net Delamereand his co-conspirators. If all went well, Melville had assured the home secretary his embarrassment would be forgotten.
Zeno shifted his musings to a new preoccupation: the upcoming charity ball and Cassandra St. Cloud. As it turned out she was the perfect cover, but he wondered, frankly, how much sleuthing he would get done as the announced escort to the distracting young widow.
He had done his best to keep his name out of the yellow press these past few years, but like it or not, his legacy had grown. Even if a person did not recognize the face, they often remembered his name. On the plus side, the fact that he was known to Delamere and the others put the press on. The dynamite had arrived in country and was most likely in transport to London. The explosives would quickly be readied for their next act of mayhem. Mistakes were often made when the heat was turned up.
This was a dangerous game he flirted with—and it included the unsuspecting lady. He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Perhaps he might make time for a waltz.
“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, you must come quickly!”
Wrenched from his musings, Zeno pivoted toward the frenzied ramblings of his intrusive housekeeper.
“My word, Mr. Kennedy, but I do believe that our Mrs. St. Cloud smokes cigars!” Mrs. Woolsley herded him to the rear window of the study so he might witness his neighbor in actu .
Alma seemed inordinately pleased by the sight. “Oh, I must confess, sir, I rather envy her.”
“Envy, Mrs. Woolsley? Try your best to liberate the constant, unadventurous male in me by elucidating further.”
“The lady lives a life the likes of which we married women can only dream about. No one to answer to. Come and go as you please.” Alma paused for a sigh. “I think the cheroot, sir, is a harmless indulgence, and a symbol, is it not, of her independence?”
Zeno tore his gaze away from Cassandra long enough to witness his housekeeper’s eyes glisten with admiration.
“Do you have these kinds of frank discussions with Mr. Woolsley?” Alma’s husband ran the mews stables for a duke who lived in Belgrave Square. Their children were all grown, and the middle-aged couple occupied the comfortable flat above the carriage housing.
“Oh, Mr. Woolsley doesn’t pay any attention to what I say, Mr. Kennedy. For the last year, he’s occupied himself with his corns and bunions … mostly.” Alma adjusted her apron and patted down the wilder wisps of gray hair. “I do believe it is rather painful for him, sir.”
Zeno grunted his reply. People often provided him with the most startling confessions and enigmatic facts. There were times, frankly, when he wished they would not.
Chapter Six
A fter several puffs, Cassie snuffed out the cigar. She had a bath waiting. “Oscar, Psyche.” The dogs followed her into the house and up the stairs. She undressed with the help of her maid and stepped out of her petticoats.
“Could you bring me my wrapper?” She sat down at the dressing table.
Cécile slipped the robe onto Cassie’s shoulders and unpinned her hair. Separating tangled locks, her young servant brushed with long strokes to encourage shine. “Will you be riding tomorrow, madame?”
“I believe so. The storm seems well past.”
Her young maid lifted a pretty brow. “Monsieur Kennedy, he is quite virile, no?” Cécile’s English was improving by the day.
Cassie met her eyes through the vanity mirror. “Do you think so?”
“I saw him briefly—just a peek, but he is very—” The little maid shrugged her shoulders. “Très beau, oui?”
Cassie grinned. “Mais oui.” Cécile twisted her hair into a loose knot and tied it with a ribbon. “There, madame, you are ready for your bath.”
Her favorite room in the house was her studio, with its tall windows and ethereal light. But the next, most wonderful room had to be the tiled bath adjacent to her bedroom.
Vapors of steam rose from the claw-footed tub, partially fogging
Zeno shifted his musings to a new preoccupation: the upcoming charity ball and Cassandra St. Cloud. As it turned out she was the perfect cover, but he wondered, frankly, how much sleuthing he would get done as the announced escort to the distracting young widow.
He had done his best to keep his name out of the yellow press these past few years, but like it or not, his legacy had grown. Even if a person did not recognize the face, they often remembered his name. On the plus side, the fact that he was known to Delamere and the others put the press on. The dynamite had arrived in country and was most likely in transport to London. The explosives would quickly be readied for their next act of mayhem. Mistakes were often made when the heat was turned up.
This was a dangerous game he flirted with—and it included the unsuspecting lady. He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Perhaps he might make time for a waltz.
“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, you must come quickly!”
Wrenched from his musings, Zeno pivoted toward the frenzied ramblings of his intrusive housekeeper.
“My word, Mr. Kennedy, but I do believe that our Mrs. St. Cloud smokes cigars!” Mrs. Woolsley herded him to the rear window of the study so he might witness his neighbor in actu .
Alma seemed inordinately pleased by the sight. “Oh, I must confess, sir, I rather envy her.”
“Envy, Mrs. Woolsley? Try your best to liberate the constant, unadventurous male in me by elucidating further.”
“The lady lives a life the likes of which we married women can only dream about. No one to answer to. Come and go as you please.” Alma paused for a sigh. “I think the cheroot, sir, is a harmless indulgence, and a symbol, is it not, of her independence?”
Zeno tore his gaze away from Cassandra long enough to witness his housekeeper’s eyes glisten with admiration.
“Do you have these kinds of frank discussions with Mr. Woolsley?” Alma’s husband ran the mews stables for a duke who lived in Belgrave Square. Their children were all grown, and the middle-aged couple occupied the comfortable flat above the carriage housing.
“Oh, Mr. Woolsley doesn’t pay any attention to what I say, Mr. Kennedy. For the last year, he’s occupied himself with his corns and bunions … mostly.” Alma adjusted her apron and patted down the wilder wisps of gray hair. “I do believe it is rather painful for him, sir.”
Zeno grunted his reply. People often provided him with the most startling confessions and enigmatic facts. There were times, frankly, when he wished they would not.
Chapter Six
A fter several puffs, Cassie snuffed out the cigar. She had a bath waiting. “Oscar, Psyche.” The dogs followed her into the house and up the stairs. She undressed with the help of her maid and stepped out of her petticoats.
“Could you bring me my wrapper?” She sat down at the dressing table.
Cécile slipped the robe onto Cassie’s shoulders and unpinned her hair. Separating tangled locks, her young servant brushed with long strokes to encourage shine. “Will you be riding tomorrow, madame?”
“I believe so. The storm seems well past.”
Her young maid lifted a pretty brow. “Monsieur Kennedy, he is quite virile, no?” Cécile’s English was improving by the day.
Cassie met her eyes through the vanity mirror. “Do you think so?”
“I saw him briefly—just a peek, but he is very—” The little maid shrugged her shoulders. “Très beau, oui?”
Cassie grinned. “Mais oui.” Cécile twisted her hair into a loose knot and tied it with a ribbon. “There, madame, you are ready for your bath.”
Her favorite room in the house was her studio, with its tall windows and ethereal light. But the next, most wonderful room had to be the tiled bath adjacent to her bedroom.
Vapors of steam rose from the claw-footed tub, partially fogging
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