Praise for
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy
“A satisfying romance featuring a genuinely original pair of lovers and sparkling supporting characters against an unusual social and political background.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The sexy, smart characters will appeal to modern readers as much as the suspense. Their repartee and sensuality heat up the pages, promising a treat for readers.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A romance in every sense of that word. . . . Perfectly balanced between pace and plot but always and without a doubt character driven.”
—Bookworm2bookworm
“A brilliant historical romance that is totally different from the type you may be used to. . . . A totally delightful and provocative story. . . . Will grab your attention and keep you enthralled all the way to the end. This one’s a keeper!”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Sizzling hot. . . . An exciting, mysterious historical romance suspense that will steal your heart.”
—Romance Junkies
“Intriguingly suspenseful with unique dilemmas and a number of dangerous risks. . . . Part romance and part mystery with a hefty dose of suspense, where each moment of the novel is imaginatively captivating.”
—Single Titles
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-five
Epilogue
About Jillian Stone
For my father, my son, and all the stoic, adventurous Brehaut gentlemen of Prince Edward Island.
Acknowledgements
The lucky-author gods smiled down on me when Kate Dresser became my editor at Pocket Books. Beyond her stellar editorial efforts, Kate has also been a champion of The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard series and I will forever be grateful for her energy and enthusiasm. Thanks also to critique partners Jodie Wilson and Charli Mac—whose comments, suggestions, and good humor have been an inspiration—and to a small but select group of excellent RWA friends: Brenna Aubrey, Judy Duarte, Kristen Koster, and Robin Delany.
I must also thank Richard Curtis, my agent—and mentor and publishing therapist—whose kindness, humor, and unflagging belief in me and my work get me through the best and worst of times.
Lastly, I would like to thank all the fans and readers who’ve enjoyed a bit of hot cockles and swivery with the dashing detectives of Scotland Yard. May there be more romance and adventure ahead for all of us!
Chapter One
London’s Theater District, 1887
“Clean as a whistle, these young lovelies. Sure you won’t have a taste, sir?” The dandy peacock tipped his hat and squinted to see inside the carriage.
Phineas Gunn sat in the darkness and regarded the street pimp for the briefest of moments. “Quite. Sure.”
“Take another gander, sir—you’ll find something comely that tickles the old Thomas.” The flesh peddler cocked his head with a wink. “Rooms by the hour, right behind me.” With bosoms near to bursting out of corsets, the rag-a-bed jewels of Princess Street posed enticingly for his attention.
“Bugger off.” Phineas slammed the coach window shut.
Twirling a crystal-knobbed cane, the fancy man swept his walking stick behind bouncing bustles. “Special this evening—two girls, three and six.” The pimp hawked his bevy of spoiled doves to every man jack and Prince Arthur prowling the backstreets of Leicester Square.
Finn gulped for air. A band of tension squeezed his chest.
Up the street, a couple of randy bloods stopped to negotiate with the flashy procurer. Finn exhaled as slowly as possible. According to the Daily Telegraph, at half past twelve, any night of the week, there were five hundred prostitutes working London streets between Piccadilly Circus and the bottom of Waterloo Place.
Gazing out at the blur of street smut, it appeared the newspaper’s alarming calculation had proved to be nothing less than an effective advertisement. The lane was popping with customers, men whose single-minded aspiration was to gamble, drink, and fornicate the night away.
Within the smothering confinement of the carriage, his heart rate accelerated. An intense wave of fear ripped through flesh and sinew—right down to his bones.
Damn it all.
His body was playing tricks again. It seemed nothing he could think or do could distract from this sudden assault on his nerves. He inhaled another deep breath and exhaled slowly, counting to ten. The shakes often came upon him without warning or obvious cause. Finn knew very well he sat safely within the confines of his coach, yet every fiber of his body told him he was being chased down a dark alley by a raving murderer, poised to thrust a blade in his back.
He was dying and there was no way to stop it.
All his symptoms were present this evening. Chest pain, shortness of breath, precipitous heart rate. The numbness and tingling were particularly bad. Paresthesia, Monty called it.
In actuality, he wasn’t altogether sure Dr. Montague Twombly was even licensed—more of a quack phrenologist, as it turned out. Monty had studied under a very unorthodox Austrian physician by the name of Freud. An inquiry into this new school of medicine had unearthed disturbing rumors, including the suspicion that this Freud character was a cocaine addict. Finn sighed and pushed his back deeper into the squabs of the plush upholstered coach seat.
In the middle of his search for a physician, he had simply chosen to stop. The damned talking therapy, as Monty referred to it, appeared to be working. This past summer Monty had brought him more relief than all the doctors on Harley Street combined—and there had been a good dozen over the years, all well-meaning professionals. Some time ago, Finn had discontinued the opium, and he had refused mercury treatments, but had otherwise subjected himself to the very latest in cures. From electrical currents to baths filled with ice—“shock the system back to normal,” his doctors agreed—all he’d ended up with was a head cold that lasted a week.
