An Affair with Mr. Kennedy Read online

  It was nearly dark. He remembered a scarf on the driver and scrutinized the cabs up ahead. After a mile of nothing, Zeno racked his brain. Drawing down the side window, he cautiously peered behind.

  Not three vehicles behind, a red scarf blew over the shoulder of a man sitting above a cab. Blimey. In the snarl of traffic he had ended up ahead of Delamere.

  Zeno shouted instructions to his driver, who found a spot to pull over. Delamere’s cab flew by. He sucked in a few deep breaths and ordered his mind. It was going to take everything in his power not to kill the man tonight.

  His driver quickly caught on to the game, deftly following the other cab at a distance. Once they were across the Seine and onto Boulevard Saint-Germain, he slowed his driver’s pursuit even more. Delamere must believe he had evaded both the Sûreté and Scotland Yard.

  Close to a turn in the river, Delamere ditched his cab and continued down the Rive Gauche. After a furtive glance about, he disappeared into a large gardenlike concourse, the Champ de Mars.

  Zeno asked his driver to wait and pulled his pistol.

  Excellent. The park was near empty. He crept quietly up on Delamere until he had a clear shot through an open pathway. Zeno took aim and fired. Delamere returned a few wild shots before he turned and headed straight for the cover of an enclosed building site. The looming ironwork of the tower thrust upward from the grounds like the metal framework of an erupting volcano.

  Zeno slammed up against a construction fence covered in handbills and poster art. Keeping his back against the wood, he peered around the barrier. The grounds were lit by several flickering gas lamps scattered among piles of iron girders and a huge steam-powered crane. A bullet shattered the wood next to his face and he squinted as a splinter cut into his lower cheek.

  Zeno dashed forward to take cover behind the imposing steam engine.

  He could just make out a wraithlike shape against the inky black of the river and the city sky. His lordship ascended a spiral of metal stairs situated inside one of the tower’s four legs. Zeno dashed across an open piece of ground, pausing at a stack of girders. He gazed upward and took half a second to admire the sheer scale of Mr. Eiffel’s iron monster.

  His lordship had boxed himself in. Delamere was his.

  Zeno reminded himself that the Sûreté would not be far behind and their gunshots would surely have attracted local gendarmes into the concourse. He made his way up the stairs just as Delamere leaped onto the zigzag pathway of scaffolding above. His lungs burned as he ascended the never-ending steps and reached the first-level platform.

  The defiant lord turned and took aim. Zeno likewise approached with gun drawn. “We’ve reached the end of the chase, Delamere.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of it.” The man’s coat sleeve was soaked in blood.

  Zeno halted his approach long enough to deliver one last warning. “You can give yourself up now, or we can holster our guns and wait until you pass out from blood loss. Up to you.” Inching closer, Zeno silently cocked his pistol.

  Glassy-eyed, Delamere swayed on his feet. “Think you’ve saved the empire, don’t you, Kennedy?”

  “As long as men like you are about, I stay busy.”

  Delamere stood near the edge of the platform, smirking. “God Save the Queen. Arrest Delamere. Case closed, not a stick of dynamite left unaccounted for? Nor a window left open? We shall see, Kennedy.”

  Zeno estimated they were somewhere around four or five stories high. If the ashen-faced lord fell into unconsciousness, his death was assured. Zeno reasoned it wouldn’t be long now. The man was speaking in riddles, a sure sign of delirium.

  “Say good-bye to Cassandra—”

  “You are not allowed to speak her name.” His own voice was foreign to him—otherworldly—as sharp and cold as shaved ice. “Another mention and I will shoot you dead.” Although quite suddenly he no longer wished for the man to die, at least not here in Paris. Delamere’s trial and subsequent hanging in Newgate gaol appealed to his sense of justice. For the crown as well as himself. Zeno steadily closed in.

  Delamere fired his pistol. Only there was no shot. Just the hollow, metallic click of an empty chamber.

  Zeno looked up from the barrel of his lordship’s pistol and grinned. “You’ve had your six, time to give up and go to jail.”

