And those breasts. She tilted her head. Well, they seemed a great deal plumper than her own. Dear lord, how on earth had this happened?
Cassie quite emphatically had never posed for this picture. Granted, she had enjoyed a somewhat wild and carefree youth when compared to most young women, but she certainly never removed her clothes for an artist, including …
She searched the bottom of the painting for a name. G. Laschate. Gregoire Laschate? She recognized the name from art school. An artist-in-residence, her second term at The Newland School. Was he aware she showed at the Durand-Ruel Gallery, as well?
She bit her lower lip and approached one of the exhibit workers. “Might you show me to the gallery director’s office?”
A young fellow led her through a labyrinth of freshly painted walls, all hung with works featuring bold strokes of vivid color. Making their way down a narrow corridor, her escort opened the door to a small, cluttered office. A thin dark-haired man with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose gave her a look up and down before springing to his feet.
“Mademoiselle?”
“My name is Cassandra St. Cloud, monsieur. I believe I have several paintings ready to hang here in the gallery?”
The glasses dropped from his nose. Wide eyes and a lascivious grin told her everything she needed to know and feared most. He recognized her from Laschate’s painting.
Heat flushed from her neck to her cheeks as she straightened her shoulders. “There is also the matter of a painting set on an easel near the front of the gallery …” She faltered when the impertinent man bit back a grin.
“Oui, madame.” His eyes fell from her face to her breasts. “I believe I know the one you refer to.”
She lifted her chin. “I wish to have it removed, sir. If I am to show my work in the Durand-Ruel Gallery, I must be taken seriously. Not just by my peers, but by the public as well.”
“Madame St. Cloud, certainly you posed for such a beautiful work, why do you care—”
“I certainly did not, Monsieur …?”
“Excusez-moi. Paul Durand-Ruel.”
Cassie blinked. “You are the owner, monsieur?”
The man nodded a bow.
“Monsieur Durand-Ruel, I did not pose for Monsieur Laschat. Several years ago, I was a student of his—”
“Madame, no doubt the affair ended badly. But, what can I do?” The man threw up his hands. “I have agreed to show several of Laschate’s latest works.”
Men. French men to boot. Cassie stood upright, fuming. “You have also contracted to show my work, sir.” Her gaze remained steadfast, but she softened her speech. “Don’t you see? It is impossible this painting is one of his latest works. I have not set eyes on the man since art school.”
The slight, effete Frenchman gathered heavy eyebrows together as he twisted his mouth into a lopsided pout. It seemed he was at a loss to cope with the situation. “I must say your paintings are magnificent, Mrs. St. Cloud. I would hate to—”
“I have not traveled all the way to Paris to have my work cut from the show, sir.” Cassie’s gaze darted around the office as she tried to think. “If you would be so kind as to give me Mr. Laschate’s address? I shall convince him to substitute another. Would that be acceptable to you, Mr. Durand-Ruel?”
“I regret the loss, but …” He opened a journal on his desk, pulled out a drawer, and picked out a fountain pen. He wrote the address of Gregoire Laschate’s studio on the back of his calling card. “If you convince Laschate to take it down, tell him I want the one of the dancer from the Moulin.”
“Merci.” Careful to appear respectfully deferential, she slipped the card into her reticule. “Now, before I leave, monsieur, might I have a look at my small space in your impressive gallery?”
ZENO CLAMPED HIS mouth into a thin line. They were in Paris, all right: the hired help was surly. Standing at the desk of the Hotel Pont Royale, he drew himself up to his full six feet. Both he and Rob looked a sight, covered in a layer of road dust, their faces raw from sun- and windburn.
He drew out his passport and calling card. “If there is no Mrs. St. Cloud registered here, might there be a Miss Erskine?”
The elder desk clerk answered with a single cocked eyebrow and another grudging glance through the hotel register. The old man ran a finger over the last names in the register. “Non, messieurs.”
Zeno racked his brain. Cassie could have easily changed hotels, but this location was their only connection to each other, unless a wire message waited him somewhere—but where?
