An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (9 page)

Her wide-eyed reaction prompted a grin.

“Your father is Dr. Henry Jocelyn Erskine, head of surgical medicine at St. James. Landed gentry. I believe there is a manor in Surrey. Married to Dr. Katherine Olivia Erskine, New Hospital for Women. As I recall, your mother took her degree in America, a female medical college in Boston?”

“You do very detailed work at Scotland Yard, Mr. Kennedy.”

Cassie halted her horse. She appeared to view him with a modicum of admiration, and more than a touch of suspicion. Until today, he had sensed some reticence on her part with regards to disclosing much about her personal affairs. Now he feared he may have divulged too much—she might shut him out again.

How could he ease her mind? Perhaps he might explain—let the cat out of the bag. Frankly, it was textbook—there was no better way to gain a person’s trust than to share sensitive information. “Can you keep a secret, Cassie?”

She squared her shoulders. “Actually, I am rather excellent with secrets, having been raised the only female child amongst four brothers. They constantly swore me to silence over their exploits and misadventures. I am no snitch baby.”

He leaned forward in his saddle and adjusted the reins. “If I am not mistaken, your father is soon to be knighted. An appointment to the Order of the Grand Cross.”

When her mouth dropped open he could not restrain a chuckle. “The only reason I manage to remember any of it is—” Zeno lifted his hat, enough to scratch his head. “I must have recently updated his vetting report, most certainly brought on by the proposed knighthood.” He shot her a stern look. “This is very much a test of our friendship. You may not breathe a word of the recognition to your family.”

A smile curled the ends of her mouth. “You called me Cassie.”

She amused him. So few women did. Irksome as it was, the combination of progressive suffragette and bohemian artist turned out to be surprisingly attractive. “I shall take that to mean my charm quotient is improving.”

She tilted her head in mock contemplation. “Exponentially, Zak.”

HER LIMBS FELT a bit like rubber. After a sweat in the steam room of the Water Palace, a dip in the cool vapor plunge, and a Turkish massage, she was happy to let Mother set the pace for the first leg of their walk down Regent Street.

“Your father and I are dining with the Burnsides tonight. Henrietta will offer up the usual tasteless leg of beef and fillets of cod. I intend to shovel in tarts and tea sandwiches like a dockworker so I might appear the daintiest of eaters this evening.”

“I thought you’d given up on the Burnsides after he withdrew his hospital donation?”

“My hero twisted his arm a bit and the man doubled his contribution, as well as a donation for the Women’s Franchise League.”

“I take it you and Emmeline still scheme to form some kind of women’s union?”

“Soon, darling. And we have both agreed to name our daughters as charter members.”

Cassie grinned. “I shall wield my placard proudly.”

At the corner of St. James Square, they turned down a small lane of eateries and entered Patisserie Madeline.

“Of course, if we ever get the movement launched, it will be thanks to men like Mr. Pankhurst and Dr. Erskine. Did I ever express to my children how attractive that makes your father?”

“I can’t fathom how any of us missed the fact. You bore him four sons and a daughter.”

Olivia plopped herself down at a small table in the courtyard garden and sighed. “Every time I consider washing my hands of the man he reels me back in with some act of chivalry or romantic devilment.”

Cassie perused the elegant bill of fare. “Shall we order the full tea?”

“Perfect.” Mother set her menu aside.

After several steaming cups of Earl Grey, a number of petite sandwiches, a lemon-iced scone and a chocolate cream tart, discussion moved to one of Olivia Erskine’s favorite topics.

“Tell me what form of contraception you plan to use, dear.” She poured a last half cup for each of them. “Now that you’re away from that Mayfair crowd and living in a stylish new row house.”

Cassie dabbed a napkin at the corners of her mouth. “None of my friends are as fortunate as I am to have a mother who promotes promiscuity as well as pregnancy prevention.”

“Should you ever decide to live as boldly as you paint—” Olivia winked. “I suspect life will become quite an adventure for you.”

