“No, ma’am. Whenever I sit for Mr. Collier he prefers people come and go—likes to keep things out in the open.” She snorted a girlish laugh. “He says it puts to rest any ideas people have about artists and their models.”
Cassie swished a brush in turpentine and wiped it on a rag stained with daubs of color. The scent of solvents and linseed oil permeated the air. He took in the effect of northern light as it streamed through a bank of tall windows. Flesh tones came alive bathed in soft illumination and rich, dark shadow.
Transfixed by the atmosphere in the studio, he perched himself on the edge of a rustic wooden stool. From his new position to one side of the easel, he discovered a most pleasing view of the model’s figure. A perfect S-curved spine pointed the way to a shapely dimpled rump.
“Miss Sally Fincher, I’d like you to meet Mr. Zeno Kennedy.”
He stood and nodded to the young woman. “Miss Fincher.” Feeling more than a trifle odd, he resumed his seat. Cassie appeared amused yet compassionate.
“Sally poses for both public and private sale works. She is perfectly comfortable and unapologetic about her chosen profession.”
Without so much as a break in the pose, the girl muttered a quiet, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kennedy.” Eyes a bit wider, her gaze lifted. “The famous Yard man who solved the St. John’s Wood murders and brought the Underground bombers to justice? That Zeno Kennedy?”
Zeno cleared his throat and tried not to let his eyes wander. “I was one of several agents who worked those cases.”
Perspiration broke out on his forehead and temples. He had never in his in life attempted polite conversation with a strange unclothed Englishwoman. Cassie had mentioned this young lady modeled for private sale works, artists’ code for erotic art shown by appointment only and kept in a gentleman’s study. He placed one foot on a lower rung of the stool and the other on the floor. Eased the burgeoning discomfort.
Cassie dabbed together pigment powders with oil. “Sally models for John Collier’s studies of Lady Godiva. Are you familiar with his work?”
What a predicament he found himself in. A trial of some sort, he guessed, and if so, he fervently hoped he would pass the test.
“I have seen his work at the Grosvenor Gallery. The painting Lilith, I believe, recently caused quite a controversy.”
Cassie’s mouth twitched upward and he breathed a sigh of relief. Silently he thanked Mr. Collier, whose stunning female nudes made his artwork nearly impossible to forget.
“Do I make you uncomfortable, Mr. Kennedy?” The young model actually sounded a bit self-conscious.
Zeno ran a finger around his inside shirt collar. Perhaps, he might try a little less formality. “Not at all, I was just admiring your lovely dimples, Miss Fincher.”
The remark caused both women to laugh and quite effectively broke the ice. “The light is so perfect right now, I hope you don’t mind if I work a little longer?” Cassie rang for help and requested tea to be served in the studio salon.
He racked his brain for a subject that might help pass the time less awkwardly.
“Aha! The exhumation and opening of Abraham Lincoln’s casket.”
“The what?” Both women spoke at once.
“It was the talk of the office this morning, in all the papers. The press, up to their usual conjecture, disregarded the most straightforward explanation.”
“That being?” Cassie’s brows knit together as she applied vibrant rosy red strokes to golden skin tones. Swirls of red layered onto yellow tones and pale green hues; all the strokes made up a flesh tone that vibrated with life.
“A security check. They wanted to make sure the dead president remained ensconced in his coffin.”
Zeno found the ladies quite taken with the more ghoulish parts of the story, including the fact that they had embalmed Lincoln so many times his body had not decayed. “Indeed, he was perfectly recognizable, even more than twenty-odd years after his death.”
So much for delicate feminine constitutions.
The room darkened as afternoon clouds threatened a bit of weather. “We might as well end the session, Sally.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The model pulled on a wrap and stepped behind a dressing screen.
To gain a better view of the canvas, Zeno sidled closer to study the work in progress. “I believe you are quite an accomplished artist.” Almost at once, he recognized his comment to be an abysmal evaluation of her artistry. The look she flashed him confirmed it. And on second thought Zeno found the accomplished remark cursory and cowardly.