He turned to Rob. “Did Cassie ever use another name, perhaps for her art?”
Rob shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pants pockets.
“Monsieur Kennedy!”
Zeno spun around. Cassie’s maid hurried toward them through the quiet lobby.
“Cécile?”
“Oh, monsieur, I have done a very bad thing!” the girl cried.
“Calm down, Cécile. It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh yes, it is.” She moaned. “I an idiot. I told a man—one who posed as Sûreté—about madame’s art show at the Durand-Ruel Gallery.”
“Never mind that, Cécile. Where is Cassie?”
The petite little maid burst into tears. “She has gone to the gallery, monsieur.”
He ignored his hammering heart and grabbed his passport and calling card. “Rob, you stay here with Cécile. If Cassie returns, keep her here and don’t let her out of your sight.”
Zeno queried the clerk, “La galerie Durand-Ruel … l’adresse?” He turned to Rob. “I’ll need you to alert the Sûreté, have them meet me at—”
Finally able to be of service, the hotel worker beamed. “Seize Rue Laffitte.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Her artist’s soul floated ten feet off the ground. Three of her paintings made an excellent showing in an alcove just off the main display room. A tingle of excitement surged through her body as she exited the gallery and climbed into the waiting cab. She unbuttoned her jacket and settled onto the hard leather bench for the long, uphill trip to the Montmartre district. There was still time to find Laschate and convince him to substitute another painting. She glanced at the carriages nearby and reminded herself to use caution. She was in Paris, alone.
And where was Zeno? She had wired Scotland Yard with the request that her message be forwarded immediately. But did the Yard have any idea of his whereabouts? She had certainly experienced her fair share of trouble. He, as well, must have encountered a myriad of delays and difficulties.
A recurring image crossed her mind. Zeno, lying injured and alone in some unknown alleyway. She refused to think of it. Gazing out the window at the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral, she sighed. She missed him, more than she could ever have imagined.
He was on his way. He had to be.
By the time she arrived at Rue de Montmartre, her initial surge of excitement over the exhibit had dissipated. Passing a corner bistro, she doubled back. Exactly what she needed, a good strong cup of Parisian coffee. At a sidewalk table she sipped the rich, hot café au lait and waited for her body to revive itself.
ZENO STOOD IN front of a painting at the gallery and ached for her. According to the owner, Durand-Ruel, he had missed her by mere minutes.
“Monsieur Kennedy?”
He pivoted toward the voice behind him and confronted a well-dressed young man, who nodded politely. “Metro Police. Inspector Jourdain.”
“Zeno Kennedy, Scotland Yard.”
“I have a cadre of men with me, sir, at your service.”
THE SUN’S LAST rays of light gave way to dusk as she climbed the narrow, steep walkway to Laschate’s residence. Oddly, she found the door wide open and the space deserted. “Monsieur Laschate?” Cassie ventured inside the studio. Nothing out of the ordinary. A number of unframed paintings were stacked against a wall in various stages of finish, and more recent works in progress on easels about the room.
She stepped into
the center of the studio and onto the platform where his muses posed. The paintings were of dance hall girls, in various stages of dishabille. His influence was Edgar Degas, though his work was not as bold as Degas’s vivid pastels of ballerinas and bathers.
Twilight suffused the studio in a cool incandescence, with more shadows cast than illumination. As she pressed farther into the darkened room, her stomach churned in a riot of flutters.
“Monsieur Laschate? Is anyone here?” Somewhere, in a distant room, a loud bang sounded. Cassie jumped and spun around. Instinctively she headed for the door but pulled up short when a figure cloaked in shadow approached her.
“Good evening, Cassandra. Or should I say bonsoir?”
A chill shuddered through her body. She strained to make out the tall, dark shape in the doorway entrance. “Lord Delamere. I urge you to give up this foolish idea of using me as a shield.” She frankly did not know where the words came from. Even though her knees quaked, her voice sounded strong and deliberate.
“Rather unsporting of me, isn’t it, my little English dove?”
Her mind urged her to flee, but her feet remained frozen to the ground. She pressed her arms against her sides and resisted the urge to tremble.
