An Affair with Mr. Kennedy

by Jillian Stone

  The light-haired Halladay yanked at his cravat. “I say, this is awkward.” She made a quick curtsy and turned to her host. “Lord Stanfield. Mr. Kennedy has asked me to tell you—” She hesitated.

  “Yes, yes, dear, what is it?” Flush from too much wine and—one could only assume—woman, Lord Stanfield wrinkled both brows and dipped closer. “Has there been trouble?”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid there is no delicate way to put it. A dead body has been found.”

  The stately lord jerked upright in horror. And there were gasps from his gentlemen friends.

  Stanfield pivoted. Without a single word of verbal exchange his associates removed themselves from the library along with the female companion.

  From the corner of her eye, Cassie slyly observed Delamere’s reaction. She noted a shift in his eyes. Nothing new there. She caught a partial glimpse of the study over his shoulder. Where was the chap she had overheard him conversing with? Firelight flickered into the corners of the room, but not a shadow of movement otherwise. No doubt the younger man was already out the window and down the lane.

  Cassie returned to Stanfield. “Two men attempted to carry a man across your roof this evening. Mr. Kennedy and I witnessed the body fall out of their grasp and slide down the mansard onto the terrace. Mr. Kennedy is with the dead man now and wishes for you to send for the Criminal Investigations Department—without alarming your guests, of course.”

  “Yes … of course.” First startled, then dazed, Stanfield yanked the closest bell pull. “Good God. What’s the world coming to?”

  Cassie stifled a powerful urge to roll her eyes. “Indeed, your lordship.”

  Chapter Nine

  Zeno led the inspectors upstairs. As with many of the homes in Grosvenor Square, the third floor of Stanfield House accommodated a number of bedchambers. They passed through a formal sitting room in the alcove of the corridor and on to a series of guest apartments. He did not share the note he had received earlier this evening from the victim. He wanted time to study it—let the laboratory run tests. He wasn’t convinced Hicks-Beach had sent the message.

  The second suite on the right soon became the focus of the investigation, for it proved to be the crime scene. The room was both expansive and expensively furnished. A bold spray of crimson splashed across a gabled wall, with more evidence of murder smeared over the carpet and flooring. A single dormered window remained open, its shutters clapped from a gust of early morning air.

  The investigation department’s initial response was stated plain enough by Inspector Pate, a bald-headed man with a great ruff of whisker. “The most obvious scenario is the victim made his way up here for an assignation. Either with another guest or for a quick tumble with one of the maids.”

  Zeno waited for the inspector to wink. Ah, there it was, right on cue. While Pate voiced an inventory of the crime scene, Zeno quietly explored the adjoining dressing room and discovered a servant girl cringing in the corner. He coaxed the wild-eyed, trembling maid out of the closet, but she remained too hysterical to offer any coherent information.

  There was nothing left to do but wait until she calmed herself. Eventually, they were able to wheedle something resembling a lucid story from her.

  She had been sent upstairs to turn down the beds. “I heard two people enter the room.” The girl stuttered. “Gentlemen, by their voices. I was about to excuse myself when I heard a bit of a tussle. Several punches were thrown, then a gasp and a gurgling noise. Gave me a chill it did, so I peeked around the dressing room door. A man stood with his back to me. His hand gripped a silver blade—dripping red. The other gent was on his knees …” The girl shivered, but her misty gaze never wavered. “Covered in blood he was, his throat cut, ear to ear. The poor bloke tipped to one side and over he went onto the rug.” A tear dribbled down her cheek. “For the life of me all I could think was … we’ll have to pitch the beautiful carpet.” She finally broke down and sobbed. “Was it evil of me to think such a wicked, silly thought?”

  The weeping maid sat on a bench at the foot of the four-poster. “People often think nonsensical things when frightened.” Zeno bent down to reach her eye level. “Did you happen to get a look at the man with the knife?”

  “He took out a pocket square and wrapped up the dagger.” She paused for moment then shook her head. “Never got a good look, sir. I was scared—crept back into the corner you found me in.”