Straightaway he set about to do it better justice. “Your work has a stylized quality reminiscent of the poster and handbill artists of Paris.” Zeno leaned in for a closer look. “Simple, graceful shapes of line and bold color.”
He straightened. “I must say, however, I find the emotional context a bit unsettling. There is a sorrow, brought about by her expression and the way you have exaggerated the angle of her body. The loneliness of great beauty, perhaps?”
She nodded. “La tristesse de grande beauté.” Judging by the gleam in the artist’s eyes, he had redeemed himself.
The artist’s model emerged from behind the Oriental screen. He marveled at how modest she looked in plain coat and dress, gripping a simple hat. Transfigured from nubile goddess into ordinary London shopgirl.
“Take some tea with us, Sally,” Cassie offered.
“Oh no, Mrs. St. Cloud, I’d best be getting home.” She turned to pay her respects. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Kennedy.”
Zeno nodded. “Likewise, Miss Fincher.” Sally made a quick curtsy and disappeared down the stairs.
Finally, they were alone. “That was rather stimulating, Cassandra.”
“You might as well get used to naked models about. Men as well as women.”
“As long as the men are smallish and not particularly well-formed. Perhaps a homunculus or two?” He brought her hand to his lips and moved to the inside of her wrist. He inhaled French perfume mixed with turpentine. “During my years in military intelligence, I have known palace courtesans in Burma who did not smell this exotic to me.” Apparently, he was unable to control his wicked urges and protective affections for the young widow. Strangely exhilarating.
“Burmese courtesans?”
“Mm-mm, lovely women who were most instructive.” Zeno reached out and drew her close. “I have a proposal—a compromise of sorts.”
He rubbed the curve of her back. “I must ask you again to avoid any further contact with Lord Delamere and his cohorts. This includes your former brother-in-law, Gerald St. Cloud.”
He caught the slight flicker and roll of her eyes. “You’ll get no argument there.”
“That means no soirees, musicales, formal teas, charity balls—unless the event is de rigueur for some unfathomable reason.” Zeno continued to focus on her. “You are in danger. Delamere likely believes you heard more of his conversation in Stanfield’s library than you actually recall. Your association with me increases your jeopardy.”
“You’ve had me followed.” Cassie pulled away. “And you know about last night?” She chewed her lip.
Zeno exhaled quietly. “I do.”
A lovely eyebrow arched. “Aren’t you the nosy one?”
“I happen to be very good at nosy.”
She pressed her lips together. A habit, he observed, often used to hide a myriad of emotions. What was it this time—anger, frustration, amusement? What he appreciated most about the expression was the lovely dimple that appeared. She ventured closer, slightly wary. “Proud of yourself, are you?” She spread her fingers across his waistcoat.
He grinned. “I am.” His gaze dropped to her pale rose lips.
She, in turn, focused on his mouth. “You’re a man of few words this afternoon.”
He had to have her. Or at the very least … Zeno pulled her against him. He kissed her long and slowly. He did not release her right away but held her in his arms.
“If you agree to cooperate, I have a rewar
d for you. A new assignment.”
“What kind of assignment?”
“You are certainly not the delicate, swooning sort.” He smoothed a few wisps of hair off her temple. “You are of the bold and beautiful stripe, Cassie. Willful and woefully liberated—independent—whatever you chose to call it. And since trouble follows wherever you go, I will have to arrange my schedule to fit yours. Which is why I thought you might enjoy a bit of adventure with Detective Kennedy.”
“I am intrigued. Tell me more.”
“There is a surveillance planned for this evening and I am sadly out of contact with two agents. You and I will be taking up the post. We’re following up a lead—a possible anarchist’s safe house. You will need to borrow some wardrobe from your maid. Tart it up a bit.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What do you say? Accompany me on an evening of detective work. That is, if you are not previously engaged with some boring ton event. I hope not.”
“Did you not just declare I no longer have a social life?” She returned a soft, playful kiss. “How long have I to prepare?”
