An hour later, Cassie was still shamelessly pumping the congenial woman for information on her employer.
“Oh dear me, it’s been near to three long years now since the horrific blast took the life of Mr. Kennedy’s mistress.” The pleasant, round-faced housekeeper pressed against the low, ivy-covered wall that separated the two yards. She quickly corrected herself. “I mean to say Mr. Kennedy’s actress acquaintance.”
“That is quite all right, Mrs. Woolsley, well-meaning gossip hounds have already informed me of the affair.” Cassie smiled reassuringly. “Frankly, I don’t know how I missed such a debacle. I was married at the time, recently returned from a honeymoon trip on the continent.”
His housekeeper tsked. “Poor dear. Your husband’s demise—you don’t mind my asking—an unfortunate mishap, was it?”
“Racing his cabriolet.” Cassie grimaced. “A ghastly sudden shock, but then I suppose accidents are that way.” In no mood to recall the event, she redirected Zeno’s housekeeper. “You were saying the press was up to their usual scandal mongering?”
“Oh yes, ma’am, sold stacks of papers, I’m afraid. Topped Mr. Kennedy’s pursuit and capture of the dynamiters for a time. To be right honest, your ladyship—”
“Mrs. St. Cloud, please.”
“Missus.” She nodded. “I did not know the poor woman’s name until Mr. Woolsley read it in the Daily Telegraph—Jayne Wells, an actress of some notoriety, I gather.”
The woman’s lively expression grew serious. “And poor Mr. Kennedy the morning of the burial services. Alone in the breakfast room all silent-like, looking for all the world like he needed a friend.” His housekeeper sniffled. “I asked if I might attend the funeral. I swear to you, ma’am, I’ll never forget the anguish on his face, eyes filled to the brim with tears. He took my hand and nodded yes, Lord bless him.”
So the stoic and taciturn Zeno Kennedy possessed a heart. Cassie’s earlier exasperation faded as she listened to Mrs. Woolsley recollect his grief and loneliness. Drat the man, she cursed silently. She had just spent the afternoon preparing to dislike him greatly.
“Such a bleak day it was, the sky opened up and poured a cold, hard rain. And him not moving an inch from the poor lady’s resting place for hours after the service. It took a good deal of prodding to pull him away from the gravesite.
“Mr. Kennedy lay in bed a week after with a fierce head cold caused by the damp and chill of that churchyard.”
From the laundry basket at her hip, Mrs. Woolsley lifted a corner of a bath towel and dabbed her eyes. “Ah well, then he throws himself into his work in search of her murderers.”
“And did that help with his grief?” For some urgent but unexamined reason she needed to know.
“I believe so, ma’am, though he’s suffered a few bouts of melancholy on and off.” The housekeeper brightened. “Mr. Kennedy does seem to be in better spirits these days.”
Mulling over the woman’s answer, Cassie nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Woolsley. Sorry to take up so much of your time.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, ma’am, though I best be getting back to my chores.”
Cassie resumed her walk down the garden path and onto the terrace. Her head whirled with a new understanding of the man.
For the hundredth time today, she was back at her front door with him. Never in her life had she experienced such arousal from something so trifling. But to stimulate a woman in such a deliberate way. He had left her flushed with desire, harboring an urgent need … to be kissed.
It must be the very kind of behavior accomplished libertines used to break down a woman’s resolve. Still, she did not believe the man could be so cruel. Except for the actress killed in the bombing, he had no reputation for his amourettes. And his grief for Miss Jayne Wells touched her, a bond of like suffering perhaps, but her heart felt a kinship with him, nonetheless.
Then the flowers arrived.
She ushered the delivery boy to the pedestal table in the foyer. The bouquet of blooms featured parrot tulips, lilies, daffodils, and deep purple irises. The talented florist had even wound sugared morning glories throughout the romantic, whimsical arrangement. Among the greenery she found a wire message.
FORGIVE ME STOP I AM A BEAST STOP
RETURN BY AFTERNOON TRAIN
SATURDAY TO KISS YOU STOP
ZAK
Her heart skipped a beat.
