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
Zeno 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?
The rustle of her skirts snapped him to attention. His gaze lingered over the very picture of elegance as she made her descent. It came to him as a kind of revelation. It was the noticeable lack of frills and lace in Mrs. St. Cloud’s wardrobe that made her style so becoming.
Zeno swallowed. The skirt of her gown was an iridescent neutral gray that shifted in subtle ways as she moved, from pale violet to green and crimson.
Delicate black velvet sleeves rested off bare shoulders. The pristine white bodice appeared to be as stiff as a tuxedo shirt, and featured a row of elegant cut-crystal buttons running from the waist to bosom. The plunging décolleté accentuated high, rounded breasts, braced enticingly within the tight-fitted bodice. Zeno’s gaze lingered for a moment.
“Good evening, Mr. Kennedy.”
Rather than stammer a greeting, he nodded a polite bow. She picked up a boutonniere from the console table in the entryway. A white rosebud wrapped partially in a silver leaf. It was exquisite, just like her. A swath of black velvet swept around her waist and hips, finishing in a butterfly bow above the bustle at her back.
“This dress is not from a London modiste.”
She turned. “No, it’s from a couturier in Paris.”
“It changes color.” Zeno pointed to the narrow shirred skirt.
Cassie seemed pleased and amused at his interest. “The fabric is silvered moiré taffeta.” Moving closer, she touched his chest. She could have no idea how her proximity affected him. Her scents permeated his senses—violets from her bath soap and that wonderful French perfume. She removed the pin from the boutonniere and took hold of his lapel.
Good God, he had forgotten flowers. How had this happened? “In keeping with my woeful lack of charm, I seem to have forgotten a corsage of some kind.”
She stood inches away, her mouth in a bow and brow wrinkled in concentration. “I am always at a loss as to where to put a corsage, Mr. Kennedy. They often ruin the effect of the dress and droop sadly before evening’s end. It occurred to me, though, that you might need one of these.” She tilted her head to check the effect of her work. “A tuxedo suits you. And now that you have a flower on your lapel, I believe you are ready for a ball.”
She looked into his eyes and smiled. A moment savored before he held out an arm. “Shall we betake ourselves to Grosvenor Square?”
Outside in the brisk night air, Zeno drew in a deep a breath and collected his wits about him. Small cut crystals fastened throughout the back of her hair sparkl
ed in the flickering light of the streetlamps. She gathered her skirts to board the carriage. “You will save me a waltz tonight, as compensation for several tedious hours of Evelyn Stanfield’s ball,” he said.
Her feigned glare and arched brow might have worked with other men. “Goodness. For a moment I imagined a demand from my late husband.”
“You heard correctly, Cassandra. I insist on a waltz as payment for an entire evening spent with the haut noblesse.”
“I believe you warned me quite emphatically you fight shy of dancing, did you not?”
His eyes wrinkled. “Possibly. But not with you.” He caught a flicker of light in her eye. Zeno drew in a long breath before he stepped into the coach. Cassandra St. Cloud could not be a more invigorating partner.
LORD AND LADY Stanfield were more than pleased to greet them both; in fact, they were effusive. Zeno made a concerted effort not to smirk when Lady Evelyn gushed over his unexpected attendance. His appearance, she claimed with great enthusiasm, made it a certainty the Stanfield ball would be the talk of the season.
Zeno bobbed a bow and humbly demurred. As expected, his sensationalized crime solving exploits continued to haunt him. He was a diversion, in the same way they were titillated over the Duke of Ancaster and his very public affair with actress-courtesan Perdita Savile. With a smile plastered on his face, he endured the rest of the reception line as the beautiful Cassandra St. Cloud’s most unusual escort.
She tucked her arm in his. He took a long, appreciative glance at the lovely woman by his side. Indeed, she was stunning. This was the second time in so many days he wondered what she might look like in nothing at all. “You are entirely too distracting.”
“What was that, Zak?”
He exhaled. “I’m having wicked thoughts about you.”
She pressed sensuous lips together and a dimple emerged.
Halfway down the grand staircase he halted their descent. “Was that charming?”
A wonderful, slinky eye roll swept over him. “In a wolfish sort of way.”
Zeno brightened. “Excellent.”
Entering the ballroom, he could not help but notice the raised brows and curious stares. He leaned closer. “One can almost feel the whispers in the air.”
A thickset, middle-aged gentleman of jovial expression was the first to emerge from a small group nearby and catch their attention. “Lovely to see you out and about, Cassie.”
“Likewise, Lord Cranbrook. Are you acquainted with Mr. Zeno Kennedy?”
Zeno nodded a bow. “My lord.”
The gentleman’s eyebrow raised enough to loosen his monocle. “I say, this is a rare occasion, Mr. Kennedy. I’ll wager you’re on a case, no doubt?”
“Nothing of much importance, Lord Cranbrook. For the moment, I am pleasantly captivated by Mrs. St. Cloud.”
His lordship pivoted a bulky frame. “And is this your first soiree of the season, Cassie?”
“Yes, it does feel good to reacquaint oneself with old friends.”
Across a blur of whirling dancers, Zeno focused on a youthful chap of burgeoning girth. James Hicks-Beach, if he was not mistaken. With an ear on tittle-tattle, he let his gaze follow the large man into the card room. He swept a hand through his freshly cropped hair. “Please excuse us for a moment, Lord Cranbrook. I promise to be brief.” He offered Cassandra his arm, and took her for a turn around the end of the room.
“Might I have a clue as to where my name appears on your dance card?”
“I have reserved a waltz just before late supper buffet, Mr. Kennedy. Since you were gracious enough to be my escort, I believe we are expected to take refreshments together. I hope this meets with your approval.”
“I shall make it my business to find you as we near the midnight hour.”
“Off on a sleuth about the ball?”
