“MY GIVEN NAME is Cassandra, but you may call me Cassie.” She reined Daisy off a narrow horse trail and onto the wide dirt track of Rotten Row.
She caught a raised brow from her neighbor. “Are you always so informal, Mrs. St. Cloud?” What a cold, taciturn impression he made, speaking in clipped tones with a frown on his face. She concluded he must not recognize this disagreeable behavior in himself.
“Perhaps you should call me by my title, then. The dowager Lady Rosslyn. Much more starchy and impersonal. Are you always so stiff, Mr. Kennedy?”
The curl at the ends of his mouth seemed to indicate he was amused. “According to a colleague of mine, I need to foster a more congenial side to my acerbic nature. All work and no play, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can help me improve on my charm … a bit of advice?”
An honest evaluation, delivered with a large dose of sarcasm. Still, she smiled. “I don’t believe there are charm schools for gentlemen who lack … charm, Mr. Kennedy.”
Stealing a glance at the man riding beside her, she noted an imperfectly perfect nose positioned above a delicious wide-set mouth, his most expressive facial feature. In the short distance from mews to park, he had demonstrated a few subtle variations of a masterful frown. A smile from this gent, should she ever see one, might cause her complete discomposure.
“Then I will require private lessons. You have my permission to school me in the finer points of the winsome personality.” The tensing of his mouth and the quirk of a brow intimated curiosity and something else. He enjoyed taunting her.
“Generally, people who cultivate charm enjoy using the familiar. The use of a person’s first name, for example, is an engaging gesture. And I still prefer Cassie, even if you do not.”
He continued to appear nonplussed. “Ah yes, an agreeable personality is certain to win one friends.”
She could not restrain a flicker of eye roll. “If you were to use my first name, how might I then be allowed to refer to you, Mr. Kennedy? Theoretically?”
His gaze darted across park scenery to meet hers. “There are a few colleagues or acquaintances,” he ventured, his voice laden with irony, “who call me Zak—an acronym, of my initials.”
“Zeno …” She bit her lip. “Angus Kennedy?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Augustus Kennedy.”
“My, my, you do have clever friends, even if there are so few of them.”
Was that a growl or a harrumph from the man? She grinned. “That sort of grousing is only endearing from a great-uncle in need of an afternoon nap.” Cassie guided her horse onto a narrow path and glanced back. “A charm pointer, Mr. Kennedy.”
They rode quietly past the Albert Memorial, Victoria’s impressive epitaph to her most beloved husband.
“I always feel obliged to recite some sort of eulogy whenever I pass by here.” Her landlord tilted his head. “Ah, here’s one.
“Near this spot
are deposited the remains of one
who possessed beauty without vanity,
Strength without insolence,
Courage without ferocity,
and all the virtues of man without his vices.”
She recognized the poem. “You quote Byron’s ‘Epitaph to a Dog.’”
“I’m afraid our departed prince consort will have to make do with the only epitaph I have set to memory. A poet’s tribute to his beloved pet.” He nudged his mount up alongside hers and flashed a hint of a smile. It nearly took her breath away. “My uncle gave me a Newfoundland as a lad.”
She couldn’t resist a tease. “And I suppose you named your dog Boatswain after Byron, as well?”
“Not terribly original, I admit.” His scoff added a nice touch of humility. “Boat died years ago. I was away at school.”
She experienced a sudden awareness that Mr. Kennedy had shifted from curious enigma to someone she might wish to know better. A subtle reckoning, to be sure, and it began before she even realized it.
Gradually, he disclosed something of his background. Graduated Cambridge with letters, and a former rugby player—a blue shirt of all things! He had suffered a knee injury the start of his third year.
She found the story of his perfunctory cut from the team endearing. And he did have a strong physique. In fact, she noticed his tall, muscular body entirely too much. Regular attendance to an athletic club likely kept him in such fit condition for a man of his age. Pugilism or fencing? she wondered.