Circling the bouquet, she thought the foyer a fitting spot for such a veritable celebration of spring. And from such a charming beast, at that. Cassie grinned. She had complained of dullness in her life, and now look at her. A man was murdered last night and another had almost kissed her. Mother would be so pleased.
The hall clock chimed four o’clock, a reminder to dress for an evening out with old friends. She and Lydia and Jeremy were to attend a production of the new Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera, Ruddygore, at the Savoy. Afterward, they would enjoy a late supper and for once, she would have some jaw-dropping to gossip to share.
CASSIE STROLLED ARM in arm with Lydia while Jeremy paced ahead, weaving his way through a tangle of vehicles parked hodgepodge along the Strand. Lydia was in a funny sort of snit. “Lacked something of the sustained brilliance of The Mikado, but the opera has abundant charm among its more forbidding qualities.”
Cassie snorted a laugh more to herself than her friends. She knew a certain detective with abundant charm, among his more forbidding qualities.
“Oh, come now, Lydia, my dear Rose Maybud, there were some wonderful librettos. ‘When a man has been a naughty baronet.’” Jeremy leaped into a pirouette and landed in between them, singing snatches of tune from memory. “‘Oh why am I moody and sad?’” He waltzed Lydia then Cassie in circles.
Cassie twirled around laughing. “Jeremy, you know Lydia doesn’t admire comic songs the way you and I do.”
“It wasn’t my opinion. I read it in the Manchester Guardian.” Lydia snorted. “And I quite enjoyed The Mikado, if you recall.“
“Ah, here we are, ladies.” Jeremy opened his carriage door. “Shall we catch a late night sup at The Star and Garter?”
Lydia dipped her head as she entered the coach. “Verry’s, please.”
Cassie nodded. “Let’s have some of their bouillabaisse to order.”
Once they cleared a mangle of traffic on the Strand, their trip across town was brief. At Verry’s, they supped on a wonderful shellfish soup. Jeremy and Lydia had a slice of butterscotch tart for dessert and Cassie ordered ice cream. Dessert was interrupted by John Collier, a prominent London figure artist who stopped by their table and started a heated imbroglio over a controversial article in the Magazine of Art. By the time they paid the check and left the restaurant, Lydia, who had a wonderful flair for the dramatic, had puffed herself up in a huff. “The article goes beyond candid. The ridiculous writer suggests male and female students work from the draped figure in segregated classes.”
Jeremy scoffed. “Life School is such moral poison, wot?” Cassie waited on the sidewalk listening to Jeremy and Lydia’s lively discussion. As Jeremy handed Lydia into the coach, he glanced down the street and turned pale.
The distinctive clatter of galloping hooves came from the sidewalk, not the street. She turned in the direction of Jeremy’s openmouthed gaze. A rampaging steed charged directly toward her. The rider, dressed entirely in black, wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and a scarf covered everything but his eyes.
She took a step back as the moment turned into a night terror, the kind of dream where her legs seemed mired in a bog. The clang of shod hooves striking pavers matched the throbbing of blood through her veins. Petrified screams filled her senses. Several blurred figures dashed out of the path of the dark rider as he leaned out of the saddle with his arm extended.
Her name, she thought she heard her name.
“Cassie!” Jeremy leaped across the path of the charging horse and pulled her out of the way. From ground level she watched horse and rider gallop past, the equine�
��s head strained against the bit, nostrils blowing. The stampeding charger tore down the street and vanished into darkness.
The pulse of waves crashing in her ears faded. Cries from onlookers turned into sighs of relief. The terrifying event passed as quickly as it had begun. The hysteria would soon turn into a different kind of buzz—one of speculation. What on earth had just happened? Several gentlemen, including a restaurant employee, ran after the strange rider.
Jeremy’s driver, Clarence, leaned over them. “Everyone all right?” He reached out and gave them each a hand up.
Lydia rushed to her side. “Thank God you are safe. You could have been run down. People have gone absolutely mad in this city.”
Jeremy ducked his head to look her in the eye. “Nothing broken, I hope?”