The sparkle in her eyes brought him such happiness that he, oddly, found himself grinning again. “Plenty of time. I’ll not fetch you until after dark.”
The soft patter of footsteps came from the stairs. One of the house staff adjusted a platter laden with delicacies.
“Well then, may I change the subject while we take tea together?” She cleared a spot on a low table for the scrumptious tray. “I do have a burning question.”
“Yes, Cassandra?” He strolled around edges of the room.
The small salon off the studio embodied the quiet ambience of a Parisian apartment. Cassie had left the polished wood floors bare, and the continental furnishings included a wide chaise longue and slip-covered bergère chairs. Several gilt easels in the room displayed framed paintings. All of the works were a riot of color and energetic brushwork. He took more than a few moments to examine several of the paintings.
“How do you take your tea, Zeno?”
“Is this your burning question?” To which he received an arched eyebrow and look of mock irritation. “Cream, no sugar.”
He took the cup and saucer from her.
“About the large door, here on the second floor, that goes to nowhere.” She set her cup on her knee and stirred. “I must confess, after wondering about it for weeks now, I seem unable to determine a use for it.”
Zeno grinned. “Ah yes, this is it, the burning—?”
“This is it.“
“It is quite the architectural oddity, is it not? As you no doubt suspect, we have connecting rooms, Cassie. But do not fear, you are quite safe from me, for it is impossible to open.”
Cassie smirked. “How impossible?”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost the key.” He smiled his apology. “Long ago, our two residences were once part of a much greater manse. They were converted just before I purchased them. I did a modest renovation to both homes a few years ago, which mostly involved additional plumbing to the baths and kitchens. I thought about sealing the space off at the time, but I’m afraid it just didn’t get done. Is it a bother to you?”
She chuckled softly. “Goodness, no. Doors that go nowhere, but lead somewhere? I quite like such architectural eccentricities. And this is all rather Lewis Carroll, is it not? It seems we have a Through the Looking-Glass door between our two worlds.”
“HONESTLY, ZAK, MUST I again?” Cassie snuggled against him in the smelly old hired coach. They were parked on a dark street, she surmised, somewhere north of the Docklands.
“Just once more,” he urged again. “Humor me.”
“Why do you call it a legend?”
“It’s your cover, a false biography.”
“And what is yours, might I ask?” She raised a brow.
Taken aback, Zeno tipped his cap and scratched his head. “You’re quite right. You must know mine as well.”
He grinned. “Derek Ferguson. I been meaning to tell ye I work for Mrs. Jeffries, abbess to the finest house o’ pleasure in the district. Yer employer, as well, my pretty French lassie.”
His marked, working-class accent made her smile. “So, you are from Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Aye, ye ken the brogue. I canna seem to shake it.” Zeno wore a shy smile. “I dinna why.”
“Let’s see,” she teased. “Jekyll and Hyde. Ferguson or Kennedy? What difference, Derek?”
A close-lipped smile appeared. “Aye, I am Derek sure enough, but I wouldna’ wish to see ye hurt, should I put ye to work. Ye need practice. Humor me, lass.”
She nodded. In actuality, she enjoyed the diversion, thrilled to be a part of what appeared to be a fairly benign surveillance operation. Zeno said they were shooting in the dark tonight, with little hope this particular drop would turn out to be of interest.
Just an hour earlier, she had rendezvoused with Zeno in the mews. A hansom cab took them to Charing Cross Station, where they debarked and paid the driver. He then escorted her several blocks, where they boarded a shabbier rented carriage. Cassie had not realized their driver was an actual member of the undercover team until they arrived at a location Zeno called the dead drop.
“Name?” Zeno asked.
She answered in a voice laced with French inflection. “Émilie Seguret.”
“Origin of birth?”
“France, monsieur, un petit village près d’Avignon.”
“How long have you been here, in London?”
“Own-lee, uh, how do you say, deux monz?”
“Lovely patois, Mademoiselle Seguret. And who am I?”