Delamere took a step forward and jolted Cassie into action. Placing one foot behind the other, she backed away from her would-be captor. The moment he lunged, she turned and ran. Spying a crack of light along the wall, she headed for a rear door. Damn this bustle and gown. She picked up her skirts to gain more freedom of movement. With every stride, Delamere’s footsteps closed in behind her.
She stopped just short of plowing into a thuggish brute, who opened and closed the exit door. Delamere slipped an arm around her waist and dragged her back into the center of the room. She struggled with each step as figures emerged from the shadows. More of Delamere’s men closed in. The heat of his breath scorched her neck. She kicked at his shins and scratched at his face.
“Damn it.” He dropped her.
Before she had a chance to back away, he reached out and caught her up again, pushing both wrists behind her back. She continued to struggle against the tall, powerful lord even as he pressed his body against hers.
Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Do not do something you will regret, sir.”
His face dipped so close she smelled hints of brandy and tobacco on his breath. “Anything I choose to do with you, Cassandra, I could never regret.”
He shoved her onto the platform and released her. “Now, Lady Rosslyn—or do you prefer Mrs. St. Cloud?” Delamere ogled her. “Or is it mistress to Zeno Kennedy?”
She rubbed her wrists and darted a glance about for any avenue of escape.
“I am done chasing after you, madam.” With a hand on his hip, Delamere took a leisurely turn around the end of the platform. “You may choose to run, in which case I will instruct Mr. Morel here to shoot you.” Cassie squinted at the wiry man in the corner. The man who had posed as the amenable Inspector Tautou emerged from the shadows with his pistol raised.
“Or you can relax and take your clothes off.” Delamere’s gaze raked over her. “Come, come, Cassie, you have done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”
She bit her lower lip and circled the platform like a caged wildcat. He had seen the picture at the gallery, waited for her, followed her here.
The odious man had the nerve to smile. “Take your time. There will be no one to interrupt our evening together. Laschate is safely tied up in his storage room along with an assistant. We are alone, Cassandra, except for my men, who don’t mind watching.” A number of shaded eyes moved up and down her torso. “Perhaps you might offer them a sample after you and I are finished.” She recognized one or two of the men and dropped her eyes to avoid leering gazes.
She forced down a tremble, lengthened her spine, and straightened her shoulders. She had no option but to defy him. “If you harm me in any way, Zeno will make sure you hang.”
Delamere tilted his chin. “Those Yard men do seem to attract the ladies, do they not, Cassandra? I daresay Mr. Kennedy is kept fully satisfied by you and his lovely Miss Wells.”
She frowned. “Jayne Wells is dead. Killed by a Fenian bomb, thanks to your support.”
“Ah, therein lies the rub, my pretty dove.” Delamere’s eyes crinkled even as his lips twitched. “The night Mr. Kennedy so admirably took a bullet for one of his colleagues, he also managed to arrest his mistress.” A malevolent grin formed on his face. “Risen from the grave, so to speak.”
His gaze took in the paintings surrounding her. “As it turns out, Mistress Jayne is an Irish nationalist sympathizer and her death, a sham. Quite neatly done, I must say. Hard to pull one over on Scotland Yard. Jayne specializes in bedroom favors to British government officials. Detective Kennedy, for example.”
Delamere halted. “I understand he has kept her under lock and key for weeks now. Under interrogation, he calls it. Strange he didn’t mention it.”
Cassie dared not blink, or tears would fall. Why should she believe him? The man might say anything to provoke her. “If what you say is true, Lord Delamere, there is a very good reason for his silence.”
“No doubt he is a man of many secrets.” His quiet sneer grated. It was meant to.
Cassie backed across the platform and he signaled one of his lackeys. Heavy arms grabbed hold. She struggled to break away from the man behind her. “Bring her closer.”
She bit her lip to keep from crying out as callused hands squeezed. Her arms ached under the constraint of the man’s grip and she braced herself against the pressure. The brute pushed her forward.