She fought the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat. “Since you assume I will take a lover, what does the doctor advise in the way of condoms?”

A tingle of anticipation rushed through her body as she experienced a perfectly delicious, wicked thought. Now that she was living on her own, an amorous intrigue might be just the thing. Something discreet but rather daring. She had made a promise to herself, no gentlemen callers—but what of a lover? Cassie caught her breath. A liaison without the usual social obligations and entanglements. Something primal and passionate. The very idea caused her toes to curl.

And she had the perfect man in mind.

ZENO FOUND a spot behind a long, floppy ear and scratched. The lumbering hound’s tail whipped a slow beat against this pant leg.

“Say hello to Alfred. Scotland Yard’s first and only canine operative.” Archibald Bruce exhaled a warm fog of air onto wireframe spectacles and wiped the lenses with a pocket square. “Watch your shoes, he’s a drooler.”

Zeno very much liked Archie Bruce, the Yard’s new director of the crime laboratory. Young Mr. Bruce was a certifiable genius when it came to all forms of chemistry, which included a special knowledge of explosive materials. But the most extraordinary thing about Arch, without a doubt, was how dangerous he was. He quite liked to blow things up.

Archie was on loan to Special Branch from his teaching position at Oxford, and his hire had taken the approval of a hefty budget variance. As a condition of contract, the young scientist had expanded his footage requirement for lab space from
their proposed unused corner of Number 4 Whitehall to nearly an entire floor. In addition to real estate, an exhaustive list of expensive equipment and trained technicians had been forwarded on from Melville to Castlemaine, and the headman for Britain’s security had given Mr. Bruce little argument.

Having suffered under budget restraints for years, Zeno rejoiced when word came down from the Home Office that funding had been approved for the new forensics laboratory. This morning, he and Rafe Lewis enjoyed a tour of yet another adjunct to the Yard’s science facility in Whitehall. An old dry dock, located east of town, had been reconfigured into a remote bomb-testing site. With the Thames Ironworks as their closest neighbor, the occasional dynamite blast would hardly be noticed.

He and Rafe had spent most of the morning with Arch, viewing his latest invention, a lead lockbox so heavy it took a block and tackle to lift. The simple invention was designed to be a kind of bomb safe for the detonation of dynamite. The “black box,” as Archie called it, was just weeks away from final testing.

And to detect trace amounts of nitroglycerin, there was Alfred.

“We’ve trained him to alert to the scent of diatomaceous earth and sodium carbonate as well as nitro.”

Since dynamite was often packed and shipped in a combination of wood shavings and wood straw, Arch had suggested the agents scour the floors of warehouses under surveillance and collect samples of packing crate materials.

In the dead of night, he and Rafe had gathered more than thirty samples. Now it was up to Alfred to sniff out any chemical residue.

“Set them up along the tables and let’s see if Alfred can snuffle out a clue for us,” Arch instructed his technicians, who placed the bags in a neat lineup along both sides of two long tables. He nodded to Zeno. “Remove
the leash.”

The long-eared hound ambled over and ran his nose along the edge and around the back of the first table. Nothing.

They held their breath as the old boy moved to the second table. Upon reaching the fourth bag from the end, the dog instantly parked himself on the spot. “
Wr-r-ughh-ruff
.”

Rafe whooped. “Plain sailing, aye, Alfred?”

Zeno grinned. Rafe’s exuberance echoed his gregarious, cheerful nature. The man was also loyal to a fault—to Zeno and Scotland Yard. Rafe was a fierce fighter, and a good man to have by your side when cornered by anarchists. One would never suspect he hailed from the ancient earldom of St. Aldwyn.

“What’s the tag read?” Zeno edged forward.

Arch picked up the bag. “Number Thirty-three Hartley Warehouse, Salthouse Dock.”

Zeno gave the Yard dog a pat on the head. “We may have caught a break.”

Up on all fours, Alfred plodded around the table and sat beside another bag.

Rafe shot Archie a look of concern. “What’s he after now?”