“Derek Far-goo-son, my procue-rare, une escort, un protecteur.”
“How much?”
Cassie delivered the line with plenty of attitude. “I sink, monsieur, more zan vous can aff-ford?”
This time Zeno broke out in a grin. “You are a natural born charlatan, Émilie.”
She wore a short, ruby red coat, fitted at the waist, which he began to unbutton. “Let’s see what kind of costume you and Cécile put together.”
The coat covered a skirt of muted plum with a sweep of darker violet folds at her waist. A tight-fitted bodice barely covered a thin chemise. The transparent effect created the most arousing exposure of her breasts.
Zeno swallowed hard. “I believe that will do.” He buttoned her up.
“You told me to tart it up, Zak. I have a tattoo, should you wish to display it, but I daresay it requires even more exposure.”
He blinked. “A tattoo?”
Good lord, she’d blurted it out before she could stop herself. “Nothing unseemly. Just a little something, almost sweet in a way.”
“Which reminds me.” He removed a small package tied with string from his coat pocket. “My partner and I found ourselves in Piccadilly trailing a rather nervous gent. We followed him into Fortnum & Mason—had to purchase something.” He placed the little box in her hands.
“I am a customer of their tea and coffee. I might have given you my shopping list this morning.” She untied the colored twine and opened the small package. Inside she discovered four exquisite Belgian chocolate truffles, wrapped in delicate pastel, translucent paper.
Cassie unwrapped a truffle and bit into the buttery sweet. “Mm-mm, very delectable. Raspberry cream.” She held the remaining half in front of his mouth. “Open.”
Zeno complied without protest and Cassie popped in the chocolate confection.
“Yes, ‘mm-mm’ does describe it.” Zeno cut his comments short to observe two rough-looking characters on the street. His gaze followed them until they moved well past the drop site. “I believe we were on the subject of a tattoo, and where might it be located?”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Promise not to scold?”
“The very last thing I feel toward you, my dear, is paternal.”
“When I was seventeen, I spent a summer in Paris as a part of an apprentice course of arts study. There were just four of us Brits accepted, of which I was the yo
ungest and the most naive, if you will.” Cassie adjusted herself against his chest and the warmth of his body. “This is going to be embarrassing.”
“For you or me?” he challenged.
“Me, cheeky spook.”
Zeno muffled a laugh against her hair.
“One night,” she continued, “I was feeling wickedly and perversely mutinous after receiving a harsh critique. I broke my curfew, went out with some older students and got pissed. Our rooms were close to the Sorbonne. There was an artist in the Latin Quarter who used the human body as his canvas. We all agreed that Etienne’s work, especially his color palette, was extraordinary. The pack of us were always poking our noses into his small shop.”
“Don’t tell me, someone dared you to do it.”
Cassie straightened slightly and nodded. “I can’t remember whether it was Lydia or Jeremy.”
“And?”
“And, there’s not much to tell.” She shrugged. “It was all over in little more than an hour. The group stayed to cheer me on during the procedure. I hardly remember any of it. I believe I vomited on the way back to my poorly supervised university apartment.”
The breath from his laughter played with the wisps of hair at her temples. “And, where is this work of art located on your person?”
“On my left hip. About here.” She pointed in the general area.
Zeno pushed her away and sat upright. “I must have a look.”
The frown in her voice matched her facial expression. “Remember you are on the clock, sir.”
“Yer wearin’ a skirt, lass. I willna’ get ye naykid, although I wouldna’ mind it.” Zeno used his most persuasive accent on her.
Cassie groaned. “I can describe it for you.”
From a side compartment of the coach, he produced an object that appeared to be some kind of telescopic instrument.
“They’re always passing out new spy gadgetry at the office. I suppose they make us out to be a gullible bunch of test subjects.”
Zeno twisted the brass-and-nickel-plated cylinder. Nothing. He then banged the instrument in the palm of his hand and instantly a narrow beam of light appeared at one end.
“A little torchlight for my examination.”
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 12