“Thought I might retire to the card room—lighten a few gentlemen’s pockets.” He winked.
Zeno returned Cassie to Lord Cranbrook’s circle of intimates. He placed her purposefully between two pleasant, mature ladies and excused himself. In the card room he made his way past several tables of whist to the larger baccarat table. Invited to join by Lord Stanfield himself, he sat down to play with a number of titled chaps, including a less-than-amicable Hicks-Beach, who was taking a turn as banker. He squared off across the table from the large gent, who made a pointed comment about Scotland Yard detectives in attendance at a ball.
Zeno did a quick shuffle and recount of his gaming chips. Hicks-Beach raised a supercilious brow. “Suspicious by trade, Mr. Kennedy?”
“The bane of my profession. Of late, I am particularly wary of seditionists.” Finished stacking his counters, Zeno sat back and grinned. “Fear not, gentlemen, only bankers who finance dynamiters hang.” He picked up a chip from the top of a stack. “Aid and abetment, on the other hand, will get you thirty years in Newgate gaol.” He slid the gaming chip across the table. “I believe you counted wrongly, this is your money.”
During periodic breaks throughout the evening, Zeno ventured forth into the ballroom just long enough to stretch his legs and check on Mrs. St. Cloud. The tiresome spectacle of insipid young girls offered up for marriage hadn’t changed this season, or any season for that matter. And while he found the new chits pretty but witless, his observations regarding Mrs. St. Cloud proved unsettling.
On this particular stroll into the ballroom, he noted a rather large circle of men surrounding the attractive young widow and decided to make an appearance, stake out a bit of territorial domain for himself.
Zeno appraised his competition and determined he did not wish to politely acknowledge any of the interested men circling the pretty widow. Not yet, anyway. For now, he wanted very much to make her laugh and see her eyes sparkle. He entertained a sudden urge to stand whisper close.
She turned to him. “You wear a very distinctive cologne, or is it your shaving soap, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Blended by a chemist the name of Taylor on Bond Street—Number Seventy-four. Lime. I do hope you enjoy the scent.”
“I am intrigued.”
He made sure his frown was more of a tease. “Not excited or stimulated?”
Her gentle laugh and those lips so close to his cheek. Desire strummed pleasantly through his body as arousal surged lower.
“Come now, Cassie, please share the amusement with us.”
SHE TIGHTENED HER lips into a rigid half smile. The familiar whine of Gerald’s voice grated more than usual this evening. His reputation as a rake and his need for attention appeared undiminished. He had always flirted outrageously, even dangerously with her. On one occasion not long after her marriage, he had entered her bedchamber one evening to make an unseemly advance and a shattering confession. The earl, Gerald had informed her, was with his mistress, but as second in line, he would be more than happy to provide the Rosslyn cock in absentia. She had shrieked loud enough to prick up the ears of every purebred hound in Mayfair.
Her marriage to the Earl of Rosslyn had been a terrible mistake. Considered a very advantageous match, she had allowed herself to be seduced by a man who, just months after the wedding, lay in another woman’s bed across town. In absentia. Oddly enough, that wasn’t worst of it. Her ambitions to become a serious painter were also in absentia.
Cassie studied Gerald as he stood before her in the ballroom. The newly named Earl of Rosslyn continued to be the type of man whose attraction to a lady increased the less available she became. Cassie suspected the very presence of Zeno Kennedy, both at the orphanage and again this evening, had reinvigorated Gerald’s interest.
“Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her.” Zak whispered in her ear.
Even though she readily grasped his meaning, the intimacy of affection in the prose made her cheeks flush with heat. “Only the bard is clever enough to draw such insight from passion’s folly.”
He leaned closer. “In the future, please remind me to recite ‘Sonnet Eighteen’ for you, Cassandra.”
He chuckled. “It’s the only one I’ve put to memory.”
She marveled at how young he looked when he allowed himself a happy, unguarded expression. “And how goes your luck at cards?”
Zeno straightened. “Middling. Up four hundred quid at the moment.”
“Up is always good, is it not?”
He snorted. “Not when Lancaster is up a thousand.” She followed his gaze to a portly gentleman entering the card room. “Best be getting back.”
“Don’t forget our dance, Zak.”
Several strides away, he swung around. “Quite impossible to forget you, Cassie.”
She smiled. When he deigned to make an effort, Zeno Kennedy did not want for charm. Intuitively, she experienced a sweeping hot wind of whispered words as a second wave of gossip spread like fire through the ballroom. Well aware of how fast and loose hearsay traveled among the très bonne société, she braced herself for the onset of questions about and interest in her escort.
A number of well-meaning friends sidled by to inform on the celebrated intelligencer. Apparently Detective Kennedy had once been romantically tied to a woman murdered by Fenian dynamiters. An actress. As brows raised, Cassie did her best to take in the tattle with equal amounts of curiosity and aplomb.
Eventually, the ladies excused themselves and circled the perimeter of the dance floor. The tongue-waggers shamelessly crowded the doorway to the card room to catch a glimpse of the intriguing Mr. Kennedy, leaving Cassie to fend off the hungry wolves better known as interested gentlemen.
The most shocking part of attending a ball as a widow newly returned to society was the amorous attention of all the most eligible men of the aristocracy. These unattached gentlemen spent a great deal of time and energy chasing after married or widowed women. A favorite sport among the bachelors and ladies alike.
As the midnight hour neared, Cassie caught sight of her escort. Zeno deftly sidestepped a group of giggling ingénues and made a mad dash across the ballroom.
In a rather brilliant gesture, he reached across the circle of men and drew her, with murmured apologies, into the safety of his arms. They were on the dance floor moments after the waltz began. And he turned out to be a relaxed, skillful partner, which made it so much easier to enjoy the dance.
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 7