Ultimately, the much-lauded physicians had failed to have any lasting effect on his condition.
Again, Finn held his breath, then exhaled as he counted slowly to ten.
He had made progress under Twombly, even enjoyed sev
eral months relatively free of symptoms. But the spells had returned of late. Dabbing a pocket square over beads of perspiration, he donned his opera hat, sucked in one last deep breath, and lifted the door latch.
Finn wove a path through a crush of all-night lads and eager tarts. He was no more than half a block from Leicester Square, a brief jaunt on foot to the Alhambra Theatre. “Evening, sir.” The plainly dressed girl sauntered close. In the flickering gaslight he took a second look. Pretty for street quim. But her painted complexion failed to mask the pallor of frail health. And not a day over fifteen. Very likely this was a penniless, supperless girl willing to have a go for a pint and chop. She brazenly eyed him up and down. “A handsome, cocks-up gent such as yourself could use a boff before curtain rise, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“Not this evening, love.” Finn slipped her a half crown and continued down the sink of iniquity that was Princess Street. Fleshbrokers, touting their whores, spilled out of every night house and café lining the block.
To escape the relentless commerce of vice, he took a shortcut between buildings. He concentrated on the glow that hovered above jagged rooftops and nearly tripped over a drunk. The electric lights of Leicester Square’s theatres illuminated the sky for blocks around, but not in this passage filled with dark niches for even darker deeds.
Finn pressed past a harlot being groped by a customer. “No money, no cunny, you old sot!”
“Pardon.” He jumped a puddle of unspeakable sludge. The clamor of wicked commerce gradually gave way to the echo of his footsteps on wet pavers. A wraith in the night stepped up behind and pressed a knife to his throat. “I say, Gov’nor, what’s in those pockets?” For a moment, Finn imagined stepping forward into the cruel cut of the blade. The slice across his carotid artery. A steaming spray of crimson. The metallic scent of blood. This keen sense of life on the edge stirred his heart into a gallop of frenetic beats.
Bugger all, something more primal took over. Finn backed into the man with such force the surly robber staggered. Ripping the knife away, he turned it against the thug’s throat and pressed the foolhardy bloke against the bricks.
Terrified, the young man’s eyes darted up and down the alley. “Please, sir, I would not have hurt ye. I swear it.”
Disappointed, Finn eased back. “No, I think not.”
He slipped the blade inside his coat pocket. London was chockablock with amateur thieves. Rural lads, displaced by farm machinery, continued to pour into London. Once their meager savings disappeared, they turned desperate. “I’ve no time for a mugger’s game. Running a bit late—meeting friends at the music hall.”
No doubt the young man was down on his luck and had turned to thievery. “Get yourself an honest job.” Phineas pulled out his card. “Millwall docks, Isle of Dogs. Ask around for a man by the name of Tully. Tell him . . .” He studied the burly young thief in the dark. “Tell him you’re no good at crime.”
The stunned lad stared blankly at the card. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Exiting the alley, Finn jogged across a corner of the square. The garish lights of the Alhambra reflected off streets still wet from an earlier cloudburst. He wound his way past clusters of gentlemen assembled in front of the entertainment palace. The siren call this evening? A widely extolled troupe of ballet girls direct from Paris.
“Phineas Gunn.” Hand on his hip, Dudley Chilcott’s elbow swung dangerously close to skewering a passerby. “A rare sighting, indeed. I see the Ballet Royale de Musique has enticed you out of the house this evening.” Chilcott took a draw on his cigar. “These ballet girls have a bad reputation, which is in most cases well deserved.”
Finn did his best to ignore the dig at the rarity of his presence by acknowledging the gentlemen in Chilcott’s circle. Adopting an equally disdainful pose, he arched a brow. “Then, I can only assume, Dudley, you are here hoping for a backstage introduction.”
A guffaw of laughter from the circle of men prompted a grin. Trapped between Dudley Chilcott and James Oldham-Talbot, Earl of Harrow, Finn shifted uncomfortably and scanned the crowd assembled in the entryway. All of London, it would seem, was aware of his humiliating malady. The ever inebriated and opinionated earl snorted something between a laugh and a grunt. “Yes, I can’t imagine Dudley lamenting the ballet corps’ lack of morals.” The man exhaled a puff of tobacco smoke.
“More like hallelujah,” Dudley remarked dryly.
Finn’s gaze rolled up and over to make note of the time, then he glanced at the earl. The Earl of Harrow reportedly enjoyed having his eyelids licked by two naked whores. An eyelid apiece, one supposed. He returned his attention to the second hand of the brass-trimmed clock above the lobby doors.