She guessed him at five-and-thirty, or thereabouts. The decade’s separation in their ages appealed to her. Her dear, departed Thom’s boyish, impetuous nature had belied his six years of seniority. A foolhardy man, if she looked back with scrutiny. Perhaps that explained Mr. Kennedy’s stoic appeal.
He made her a little nervous. And devil take it if he wasn’t a handsome man. Earlier, he had parked his hat with an obliging groom before having a gallop down Rotten Row. She thought about the thick head of sable hair with a hint of gray at the temples. Wind-tossed from their run, a lock fell forward across his forehead and gave him a youthful, carefree appearance.
She ogled long legs in breeches and top boots as he posted the fast trot. A shocking, voyeuristic moment, which included glances at flexing thigh muscles, the shape of his buttocks when his coattails parted. A flush rose to her cheeks. Never in her life had she looked at a gentleman, other than her late husband, with such a prurient eye.
And he possessed the longest eyelashes, which framed cerulean blue eyes that seemed to penetrate a person’s private thoughts. Rather unusual for blue eyes to be so wickedly piercing. Mysterious undercurrents stirred within, urging a closer evaluation of this magnetic, inscrutable fellow. Could there be a warmer, more passionate man under that high-pointed starched collar?
Cassie squared her shoulders. Using the back of her hand, she felt heat radiate from her neck to cheek. She shouldn’t be having such thoughts about any man. She should be thinking about her new suite of paintings. Scenes from the Boudoir. The subject was simple and sensuous. A young woman in her dressing room. Light would rim the model’s body and she would use rich strokes of color to add depth to the shadows.
Cassie inhaled a deep breath and glanced at Mr. Kennedy. It struck her as somewhat suspicious that her supposedly unsociable landlord was being so … neighborly. He was apparently a man with few friends, by design.
She broke the long silence between them. “I suppose, even if one cultivated the social arts, a handful of stouthearted chums is all one can ask for. I find it most diligent of you to have cast your lantern about the streets of London long enough to find a few honest souls.”
Even though his countenance remained stern, a spark of interest lit in his eyes. “Ah, you reference Diogenes of Sinope, the Greek philosopher, perhaps the most noted of all the cynics. A profound influence, Mrs. St. Cloud, on my namesake, Zeno of Citium—a man likewise occupied with the tragedies of the human predicament.”
“Speaking of which, Mr. Kennedy, I conduct art education at Foundling Hospital today. Might we head back for the mews, sir?”
“Would you like me to ready my carriage, Mrs. St. Cloud? I am in the office most of the day. It would be my pleasure—”
“Last evening I ate nearly half a roast chicken and a pile of roasted vegetables and polished off the remains of a lemon tart at supper. I shall walk—at a brisk pace.”
His mouth dipped at the corners and his eyes took on a liquid, vulnerable expression. She found it disconcertingly adorable.
“I believe we are due for rain this afternoon. Class is dismissed at four o’clock. If your work is near its end—?”
“I will come fetch you at four.”
At the mews entrance, Zeno swung a long leg over his saddle and jumped to the ground. He handed off his reins to Rory and moved over to help steady her dismount.
Indeed, the man made her so nervous she fell forward in a brief loss of balance. He braced her against his body.
Hard chest, hard stomach, and my word! Cassie froze at the rec
ognition of something else hard and very male.
“So,” he murmured, “Cassie wears Aimée.”
“I beg your pardon?” She did not push away.
“Mrs. St. Cloud, you smell like lavender and rosemary with subtle notes of vanilla and bergamot. More specifically, you wear Aimée, created by Gervais Laurent.”
She smiled. “Inspired by a French maiden he fell in love with while traveling in Provence.”
“A clever marketing ploy, I’m afraid. The scent was actually named after a sister. Something of an adorable minx is my guess.” At times, his discourse became an odd flurry of facts, small details, and conjecture.
“Sir. I take it you are familiar with the scent by intimate association?”
He returned her pique with a twinkle in his eyes. “Alas, merely from my research.”
The gentleman was more than odd; he was eccentric. And devilish handsome. The startling combination caused a fleeting surge of warmth to course through her body. She tilted her chin, a curl at the ends of her mouth. “Rather informal of you, to use both my nickname and the name of my parfumeur.”