  Zeno straightened with a sigh. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “The door opened and closed—at least twice. There were heavy footsteps. Men speaking in low voices.” The girl looked up at him. Liquid eyes searched his face. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Maggie Rose.”

  “Hiding in the dressing room likely saved your life, Miss Rose.” Zeno mulled over the threads of information gleaned from the servant girl and made several mental notes. After a second perusal of the bedchamber, he excused himself and returned to the ballroom with Inspector Pate.

  Things appeared well in hand as guests were systematically interrogated and released by the officers on site. The names of everyone in attendance were taken, just in case the Yard had further questions later on. Little did the Stanfields realize how fortunate they were to have William Pate on the scene.

  Pate turned to Zeno with a look of sympathy. “Christ, Zak. You can’t get a night out without being put to work.” He slapped him on the back affectionately.

  “Have you called a photographer?”

  The inspector grunted. “It will take a while. Can’t use any of the newsboys.”

  “Before I debrief your men, I must first escort Lady Rosslyn home.” Zeno nodded to Cassie, who stood beside Lady Stanfield.

  “You’re with her?” Pate raised an appreciative eyebrow. “How is it Special Branch men get all the pretty women?”

  Zeno tugged a side of his mouth upward. “I think your wife and three lovely daughters would take issue with that statement.”

  Cassie excused herself and crossed the grand foyer. He particularly enjoyed the subtle swing of her hips, and the way her bosom quivered ever so slightly with each step. He cuffed himself mentally for such prurient thoughts. “Cassandra St. Cloud, Lady Rosslyn, may I present Inspector Pate, from the Criminal Investigation Department?”

  Cassie acknowledged the detective’s bow with a gracious smile, mixed with a kind of electrified nervousness. The effect was distracting, to put it mildly.

  “Inspector.” She nodded to Zeno and back again. “Are there any suspects as yet?

  “Little hope on the horizon, Lady Rosslyn, but it is early in the game.”

  “Indeed,” Cassie replied. “I’d say it is very early—past three in the morning.”

  Zeno stepped closer. “I am to make a break shortly and will see you home.”

  “Oh, Mr. Kennedy!” A frightful, high-pitched cry emanated from the stairwell behind them. Zeno cringed at the sight of the matronly woman and her two young charges. Overwrought and frightened by the lurid, dangerous events of the evening, the woman appeared determined to push both young ladies in front of him.

  “I do hope you remember our previous acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy? Two summers ago—Lord and Lady Fitz-Maurice? We met at Culzean.”

  “How may I be of service, Lady Fitz-Maurice?”

  The histrionic woman clasped his arm and snapped out her fan. “I can hardly express what a comfort it is to have you here, Mr. Kennedy.” The fan fluttered over a plump face flushed with nervous perspiration. “I find it affects my nerves nonetheless. Imagine such terrible goings-on during a ball. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” The woman actually created a breeze with her flapping. “I don’t believe you have met my nieces? Clara and Violet de Blois, may I present Zeno Augustus Kennedy?”

  He turned to the young ladies, a debutante version of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, though not quite as round. “Very pleased to meet you both. Miss de Blois.” He kissed the offered han
d of each young lady. “And yet another lovely Miss de Blois.”

  “Mr. Kennedy is related to of one Scotland’s finest, the Earl of Cassilis, Sir Thomas Angus Kennedy.” Lady Fitz-Maurice winked at her charges.

  Zeno demurred. “A poor relation, I’m afraid.”

  Cassie stepped close and murmured in his ear. “One certainly can be charming when one makes an effort.” She took his arm and nodded to the ladies. “It’s been a frightfully long night, has it not? And Mr. Kennedy has been kind enough to insist on seeing me home.”

  Without further delay, Zeno and Cassie slipped out of the ballroom and into his brougham. Once the carriage turned out of the square, they both exhaled a sigh of relief.

  “I don’t know which is worse—murder in an upstairs bedchamber, or Lady Fitz-Maurice.” Zeno tugged on his tie and loosed his collar.