Cassie patted down her skirt. “Perhaps a bruise or two. Nothing to fret over. Thank you, Jeremy. You likely saved me from grave injury.” The valet brought out several warmed bricks to heat the carriage, and they discussed the sobering, most peculiar incident until the carriage stopped in front of Lydia’s residence. Having exhausted every lurid detail, they ended the discussion with a ghoulish laugh over the affair.
“Do take a calmative this evening. Something with a bit of laudanum.” Lydia pressed close and they each turned a cheek for a kiss.
“I will be fine, Lydia. Please don’t worry.”
Jeremy saw Lydia to her door and popped back inside the carriage. When they made a turn out of Russell Square, Cassie pressed her nose to the window and made a spot of condensation. She turned to Jeremy. “We’re being followed.”
“Clarence mentioned the possibility.” He settled back into his seat. “What’s going on, Cassie?”
She met his gaze, and looked away. “You read about the murder at the Stanfield ball?”
“Of course. It made all the papers.” Jeremy rocked forward with the sway of the conveyance. “I thought your date suffered a fall—broken leg, was it?”
“But I did attend the ball, escorted by Zeno Kennedy.”
Jeremy perked up. “Your new neighbor—the Yard man?”
She nodded. “Quite a good dancer, as it turns out.”
Her friend’s eyes sparked with light even as he shook his head. “So … you’re intimating what happened at the ball may have something to do with the vehicle behind us?”
“Scotland Yard may have me under surveillance or protection, possibly both.” She pressed her lips together and nervously worked them back and forth. “Detective Kennedy and I discovered the murdered man last night. Actually, the body fell out of the sky.”
Jeremy leaned forward and took her hands. “Your fingers are ice.” He chafed her hands between his. “Slow down. Start at the beginning.”
Parked in front of Number 10, she and Jeremy sat in his carriage and talked. She told him everything, with the exception of names and the most sensitive details. He was one of her dearest friends. She did not wish to endanger him. They each took turns peering out of the window in the direction of a dark vehicle stationed well down the lane, near the mews entrance.
“I’m guessing they’re friendly. They haven’t tried to abduct you, as yet.”
“Jeremy!” Cassie erupted into nervous laughter. “Why ever would you say such a thing?”
He turned away from the window to stare at her. “About that dark rider this evening. I did not wish to say anything in front of Lydia, but I left out an important particular. The man nearly swept you up and carried you off.”
Cassie checked the street again. “Promise me you will keep this a secret between us, should you ever meet Detective Kennedy.”
“Why ever for—?”
She sighed. “It’s just that he’s—Mr. Kennedy, that is—well, he’s overly shielding and rather solicitous.”
Jeremy grinned. “Sounds chivalrous.”
She glared at him. “Promise.”
Her old school chum folded his arms across his chest and studied her. She raised a brow.
“Oh, all right, I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
“‘A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot?’” Zeno Kennedy without his coat caused a rush of heat to her cheeks.
Cassie answered with the last line of the sweet poem, a perennial itself, from the Oxford Book of English Verse. “‘’Tis very sure God walks in mine.’”
She hadn’t taken a single puff on the cigar before he caught her, bang to rights. “Join me, Zak. We’ll have a smoke together.“
“As you can see, I am not wearing a jacket.” He placed both forearms on the top of the garden gate and hooked an index finger around the tight roll of his cheroot.
“I will strike a bargain with you. I won’t tell a soul about your laxity of wardrobe if you, in turn, promise to keep my occasional use of tobacco a state secret.”
“I resolved some time ago not to breathe a word about the smoking. Your secret is safe with me.” He unlatched and pushed open the painted gate. Ancient, rarely used hinges groaned in protest. Both dogs got up to greet him, tails whipping merrily against his bootleg. “Oscar, Psyche, do not pester the landlord.”
He wore breeches and top boots with his shirt collar open and the sleeves rolled up. His attire could not have been more thoroughly improper and yet, he left her breathless. A fleeting memory washed over her. Her husband half-dressed in just this way. She had even sketched Thom in erotic dishabille.
