London, 1887. Part stoic gentleman, part fearless Yard man, Zeno “Zak” Kennedy is an enigma of the first order. For years, the memory of a deadly bombing at King’s Cross has haunted the brilliant Scotland Yard detective. His investigation has zeroed in on a ring of aristocratic rebels whose bloody campaign for Irish revolution is terrorizing the city. When he discovers one of the treacherous lords is acquainted with his free-spirited new tenant, Cassandra St. Cloud, his inquiry pulls him unexpectedly close to the heart of the conspiracy—and into the arms of a most intriguing lady.
Cassie is no Victorian prude. An impressionist painter with very modern ideas about life and love, she is eager for a romantic escapade that is daring and discreet. She sets her sights on her dour but handsome landlord, but after she learns their meeting was not purely accidental, she hardly has a chance to forgive her lover before their passionate affair catapults them both into a perilous adventure.
AN AFFAIR
with
MR. KENNEDY
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AN AFFAIR WITH MR. KENNEDY
Cassie tugged at Zak’s arm and he followed her to a dark corner of the balcony without protest. Silently, she maneuvered herself in front of him and bit her lower lip. He wagered he knew exactly what she wanted. “You are either desirous of me or my cigar.”
He turned the mouthpiece of the stogie toward those luscious lips. “Which one is it?” Covering his hand with hers, she guided the tip into her mouth. He rolled his eyes upward. Good God. After several puffs, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
“You know about my smoking?”
He stared unapologetically at her mouth and tilted his chin. “I’m afraid my informant must remain a classified source—” Softly spoken words brushed against her lips as he pulled her close.
Heavy footsteps padded along the roof above. Zak opened an eye. Two dark figures jumped from the mansard to the top of another house nearby.
“Rude of them to leave without a farewell,” he murmured, “and they’ve left a nasty bit of—”
A stream of dark liquid dripped onto the ground inches from where they stood. Quickly assessing the gruesome scenario, he backed Cassie away from the pooling blood.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Jillian Stone
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ISBN 978-1-4516-2900-2
ISBN 978-1-4516-2907-1 (eBook)
For Gloria Gillis Brehaut,
who had the romantic instincts and good sense to marry a
man in need of charm lessons.
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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
Acknowledgments
To begin at the beginning, I’d like to thank a motley crew of online “critters” (Marianne, Mason, Liza, Mindy, Stacy, Kira) whose brutally honest, insightful, and encouraging critiques gave me the confidence to contest and query the very manuscript that has become An Affair with Mr. Kennedy.
Next, a humble thanks to the Romance Writers of America and all the judges who scored An Affair with Mr. Kennedy (The Yard Man) high enough to make the finals, then win the Golden Heart.
A special thanks to my amazing agent, Richard Curtis, and the acquiring instincts of Danielle Poiesz and Abby Zidle. Abby’s editorial insights and creative guidance have helped hone An Affair with Mr. Kennedy into a tale full of danger, adventure, and romance.
And lastly, a heartfelt thanks to my family, without whose sacrifice, love, and support I could not have dedicated every waking hour this last year to the Gentlemen of Scotland Yard.
Chapter One
London’s West End, 1887
Detective Inspector Zeno Kennedy unbuttoned his collar and pulled out a shirttail. “What have you got for me?”
Scarlet, aka Kitty Matthews, reclined on the mattress and struck a seductive pose. Propped on her elbows, the girl lowered and raised sultry green eyes in a brazen inspection of his person. “You blokes from Scotland Yard are a handsome lot.”
She arched her back and thrust her breasts up and out at him. Quite a robust figure—ample bottom and curvy topside. Studying her, he decided she could not be more than seventeen or eighteen years of age. A shapely little thing with chestnut-colored hair, big green eyes, and a button nose. She could easily raise a man’s temperature.
Zeno did his best to ignore the girl’s bountiful charms as he took up a post at the end of the bed-frame. “Actually, I work for Special Irish Branch.” He leaned over the brass rail.
Scarlet gaped at a bit of exposed chest. “Blue eyes and dark hair—Black Irish, are you?”
Zeno hastily pulled his shirt closed and admonished himself to be patient with his newest recruit. “Special Irish Branch is a division of Scotland Yard aimed at investigating anarchists. Fenians mostly. We’re after the blokes who want Home Rule for the Irish at any price, by any means.”
Her eyes grew wide. “The dynamiters?”