  Across the cabin, mysterious silver eyes sparkled. “Oh, I don’t know—how about Lord Delamere in the study having a slap on the back and a toast with a foreign young man? ‘Nasty business. Cheers anyway. Lay low—there’s work yet to be done.’”

  Zeno settled his gaze on her sly, devilish grin. “Sleuthing, Cassandra?”

  She straightened her gown and returned his stare. “I thought to find Stanfield in the library, not Lord Delamere.”

  “Begin—” Zeno leaned forward. “At the beginning.”

  “After I left you on the terrace, I asked after Lord Stanfield and was directed to the library, which I found to be dark and empty. Stanfield’s study, however, was quite occupied and the door ajar—a crack. Enough so I could overhear the conversation between two gentlemen. As I approached the study I recognized Lord Delamere’s voice. He congratulated—or rather, commiserated with—another man who answered in a rather pronounced accent.”

  “Irish or French?”

  Cassie tilted her head. “Why, it was French.”

  “I interrupted. Please continue.” She appeared delightfully alive, though nervous. “The foreign gentleman indicated there was yet more work to be done, and Delamere advised him to go out and trifle with a few young ladies.”

  “Is that all?”

  She shook her head. “I believe they were preparing to leave the study when the door creaked and opened farther.”

  Zeno’s jaw tightened. “They saw you?”

  “I knocked the instant the door moved. Delamere had scant time for suspicion.” She brushed aside his concern and quickly added another layer. “Lord Stanfield appeared shortly thereafter.” She cleared her throat. “With his gentlemen friends … and a …”

  “And a?”

  “A young lady, a maid perhaps. It appeared as though the men had been …”

  “Enjoying her?” Cassie nodded. Zeno fell back onto the plush squabs of the seat bench. “So Delamere knows about the body?”

  She grimaced. “And his friend—wherever the man disappeared to. Out the study window is my guess.”

  Zeno snorted. “Sorry to put a damper on the Frenchman’s social life.”

  “You believe he and Delamere had something to do with the murder?”

  He shouldn’t encourage her but grinned anyway. “And what do you believe, Cassandra?”

  Her eyes glowed with excitement. “I watched Delamere’s face closely when relaying your message to Lord Stanfield.” She leaned forward. “Shifty eyed.”

  He did not wish to unduly alarm Cassie, but she underestimated Delamere and his kind. These men would take no chances. If they were in the slightest way suspicious, they would assume the worst. She was in danger.

  She tilted her head, curious. “And what did your investigation turn up?”

  Zeno sighed. “The murder took place in an upstairs bedchamber. There was a struggle and a stabbing before the victim’s throat was cut. I was able to identify the dead man. Seems he was a member of a cadre of blackmailers.” Zeno hesitated. “This may be a bit awkward, but your former brother-in-law is one of them.”

  “Gerald?”

  “He is under surveillance … amongst other peers.”

  Storm clouds formed behind her luminous gray eyes, and a sudden chill. She studied him for a moment before looking past his shoulder and out the carriage window. “So … your offer of escort to the Stanfield ball?”

  “By your invitation.”

  Her gaze darted back. “I take it back.”

  “Too late.”

  The carriage traversed Belgrave Square and a flicker of gaslight illuminated the inside of the coach. There was no denying the flash of anger and hurt in her eyes. “You used me.”

  “Yes.” Zeno set his chin. “And I might have caught the murderer had I not been so distracted by you.”

  She frowned. “Or you could have been killed.”

  “Possibly, but not likely.”

  Her eyes bulged wider. “You’re blaming me for the murder of this young man?”

  “No, of course not. I blame myself—”

  Cassie crossed her arms in a huff. “From now on you can attend social events on your own, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “I suppose I might have prowled about the ball on my own.” He reached across the aisle and untied her evening wrap. The shawl slipped off her shoulders. “But I wanted to go with you, Cassie.”

  “How perfect to use me as—” She frowned and tugged her wrap together. “What do you detectives call it?”