“Ah, but was I charming, Mrs. St. Cloud?” He bowed stiffly and led her horse off the cobbled backstreet and into the stables.
First cool and reserved, then trifling. She might believe Mr. Kennedy toyed with her, but did not think him a rakish sort of man. This was just a simple flirtation. Wasn’t it?
CASSIE CURSED THE Daily Telegraph. Wrong again.
The forecast for afternoon precipitation arrived early and descended upon the city in more of a deluge than a shower. The storm hit as she neared the halfway point of her trudge to hospital. It took only a few short minutes of such inclement weather for her to rue the decision to walk off an extra slice of lemon tart.
On days like today, the underground trains were swamped with passengers and every hansom cab in London occupied and in service. Her coat would soon be soggy and damp. Well, there was nothing left to do but soldier on. She angled her umbrella against the slanted pelting drops and slogged ahead.
At the corner of Piccadilly and St. James, awash in rain and self-pity, she heard someone in the crowd call her name.
“Cassie!”
She pivoted toward the voice in the storm, and came face-to-face with Mr. Kennedy. He tipped his hat. Before she could register surprise, he grabbed hold of her and whisked her into his carriage.
Dazed and dripping, she took a moment to compose herself. A musty whiff of damp upholstery and soggy woolen coats pervaded the air. He sat opposite, wearing an amused, condescending expression, which she found to be entirely vexing. He leaned forward and coaxed the umbrella out of her hand. She watched in silence as he gave the handle a good shake.
“You are soaking wet, Mrs. St. Cloud, and I am late for a briefing. You should consider a return trip to Lyall Street for a change of clothes.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Kennedy. I’ll be dry in no time, once I get into my classroom.” Cassie remembered her manners. “I must thank you for—” She halted, overcome with curiosity. “How on earth did you find me?”
“I chose a route you would in all probability take on foot.” That piercing blue gaze of his shifted from the passing street scene to her. “To spy you amongst a rain-sodden crowd, easier still.” He hesitated. “You are both tall and attractive, and I would have to say luminous, even in a rainstorm, Mrs. St. Cloud.”
Heat rose from her collar, melting away her earlier vexation. Still, she resisted much expression, waiting to see if the corners of his mouth would ever turn up.
There, he cracked enough of a grin to make a dimple with a deep crease.
Very nice.
She returned a brief smile, dipping her head to peer out the fogged coach window. A glimpse of Trafalgar Square, gave way to a jumble of government buildings. As the carriage slowed, she wiped a medium-sized spot clear, just enough to see the entrance to Number 4 Whitehall Place.
“Scotland Yard.”
“This is where we must part company, madam.”
She sat up straight. “You work for Scotland Yard?”
“I do.” He turned up his raincoat collar and gathered his umbrella. “I will instruct my driver to take you on to Foundling Hospital.”
“You called me Cassie again, even though you’d rather not.”
“Did I?”
She nodded. “Just now, when you fished me out of the rain.”
He opened his mouth to respond and then paused. He wore a curious, contemplative expression, as if after considering her remarks he still could not account for such a familiarity. “I shall come collect you this afternoon, Mrs. St. Cloud.”
Her gaze tracked the bob of his umbrella as he jumped a rain puddle and entered the grounds. After a bombing incident some years past, they’d fenced off the famous government agency. There was scarce foot traffic to be seen, as pedestrians were now directed down a narrow pathway that ran alongside the administrative offices. From what little she could make out, he passed by Horse Guards at the gate and disappeared inside the building.
Pressed to her seat as the carriage lurched off, her lips slowly curled upward.
“So Mr. Kennedy is a Yard man.”
Chapter Four
The dossier he penned became known as the “Home Rule Conspiracy” and got Zeno called into Melville’s office for a private debriefing.
From under eyebrows as bushy as his muttonchop sideburns, Director of Special Irish Branch, William Melville, shot a piercing glare over the top of a file folder. “Before we begin I want you to explain to me why I had to find out from Rafe Lewis that a bounty has been placed on your head.”