  The man threw the emptied revolver and retreated across the scaffolding. Zeno dodged the heavy metal projectile and grabbed a shoulder. Spinning Delamere around, he tossed off a good blow to the man’s right cheek. The injured lord staggered backward.

  Shouts and warning shots came from below. No doubt, from such a distance, it was impossible for the men gathering in the construction yard to tell them apart. He and his fugitive were dark shapes silhouetted against an indigo sky.

  Delamere got off a swing with his good hand, but missed. Teetering for a moment, suspended in midair, he lost his balance and careened backward.

  Zeno lunged forward and caught a slippery, bloodstained hand. Ropes holding the platform together twisted and snapped away. The whirl and hiss of cords whizzing through pulley blocks singed the air with the smell of burning hemp and greased metal. The crack and splinter of wooden planks separated underfoot, slamming them into the tower’s girders. One end of the catwalk tilted at a steep angle over the edge the tower.

  Caught off balance, the weakened lord fell to his knees and slid off the end of the scaffold. Thrown forward, Zeno struggled to keep hold of the dangling body that dragged him toward the edge of the platform and death. In desperation, he managed to jam a toe into the crook of a girder.

  Delamere swayed at the end of his faltering grip. Zeno squinted into velvet blackness. A head fell forward. His lordship had fallen into unconsciousness. The dead weight slipped from his grasp, inch by inch.

  “Damn you, Delamere.” He gritted his teeth and held on.

  Chapter Thirty

  “‘The daring police chase began in Montmartre and ended high above the city as two men dangled from the iron girders of Eiffel’s Tower.’” Cassie sipped her coffee and continued to read. “‘British and French police rescued and subsequently arrested one peer of the realm, Andrew Hingham, Lord Delamere, on multiple charges, including high treason against the British Crown.’”

  Breakfast started late this morning. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, not until the police assured her Detective Kennedy had delivered Lord Delamere safely into custody. She set down the paper. “Zeno will be pleased he avoided the spotlight.”

  Rob looked up from his own paper. “Ah, but you must read on, Cass. I’m afraid the news writers are already speculating about your Yard man. Listen to this: ‘It is now presumed the chase started days earlier, as Scotland Yard agent Zeno Kennedy pursued Lord Delamere from London to Calais to Paris, culminating in fisticuffs atop the tower last night in the Champ de Mars.’”

  Rob laughed aloud. “Ha ha, it gets better. ‘According to an early wire report, Calais chief of police claimed two gentlemen set out for Paris yesterday morning in a motorized carriage. He identified one of the men as Agent Zeno Kennedy.”

  Seeing her brother’s enjoyment over the mere mention of his roadster, Cassie could not help but smile.

  “And there appears to be another related item. Several paragraphs regarding our rescued heroine—that would be you, Cass—something about a dispute with an artist named Laschate. A nude portrait?” Rob layered a bit of egg on his croissant and winked at Cécile. Several times this morning, she had noted Rob’s interest in her maid. It seems her little brother was learning a few life lessons in Paris.

  A muffled knock sent Cécile scurrying inside to answer the door. She escorted Zeno out onto the garden terrace. Cassie’s heart raced, then fluttered as she and Zeno made eye contact. Fresh from the bath, clothes pressed, he looked the perfect semblance of a proper English gentleman, not the daring Yard man who had nearly fallen to his death from the Eiffel Tower. Her chest swelled and her lower body thrummed over the man standing before her.
/>   He came around to her side of the table and leaned over to kiss her. Why not? When in Paris, do as the Parisians do.

  “Good morning, Zeno.” At the last second she turned a cheek to him and he hesitated at her gentle rebuff. His lips brushed along her cheekbone.

  “Good morning, Cassie. After such a harrowing night, you look well.”

  Rob beamed at Zeno. “Oh yes, she’s in top form. We’ve been reading the papers, all about the chase and the scene at the tower.”

  Zeno scanned the familiar mansard rooftops of the city. “Sensational view.” His perusal stopped at the striking tower. “It was pitch-black. No sense of how high up we were. Had I known, I would have let the man drop.” He slid into a chair.

  Rob guffawed.