  “Cover.” He stared into liquid mercury eyes, full of the devil. “Sadly, we live in close proximity to Mayfair.” He flicked the lever of the carriage door and helped her out of the carriage.

  Zeno trailed behind a bouncing sweep of black velvet bow and bustle until they reached her doorstep. She removed a key from her reticule, pressed the latch, and turned the knob.

  “Good night, Cassie.”

  “Good night, Mr. Kennedy.”

  He reached out and stopped the door from closing. “That is twice now you’ve called me Mr. Kennedy.” Pressing closer, his words fell against plump lips that parted ever so slightly. “I don’t like it anymore.”

  Chapter Ten

  He had wanted to kiss her. Badly. Zeno cracked an eye open. Sleep had proved impossible, and the lovely Cassandra St. Cloud was entirely to blame. The lush greenery of Kent rushed by his compartment window barely noticed. As it was, he would use the next couple of hours on the train to muddle through the established facts—and possible scenarios. The Viscount of Chelwood’s son, James Reginald Hicks-Beach, was dead, murdered for unknown reasons.

  One less Bloody Four member to be concerned with. Yet he felt sympathy for the family, even a modicum of pity for the young man, who did not deserve to die in such a vulgar manner. Then again, Hicks-Beach may not have been the actual liquidation target. At least one other guest had been invited upstairs to the crime scene. Zeno removed the note from his pocket and reread the brief, cryptic message. He would collect a few samples of the dead man’s handwriting for analysis.

  It was also possible Castlemaine was working his own plot using hired killers to eliminate the men who threatened to blacken his name. How simple it would be to set up Delamere to take the fall. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-ranking official made a deal and then attempted to run a scheme around Scotland Yard.

  The conversation Cassie overheard in the library could very well be related to the murder. As valuable as a man in the Home Office might be, Hicks-Beach had likely become a liability to the cause. The young man might have seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Something like a large shipment of explosives.

  He would debark at Tunbridge Wells and make his way from there to the family estate. He had no appointment with the viscount and did not expect his visit to be a welcome one. The telegram notification of James’s untimely demise had likely reached the Chelwood estate just hours ahead of him. The family would be in shock. Zeno hoped some would be able to gather their wits about them long enough for an interview.

  He closed his eyes and envisioned his enticing new neighbor. He was edgy, more so than usual. The woman
was a torture to him. And if he continued to have such indecent thoughts about her, he might have to chuck in the assignment and board the next train back to town.

  He had used Cassandra St. Cloud as convenient cover, but he very much enjoyed her company. Mixing business with pleasure was always a bit of a sticky dog. He needed an apology. Something effusively charming to make up for his lack of same.

  CALLED AWAY ON FIELDWORK STOP

  RETURN WEEK’S END STOP

  DO NO FURTHER SLEUTHING ON YOUR

  OWN STOP Z KENNEDY

  Cassie tore the wire into tiny pieces and let the bits scatter onto the polished marble floor.

  Deadly dull and impersonal of him. The perfunctory tone of his wire put her in a temper. And just like a man to be so overprotective and domineering. Groggy and out of sorts from a fitful sleep, she had lolled about in bed the morning long.

  How could one sleep after being so perversely treated? Oh yes, she was attracted to Zak, but she wasn’t entirely sure about him. He was rather an odd duck, crisply cold at times, though he had made quite an effort to be charming at the ball. Perhaps too charming. She should have suspected something.

  The question remained whether this was all an act on his part, a detective’s ploy to get close to a suspect. She recalled their almost-kiss on the dance floor, the terrace, and finally the one that nearly brought her to her knees in the foyer. She shook off a quiver that ran from belly to shoulders. The strong tremor of pleasure belied every ounce of indignation she supposed she ought to feel. But she did not. Just thinking about her desire last evening—yes, well, that was it, wasn’t it? She really must stop this nonsensical mooning about.

  Cassie took a stroll in the garden and tried not to think about Detective Zeno Kennedy. But it seemed there was no avoiding him. She had pulled but a few pesky weeds when Mr. Kennedy’s housekeeper shouted a cheery hello.