“None of that is confirmed.” Zeno settled into a chair opposite the mahogany desk. “Though I suppose any number of anarchists would like to have me out of the way.”
“I have to ask, Kennedy. Do you believe the bombs set off in the Underground were targeted for you?”
Zeno’s jaw clenched. “If I believed that I’d take myself off the case.”
Silence never bothered Melville. Many an agent had listened to the wall clock tick off the seconds as those fierce eyes made a careful examination. “All right then, explain this theory of yours.”
“The memo was written as hypothesis. Pure conjecture. An exploration of possible terrorist links to government officials.” Couching his words as deferentially as possible, Zeno explained further. “If we root around a bit, we may find a few high-ranked peers as well as government officials linked to a clandestine insurgent group, with links to both the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Clan na Gael in America.”
His boss removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Conjecture or not, something tells me this isn’t everything. What more have you to add to this insidious little scenario?”
Zeno shifted his chair to see over a desk piled high with files and reports. He cleared his throat. “Treason is a serious accusation.”
The director’s leather chair squeaked as he rocked forward. “Indeed it is. Well, out with it, Kennedy.”
“It is possible this could go above a few peers, perhaps as high as the prime minister.”
Melville’s gaze turned black.
Zeno quickly offered reassurance. “Before considering the prime minister, I first intend to find out what’s hatching over at Home Office. I suggest we have a little talk with Castlemaine. He has a man under him—Hicks-Beach. I suspect he’s a member of an informal cadre headed up by Lord Delamere.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “There’s another layer here, much more insidious. Zealots like Delamere might be funding the dynamiters to stir up a disastrous Irish revolt. The man has amassed an impressive fortune from railroad investments and, according to my sources, cheating at cards. He has two great estates in Northern Ireland and Surrey. More than enough wealth to fund a revolution.”
“You’re saying Delamere wants Irish Home Rule to fail?”
Zeno nodded. “The House of Lords voted it down twice. If we go
back and trace Delamere’s involvement—”
“Good God—you may be onto something. He always does find some niggling reason to lobby against passage.” Intrigued, Melville tugged on his whiskers. “And how better to make the Irish cause unsympathetic than to abet seditionists with bombs?”
Gears turned in the inky glimmer of the director’s eyes. As a matter of course, the man enjoyed toying with outlandish theories. “What station do you suppose Lord Delamere covets? King of Ireland?”
“The Irish have no love for crowns.” Zeno grinned. “More likely prime minister.”
Melville leaned over his desk. “You do realize you point the finger at the most influential men in government? Christ Almighty, Kennedy, these are men at the very top. And if what you surmise is true, we are talking about the possible disruption, if not dismantling, of an entire branch of government.”
Zeno remained calm and implacable, the only way to survive Melville’s unsparing scrutiny. “Not if we work behind the scenes to eliminate the problem.”
Melville flipped open his pocket watch. “Well, that kills my luncheon appointment.” He looked vexed. “I am convinced you are both a troublemaker and a genius, but nonetheless, good work, Kennedy. Now let’s call in some of our best lads and get to work.”
Zeno brightened at the man’s praise. “Thank you, sir. I would like to ask Rafe Lewis to join, and perhaps Flynn Rhys?”
The director rang in his secretary. “I’m feeling uncivilized. Let’s have lunch brought in, Mr. Quincy. I believe Lewis and Rhys are in the field. Have them find their way into this office within the hour. I don’t care what gin joint or whorehouse they’re loitering in, just get them here.”
Quincy nodded. “Very good, sir.”
Melville returned to Zeno. “My instincts tell me there is yet another related incident. The discovery of two homosexuals, in flagrante delicto, and the subsequent battery of a man identified only as Albert.”
Zeno’s tight-lipped grin faded. He flipped open a file and handed over a list of names. “The Bloody Four. A nom de guerre for a cadre of useless peerage. They may well be our victim’s assailants.” Zeno sat back in his chair. “Not at all sure they’re involved with anarchists, but I wager there’s a political play in it for Lord Delamere.”
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 4