A low groan and squeaking bedsprings drifted through the wall. Zeno raised an index finger to his lips and gave a nod to the adjoining room.
The budding beauty in front of him typified the adolescent female offerings of this pleasure house. Mrs. Jeffries’s, as it was referred to in hushed tones among gentlemen at their clubs, was
a popular brothel marketing young women—very young. Some were girls who had not yet been spoiled, for a steeper price.
With venereal disease rampant, and the Contagious Diseases Act repealed, men of means found the idea of a virgin, even if less bawdy, certainly a healthier amusement. It seemed the baser instincts of gentlemen of privilege would continue to find ways to avoid the pox at any cost, both to their pockets and to the lives of the innocent juveniles conscripted for such harsh duty.
Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigations Department of the Metropolitan Police had moved on some of the worst offenders, but there had been tremendous pressure from the top echelons to keep the safer brothels open. As for the use of young girls, Zeno’s position was well known. Turning a blind eye to their plight made them all dirty.
“You sent an urgent wire, Scarlet. Anything to report?”
“No, sir—I mean yes, sir.” She rolled her eyes. “Evening last, I was on my way home from the bedside of me sick mum. Just past the steam vent on Bixford, I see four gentlemen leave Mrs. Jeffries’s in search of their carriage, somewhere amongst the fancy rigs parked outside Drake’s.”
The girl referred to the gambling hell located close by. “Yes, I’m sure they were queued up around the block.” He tried a wry grin of encouragement. “Did you recognize anyone by name?“
“Not much to notice about them, except for Lord Delamere.”
“Delamere?” Zeno’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure of this?”
She bobbed her head. “Hard to miss that handsome, cocksure puss. He’s not one of my regulars; he fancies Roxanne or Jemma.”
The elusive Lord Delamere had been a person of interest for some months now, along with his cadre of misfits—peers who styled themselves the Bloody Four. “Please continue, Scarlet.”
“Lord Delamere, he points to the next coach in line. ‘Where the bloody hell is our driver?’” A bit wild-eyed, she hesitated. “Next thing, he opens the carriage door and the nearby gas lamp lights up the inside—I swear, sir, I saw a pair of gents with their knickers down around their knees.”
Zeno needed confirmation. “Committing sodomy?”
She nodded. “One of Delamere’s boys raised a shout, ‘I say, what goes there?’ Then two of them reach inside and pull the buggers out, one after the other. Once they had them down in the street, they started kicking and pounding. Straight off, the younger molly wrenches away, pulls up his trousers and escapes down the lane.”
“No one ran after him?”
Scarlet shook her head. “Those blokes were too bladdered to give chase—turned back to their punches and kicks. Lord Delamere and another man stood near the coach door watching the tussle.”
Scarlet gulped. “His lordship leans in for a closer look. ‘Well, well, Albert. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a light-foot lad. Sorry about the thrashing.’
“The poor bashed-up gent, he spits blood and calls them a bunch of thickheaded cock-ups. Says they got the wrong coach, and now they’re all going to die for a mug’s game. Then he says, ‘I know every one of you by name. Rest assured, you’ll pay for this assault.’”
Scarlet chewed on her bottom lip. “Delamere’s puss turns right sneery. ‘I think not, Albert,’ he says, ‘’Tis you, my lord, who is going to pay for our silence.’”
Zeno clapped his mouth shut, just to make sure it wasn’t hanging open. “The younger man who got away. Did you get a look at him?”
“He knocked me onto my bum, sir.” She rubbed the back of her hip. “Close-cropped dark hair and light-colored eyes—ice blue they were. Handsome as the devil he was.”
“Lighter blue than mine?”
The girl wet her lips and flashed a sultry smile.
“Scarlet.” He lowered his chin and eyed her impatiently.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Different, very pale, almost like they were moonbeams.”
He placed an elbow on the brass rail and cupped his chin. “You are either in possession of an extraordinary memory or a wicked imagination.”
“You think I’d imagine such a tale? I’m telling you the God’s honest truth, sir.”
“Then might you provide a description of the men with Delamere? Take your time—the smallest detail would help.”
Her frown eased into a contemplative pout. “One of the young gents was light-haired, with a bit of a wave to it. Several locks fell down over his eyes. The other had dark chestnut hair. No beard or whiskers, like yourself. The third man was large, thick in the waist—ruddy cheeks on him. He stood beside the carriage door in a perspiration—”
Scarlet sat up straighter. “Lord Delamere eyed the nervous bloke. ‘Seen enough, James?’ Or he might have said—‘Seen too much, James?’ Plain enough words, but delivered in a harsh tone. More like …” Absently, the girl worked a bare foot up and down the bed sheet.
