“To begin with, both my parents are physicians, and what a pair they are, Mr. Kennedy. Father is chief of medicine at St. James Hospital, and my mother has forged a specialty for herself in the area of women’s health. Primarily, she doctors to wealthy women and prostitutes.”

When he raised a brow, she paused. “On the less controversial side, several years ago, Father got himself appointed
royal physician. He is often at Windsor and will soon be called to either Balmoral or Osborne House. Nowadays, we rarely see him in the summer months.” She nodded his way. “You most certainly know better than I where Victoria plans to summer this year?”

“Top secret, I’m afraid, until she is safely ensconced in one of the royal family’s resort cottages.”

She smiled at the understatement. “Under normal circumstances, I suppose we would be largely ignored as part of the new emerging professional class of England. But this royal physician business and Mother’s regular testimony to special committees of Parliament regarding women’s legal rights makes us a rather unusual clan.” She swept a teasing, devilish gaze his way. “I’m afraid I come from a shockingly progressive family, sir.”

Zeno’s brain ticked off the security files of personnel serving the royal family. “That would mean your maiden name is Erskine.”