“There now, let’s see those pretty breasts we all got to admire in the gallery.” Delamere grabbed the front of her dress and ripped, exposing the lace of her camisole and her corset. She tried to twist her way out of the brute’s grip.
“Hold her steady.” Hook by eye, he unfastened the front of her corset and tore open her camisole.
A lecherous gaze skimmed her face before returning to her chest. “Lady Cassandra in the flesh.”
His eyelids lowered over eyes that glistened with hunger. “Exactly as remembered … that summer eve long ago. I observed you in the pond. Unawares, you touched yourself …”
The cool air of the darkened studio poured over the sensitive tips of her breasts, and she could not help but catch her breath. Several of his men moved closer.
“Twice now I have nearly enjoyed you. When was the last time?” He peeled back her camisole for a better view. “Ah yes, in the gallery at Margaret Fayette’s little soirée.” He actually chuckled. “Quite a spirited struggle, as I recall.”
Blood and fear pounded in her veins, as he reached out a milk white hand with long tapered fingers. She shook her head, but made sure to meet the eyes of the man who would rape her. Her heart drummed an erratic beat in her chest. “Please, I beg of you.”
“After I have you, it might amuse me to keep you—for a while.”
Cassie jumped as a loud bang echoed through the studio. Something spun Delamere around. The crackling sound of bullets rang through the air—at least she hoped they were bullets. Yes, she could see the bloodstain already forming on the man’s coat sleeve.
She pushed away from him as another gun fired. The man holding her collapsed. A red stain spread across his chest. With his good arm, Delamere grabbed Cassie around the waist and held on tight.
“Ne tirez. Hold all fire.” Zeno’s voice. Dear God, she was sure of it. A spark of renewed energy ran through her body. “Let her go, Delamere.”
“I shall retain the young lady awhile longer.” Cassie felt the cold steel of a pistol pressed to her side. Backing away in the direction of the front door, Delamere’s men drew their guns and fired into the black shadows of the studio.
Another volley of shots rang out. The smell of gunpowder and acrid black smoke filled the air. Men were dropping all around. She dug her heels in and dragged her feet.
Still, he managed to haul her over the body of a dead man sprawled across the floor.
He opened the door to the studio entrance. The cock of the pistol in her side made her stiffen. She shook off her fear and jabbed him in the ribs. A blow from behind spun them both around, forcing the pistol from her waist. She turned in time to see Zeno wrestle Delamere for the gun.
Zeno slammed Delamere’s hand into the stone wall, and the pistol fell. Cassie winced as the fiendish lord landed a punch to Zeno’s jaw that snapped his head sideways, enough to make him stagger. Before she could reach the gun, his lordship retrieved his pistol from the floor and flew down the stairs.
Shouts came from below. “Arrêtez!” French police ordered Delamere to halt. Shots rang out from the street as she ran into Zeno’s arms. He held her for a long moment before he shrugged off his coat and covered her. “Are you all right?” Numbly, she nodded her head. He gave her a sweet kiss. “I must go, Cassie.”
In a daze, she watched him disappear down the stairwell.
“Madame St. Cloud?” Cassie turned to face a pleasant-looking young man. He stowed his firearm and retrieved his card: Metro Police. Inspector Jourdain. “Let me escort you to my carriage.”
A rush of shivers in the policeman’s coach prompted her to pull Zeno’s coat tight to her body. She buried her nose in an upturned lapel and inhaled his scent. It came close to making her cry or swoon, she wasn’t sure which. The young policeman reached out and handed her a flask. “You are—en état de choc—shock, madame. You must drink, please.”
CUTTING A TIGHT corner, Zeno felt his foot slip into a treacherous crack between cobblestones. He sailed through the air before tumbling onto a slimy patch of steep road. He rolled to a stop at the end of the lane. “Bollocks.” A bloody ankle instantly began to swell. He looked up as Delamere’s cab turned the corner.
Ignoring the pain, he raced into a narrow alley, ducking laundry lines and climbing over dustbins. Vaulting a low wall, he emerged back onto a main thoroughfare, where he waylaid a vacant hansom cab. But where was Delamere?
An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Page 26