Zak seemed to have an equally disturbing effect on her. She had not seen him in two days. Two days of making unnecessary trips downstairs to wander past that glorious bouquet trying to forget that handsome smile of his.
He took a position at one end of the cast-iron bench. “It is good to see you, Cassie.” He lowered and raised his eyes in appraisal.
A simple tray table painted with an Oriental motif sat beside the garden seat. She nodded toward a crystal decanter filled with amber spirit. “Shall I pour you a brandy?”
“I believe I will need a drink if I am to watch you draw down on a cigar.”
Cassie pressed her lips into a thin line to quell her amusement. What delicious fun it might be to provoke him this evening.
When they each held a brandy in one hand and a cheroot in the other, she moistened her lips and pouted, placing them well over the end of the cigar and sliding them slowly off its end. She sent a pink tongue out over the moistened tip again, for good measure.
He chuckled and shook his head as the color of his eyes changed to a deeper, Prussian blue. After a large swallow of brandy, he tilted his head and studied her intently. She rolled her Hoyo de Monterrey languidly back and forth between her fingers. “So, you’ve known about this dreadful sneaky habit of mine for some time?”
He placed his cigar on the tray. “I have an excellent view of both our gardens from my study.”
Her attention swept over the garden wall to the elegant set of palladium windows on the second floor of his town house. “Remind me not to go for a naked, free-spirited dance in the moonlight, since you enjoy spying on people in their most private moments.”
He pointed to his ear. “Did I tell you that I have trouble with my hearing from time to time?”
“No doubt you wish for us to sit nearer together?” She scooted over.
“An old service injury—can’t be helped. Nitro explosion.” He gathered a handful of her skirt in his hands and tugged gently.
She shifted half an inch. “Any closer and I’m in your lap.” She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.
With her lips inches away from his mouth, she could hardly focus on anything else. She lifted her cigar. “Fire me up, sir?”
“Very well, Cassie.” He covered her hand with his, and peeled away one fingertip at a time. Next, he quite purposefully removed the stogie from her hand and placed it beside his unlit cheroot.
“I presume you have attended a scientific exhibition of the electric arc light? I myself have witnessed Mr. Tesla run a rainbow of phosphorescence through his body.” She inched clos
er and whispered, “Do you think we might be able to illuminate Lyall Street?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I have a theory that on our first attempt, we could light up all of Belgravia.”
She licked her lower lip. “I require a demonstration, sir.”
He used his thumb to tease her lips apart and began with soft, playful bites. With each kiss, shivers and sparks rose up from deep inside her. His tongue slipped along the edges of her lips and he angled his mouth over hers, urging her to open.
Tentatively, her tongue met his. Her entire body responded to his kiss, which grew stronger, more urgent. His teeth scraped across her lips. Carried away, she bit him back, sharply. “Sorry.” She touched the raw mark she made with her finger.
“And you shall be punished.” Sweeping her up onto his lap, he cradled her in his arms. “I must ask your opinion …” His words brushed softly over her lips. “Do you prefer this?” He kissed her mouth, and used his teeth to hold, then slowly release her bottom lip.
His voice changed to a gruff whisper. “Or do you enjoy something deeper?” He licked the inner edge of her lip before delving in.
“Perhaps the answer is both?” He kissed a small mole at the side of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, the tip of her chin before he found an earlobe and nestled his head for a moment.
“Mm-mm,” she murmured. “I could hardly have one without the other.”
He toyed with a few loose waves of hair before he pulled back to sweetly nuzzle the tip of her nose. “My powers of concentration on the job have recently become impaired, Cassandra.” Blue eyes flashed with dark, fiery sparks. “And I am sure you are the cause of it.”
“The flowers you sent are beautiful.”
“I take it I am forgiven?”
“A reprieve might be in order.” Cassie fingered a bit of trim on his shirt. “I must admit to a rather disturbing adventure in your absence.”
“Ah, the incident in front of Verry’s.” His wide-set, sensuous mouth thinned. “I’m afraid my men weren’t able to chase down the rider. Their orders were to stay with you.”
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 10