  Cécile held a carafe. “Café, Monsieur Kennedy?”

  “Please.” Zeno sat back as Cécile turned over a cup and poured. Grateful for her brother’s barrage of happy chatter and Cécile’s hovering attendance, Cassie quietly observed Zeno across the garden table. How and where to begin? She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to say to him.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. A part of her wanted to pound on his chest and scream. His mistress turned up alive. How could he have withheld such information from her? Scotland Yard has her in custody and he makes no mention of it?

  She lifted her butter knife and concentrated on adding a bit of preserve to her croissant. To make matters worse she appeared to be caught in a rather awkward place with Zeno. She was a bit at odds—furious at his deceit and in utter awe of his heroism. She slathered more jam over the buttery French pastry and hoped it would help settle her stomach.

  With lips pursed and brows furrowed, she glanced across the table. A scrape on his chin and a dark patch under one eye evidenced his struggle with Delamere. Just contemplating his bravery made her swallow hard. His thick, sable hair gleamed from his morning bath, and his cheeks and brow were bronzed with color from hours of travel in the open roadster.

  Rob had related something of their adventures from Calais to Paris. A part of her was thrilled at Detective Kennedy’s relentless pursuit through channel fog to Ca-lais, dusty roads, and rural French landscape. And the terrible news about the real Inspector Tautou. She shivered at the thought of the poor man’s untimely demise.

  A gentle breeze ruffled the newspapers at table. She caught the scent of Zeno’s lime cologne. Another part of her, the wanton minx, would have him naked in her bed within the hour. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of it. Why did she have to find him so … heroic?

  Zeno hadn’t touched his food. When he caught her eye she recognized the look of distress. His mouth dipped down at the corners and his eyes took on that deadly, liquid, vulnerable expression. The very one she always found so disconcertingly adorable. Chewing a bite of croissant, she swallowed with difficulty.

  She turned to her brother. “Rob, did you know Cécile’s brother repairs engines of all sorts? Steam engines as I recall, but he has just opened a shop here in Paris. Isn’t that so, Cécile?”

  Her maid’s smile could not have been brighter. “Oui, madame.”

  “The roadster is in need of … some sort of repair, perhaps?”

  Rob jumped at the chance for a bit of alone time with her maid. Not altogether sure she should be encouraging an affair, the promiscuous trollop in her argued for a bit of romance for her brother.

  “And please be back for lunch, as I mean to spend my year’s clothing allowance this afternoon … on myself as well as Cécile.” Cassie’s words trailed after the exiting couple.

  An invisible shroud of silence fell over the table. Cassie picked up her fork and pushed a few crumbs around her plate. She could feel his gaze across the small wedge of table that separated them. She made small talk. “I’m afraid I lost one of Cécile’s bags when we made our break from Delamere’s men. I really must replace her lost items—purchase a dress or two.”

  “I’m sure Rob will appreciate it.” His lips pressed together in a grim fashion, even though a corner of his mouth lifted.

  She looked up and met stormy blue eyes. “So you noticed.”

  “Hard to miss the attraction.” Zeno picked up the silver coffee server and offered her more, which she declined. “Perhaps you could you fill me in on your adventures thus far, Cassie? I would enjoy putting the pieces together of our separate journeys.”

  He hadn’t touched a bite of breakfast even though she had filled his plate. With little embellishment, she recounted her adventures on the road.

  “Jumping out of closet windows. Leaping into strange carriages. Evading Delamere’s men. My word, Cassie, you did brilliantly. And bravely.”

  She related the standing invitation extended to both of them to join the dowager duchess and young duke for dinner one evening. “Young Buckminster Fitzroy aspires to become a Yard man after he completes his education. Collects newspaper articles of your accomplishments, Zeno. He truly would be thrilled beyond words if you would call on him.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “I mean to keep my eye on only one person while I am here in Paris. And now that I have found her I shall not allow her out of my sight.”

  She held his gaze for a moment before shifting her eyes away.

  “What’s wrong, Cassie?”

  She pressed her shoulders back and sighed. “Why did you not tell me your mistress was alive?”