Fifteen seconds. Thirty-five heartbeats, Finn did the math. Thirty-five times four equals one hundred forty beats per minute. Tolerable. Finn released his thumb from his wrist and kept his breath slow and regular.
In actuality, he had an appointment with Scotland Yard, in the person of Zeno Kennedy, chief inspector of Special Branch. Damned intriguing to call a meeting at a music hall.
A sweep of the square through open doors brought a tall, strapping lad into view. Somewhat cheered by the sight of his brother, Finn exhaled. Dressed in frock coat and silk hat, his younger sibling wove a path through the tangled throng. Rare, to see him out of his regimentals. Rarer still, to run into each other at the Alhambra. If Finn recalled correctly, his brother’s tastes ran toward table dancers in the East End. “Hardy!”
His handsome sibling waved and made his way over. “Good to see you out, Finn.”
He ignored the remark. “Ballet girls? Rather tame by your standards.”
“And what might those be?” Hardy grinned.
Finn stared. “Low.” He turned to his circle. “I believe most of you know my brother, Cole Harding Gunn?”
“Gentlemen.” Hardy nodded.
“Sans the lady this evening?” The Earl of Harrow quite directly referenced his brother’s affair with Lady Gwendolyn Lennox, married to the very powerful Rufus Stewart, Earl of Lennox.
Hardy’s gaze quickly narrowed on the earl.
“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I spy our host exiting his carriage.” Finn whisked Hardy away before he did something rash with his fists. A quick jostle through the crowd and they were out of the hall and on the pavement. He hailed Kennedy.
Hardy shrugged off his grip. “You’re meeting Zak here as well?”
Finn stared. “What manner of business could you possibly have with Scotland Yard?”
Zeno Kennedy—Zak, to his friends—greeted them both with an affable smile. “Hardy has applied to the Home Office.”
His brother added another grin. “I hope to resign my commission in the Blues and join Special Branch.”
Hardy often withheld information from him. A younger sibling’s reaction to an overprotective, nosy brother. Still, Finn raised both brows. “And when did all this come about?”
“I didn’t realize I had to ask for permission, Finn.”
He studied his sibling’s uncomfortable fidgeting about. A much-decorated major in the Royal Horse Guards, Hardy had been somewhat adrift since his regiment’s return from Egypt. A restless type and a thrill seeker even as a small child, Hardy could ride faster and fight harder than any man he knew. So why did Finn worry so much about his little brother?
Kennedy cleared his throat. “I managed to score us a box—on loan from Lord Phillips. Shall we?” Several heads nodded their way as the famous chief inspector led them upstairs. Finn spoke quietly. “We shall see how Lady Lennox enjoys the high life on a detective’s salary.”
“Couldn’t be worse than a soldier’s pay.” Hardy shrugged. “I’m under no illusion she’ll leave old Rufus and his four hundred thousand for a Yard man.”
Zak held back curtains and ushered them into their seats. A very attentive waiter entered the box behind them. “Shall it be supper or libations, gentlemen? Perhaps a bit of both?”
They ordered three
pints and a bottle of Talisker’s finest, and settled in for the evening. In the privacy of their box, amongst men he knew and trusted, Finn’s nervous condition eased. “Give it up, Kennedy. What has Special Branch got in mind for me? Something interesting, I hope. I could use the diversion.”
Glancing at the stage below, Zak sipped from his glass. “A couple of things, actually.” The Yard man kept his voice just above the strains of music. Finn and Hardy leaned in. “A year ago, Finn, you were involved in an operation for the Naval Intelligence Department, the breakup of a ring of Spanish anarchists—Los Tigres Solitarios.”
“My involvement was limited to tracking a delivery of dynamite in transit from Portsmouth to France via Spain. As operations go, this one blew up, quite literally. The Deuxième Bureau—” Finn clarified for Hardy, “French intelligence—made a mess of it and then pushed the blame off on us. No lasting political ramifications, at least not from our side of the channel.”
“We have reason to believe former members of Los Tigres are here in London, regrouping.” Zak reached inside his coat pocket and dropped a slim pointed object in Finn’s palm. “Have a look at this.”
Finn rotated the stickpin between fingers. The facets of a large diamond caught whatever dim light was available. “Impressive. I’d like to take this bauble home for a better look.”
Zak nodded. “Recently confiscated off a dead body washed up downriver. We believe the corpse to be the conspirator known as Carlos Jorge Rivera. Likely this chap decided to enrich himself and the brotherhood didn’t take kindly to it.” The detective swiveled toward Hardy. “I thought you might like to shadow this case with your brother. Get a taste for the work, find out if it suits.” Zak caught Finn’s sour expression. “Of course, if you’d rather not . . .”
“I can manage a group of surly anarchists and my little brother at the same time.”
The Yard man leaned closer. “Good. And how goes the gemology consulting?”
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 1