The forensics man grinned. “He’s alerting to the presence of secondary chemicals. Check the tags on the samples. You will find they are from different areas of the same warehouse. His nose is unbelievably sensitive.”

Zeno raised a brow. “Indeed.”

So far, the few suspected drop sites they had placed under surveillance had proved disappointing. All their leads were run down or dry. But if they could identify the warehouse the dynamite had been stored in, there might be a chance to track the explosives to the dynamiters themselves.

This entire smuggling operation had begun as a kind of beating of the brush by Zeno and the small staff of agents assigned to Special Irish Branch. The wire confiscated from the desk of Hicks-Beach had used the code word
eagle
. Which meant a large shipment of American-made dynamite had found its way in country.

Alfred’s nose went a long way to confirm it.

“Tests aren’t complete as yet, but you’ll be glad to know we are close to confirmation on the Underground bombing. The blast was not caused by your Irish American dynamite.” Zeno guessed Archie’s grin had something to do with the look of relief on his face. “The chemical analysis confirms the diatomite is from Northern Germany, likely made into anarchist bombs in France. Several bombs failed to explode, leaving us to believe there was an installation error. The dynamite may have been inadvertently set off before the explosive was rigged properly, one of the anarchists strikes a match and—”

“
Ka-boom
.” Rafe’s usual exuberant grin was grim. Whether they were militant Irish Nationalists or a rogue bunch of continental anarchists, dynamiters prowled the city, particularly the Underground. Cloaked figures concealed orb-shaped bombs with sizzling fuses, faceless shadow players in every Special Branch agent’s nightmares.

Zeno exhaled a deep breath and with it all the tension he had carried since the Underground explosion. Months ago, he had
proposed an offensive operation to Melville. The gambit carried with it huge risks, but an even greater payoff, since the ruse would likely flush out the dynamiters.

Scotland Yard would arrange to have a large quantity of dynamite made available in America. A proposed “stolen shipment” of something in the nature of seven hundred and fifty pounds of explosives, up for sale by international mercenaries. In actuality, these arms dealers would be agents who worked for Special Branch. Their men would offer it up and see if the bastards took the bait.

Melville would be kept informed—
ears only,
no paper trail. If anything went wrong—God forbid the bombers
used
the dynamite Scotland Yard supplied—he would have total deniability. They called the plan “Operation Snuffbox” to remind themselves the risky undertaking could never be allowed to blow up in their faces.

Even as one nagging concern eased, his caseload remained threefold. Reel in Delamere and his Bloody Four; trace the shipment of explosives; and attend the Stanfield Charity ball.

He mulled over his case and found Mrs. St. Cloud to be the most combustible of all.

Chapter Seven

Z
eno hadn’t dressed for a formal affair in years. Tails, white tie, white gloves. Starched collars were higher and more uncomfortable than ever. Good God, he felt as stiff as a board already. On first attempt, he wrinkled his tie irreparably.

Luckily, he had additional crisply pressed white cravats in the drawer and his housekeeper stationed outside his dressing room. “I need you in here this minute, Mrs. Woolsley.”

Alma proved to be wonderfully accomplished at the job, when in just a few moments a smart bow materialized at his neck.

“There. Very handsome indeed, sir.” She beamed.

He lowered his chin. “Any observations of interest regarding our new resident, Mrs. Woolsley?”

“Not much activity today, other than a florist delivery this afternoon.”

There it went again, a flip-flop in his chest and an uncontrollable desire to know who sent Mrs. St. Cloud flowers. This, categorically, was none of his business. But would it be of interest to Scotland Yard? Possibly. He gathered his opera hat and several pairs of white gloves and walked from Number 11 to Number 10.

Zeno counted every chime of the clock as he waited at the bottom of the narrow, curved stairway in the foyer. He bounced a bit on his toes and took in the surroundings. A gleaming pedestal table stood unadorned, tucked into the turn of the stairwell. He inhaled the faint scent of beeswax. A large bouquet of flowers would do nicely there. So where were the posies that had been delivered today?