  ZENO BLINKED. SO this was the problem. He had listened carefully to Delamere’s lurid insinuations to Cassie last night as he crept into position. Zeno’s pulse raced as he recalled the rip of her gown while she begged the fiend not to touch her. Enraged, he had taken a shot at the first possible moment.

  His jaw clenched as he replayed the event in his mind and squeezed the trigger. Only this time his shot went straight between Delamere’s eyes.

  Cassie’s question made him feel exposed, caught red-handed, his hand up Jayne Well’s petticoats, if you will. Unsure of his answer, he stumbled a bit and hesitated too long. “You don’t believe for a second I still care for her, do you?”

  Her eyes watered a bit, and she turned away. “I’m not sure what I believe at the moment.”

  “Cassie, she is quartered in the jails at the Yard. I have done two interrogations and nothing more.” His face grew flushed with the memory of Jayne rubbing against him. Damn, now he did look guilty.

  She crossed her arms and glared.

  How to answer? Where to begin? He slowed his speech and chose his words carefully. “I could not mention her capture. No one outside of the Yard and a few Fenians on the run know we have her in custody.”

  Cassie moistened her lips and looked up at him through sensuous, dark lashes. He loved the way she did that. A surge of arousal shot through his body. He exhaled.

  Her pretty pout and furrowed gaze grew darker. “It seems to me you use these odd, veiled Scotland Yard rules of secrecy when it suits you. Is this what life will be like with a Yard man? You are free to lie and I must remain unquestioning about it?”

  “I do not lie as a rule—”

  “You practice deceit for a living, Detective Kennedy, even if you dissemble for queen and country. You lied every moment you did not inform me your mistress was alive. It’s called a lie of omission. The kind of deception you Yard men are so very good at.”

  Cassie stood up. “From the very beginning you thought to use me to get close to Gerald.”

  Zeno opened his mouth to protest.

  “Don’t try to deny it, Zak. You were after this Bloody Four lot, and I ran in exactly the right circles. Perfect cover, as they say at the Yard.” She exited the balcony and walked into the parlor of her suite.

  A sweat broke out on his forehead. Feeling a bit sullied, he wiped damp palms on the tops of his pants. Apparently she couldn’t look him in the face a moment longer.

  He grimaced. Were they having a spat? For the life of him, he could not remember a major argument between them. Not like this. This was serious. Well, perhaps they had argued aft
er the ball. But nothing to speak of since then. His stomach lurched. He had little experience arguing with women and he willingly conceded his inadequacies.

  Why hadn’t he told her about Jayne? And how could he ease her mind if he didn’t understand his own reasoning? Folding his napkin on top of his plate, he rose and followed her inside. He wanted to hold her in his arms. Feel her struggle against him, if necessary, until they both fell exhausted into her bed. There, he knew how to make this injury up to her. But when he reached out, she pulled away and walked to the door.

  “I think from now on it might be best if you keep an eye on me from afar.” She held the door open for him.

  Zeno racked his brain for a reason to stay, to argue his case. He recalled more of Delamere’s taunts in the artist’s loft. Weeks ago, there had apparently been unwanted advances by his lordship at a social gathering. Cassie had dismissed the incident, pushed it aside.

  Two could play this game.

  He narrowed his eyes and rallied. “Early on, you might have explained your history with Lord Delamere.” His mouth settled into a grim line. “I would have killed him straightaway and avoided a great deal of trouble.”

  She avoided eye contact. “Good day, Zak.”

  He paused at the door, remembering a few safety instructions. “The French police have a man stationed on this floor and on the servants’ stairs. You are still considered at risk from anarchist sympathizers. I shall be in the lobby should you need me.”

  She dipped her head. “Very kind of you.”

  Before the door shut, he pivoted. “By the way, what name are you registered under? I couldn’t for the life of me—”

  Cassie swallowed hard. “Mrs. Kennedy.”

  ZENO STARED OUT the window of the carriage as he and Rob waited for the ladies to finish at the milliner’s boutique. He could see her plainly through the large glass storefront. A young shop worker held the door open for Cassie and Cécile as they said their good-byes to the fashionable chapeau designer.