“A threat?”
She drew her brows together. “Perhaps a jeer—or a warning.”
Zeno studied the young informant while he processed her story. “Good work, Scarlet.” The clever chit had even managed to dredge up another name, likely one of the Bloody Four. “I have a mind this small event you happened on will prove useful.” Even as Zeno praised the girl’s natural talents, his eyes betrayed him.
The coquette ran her finger along the edge of her camisole, across plump breasts, which revealed a hint of light, rose-colored flesh at their tips. “You want a sample, sir? All the others do.”
Caught in the act of ogling, he coughed. “Others?”
“Most inspectors want a taste. Everyone but you, Mr. Kennedy.”
Everyone? His stomach roiled a bit.
“Is there something wrong with me, something you don’t like?”
He tilted his head. “I think you are a very pretty girl.” Skirting the bed, he sat down and spoke softly. He used her real name. “Kitty, you are not contracted to perform favors for detectives unless it is a part of an authorized operation. If you are ever uncomfortable with these requests for your services, I want you to feel free to boot them out. Is that understood?”
She tried to blink back any show of emotion before throwing her arms around his neck. He managed a hug and a few pats on the back. These girls did not experience much fair play or kindness in their line of work.
“You’re a decent man, sir.” A thin smile crept across her face.
Not altogether pleased about being thought decent by such a fetching girl, he let go of her and stood. Prostitute or no, he would take no chances with her safety. This liaison must go off as authentic.
“All right then, let’s make this sound like we’re having a jolly good tumble, shall we?” Zeno gave the bed a hard push with his foot and went on to create a series of rhythmic thuds and thumps. The game little harlot added sighs and moans to the jiggle and squeak of the bedsprings. A final staccato of rapid knocks against the wall made it perfectly evident to all those in the house that hardworking Scarlet was on the job.
CASSANDRA ST. CLOUD hurried up the steps of New Hospital for Women. A tingle of anticipation rushed through her body. On the second floor she turned toward the offices of the Women’s Health Organization of Britain. A line of patients spilled out of the waiting room and snaked down the corridor. “Excuse me, ladies.” She wove a path between high-bustle skirts, and turned down a narrow passageway marked Deliveries.
Cassandra gave the brass doorknob a turn, and poked her head in the door. “Dr. Erskine …” Her voice queried in a singsong fashion. “Mother?”
No answer. Just some low, mewling whimpers and a gasp of suppressed laughter.
What was Mama Olivia up to? She ventured inside the office and slipped past a few crates of medical supplies. A gas lamp hissed quietly above a stack of crates marked London Rubber Company. Cassandra grinned. No doubt a box full of Earl of Condom rubber goods.
A turn of the corner revealed a sparse but meticulously scrubbed examination room. Her mother held a cupped ear to the adjoining office wall.
“Cassie.” Dr.
Olivia had a look of devilry about her. “Come have a listen.” She waved her closer. “Come. Come.”
She pressed affectionately up against her mother and cocked her head. Soft whimpers escalated into the most lurid moans as the unseen woman behind the wall continued to gasp and groan. With a surge of shock, she recognized the euphoric sighs of sexual intercourse as they passed through the plaster wall between surgeries.
Cassie shot upright. “Stanley Hargety is having an affair?” She had met Dr. Hargety and his wife several times at her parents’ home. There were rumors the man’s medical practice failed to prosper, and now this turn of events. She tried to hold back an uncharitable grin. “He hardly seems the Lothario type.”
Her mother snorted. “Did you have a look at the queue of women in the corridor? What a reversal of fortune! My colleague’s services are now very much in demand.” The moans grew louder and more frequent.
Cassie muffled a burst of laughter.
Olivia held a finger to her lips. “The paroxysm cometh.”
And it came in a bursting shriek followed by a nearly inaudible sigh. “Well, at least the lady’s hysteria is assuaged, thanks to Dr. Swift.”
More than curious, she followed her mother from the examination room to a small office in the rear of the suite. “Dr. Swift, you say? What happened to Dr. Hargety? And who is this Dr. Swift? Is the man properly licensed, Mother?”
Olivia tossed her a backward grin. “Dr. Swift is not a who, it’s a what, darling. A new electric vibration machine.”
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