“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
After 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 g
ain 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.”
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.
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.”
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 6
